The Lost Expedition: The Indian Hero, #2

Douglas Misquita is an award-winning thriller novelist from India. Find out more: www.douglasmisquita.com.

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KIRK INGRAM SERIES

Haunted | Diablo | Spectre

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LUC FORTESQUE SERIES

Know Thy Enemy | The Apocalypse Trigger | The Immortality Trigger | Trigger Point

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ESCAPE SERIES

LION: Escape from Russia | LION: Most Wanted

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THE INDIAN HERO SERIES

Relic | The Lost Expedition

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STANDALONE

Impressions of Egypt (a travelogue) | Secret of the Scribe

PROLOGUE - THE FABLED CITY

The azure blue sky met the Sahara Desert at a razor-sharp ridgeline of golden dunes. For a long time, the landscape remained still, devoid of life. Then, at the crest of the horizon, a silhouette appeared, like a smirch on the picture postcard colours.

A rider upon a camel.

The hardy beast descended the dune, leaving a trail in the sand. To somebody unaccustomed to the ways of the desert people, it would appear to be a solitary traveller. But no: this rider was the khabir—a caravan leader.

In the 14th century, during an 80-day Trans-Saharan crossing, a khabir had absolute power over the caravan. Known for their expertise in navigating the harsh Sahara Desert, a khabir hailed from the nomadic Bedouin tribes. He must know his way through the desert; have alliances—often by marriage—with the tribes that controlled critical, life-giving oases; doctor sick or injured humans and animals; resolve disputes and pronounce judgement; be sensitive to the religious observances of the caravan and provide security from brigands. And he was ultimately liable for any losses incurred by the caravan’s merchandise, unless he could represent and exonerate himself—alone.

A formidable task. For this man came now, at the head of rank-upon-rank of camels and humans and livestock and litters—five thousand in all. It was an awesome sight: a tide of creatures, arranged in a rough arrowhead formation stretching ten kilometres from head to base and five from barb to barb...

...all making for the fortified city in the desert.

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Thirty-foot-high mud walls with buttresses and watchtowers formed a rectangle around the city. Under the efforts of twenty men, the city’s great, stout double-wooden gates groaned open to admit the caravan. The houses, also of mud, were cube-shaped, surmounted by low-walled terraces and packed tightly, with barely a gap between any two. Short bridges spanning the terraces compensated for the lack of alleyways. As dictated by tradition and economics, the citizens, all dressed gaily and flaunting jewellery of shells, bone, and gold, lined the primary avenue and congregated on the rooftops to welcome the caravan. It made for a riot of colours against the backdrop of the geometric, monotonous brown city. The houses facing the avenue incorporated shops and inns, prepared for the commerce that accompanied a caravan’s arrival. Their proprietors smiled in anticipation of profits.

As the host squeezed through the gates and dispersed into the city, one rider spurred his camel away from the bustle of the commercial district. This camel was smaller than the others. It was a Moroccan crossbreed, built for speed. A messenger’s choice of animal.

The rider wore a flowing royal blue tunic. Braids of gold held his keffiyeh to his head. The bejewelled scabbard hung on his waist, sheathing a dagger with a gold hilt encrusted with a ruby. The signet gold ring on his right ring finger was inappropriately huge. It bore a disc. The disc had five circles—four surrounding a central fifth.

Now, nearing the administrative heart of the city, he saw the inner walls looming. Three sets of walls created successive courtyards. Guards stood at the entrance to each courtyard. But he raised his right hand and at the sight of the signet ring, the guards stepped aside.

This was no ordinary messenger.

He was a royal messenger of the Empire of Mali.

In the innermost courtyard rose two of the city’s grandest edifices.

The Magnificent Mosque.

The Royal Palace.

As he breezed past the mosque, he realised preparations were underway in the plaza. The annual remudding ceremony was imminent. It was when, to great pomp and festivities, the ancient guild of masons re-plastered the mosque. And, all over the city, homes were re-plastered—symbolic of rebirth and revival.

The news carried by the messenger could not have come at a more auspicious time.

He brought his steed to a halt. Slaves approached to take the animal’s reins and assist the messenger to dismount.

Before him was the palace.

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Wide stairs gave onto the palace’s outer gallery. The messenger passed under a decorative archway into the shade of the courtyard. Here, in defiance of the desert and testament to the city’s engineering prowess, a fountain bubbled amid a prosperous garden. Guards stood at attention at key entryways. Always, a flash of his ring and they bowed. Here, so far from the gates, the raucous arrival of the caravan was a mere murmur. His ears pricked at the dulcet timbre of a kalimba.

He brushed aside a curtain of palm fronds.

The Steward of the City sat on a low mud seat at the edge of an ornamental pond, his fingers plucking at the tines of the kalimba. He was surrounded by advisers. Some were in conference, others were writing on, or studying scrolls, and others were drawing complex designs in the sand floor. At their beck and call were servants and slaves, ever watchful for the barest gesture from their masters.

This group was a microcosm of the progressive attitude of the city and empire. Before he had departed on an adventure to find the end of the Western Sea, the eight Mansa of Mali had left the care of his empire to the man with the kalimba. The steward—not of royal lineage—had proved an able statesman and patron of art and science.

And now...

The messenger bowed before the steward. The steward set aside his instrument and bade the man rise. The company of wise men looked up.

What news do you bring?

Sad news, sire.

Although he guessed what these words portended, the steward ordered, Pray, tell.

There is no sign of the Mansa.

A hush fell upon the scene. The messenger looked upon the youthful, pensive steward. Despite the obvious course of events after such news, this humble man’s unwillingness to make the expected proclamation showed why he should be Mansa.

Instead, it fell upon one of the elders to urge, It has been two years, sire.

And another took up the message, We have waited long enough. There is no other more qualified to rule.

They chorused, We proclaim you Ninth Mansa of Mali!

And before them, the young man, Kanku Musa, accepted their unanimous decision and wound his way into history as Mansa Musa.

TRANSCRIPT OF DEBRIEF DATED 23 APRIL 2019, ZAGREB, CROATIA.

Subject is Phil Humphrey Donahue, Directorate of Science and Technology, CIA.

Donahue:

In December 1991, a Portuguese businessman, Renato Fabiao, took it upon himself to atone for the sins of his ancestor, Francisco Fabiao. Francisco Fabiao commanded a galleon in the Portuguese India Armada. In 1597, Francisco massacred the crew of a Ragusan merchantman. Ragusa is the medieval name of Croatia. Fabiao stole a relic — a jade human head figurine.

Renato began enquiring about this relic, presumably to locate and return it to its rightful owner. He believed he could pick up a trail in Croatia.

His investigation drew the attention of the Soviet psychotronic program. The CIA had a spy in the program. That’s how we got to know. We, and the Soviets, had amassed research on arcane artefacts with mystical powers. The Soviets believed the relic could induce hyper-hypnosis. Whoever wielded the relic had power over the human mind.

During the Croatian War for Independence, the Soviets enlisted a Serbian historian to locate the relic. The historian went missing and the trail went cold... until it appeared as an item on a black-market auction to be held under cover of a PrimaCorp cultural gala in Hong Kong last Saturday.

PrimaCorp is a Chinese state-run conglomerate. It manufactures and exports weapons and operates mines in Africa. Recently, it is China’s response to Christie’s and Sotheby’s. PrimaCorp is at the forefront of a massive Chinese cultural revolution to repatriate lost Chinese heritage and amass foreign heritage.

China wants to be the custodian of the world’s history. The PrimaCorp gala is the equivalent of the Oscars.

We had a man at the auction and he placed the winning bid for the relic. And then we lost contact with our guy.

At first, I was worried about a double-cross.

Then news started trickling in of an incident at PrimaCorp. If word leaked that PrimaCorp was hosting an illegal auction during the gala, China’s reputation would be damaged. Naturally, the Chinese assumed control of the investigations and imposed a communications blackout.

Interviewer:

So, we sponsored the bidder and have nothing to show for it?

Donahue:

I acquired intel which indicated that the dealer who sourced the artefacts for the auction escaped to Georgia in Central Asia.

I renditioned him. He confirmed that our guy took possession of the relic. The dealer believed the relic was stolen by a Croatian, Ivan Drago, because he saw Ivan Drago leave the auction after our guy and, minutes later, PrimaCorp went into lockdown. That is the ‘incident’ at PrimaCorp. Also, Ivan Drago was on the trail of the relic 1 week before the auction.

I looked up Ivan Drago. Guess what? The CIA already has a file on him. He was charged with war crimes during the War for Independence. His company, Croatia Secure, operates a prison for the government. The CIA in Europe has contracted his services before.

Interviewer:

Why does Drago desire the relic?

Donahue:

It could be a coincidence that the Ragusan merchant who originally possessed the relic was Ivan Dragoman.

Interviewer:

An ancestral connection.

Donahue:

(nods)

A USMC V22 Osprey was at Incirlik, Turkey, refuelling for its return trip from Kandahar to USMC Headquarters in Germany. I commandeered it to infiltrate Drago’s island and acquire the relic.

Interviewer:

And then we lost contact with an entire team and lost the Osprey?

Donahue:

Yes, sir.

THE STORY SO FAR

While vacationing in Dubrovnik, Croatia, former Indian paratrooper Izak Kaurben rescues Swede war photographer Ebba Nilsson from an attempt on her life. Ebba promises to help Kaurben clear his name. But to do that, they must figure out why she is a target. Their investigation puts them on the trail of an Indian relic with mystic powers and in confrontation with Ivan Drago, a former colonel in the Yugoslav Wars.

Kaurben takes the fight to Izolovan Otok, an island where Drago operates a black-site prison. There, Kaurben realises somebody else is interested in Drago when a kill team is HALO-dropped onto the island.

After a climatic showdown, Chief Inspector (General Police Directorate of Croatia) Josip Goran detains Kaurben. The Indian Ministry of Foreign Affairs intervenes and exonerates Kaurben.

Kaurben returns briefly to India to restore the mystic relic — recovered from Drago — to its rightful place. Then he resumes his interrupted vacation.

When he arrives at Čilipi Airport in Dubrovnik, Inspector Goran is waiting for him...

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Relic by Douglas Misquita is available at all major e-stores. Visit www.douglasmisquita.com to find out more.

PART ONE

CAST OF CHARACTERS IN PART 1

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Izak Kaurben — the Indian

Josip Goran — Chief Inspector, General Police Directorate, Croatia

Yamba Bagayogo — Senegalese gangster

Zlatan — Croatian boatman

Cheick Ndiaye — Senegalese fisherman, captain of the Abhita

Solomon — crewman

Oumou Sy — friend of Cheick Ndiaye

Big Abu — Mauritanian gangster

Dabria — name given to members of the cult, Angels of Death

MAP - REFERENCE OF KEY PLACES

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CHAPTER 1

Dubrovnik, Croatia

You’re out of your mind! Izak Kaurben exclaimed to Chief Inspector Josip Goran of the General Police Directorate of Croatia.

Kaurben had arrived in Dubrovnik intending to resume his interrupted vacation. Goran had picked him up at the airport. ‘Picked up’ was putting it mildly. It was an ambush. They had driven in Goran’s BMW 750 to a deserted cobblestone alley in Dubrovnik. He and Goran had gotten out. The sky was a sliver of blue between the roofs of close-spaced buildings on either side.

What is going on? Kaurben had asked across the roof of the BMW.

In response, Goran had popped the trunk. Inside was an armoury. A pair of balaclavas, flak vests, Heckler & Koch G36 assault rifles, spare ammo clips, and smoke grenades in a utility belt. Goran had been planning this.

I want your help to commit a crime, the top cop in Croatia told him.

Instead of being fazed by Kaurben’s outburst regarding his sanity, Goran calmly consulted his wristwatch. In one minute, a prisoner transport van will pass us. It has two Senegalese. We must break one prisoner free.

Kaurben could only stare dumbstruck as Goran strapped on the vest and cinched the utility belt. When Goran donned the balaclava, he took on a new appearance.

A few days ago, Kaurben had been the subject of a high-profile investigation led by Goran. Throughout that time, Kaurben sensed the restlessness in the soldier-turned-law officer. Goran looked ready to toss his desk job and jump into a battlefield at the flick of a button.

Now those thoughts came rushing back.

Goran wore jeans and a snug white vest. His arms and chest bulged with hard muscle. He was shorter than Kaurben and exuded the personality of a main battle tank. With practised ease, Goran readied his HK G36.

Kaurben pleaded, Josip, what has gotten into you?

They heard an approaching vehicle’s engine reverberating off the walls.

Right on time, Goran mumbled.

Whatever you’re thinking, there’s another way to do it.

No, Goran said, his voice gravelly. I’m out of options.

And then, the prisoner transport van was in the alley, filling up its width and, before Kaurben could disarm him, Chief Inspector Goran was walking toward it, squeezing the trigger of his G36.

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In the acoustic chamber formed by the narrow alley, the noise was deafening. Goran’s bullets smacked into the prison van’s toughened windscreen. He dropped the G36 on its sling and popped a pin on the grenade and tossed it.

A thick cloud of smoke billowed. Goran stood his ground. There was a crunch of metal against stone. Surprised and blinded, the driver had crashed into a building. Goran stalked forth, vanishing in the cloud.

Kaurben had hidden beside the BMW’s open boot when the Croatian had committed to his mission of madness. He heard the crash; he heard Goran shouting: Stay inside and you live! Then a prolonged burst of gunfire—hopefully into the van’s rear door. Kaurben imagined Goran yanking the doors open.

I can still stop him!

Kaurben donned a balaclava, grabbed a G36, and ran into the melee.

The smoke was dispersing. The driver was slumped over the wheel, out cold from the impact, and the passenger door of the