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THE MAHABHARATA QUEST EBOOK

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THE MAHABHARATA QUEST:THE ALEXANDER SECRET eBook: CHRISTOPHER C. DOYLE: resourceone.info: Kindle Store. Where can I download the Mahabharat secret by Christopher C Dayle? Where can I find a direct download link for The Mahabharata Quest: The Alexander Secret PDF? What is your review of the Mahabharata Quest series by Christopher C. Doyle?. BC Asoka the Great discovers an ancient and terrible secret—a secret buried deep in the Mahabharata; a secret that could destroy the wor.


The Mahabharata Quest Ebook

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B.C. Alexander the Great begins his conquest of the Persian Empire. But his plans for everlasting glory do not end there and the young. Editorial Reviews. About the Author. Christopher C. Doyle is an author who transports the resourceone.info: The Alexander Secret: Book 1 of the Mahabharata Quest Series eBook: CHRISTOPHER C. DOYLE: Kindle Store. The Mahabharata Secret - Kindle edition by Christopher C. Doyle. Download it once and read it on your Kindle device, PC, phones or tablets. Use features like.

He is a certified Executive Coach and now works with senior executives to help them achieve success and better results in their organisations. Work aside, Christopher is a musician and lives his passion for music through his band called Mid Life Crisis, which plays classic rock.

Website: www. Chris: As someone who writes part time, since I have a day job that takes up most of my time, writing gives me the freedom to let my imagination run riot. It allows me to create a world where anything is possible. Chris: Read or research. Both are invaluable. Name one celebrity you want as your book fan!

A quote you swear by. Chris: A little learning is a dangerous thing; drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring. What is the worst criticism you were given? And the best compliment? The best compliment: is The Mahabharata Secret a true story? Priyankar Gupta for the brilliant illustrations that brought my descriptions to life.

A big thank you to all the people at Westland, especially Gautam Padmanabhan, who also read the final draft and provided valuable inputs on the plot and story.

And to Sanghamitra Biswas, my editor, who has done such a wonderful job of polishing my writing and keeping the narrative true to the plot. While the books, articles, blogs and videos that I researched are too numerous to be listed here, as they would make up a book by themselves, I must acknowledge every reference that I researched while writing this book.

Without the wealth of information about the history and the science behind the speculation I have presented in the book, it would have been very difficult to propose theories backed by evidence and research, which made my job so much easier. Finally, while I acknowledge the contribution of everyone who has supported me, I take full responsibility for all errors and omissions of fact or detail in this book. He knew he was doomed. He was a prisoner of Antigonus, the One-Eyed, with whom he had crossed swords before.

This time he had been betrayed in the final battle. His own satraps had handed him over to the one-eyed general, in exchange for their baggage train which had been seized by Antigonus.

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The capture of Eumenes had been celebrated publicly by Antigonus as the end of a long, bitter rivalry. But later that day, as the sun set, Antigonus had paid Eumenes a private visit. And he knew what had led the great conqueror to his death just two years later.

Sixteen years earlier, Eumenes had accompanied the conqueror to the Temple of Zeus-Ammon in the Siwa Oasis, where Alexander had been told that he was the son of Zeus-Ammon. And, therefore, a God himself. Alexander had lost no time in proclaiming his divinity and began his march further east, towards the Indus River, to the ultimate goal that would truly make him a god. The stories he had heard about the great secret that would enable him to achieve that goal drove him relentlessly forward, even as his soldiers yearned for their homes.

Eumenes had stood with Alexander outside the underground cave where the secret of the gods was hidden. But Alexander had entered the cavern alone. When he returned, his face was flushed with triumph. He had found what he came for. Alexander had led the attack, scaling the wall using a ladder which broke and left him among the barbarians and separated from his army.

So radiant was his face and so bright his armour that the barbarians had, at first, fled in fright, thinking a god had arrived in their midst!

They had, however, recovered fast and charged. But Alexander had fought on with two guards by his side. Despite being struck by an arrow that lodged in his ribs, he put up a valiant stand, until the Macedonians made their way in and rescued their king. But while the operation to extricate the arrow was under way, stories had spread in the camp that the conqueror was dead.

The wound should have been fatal; a lot of blood had been lost. The physicians had given up — there was nothing they could do to heal the internal wounds or stem the blood loss. The healing process was slow but it had started spontaneously.

And in a matter of days, the conqueror had recovered, his wounds healed, and he had insisted on showing himself to his men despite his weakened state. Eumenes did not know what to think of the rumours. But on that day, like the rest of the army, he, too, believed that Alexander was a god. Impervious to any weapon known to man. But now he was also convinced that, whatever the great secret that had lain in the cavern, whatever Alexander had done that night when he entered the cavern alone, it had something to do with the affliction which had left the conqueror delirious with fever, hoarse with thirst and unable to speak during his final days in Babylon.

But he had removed from the official journals the portions of the book that referred to the secret mission that Callisthenes had undertaken on behalf of Alexander, in the land of the Sogdians, before the conqueror executed the historian. Antigonus would get nothing. He drew a satisfied breath.

He had done his duty by his conqueror. And neither would the rest of the world. The horse trotted along, seemingly in no hurry, as if it knew that its mission was over and there was no longer any need for urgency.

For the wagon had, until three days ago, carried something precious. Something valuable. Something that the world had worshipped for the last years. It was no longer safe. The new religion that had arisen in the Middle East was spreading rapidly across the world. Based on the life and death of a man called The Christ, it had reached Egypt, where the relic had lain for over years.

The new converts, who called themselves Christians, after their leader whom they believed to be the Son of God, were questioning the old gods. Statues were being torn down, temples were being destroyed, and images were being defaced.

It would have been a matter of time before the tide reached the sacred spot in Alexandria where the object of worship had lain buried, undisturbed for five centuries. It had to be protected. And the Order had taken it upon itself to discharge this responsibility. The contents of the now empty wagon had been transported from its resting place in Alexandria, across rivers and oceans — borne in boats, ships, carts and wagons that bore the symbol of the Order.

A single serpent with five heads raised as if to strike. It had been this symbol that had kept curious eyes and inquisitive minds away from the treasure on its journey.

For the symbol was feared by all who saw it. The Order was secret — no one really knew what the Order was or who its members were; or even what its origins were—but its deeds were not. Finally, its duty complete, the wagon and its driver were making their way towards the desert. The driver, Karmal, had one last stop to make. The wagon passed through a village, hushed and silent. Though the silence could have equally been on account of the serpent symbol painted on the sides of the wagon.

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At the end of the driveway stood the house, a multi-storeyed structure, built of stone and brick. The wagon stopped before the main door of the house and Karmal dismounted. Karmal nodded wearily. It had been a long journey and he was tired. Then you know what you must do. The figure spun around, clearly surprised. He had one final task to complete.

The man stared after Karmal as the wagon exited the gate and disappeared from view, his hand clenched tight around the metal object Karmal had handed him. Then, he hurried into the house and threw off the hood, revealing a lean face with deep-set eyes and thin lips. He unclenched his fist and stared at the small copper capsule that lay in his palm. Then, closing his fist around it once more, he bounded up the stairs and entered a study on the first floor.

After latching the door of the study, he sat down at the desk. His face was pale and he found his hands trembling. What had that fool Karmal done? He knew that Karmal would not fail the Order.

He would faithfully drive the wagon for a few miles and then abandon the horse to trudge deep into the desert where he would slit his own throat. For no one should know the location of the relic. The Order had decreed that, to protect it, the relic should disappear forever. Using a knife, he carefully prised open the cap that covered one end of the capsule, and shook it over the desk. A thin strip of vellum fell out.

The Mahabharata Quest the Alexander Secret by Christopher C. Doyle

He groaned. Even without looking at it, he knew. It was a map! He quickly rolled it up and stuffed it back into the copper capsule. The Order should never get to know about the existence of this map. It was the only clue to a location that was supposed to have been secret; hidden away forever. He contemplated destroying the map then decided against it.

He was the only one who knew of its existence. It could come in useful later, if he was ever in trouble with the Order. But the map would have to be artfully concealed in a place and manner that only he knew of.

And after him, the location would stay secret. And he knew just the place to hide the capsule away. June St. It was brand new, one of the latest models which could photocopy using plain paper rather than the electrostatic copiers or the wettype plain paper machines that were in vogue earlier. Yet, it was not fast enough for his purpose. Sweat beaded his brow as he thought back to the telephone call that he had answered two hours ago. Who is this? Listen very carefully.

I need something that you have. The papyrus documents that you discovered yesterday. He had told no one about the papyrus journals that he had found in a box in the basement of the library, apart from the faculty at the Classics Department.

Had someone from the department leaked the news? That would be unlikely. Then, again, this unknown caller knew. The voice grew hard.

I want the documents delivered to the address I will give you now. The journals should be in a sealed envelope. Even if they are in relatively good condition. Ashford was stunned. The caller had detailed knowledge about the journals, even down to the condition of the papyri!

As the librarian, it is my responsibility to protect them, not pass them around to anyone who calls. You had your chance. He would have dismissed it as a crank call had it not been for the shocking news that he received just forty-five minutes later.

Carl Dunn, the faculty member from the Classics Department whom he had first spoken to about the papyrus journals, had been hit by a car as he was crossing the street in front of his house.

Dunn had died on the spot. The car that mowed him down had vanished. There were no eyewitnesses so the car would remain untraceable. An uneasy feeling took hold of Ashford as he received the news. Dunn was a good man. A deeply religious Catholic, he had fitted well into this Jesuit liberal arts college. Was his shadowy caller behind this accident?

It seemed too much of a coincidence. He now recalled the mysterious circumstances that surrounded the disappearance, two weeks ago, of Lawrence Fuller, a former Professor of Classics and Dean at the college.

Fuller was returning from attending a seminar at the Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago. He had checked out of his hotel and then vanished into thin air. The doorman at his hotel and the bell boy had reported seeing him into a cab but he never made it to the airport. These had been stuffed in boxes and buried in the basement without cataloguing them at the time.

Where did that leave him then? Would he be next? Thinking swiftly, he made up his mind. He had one advantage over the caller. No one knew about the two journals he had found along with the papyri. If the translation had surprised him, the second journal had left him dumbfounded.

If the two journals together meant what he thought they did, then this discovery was more than just unearthing meaningless documents that were thousands of years old. The future of the world could be at stake.

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The copier spat out the last copy. Ashford hurriedly gathered up the papers and stapled them together. For a few moments he stared at the sealed envelope as if reconsidering his course of action. He called his colleague, from the architecture department, who had offered to drop off the package at the FedEx office downtown. Five minutes later, the package was safely on its way to its destination. After his colleague left with the package, Ashford slumped in his chair. He had done everything he could to ensure that he was not the only one who knew what the journals contained.

He was a simple man with a strong sense of duty. Even in this situation, the thought that the journals themselves could have been despatched to his friend had not crossed his mind.

They were the property of the college and had to stay here. Like the papyrus texts. His solution had been to photocopy the journals and send them off instead. Ashford knew what was in store for him.

He had no idea what to do next to protect himself. He had thought of making a run for it, but where could he go? This college had been his life for the last thirty-five years and he had not stepped out of the campus in all that time, except for the one occasion when he had attended a conference in Washington DC, in That was the time he had made his only friend outside the college, a historian from India who was speaking at the conference on the subject of preserving ancient documents.

They had hit it off, surprisingly, and stayed in touch over the years. It was this friend whom he had now sent the photocopies to. Resigned to what was to come, he closed his eyes and began praying.

A devout Catholic, this was his only succour when he had problems. The sound of footsteps approaching his office made him open his eyes. Five men entered and fanned out along the walls. He could see the bulge in their jackets indicating shoulder holsters.

They were armed. Except for the one in the centre, a tall man with coal-black eyes and an intense look on his face as if he was perpetually in deep philosophical thought. He was clearly the leader of this pack. At a gesture, one of his men picked up the papyri and carefully eased them into a leather briefcase he was carrying. Ashford stared at them defiantly.

He still had an ace up his sleeve.

The two journals he had photocopied, which were now safely in a drawer in his desk. He had always been useless at lying. How did they know? The leader of the pack nodded and one of the men lashed out with a clenched fist. Blood streamed down his face. Three men swiftly rifled through the drawers. One of them found the journals and held them aloft before slipping them into the briefcase with the papyri. The leader then leaned forward and fixed Ashford with a stare.

Like old Fuller. Her face betrayed her frustration and hinted at the seeds of anger being sowed as a result of multiple calls all ending with the same result. No response. She clicked her tongue in exasperation as the call disconnected yet again. Why do I even bother calling?

She stared glumly at her phone for a few moments before stuffing it into her pocket. She had been camping here for the better part of the last twelve months as part of an international team put together by the Greek-American Archaeological Mission of Pydna.

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The long months apart had taken a toll on her relationship, culminating in an acrimonious slanging match that had taken place two weeks ago. Bloody idiot. Unless…she pushed the unpleasant thought away with a shake of her head. Her brooding was interrupted by an excited student, breathless from his dash through the tunnel that led to what was expected to be the discovery of the century — a tomb that had not been opened for over years.

A tomb that had been the subject of much speculation for the last years. The excavation team had been assisted by a contingent of over fifty students and an army of local workers, while the two co-directors of the project, a Greek and an American, were based in Thessaloniki, around 50 kilometres away via the E75 toll road.

All concerns of her boyfriend banished from her mind, Alice adjusted her backpack and turned to follow the student, her thoughts flitting back to the moment, eighteen months ago, when she had been approached to join the team.

It was ironic that she had just met her boyfriend at the time the invitation came. She had been wallowing in the wake of the incident which she never spoke of anymore. At that time, she was struggling to put it behind her, and she had finally managed to bury it deep in the recesses of her mind like a centuries-old secret.

He had been such a support to her then, and she had been grateful to him for it. After dating for a couple of months, she had moved in with him — until she had been called away for this excavation. As she followed the student to the tomb, she recalled her meeting with Kurt Wallace, the billionaire philanthropist. Wallace was funding this excavation through his Wallace Archaeological Trust, an organization devoted to archaeology and the study of ancient civilisations.

The common theme of the books was the hypothesis that humanity had forgotten its roots and turned to an erroneous theory based on the concept of evolution, when the true origins of humankind were hidden deep in the ancient myths of cultures across the world.

Alice had heard and read about Wallace but had never really given much thought to what her opinion was about him and his theories. And, of course, by the ornate trappings of his stately mansion where she had been summoned to meet him. The meeting had lasted precisely ten minutes, and Wallace had opened the conversation by getting to the point.

This opening remark had ignited her curiosity and she stared back at the tall figure of Wallace, standing by the window of his study, the portrait of an aristocrat with his finely cut suit, silk tie, rugged face and salt and pepper hair. And it has everything to do with Alexander the Great. By the time he finished, she would have paid to sign on for this project.

Two portable LED pole lights stood in diagonally opposite corners, lighting up the little space. Alice saw stacks of containers in the chamber. These were padded containers used to gather artefacts from excavation sites to transport them safely to labs where they could be tested, dated and examined more thoroughly.

This was against standard archaeological procedure, where every artefact has to be photographed, tagged, mapped and measured to the last detail before being removed from the site. Lucky guy. Had they laboured so hard for so many months only to be disappointed?

Alice took a deep breath. This was the moment of truth. She nodded to Damon who beckoned to Marco. The student hefted one of the pole lights and carried it through the open doorway, into the tomb. As Alice and Damon entered the tomb, he returned for the other lamp, his eyes glistening with excitement. Barrel vaulted. She looked at Damon and saw the excitement on his face as well.

They had been right about this. As she entered the chamber, Alice gasped. She had been prepared to find a sarcophagus, a larnax, or even a mummy. But the sight that greeted her eyes was something that made her hair stand on end. Six months ago, after the dust raised by a terror threat to the G20 nations and the discovery of an ancient secret from the Mahabharata had died down, the governments of the US and India had decided to set up a joint task force to monitor and investigate leads to technology based terrorism.

The idea had stemmed from the attempt by a shadowy global group to partner with terrorists to use cutting edge technology based on the secret from the Mahabharata with the objective of global political and economic domination. The plot had been foiled but the enemy still existed. And the entire episode had demonstrated that there were enough people out there who would not have any scruples about using technology to achieve their ends.

Imran had willingly embraced the idea of a task force that was supported politically and had the authority and responsibility to investigate potential leads for techno-terrorism.

But he had met the leader of the task force for the first time only today. What was worse was, having backed the idea to the hilt initially, there was no way for him to withdraw from the task force. It was a difficult situation. The email alert from his Blackberry intruded on his thoughts. Not tonight. Normally, he welcomed the challenge of an after office hours email. It usually meant there was a problem to be solved.

And Imran was nothing if not a problem solver. A true Gemini, he loved nothing more than the novelty of a new crisis rearing its ugly head. It gave him the variety his nature sought as a natural diversion from his routine work.

He glanced at his email inbox. What he saw there made him sit up immediately. It was an email from a ghost. The tomb of a Queen As Damon and Alice entered the inner chamber an eerie sight greeted them in the diffused light that filtered through the doorway from the lone lamp in the outer chamber. In the centre of the room lay a stone larnax, plain and unadorned.

There was no other object in the room. But it was not the emptiness of the chamber or the simplicity of the larnax that stood out. On the wall of the chamber facing the doorway, an immense stone snake seemed to emerge from the floor of the tomb. Its enormous jaws gaped open and its fangs were bared, as if expressing displeasure at an unwelcome intrusion.

Like a protective shelter for the larnax. As it was in life, so it was in death for this queen. Adding to this surreal vision were the carvings on the remaining walls of the chamber. There were serpents carved in bold relief, coiled, hissing, and stretched out. In the dim light, they looked like stone shadows about to leap off the wall. Marco staggered in with both the pole lights and stopped short as he saw the strange decoration in the tomb.

Alice looked at her two companions excitedly. For the last twelve months they had been hoping that their guess about the occupant of the tomb had been correct. Now, all doubts were laid to rest. The chamber was fairly large, at least fifty feet in length. Marco was now standing in the far corner of the chamber opposite the entrance, just below one of the massive coils of the snake that towered over them.

Alice and Damon hurried up to see what he had found. Hidden behind the bulk of the snake, as it reared off the wall, was an opening.

They looked at each other. Was there a third chamber? This was unusual for a Hellenistic tomb. He was already carrying one of the lamps to illuminate the hidden doorway, revealing a small chamber lined with two rows of shelves which bore stone statues and stone slabs of different sizes. Alice and Damon proceeded to examine the contents of the shelves. Alice nodded. I guess the stories about her fascination for snakes were true after all.

Damon looked at his watch. Alice looked around as an enormous sigh escaped her. This was the high point of her career as an archaeologist. She busied herself clicking photographs of the chambers, the larnax and the murals. After she had finished, she turned her attention to the artefacts in the hidden chamber, carefully photographing each one before she packed them in the padded containers.

It had been hidden until now behind the statuettes and clay tablets. At first she thought it was made from ancient bone which had discoloured over the centuries. But, as she turned it over in her hands and studied it in the light of the lamps, she realised that it was actually carved from ivory.

She turned to see Marco grinning at her. Oh, by the way, Damon asked you to get the cube with you. Apparently the directors want to see it. I just need to photograph and tag it. Together, they lugged the containers containing the artefacts to the dig hut, and carefully laid them out on the central table.

Alice was sure the two directors would want to see these immediately, since they had specifically asked for them to be removed from the tomb. There were two guards posted at the site and it was miles from anywhere, so it was unlikely that anyone would steal the artefacts. Back at the hotel, which was little more than a cluster of rustic villas, Alice made her way to her room while Marco parked the car and left to find Damon. She knew that she was just trying to postpone the inevitable.

All through the excavations, she had avoided interacting with the two directors as far as possible, leaving Damon to brief them, report to them and take instructions where required. But tonight there was no escape. She would have to accompany Stavros and Peter, the two co-directors of the mission, to the tomb. But, as one of the lead archaeologists on this mission, there was no getting away from them tonight.

As she contemplated this unwelcome thought, a staccato chopping sound filled the night. A helicopter, passing by overhead, very low. The sound of the chopper continued for a while and then suddenly died down, almost as if the machine had landed somewhere nearby. Alice was still focused on the unpleasant task ahead of her.

Sighing, she took out her laptop and camera and placed them on the desk in the room. As she placed her hand on the doorknob, an insistent tap came from the window that overlooked the garden. It was white with fear, as if the blood had all been drained away from his face.

He tapped again, with greater urgency, indicating that she should open the window. Alice retraced her steps and let Marco in through the window. Just like that. What was he babbling about? Why would Peter shoot Damon? She knelt down beside the weeping boy and put her hand on his shoulder reassuringly. He was angry with Damon for leaving you alone in the tomb and for letting you photograph the artefacts.

He said that Damon should have brought the cube to show them. Alice waited patiently, offering him a box of tissues. Suddenly she felt she was in a dream. A very unpleasant dream.

She wished to be woken up right now. Marco blew his nose loudly and continued. He pleaded, begged for Peter to give him another chance. He was crying. He just shot him. Alice stood up as she heard the sound of people racing down the corridor leading to her villa. Was it Stavros and Peter? She sprinted for the door and double bolted it. That would buy them some time. If Damon had been killed, there was no doubt about what would happen to Marco and her.

The sound of an assault on the door came to them. The latch shook with the impact but stayed fast. Alice looked at the door and then glanced at Marco, who was frozen where he sat, staring at the door like a deer caught in the headlights of a car on a forest path. If Peter knew that she was aware of what had happened, they would guess that she was trying to flee and would take action to pre-empt her.

He stood up shakily and tottered to the window, sliding out and onto the grassy lawn just as the latch gave way and Peter burst into the room. Two soft coughs sounded and bullets whistled past their ears. Alice realised that someone was shooting at them and the gun was fitted with a sound suppressor. She raced across the lawn, dragging Marco behind her, to where the Land Cruiser, which was their official transport, stood.

As she ran, Marco suddenly seemed to grow heavier. One moment she was pulling him forward, the next he was an immovable object, as if set in stone. Alice glanced back at Marco as he slumped to the ground. His face was a mask of red and his hair was drenched in blood. The bullets had found their mark. For a precious moment, she hesitated, tears welling in her eyes.

She was torn between her own safety and the tragedy she was witnessing now. A young boy, his life brutally cut short. And for what? More coughs rang out and her instinct took over. The key was in the ignition. Marco must have left it there, in anticipation of driving the co-directors to the tomb site. The engine complained and then revved up as she accelerated, heading out onto the dirt road that led to the tomb.

As she raced down the dirt track, she heard shouts behind her. The coughs rang out once again, and bullets thudded into the Land Cruiser as she pressed the accelerator to the floor.

She had to get to the tomb. There were two armed guards at the tomb site and they would protect her from the madness that suddenly seemed to have broken loose here.

The floodlights which had been fitted to light up the excavation were off and so were the generators powering them. Where were the guards? She jumped out of the vehicle and stumbled across the uneven ground. Though she knew her way around, she had never been here after dark, aided only by the light of the stars.

Abruptly, she tripped over something heavy on the ground and just about managed to regain her balance. Shocked, she realised that it was Geordi, one of the guards. She bent down to check on him but there was no pulse. He was dead. She stood up warily, confused; caught between the need to understand what was happening here, and her instinct, which was telling her to flee.

Even as she struggled with her thoughts, a dark shadow clambered out of the shaft that led to the underground tomb. Alice froze. Only now did she see the helicopter, an immense shadow off to one side. Her mind was a whirl of confused thoughts of which one stood out clearly. She was trapped. Imran stared at the email he had just received, unable to believe his eyes.

Anwar and Imran had grown up together in Meerut before Anwar moved to Lucknow to stay with his uncle, after losing both his parents.

That was years ago, but the two boys had kept in touch as they grew up. But the two had remained good friends.

Until five years ago when Anwar had suddenly vanished without a trace. And now, he had turned up out of nowhere. A ghost from the past. He opened the email. And felt like someone had punched him in the face. It contained two words. Help Anwar … and into the fire Alice stood, immobilised, as the shadow emerged from the shaft and advanced towards her.

She saw it move one hand to its hip and realised it was reaching for a weapon. This gun had no silencer. There was no need for stealth here. Bullets smacked into the windows, shattering them, as she struggled to start the car. A bullet whizzed past her face and embedded itself in the passenger seat next to her.

Alice threw the vehicle into forward gear and raced away from the tomb. Another bullet thudded into the stereo system and she bent low over the wheel, hysterical with fear, trying to control her panic, one thought racing through her head.

She had to get away. Behind her, she heard the helicopter start up and she knew that the intruders were going to hunt her down and kill her. Who were these people and what did they want? Sobbing and shaking with fear, she sped towards the E75, the toll road that led to Thessaloniki. It was the only thing she could think of at the moment.

The sound of the helicopter pursuing her followed in her wake. She pressed hard on the steering wheel of the Land Cruiser as if that would make the vehicle go faster.

But she knew that the helicopter would overtake her. It was just a matter of time. Imran knew he was stretching his official privileges. He knew one thing for sure from the message he had received. His friend was in trouble. And Imran was going to do everything he could to help.

As they raced back towards IB headquarters Imran barked orders into his phone. The red beacon ensured that traffic made way for them. It was as if the traffic jams miraculously melted away, like snow under a deluge of salt.

Back in his office, Imran summoned his team. His anger was on a tight leash, his apparent calmness a thin veneer disguising his worry that he might be too late to help his friend.

He was sure that Anwar had been interrupted while typing the message which had prevented him from providing more details. I want the physical address. Every second was valuable. This is an emergency. But he was convinced his friend was in dire trouble.

Tonight was the night he would break rules if necessary, even though he had never done it in his long career with the IPS.Something that the world had worshipped for the last years.

A lone figure emerged from the helicopter as its rotors died down and Alice realised that there was no one accompanying the pilot in the helicopter. His uncle had taken good care of him, sending him to MIT for his higher studies, and never allowing him to feel like an orphan. Shukla helping him from Jaungarh. Tonight was the night he would break rules if necessary, even though he had never done it in his long career with the IPS.