Agent 6

  If the mob broke in Leo knew his time in Afghanistan would count for nothing. The crowd would kill him without a second thought, seeing him as no different to the soldiers who’d recently arrived in Red Army uniforms.

  Something struck the timber door. There was another heavy blow and a white zigzag line appeared. They would be inside in seconds.

  Leo lifted up his mattress, leaning it against the door. At the base he piled up the bed sheets and his collection of books. He smashed his only chair, kicking the timber fragments onto the heap. Looking around for more things to burn he saw the collection of letters that he’d started composing for his daughters back home. There were at least fifty partially written pages, efforts at correspondence that he’d abandoned, disheartened by his inability to express himself – his writing came across as matter of fact and unemotional, detailing what the city looked like, or how he’d grown to enjoy a new type of food. He was incapable of putting into words the simple fact that he missed his daughters and regretted any anguish he’d caused by his absence.

  Nara cried out:

  — Leo!

  The attackers continued to rain blows against the door. They were almost inside. Keeping the letters, Leo picked up the fat-bellied, old-fashioned kerosene lamp. He threw it against the door and it smashed. Kerosene poured down the timber. He picked up the candle, lighting the kerosene. Flames ran across the floor, up the mattress, over the wood. The mattress popped and spat, and in seconds the sheets were ablaze.

  Grabbing the spare container of kerosene, he gestured for Nara to join him by the far window.

  — Climb onto the roof.

  The roof was lined with tin, supported by a timber frame. Nara knew it would burn. She said:

  — The roof?

  Leo nodded.

  — We better hope someone saves us before it collapses.

  Their attackers were no longer trying to break the door down, confused by the fire. As Nara pulled herself onto the roof, Leo collected his opium pipe. Perched on the window ledge, he threw the second container into the middle of the fire. The plastic quickly melted. Climbing up onto the roof, feeling a sudden rush of heat, he glanced back to see the mattress consumed with flames, billowing black smoke.

  On the roof, he surveyed the substantial smoke trail rising into the night sky. A patrol might come in time. Nara was crouching in the corner of the roof furthest from the fire. Leo sat beside her. He now owned nothing in the world apart from the clothes he was wearing, the bundle of unfinished, inarticulate letters to his daughters and the opium pipe in his pocket. Legs crossed, he watched as the flames broke through a patch of roof. They did not have long. For the first time that night he behaved as any normal man might and put an arm around his injured student.

  Kabul Province

  Surobi District

  Barqi-Sarobi Dam

  50 Kilometres East of Kabul

  Same Day

  Picking from a fistful of sugar-coated almonds, Fahad Mohammad sat near the crest of a hill overlooking the Kabul River. A bright moon hung over the gorge, but even without its light he could navigate down the slopes that dropped sharply to the river. Cradled in between the hills, like a giant concrete mouth, was the Sarobi Dam. It providing a significant portion of the capital’s electricity, and its strategic importance to the occupation could not be underestimated. The access road had been fortified with checkpoints and barbed-wire barriers. Two tanks were stationed at the top of the dam, one facing north, one south – guns angled high as if they feared that the mountains would rise up and smash the precious structure. Impressive as these defences might seem to Soviet planners they were of little concern to Fahad. No attack by the mujahedin was ever going to travel up the road. He liked to tell his men:

  The Soviets worry about controlling roads. This is not a country of roads. Let them keep our roads. We will keep the rest of Afghanistan.

  There were perhaps fifty soldiers in total protecting the facility, a mix of Afghan army recruits commanded by the occupiers. The notion that this was a coalition of equals was insultng – the Afghans were under orders, subservient, slaves in their own country and an abomination in Fahad’s eyes. Though the troop numbers were significant, their cautious deployment underscored their belief that mines scattered across the gorge would prevent any attack.

  As Fahad chewed on the last of his almonds, he could see one of the mines, a bulbous shape not more than ten metres away. A person might mistake it for a rock, for these mines were not dug in by a specialist team but dropped by enemy planes, scattered from the sky. Specially designed wings spun them through the air to slow their descent, grotesquely copying nature’s design of a seedpod, to land softly. They were the most innocuous looking of weapons. Children mistook them as toys since the colour of the plastic case varied according to where they were dropped, whether the reds or yellows of the mountain soil, or the greens of vegetated areas. Though they could be seen by a vigilant naked eye they were almost invisible to metal detectors, containing only a thin aluminium detonator. Fahad estimated there were several thousand spotted through these hills, none of them intended to kill. An examination revealed that they did not have enough explosives to guarantee death. They were designed to maim. An injured mujahedin was far more valuable to the occupation than a dead man. A wounded soldier could result in an entire operation being called off as the survivors carried him home. The dead presented no such problem: they were left where they lay.

  Fahad returned to his team.

  — Allahu Akbar.

  It rippled through the group, and once there was silence Fahad led the descent down the gorge. His team consisted of four other men including his younger brother, Samir – a young man with delicate feminine features. In contrast, Fahad was much taller and leaner. Standing still he appeared awkward. But in motion his body was elegant and nimble, one of the fastest soldiers on foot, able to trek across vast distances without a break, taking only mouthfuls of water from rivers he passed along the way. Fahad loved his three brothers, including Samir, but he held grave reservations about his abilities as a soldier.

  Samir was in charge of the explosives, deciding for this mission to use kama, a stable mix that wouldn’t detonate by accident. It could only be set off by a charge from the inside. It could be dropped, or knocked, the carrier could fall over and stumble without killing the group. Samir spent much of his free time fashioning new kind of bombs, toying with different detonators, experimenting with timers, testing the destructive impact of packing nails around the explosives or ball-bearings, which were much harder to obtain. He had no appetite for hand-to-hand combat and he was no leader. Yet his bomb-making skills were invaluable. Even more advantageous, he had no scars to give away his trade, no fingers missing, no eye full of shrapnel. Perhaps deceived by his soft face, Soviet soldiers never suspected him and he was able to pass through checkpoints with ease whereas Fahad was always stopped and searched, as if it were possible to read in his expression the fury and destructiveness of his intentions. For this mission Fahad had wanted to leave him at home. Samir argued that he was the most experienced with the explosives and he was needed at the dam in order to make the charges, to adapt to the circumstances. After much disagreement, Fahad had given in. He still felt uneasy about the decision, a niggling feeling in his gut that wouldn’t go away.

  Once the descent was completed, they would begin their approach a kilometre downstream from the dam, out of sight of the guard patrols. There was no way to defuse the mines but Fahad had cleared a path during the day, marking a safe route for them to follow in the dark. They moved slowly, in single file, unable to use torchlight, guided by the footsteps carefully dug into the ground as markers. As the ground slid under each step they were forced to stop and find their balance, unable to reach out and steady themselves for fear of grabbing a mine. It took almost an hour to reach the bottom of the gorge.

  Moonlight caught the Kabul River as it broke over rocks. The enemy had taken many precautions against a poss
ible attack only to ignore the river itself. Their thinking was conventional: their orthodoxy would be their undoing. Fahad stepped into the river, stifling a desire to exclaim out loud at the cold. He could hear the sharp intake of breath as his men entered the water behind him. They had no specialist clothing. They’d abandoned the customary loose-fitting shirts, instead wearing American-style T-shirts that didn’t drag in the fast-flowing water. They wouldn’t survive long in these temperatures if their heads or necks became wet. They needed to keep their upper torso dry by navigating through the shallows. Stealth was their only chance of survival, rigging the explosives to detonate and then retreating.

  The aim of the operation wasn’t to bring the dam crashing down. Though it would be a glorious sight, it would be an impossible task, even with Samir’s expertise. They were attempting to damage the tunnels underneath it, to cause enough structural instability to shut the facility for repairs. It would cripple operations in Kabul. The Soviet regime would have to concentrate its efforts on energy security, keeping its resources close to the capital, while the resistance could gather strength. It would be a great psychological victory: striking at the heart of the occupation’s source of power the same day as Fahad’s older brother, Dost Mohammad, murdered an entire class of trainee secret-police officers.

  As they navigated the final twist of the river, the dam was directly up ahead. The control room could be seen clearly, the men in charge standing at the windows. The river was at its most powerful here, contained within the narrowest area, the speed of flow controlled by the level of discharge from the dam. At the flick of a button the control room could dump water, enough to flood the riverbed, sweeping the team downstream. Several spotlights zigzagged across the valley and across the river, passing directly in front of Fahad. He sank down, his head just above the water. The spotlight moved on.

  Within touching distance of the steep concrete face, Samir began his work. The rest of the team took up positions around him. No longer moving, Fahad shivered. He was unable to stop, his hands shaking. Concerned about his brother’s coordination, he moved to help him only to find he wasn’t readying the explosives: instead, he was chipping at the concrete.

  — What are you doing?

  The crash of the water released from the dam concealed their conversation. Samir said:

  — If the explosives are planted just a short depth inside the concrete the force of the explosion will travel inwards, through the structure. It might even bring the whole thing down!

  Fahad was furious.

  — This wasn’t the plan. We have to damage it, that’s all. A hole is too risky. They’ll hear us! We don’t have time!

  — The river is loud enough to conceal the sound of our work. Fahad implored er’s:

  — You don’t have to do this to impress me. Set up the explosives and go! Stick to the plan! This isn’t about your pride!

  Insulted, Samir turned away, striking the concrete again, trying to chisel a hole.

  A spotlight snaked along the riverbank towards the face of the dam. This time its movements were deliberate and careful. They’d heard something. Fahad gestured for his men to duck, pulling his brother down with him. The spotlight hit the water, turning it as bright as day. Fahad prayed.

  He reacted slowly to the first sound of gunfire, hoping that it wasn’t real, amazed by the power of denial, wanting so much to be able to turn back time and order his brother to stay at home. Still underwater, Fahad watched as the water around him turned red. He stood up. There was heavy gunfire, bullets chipping the concrete dam, ripping through the water. One of the men was floating on the surface. His brother was alive, pressed up against the dam, unable to move, paralysed with fear. Fahad reached out for the explosives. They would have to detonate them now, killing themselves but doing as much damage as possible. A bullet hit his brother in the face, his features disappearing. He dropped the bag. The explosives were swept away.

  The two remaining men fired back, hopelessly, emptying their magazines at targets they couldn’t see. Fahad didn’t fire a shot, sinking to his knees, clasping his dead brother. He had failed. His love for his brother had blinded him. The boy was not a soldier. He should never have been allowed to come with them.

  There was a rumble and the water level suddenly rose, from his waist up to his shoulders. The entire river swelled. The level of discharged surged. A mass of water was released from the dam. It crashed down around him. Fahad was separated from his brother’s body, picked up and lost in the newly created white rapids. Tossed downstream, he was helpless. A poor swimmer, he found himself underwater, his body pounded against the riverbed. He kicked hard, only for another wave to catch him, spinning him round. Smashed against a rock, he lost consciousness for a moment. When his thoughts returned, he was on the surface. The velocity of the river had dropped, the sudden swell had dispersed and he was able to keep himself from going under again.

  In a matter of seconds he’d been carried several hundred metres downstream from the dam. The sound of machine-gun fire was distant. Alone, he allowed himself to be carried away by the river. Wretched, he wondered why he’d been saved.

  Greater Province of Kabul

  City of Kabul

  Kabul Police Headquarters

  Dih Afghanan

  Next Day

  Leo and Nara had been rescued from the fire minutes before the roof collapsed. Several members of the mob had tried to climb up, at the points where the building wasn’t ablaze. Their determination forced Leo into action, kicking their hands and stamping on their faces. As more of the building was engulfed, including the shop underneath the apartment, the mob waited for the pair to die. Nara buried her head in Leo’s shoulder, unable to watch as the flames moved closer. The sheets of tin roofing buckled and bent, becoming too hot for their bare feet, forcing them to hop like schoolchildren playing a game. Just as they were on the brink of deciding whether to jump into the flames or into the mob below, a Soviet military detachment arrived, investigating the deteurbance.

  Helped down, they were brought to the police station, examined by a doctor, given food, and then told the news. The reason they’d been saved by a military detachment was because martial law had been imposed on the city. The attack on Nara had not been an isolated incident. Every member of Leo’s class of trainee students had been targeted in a coordinated series of attacks. Nara was the only survivor. The murders took place within a four-hour period. Marking out the crimes on a map of the city it was evident that one set of attackers couldn’t have carried them all out. In total there were fifteen dead: nine students and six family members, either because they’d been obstructive or because they’d been considered complicit in their child’s education. The murders themselves were savage. The intent was two-fold: to kill and to provoke. Some victims were found with their throats cut, their tongues sliced off. One man had been decapitated, the Communist sickle cut into his forehead. These were attacks on the institution of the secret police and part of a propaganda war fought not on radio airwaves but in blood, an event with enough scale and horror to be talked about across the entire city. A message was being sent to those considering forming an alliance with the infidel government – death awaited them. Leo took no consolation from the fact that he had always been honest with his students about the dangers of the profession they’d chosen, warning them that they’d experience hatred as they’d never experienced before.

  Unlike the other officers, Captain Vashchenko did not appear perturbed or tired, entering the room with his usual abrupt efficiency.

  — Nara Mir, you did well to survive. We’re impressed by your strength. You are a powerful symbol that we cannot be beaten so easily. As the only survivor you are also the key to solving these crimes.

  Leo raised his hand, interrupting:

  — Nara has only recently started learning Russian. Perhaps I should translate.

  The captain nodded, showing no embarrassment at his mistaken presumption. Once Leo had finished, the captain con
tinued:

  — These murders are a sensation. They were intended to be. The city’s population is talking of nothing else. For this reason, we must solve this crime today. It seems to me no coincidence that at the same time as trainee agents were being murdered an audacious attack was launched on the Sarobi Dam. Had it succeeded there would have been a power shortage across the entire city. The two events together would have dramatically undercut our authority and made it impossible to plausibly assert that we were in control. Fortunately the Sarobi Dam attack failed. We’re trying to identify the bodies of the bombers.

  Hearing the translation, Nara asked:

  — What about the man I injured?

  — His body was removed from your home before we arrived. We found the blood but nothing more. One thing is for certain: this cannot be allowed to stand. In the same way that the deserting officer is to be executed in order to send a clear signal to our soldiers, we must send a clear signal to the Afghans that those who threaten our operation will be killed.

  Leo didn’t translate, instead asking:

  — Fyodor Mazurov is to be executed?

  He glanced at Nara to see ifhe understood. The shock on her face confirmed that she had. It was a lesson that could not be taught – she was forced to experience the sensation for herself, responsibility for another person’s death. Blind to the nuances of these emotions, the captain was breezy in his summary.

  — As I said, he must be made an example of. For the same reason, we must make an example of these attackers and return life in the city to normal. I have repealed the order for martial law. The impact of these crimes must be reduced, not exaggerated. Life will continue as normal. And we will catch the killers.

  There was silence. Nara said, in awkward Russian:

  — And the woman, Ara?

  The captain was becoming impatient with their interest in matters he considered concluded.