The Mahabharata Secret (15 page)

The mortar came off in chunks. Soon, there was a gap separating the circular brick from the others. Vijay now drew out a screwdriver from the bag and slowly using it as a lever, gradually prised the brick from the platform.

When it was protruding halfway he grasped hold of the circular brick, with both hands, and gently tugged at it.

But the brick held fast. Vijay clicked his tongue in exasperation. He didn’t want to use the screwdriver to extricate the brick for fear of damaging whatever lay underneath it.

‘Here,’ Colin said. ‘Let me help you.’

He grasped the brick with Vijay and they pulled together.

For a brief moment the brick refused to yield; then, without warning, it jerked loose and came away in their hands.

A receptacle within the platform gaped out at them. The lamps were immediately trained on it , and there was a collective gasp.

White stone gleamed back at them. Etched into the stone was another wheel.

A nine-spoked wheel.

‘We should have brought a crowbar,’ Colin grumbled.

Vijay reached within his black bag and pulled out a crowbar. He handed it to Colin and grinned.

‘So that’s what you had in your bag.’

‘Believe it, sonny, I’m always better prepared than you. You’ve got this high opinion of yourself but it just isn’t true.’

‘It’s justified,’ Colin retorted. ‘I’m the brains between the two of us. I’m also the good-looking one...’

‘Guys,’ Radha interjected. ‘‘We’ve got a trapdoor to find.

Colin wordlessly searched with the crowbar for a hold among the bricks. He finally found a gap. Vijay picked up a rock lying nearby and Colin used it to lever the brick out of place.

More white stone gleamed at them.

‘There’s something underneath this layer of bricks,’ Radha said excitedly.

Vijay and Colin took turns to take apart the surface of the platform. Shukla peered at them as they worked. ‘The workers who reconstructed this platform obviously didn’t bother to see what lay below it,’ he remarked. ‘They simply placed the original bricks back on top and cemented them into place.’

After half an hour of labour, clearly visible in the lamplight was the faint outline of a square; there was a stone slab inserted here into the platform. On the surface of the square stone slab were the outlines of two rectangles.

There were two rectangular slabs of stone embedded in the square stone slab.

‘This is the entrance we were looking for,’ Vijay said finally.

He inserted his screwdriver into the outline of one of the rectangles and dug at the dirt settled in the crack. Once the joint was free of most of the dirt, he levered the screwdriver upwards. A rectangular piece of stone popped out revealing a handle underneath, made from a dark metal. He repeated the exercise with the other rectangle to disclose a second metal handle.

‘Come on, man,’ he said to Colin. ‘Let’s get this show on the road.’

He took hold of one handle while Colin grasped the other and, together, they heaved at the stone slab.

It was heavy and didn’t budge, despite their efforts. The two men looked at each other, drenched in perspiration with their exertions. And then, with one accord, they bent down again and with combined effort wrenched it out of its resting place.

Finally, it stood at an angle of 45 degrees to the platform. Their hands ached with the struggle. ‘Dr. Shukla,’ Vijay gasped, ‘there’s a thick coil of nylon rope inside my bag. Please pass it through the handles while we hold the slab upright.’

Shukla did as he was directed.

‘Okay,’ Vijay said, ‘Everybody grab hold of the rope. One final heave and we’re done.’

As Radha and Shukla held the rope, Vijay and Colin let go of the handles and grasped the rope instead, stepping back to put some distance between them and the stone.

‘Right,’ Vijay said when all four had firmly gripped the rope. ‘Heave!’

Together, the group yanked hard on the rope and the slab fell forward with a crash that split the stillness of the night.

For a few moments they stood there, wondering if the noise would have attracted attention, worried that the baba at the temple might have woken up. But the silence of the darkness descended upon them once more. They picked up the lamps and directed the beams into the opening in the platform.

A stone stairway came into view, descending into darkness.

‘I’ll go first,’ Vijay said and clambered down the staircase, holding a lamp aloft, without waiting for agreement from the others.

‘Be careful!’ Radha shouted down the opening as he disappeared from view with only the light from his lamp visible.

Vijay slowly made his way down the stone staircase. He seemed to be in a large cavern carved into the belly of the hill. Finally, the staircase ended and he hit the floor. He shone the lamp around the cavern and gaped.

‘Come on down here,’ he shouted to the others. ‘You have to see this!’

On The Trail

Arjun Vaid gazed thoughtfully at Imran who sat across his desk, next to Blake. ‘Are you sure about this, Kidwai? You could be playing with fire.’

Imran shook his head. ‘Sir, I can’t be sure of anything right now. It’s just a hunch. But it’s the only thing we have to go on for now.’

Vaid tapped the desk with his pen. ‘You haven’t met this nephew of Vikram Singh yet, though. So you haven’t yet been able to do a positive ID on Farooq. You could be wrong about this.’

Imran’s gaze didn’t waver. ‘I could be wrong. We would have known for sure today if we had been able to meet Vijay Singh in Jaungarh. I’ve left instructions for them to call me as soon as they return. In a day or two, we’ll get to know if the Farooq who kidnapped Vijay Singh is Farooq Siddiqui. But there’s something that doesn’t make sense. The station-in-charge at Jaungarh reported that Bheem Singh, the Maharaja of Rajvirgarh, had insisted on a report being filed with the Gurgaon police to investigate the kidnapping. Which is fine, but where does he fit in? What is his interest in the matter? I’d like to know; especially since it is going to be next to impossible to solve the case with only a first name—Farooq—to go on. I, myself, know five Farooqs. And only three of them are Muslims. The other two are a Christian and a Parsi. Secondly, the Gurgaon police reported that there was pressure from the Haryana government to drop the kidnapping case. Why would anyone want to pressurise the police against pursuing an obscure case with few leads, which may never be resolved? I don’t understand.’

‘Fine. But be careful. Bheem Singh is powerful and has connections in the government. And the Haryana Chief Minister is close to the Prime Minister. Don’t rub either of them the wrong way. I don’t want the Home Minister calling me.’

Blake suppressed a grin. He figured that Imran had got into trouble before and Vaid had had to bail him out.

Imran smiled grimly. ‘I will. I just want both my questions answered. Nothing more. And I’ll only meet Bheem Singh and the Haryana Chief Secretary if we get a positive ID on Farooq.’

Vaid nodded. ‘Let me know how it goes.’

18

April 2000

The Temple of the Tooth, 200 miles from Lhasa

Pema Ngodup shivered as he crouched in the little closet in the main hall of the monastery adjoining the Temple of the Tooth. The temple itself was 400 years old, having been built upon the ruins of a much older temple, which was rumoured to be over 2,000 years old.

Pema didn’t know it, but the ancient temple whose ruins formed the foundations of this Temple of the Tooth had been built over 2,000 years ago by a courtier of Asoka the Great. A courtier who had travelled from Pataliputra to spread the word of Dharma, and had carried with him texts that spoke of the brotherhood he belonged to—the Nine Unknown Men. These texts had been hidden away in a vault below the ancient temple, safeguarded through the centuries by the monks who had lived in the monastery adjoining the temple.

Through the sliver of a crack in the ancient wooden door of the closet, Pema had a clear view of the main hall. Twenty-two monks inhabited the monastery; 10 of them were lined up in the hall, kneeling with their heads bowed.

The terror had begun 10 minutes ago when the staccato beat of helicopter rotors had broken the stillness of the morning. The monks, unaccustomed to visitors, had flocked to the courtyard, curious to see who was aboard the two large helicopters that slowly touched down.

Pema had been completing his morning chores—as the youngest member of the monastery, just 12 years of age, he had yet to be initiated into the routine the other monks followed. On hearing the choppers, he had rushed to the closest window, driven by the same curiosity as his brothers. He watched wide-eyed as the two large flying machines descended and landed on the thin carpet of snow; residual evidence of the light snowfall the previous day.

Then, the shooting started.

Men armed with automatic rifles poured out of the choppers. Five monks dropped where they stood, dead before they hit the ground, their lifeless bodies riddled with bullets.

The few remaining monks scattered, shouting warnings to their brothers inside the monastery.

As Pema watched, horrified, the armed men pursued the fleeing monks, lobbing grenades. The pristine white snow turned red in patches, greedily soaking up the blood of the fallen monks.

With great difficulty, Pema tore himself away from the terrifying and rushed to find a secure hiding place. He knew exactly where he would hide. Two months after he had been brought to the monastery to join the order, some six years ago, he had discovered a loose wooden panel in the wall of the main hall, which concealed a small closet. He had no idea what its original purpose had been, but unless you knew it was there, it looked like just another wall panel. He squeezed in there just before the attackers began herding the monks into the hall.

As he watched, the men rounded up the monks, ejecting them from the places where they had sought refuge.

When ten monks were lined up in the main hall, Pema saw a tall man enter. He was clearly the leader of the attackers and was the only one not wearing a ski mask. He walked slowly over to the monks and asked the man in the ski mask standing next to him.

‘Are these all?’

The masked man nodded. ‘Ten dead. Ten here. We’ve scoured the monastery and the temple. There’s no place left to hide.’

The leader’s voice was sharp. ‘The intel was that there were 22 monks. Where are the other two? You sure you’ve looked everywhere?’

‘We’ll run another check to be sure.’ The man barked orders and a group of armed men left the room on a run.

‘So, who’s your leader here?’ The tall man asked the monks, looking each one in the eye. He turned to the man in the ski mask as he came to the end of the line. ‘Make them kneel.’

Men stepped forward to force the monks to their knees.

The tall man took out a gun from a shoulder holster and aimed it at the head of the monk nearest to him.

‘I’ll ask again. And this time, if I don’t get an answer, I’ll shoot. Who is your leader?’

Again, silence greeted him.

Pema held his breath as the moments passed. Would he shoot?

An ear-splitting sound broke the silence and monk sagged to the ground; the bullet had shattered his head like a watermelon. ‘Don’t shoot!’ An elderly monk spoke up. ‘Our leader is dead— he was shot in the courtyard—but I am the eldest here.’

‘Finally! An answer.’ The man walked to the monk and stood before him. ‘Where is the vault?’

‘I don’t know of any vault,’ the old monk quavered. ‘Shoot me if you want, but I’m telling you the truth.’

‘Oh, I don’t need to shoot you. Not yet.’ The man pointed his gun at a young monk who knelt beside the elderly monk. ‘So you don’t know about the secret vault that was part of the older temple and which was preserved when this temple was built? That’s funny, since someone saw the vault a few decades ago. Perhaps this will jog your memory.’

The man fired at the young monk who collapsed to the ground in a pool of blood.

Pema covered his mouth with his hands, stifling a scream; his blood ran cold.

The man knelt before the old monk and gazed into his eyes. ‘See, I’m going to find that vault. And if you don’t tell me, I will kill each one of your remaining monks before your eyes. One by one.’

A tense silence followed his words.

Then, the elderly monk bowed his head as if ashamed at what he was about to do. ‘If you promise to spare the others, I will tell you where the vault is.’

‘Great.’ The man with the gun turned to the masked man. ‘Take him and empty the vault. Ensure that you get all the documents. Leave nothing behind. And take care that none of them are damaged. These are ancient texts and have to be treated with great care. And let me know if you find a metal disk.’

The man nodded and left with the elderly monk and a handful of men, heading in the direction of the temple.

The group that had left the room earlier returned. ‘Negative,’ said one of the men. ‘No one else.’

‘So where are the other two?’ Their leader gazed sharply at the remaining seven monks.

Another elderly monk looked up at him. ‘They went to Lhasa yesterday. To get supplies for the monastery.’

The man with the gun looked at him suspiciously and was silent for a few moments, as if considering this possibility. Pema knew the elderly monk had lied. Only one monk had gone to Lhasa the previous day.

The moments passed in agonising silence, each minute seeming like an hour to the young monk. His leg had begun to develop cramps and he was not sure how much longer he could hold out in his tiny hiding place.

Just when he thought he couldn’t bear it any longer, the men returned with the elderly monk.

‘Got everything,’ the man who had led them out reported to his leader. ‘No metal disk, though.’

The leader frowned, then whipped out a satellite phone and dialled a number. ‘Murphy here. Mission accomplished,’ he spoke into the phone. ‘But no disk. What do you want us to do?’ He listened to the reply then disconnected the call and put the phone away.

‘Now that you have what you wanted, let us go,’ the elderly monk pleaded.

‘Oh, I will,’ Murphy smirked. He gestured to his men, who immediately opened fire on the kneeling monks.