Agent 6

  Borovik ushered the Afghan interpreter out of the room. There was no need for him with Leo present. The move surprised Nara’s father but he remained silent, waiting for them to speak. At this point Nara entered the cell, pausing by the door, before stepping into the room, hands awkwardly by her sides. Staged like amateur theatre, it was nonetheless an effective device. Her father regarded her uniform: his eyes drilled into the details of her clothes, the colours, the symbols of the new regime. From his reaction he already knew she worked for the government. He regained control of his expression, easing back into his seat.

  Borovik leaned close to Leo.

  — Ask him if he’s ashamed that he ordered an attack on his daughter.

  Leo translated the question. Before the father could answer, Nara stepped forward.

  — Father, please let me help you. There has been a mistake. I’m here to explain that you had nothing to do with the attacks. If you cooperate we can be out of here within hours.

  A threat of violence could not have been as tormenting to him as this offer of help. Gasping at his daughter’s naivety, the father said:

  — You will help me?

  — Father, the nature of my employment must be a shock for you.

  She continued, deluded, narrating the fantasy of his innocence, a fiction constructed in the drive to the prison.

  — We have our differences. But I know what these men cannot know. There is love between us. I remember holding your hand. You loved me as a child. As an adult, it has not been easy. I wanted to tell you about my recruitment. Consider this, you work for the government. You design buildings. I work for the government too. I will teach in universities, perhaps some of the buildings you helped create.

  Her father shook his head, embarrassed by his daughter’s show of emotion and talk of love. He found it humiliating and silenced her:

  — We found your boos, your political manifestos and your notes on how to identify recruits for government work and those who might be a threat. Were you going to inform on us? One day you would, if we had said the wrong thing or criticized the invaders.

  — No, never, I want to help you.

  — You cannot help me. You have ruined me. Not even a whore could have brought as much shame to our family as you have done.

  Nara’s mouth fell open. Leo saw her falter, for a moment he wondered if she would need to steady herself against the wall. She didn’t. Her father continued, sensing weakness, wanting to hurt her, his desire to inflict pain stronger than self-preservation.

  — I allowed you an education and you taught yourself to be blind. You cannot see what is happening to your own country. It has been invaded. It has been stolen from under your eyes and yet you celebrate this fact.

  Still suffering from shock, Nara clung to one of her previous arguments, referencing her father’s role as a builder, a creator, not a terrorist.

  — You work with the government. You are an architect.

  — Shall I tell you what I learned from the history of the buildings around us? Hundreds of years ago the British invaders destroyed the ancient Charchata bazaar in retaliation for the murder of their envoy. That is how invaders weigh the life of one of their own against our nation. A whole city is not worth one of their officers, they would tear it down to rubble. The same will be true for the Soviets because this is not their home, not their land, no matter what destruction they bring they can always return to their cities and their families. I have never worked for the Soviets. I worked for the people of Afghanistan, the people of Kabul.

  Nara stepped forward, only three paces from her father. Leo thought there was a chance he’d strike her, even in the cell. His arms and ankles were not restrained. Nara asked:

  — You knew of the attack?

  — Knew of it? I drew them a map of our apartment and marked with a cross where you would be sleeping.

  Leo had not translated a word. He glanced at Borovik. The interrogator seemed to know exactly what was going on and said:

  — The father has admitted his guilt, yes?

  Leo nodded. Borovik continued:

  — That was the easy part. What we need are the names of those involved.

  Leo whispered:

  — There is no chance he’ll give up those names. Borovik agreed.

  — The pride that helped us will now work against us. You are right, the father wouldn’t tell us the names. His wife is a different matter.

  Borovik gestured at the guard on the door. There was the sound of an adjacent cell being opened. A young man appeared, blindfolded, his hands tied behind his back. Leo didn’t recognize him. Nara’s mother stood up, raising her face for the first time, hands locked together, pleading:

  — No!

  It was a desperate, animal-like cry. Leo asked Borovik:

  — Who is that man?

  — It’s Nara’s brother. The mother seems keen on her son. She agreed to her daughter’s death. I wonder if she’ll agree to the death of her son.

  Nara had turned almost as pale as her mother. Borovik whispered in Leo’s ear:

  — I’ll wager I can get a name within five minutes.

  Like a sultan calling for food, Borovik clapped his hands together.

  A guard entered carrying a stainless-steel tray. On it was a single bottle of orange soda, the liquid luminous in the gloomy cell, the colour of the Fanta label a faded blue. The guard set the tray down on a table. He pulled a bottle opener from his pocket with all the formality of a waiter in a luxury hotel. The steel soda top clinked on the floor. Borovik stepped forward and began to drink straight from the bottle in long gulps, a thin orange line leaking from the side of his mouth until the bottle was finished. He placed the empty bottle on the edge of the table and let go. The bottle fell, as was intended, smashing in two. Borovik picked up the largest remaining portion by the neck, creating a jagged glass fist. It was a crude threat, breathtaking in its savagery, exploiting the notoriety of this place. Leo had seen enough. Without saying a word he walked out, brushing past the shocked figure of Nara, leaving the cell. Borovik called out to him from the door but Leo didn’t look back. Passing the exiled interpreter, Leo said:

  — They need you.

  Soliciting the help of a guard, Leo left the wing, keen to get outside, finally managing to gain access to the dusty ground of an empty exercise yard. He walked to the furthest corner and sat against the wall, closing his eyes, his legs stretched out in sun, the rest of his body in shade. Having not slept last night, he was tired and in the pleasant heat he quickly fell asleep.

  *

  When Leo woke up, the angle of the shade had changed and there was sunlight across half his body. Using the back of his hand, he wiped his mouth. It was only now that he noticed that he was not alone. Nara was seated not far from him, on the dusty ground of the exercise yard, her back against the wall. He had no idea how long she’d been there. Squinting at her, he noted that she had not been crying. Leo asked, his voice croaky:

  — And?

  — My mother loves my brother. She gave us a name.

  Nara had changed. She was different. She was numb.

  Greater Province of Kabul

  City of Kabul

  Sar-e-Chowk Roundabout

  Same Day

  Leo surveyed the roundabout, one of the busiest junctions in the city. Sar-e-Chowk was much more than an intersection – it was a marketplace, not just for material goods but for an exchange of information and services. Wagons were set up around the edge of the traffic, displaying produce. Behind them were busy tea rooms populated with men perched on plastic chairs surveying the activity like lookouts on the bows of ships. Clutching glasses of tea, with cigarettes snagged between long thin fingers smouldering dangerously close to their wire-wool beards, no men had ever looked wiser. Deals were done, ideas disputed, people discussed. This was a hub – a commotion of gossip, rumour and trade churned through the population as if by the circular motion of the traffic, a hub entirely outside the Communist regime’s
control with no phone lines to tap or letters to intercept.

  With a calculated air of nonchalance, Leo ambled between market wagons, drifting among the hundreds of people as they headed home at the end of the day. Some were still buying, some were stopping to talk: other vendors were packing up as the daylight began to fade. He did not have long to find his target. Captain Vashchenko was fixed upon taking their prime suspect into custody today. Nara Mir’s mother had given them the name of a young man – Dost Mohammad. According to her confession, he was the principal organizing force behind the attacks. He had approached Nara’s father with news of the plan, asking them to be away on a specific date.

  To the captain, speed was the priority, not prudence. Leo sensed the question of guilt was of secondary interest. There had been no serious investigation into the allegation. The bare minimum of checks had been made. The Afghan police knew very little about the man beyond the basics of his occupation. They couldn’t find a photograph among their files. Their bureaucracy was woefully undeveloped. Information was the spine of any credible authoritarian regime – a government needed to know its people. Despite the numerous shortcomings, the captain would not waiver from his determination to make an arrest within twenty-four hours of the attacks.

  When Leo had opposed rushing into the market without even knowing what the suspect looked like the captain had chided him, pointing out that in Afghanistan they couldn’t behave as the KGB had done in Leo’s time, making arrests at four in the morning when everyone was asleep. It would appear to the enemy as a feminine act of deception and subterfuge. If they wanted to subdue Afghanistan they needed to demonstrate bravery, courage and audacity. Guile and slyness were vices here, not virtues. A public display of justice in one of the busiest roundabouts in the city would be a robust and proportionate response to the savagery of last night’s murders. As for the danger of resistance within the crowd, the captain did not see this as a problem. He went as far as to hope that the enemy would show themselves. Let them take up arms. They would be killed.

  Without a photograph, they knew only that the suspect owned a wagon normally found at this roundabout, selling a variety of typical Afghan sweets, dried fruit and sugared and honey-coated nuts. As a suspect profile, it was one of the worst Leo had encountered. According to some, Dost Mohammad was twenty-five years old, according to others he was thirty. Since many men didn’t know how to count, an age was often chosen as a signifier of appearance. Leo would have to strike up a conversation, assess whether the man was Dost Mohammad. He was then to return to the team waiting nearby, allowing them to storm the market and make the arrest. It was presumed that no one would be suspicious of a man in green flip-flops with the telltale signs of opium use in his eyes and face. Leo wasn’t so sure.

  Searching for the stall, Leo assessed the problems. It would be impossible to secure the area: there were countless exits even with a large team of reinforcements. There were many vantage points for the enemy. There might be lookouts. The suspect had been working here for many years. He knew the market dynamic, the ebb and flow of customers; he would have an instinct for when something was wrong. Leo decided to make a purchase to seem a little less out of place. One old man sold nothing but eggs, cartons stacked high. He showemarkable composure despite the frantic bustle around him threatening to bring his stock crashing to the ground. At a fruit stall Leo bought pomegranates, and was handed the thinnest of plastic bags that stretched with the weight of fruit – the last batch of the season. He’d almost completed a full circuit of the market. There was only the north end of the roundabout remaining.

  He crossed the traffic, arriving at the last few stalls positioned in front of the tea rooms. There were two fold-out tables covered with steel bowls filled with pumpkin seeds, green lentils, pulses and grains. Neither man seemed remotely interested in Leo. He moved on, pausing by a wagon spread with cuts of meat. A butchered cow’s head stared into the sky, cheek populated with flies walking a sinew tightrope. Mingled with the smell of offal was something sweet and following the smell he arrived at a narrow wagon covered with wooden boxes. The boxes were like small drawers each filled with an array of sugary snacks, nuql-e-nakhud, sugar-coated chickpeas, nuql-e-badam, sugar-coated almonds, nuql-e-pistah, sugar-coated pistachio nuts. Leo didn’t look at vendor, examining the products, choosing one, before making eye contact, saying at the same time:

  — Nuql-e-badam, three hundred grams.

  The man was young, no older than thirty, with smart eyes. Unlike the other two men he was interested in Leo. His expression gave little away and in so doing gave everything away. The control was practised, hatred contained. He filled a paper bag with the sugar-coated almonds. Leo paid for them, reaching for his wallet, putting his pomegranates down on the edge of the wagon. The man took the money and watched as Leo moved off. There had been no opportunity to ask his name without alerting his suspicions, no way of engaging him in conversation. Leo reckoned the odds that he was the suspect were high. However, hatred of the occupation was not confined to the insurgents.

  At the end of the road, some five hundred metres from the roundabout, Leo met an impatient captain. Nara was standing beside him. Leo said:

  — There’s a man selling sugared almonds at the north end of the market.

  — Is it him? Is it Dost Mohammad?

  — I couldn’t ask his name.

  — You have a sense for these things? Was it him?

  Leo had worked many cases, arrested many men.

  — It was probably him. Captain, I should warn you, this is going to end badly.

  The captain nodded.

  — But not for me.

  *

  Leo sat on the steps of a house, looking down at the paper bag of sticky sugar-coated almonds. A fly landed, sticking to the nuts, legs flailing, wings congealed with sugar and syrup.

  The hidden troops emerged, guns ready. The captain set off, leading his team, intent on making his arrest and sending his powerful statement to the city. Leo closed his eyes, listening to the screech of the tyres, the commotion in the market. There was screaming, shouting, a mixture of Russian and Dari. Shots were fired. Leo stood up. Beside him was the figure of Nara, perhaps the loneliest-looking person he’d ever seen.

  Together, they walked towards thdabout, past the blockade of soldiers, into the crowded market area, arriving at the same time as a helicopter circling low above them. The wind from its blades caught the tarpaulin tops of the market stalls and they filled out like sails. Some turned over, spilling their produce. Leo checked on the eggs. They were smashed, shell and yolk on the ground.

  Leo and Nara passed through crowds of Afghans, many on their knees, hands behind their heads, gun barrels pressed against their backs. The man who’d sold him pomegranates looked up at him, full of hatred. With the invasion, Leo could no longer hold a position in the margins, ignored and irrelevant, unseen, living an invisible existence. No longer a ghost, he was the face of the occupation as much as the zealous captain.

  The suspect was not dead. The Afghan and Soviet soldiers had cornered him in a space not far from a spice stall. He’d been shot in the arm: his hand was dripping blood. Nara touched Leo, remaining behind him, hidden from the suspect. Leo asked, already knowing the answer:

  — Was this the man that attacked you?

  She nodded.

  The suspect lifted up his shirt. Several plastic bags were attached to his torso – the kind used by juice stalls. They were leaking, liquid pouring down his body, soaking his clothes. Then a spark and a flame appeared in his hand, a burning match produced from nowhere. He slapped his trousers and the material caught alight, flames spreading to his shirt, the bags ablaze. In a second he was engulfed. His beard turned to fire. His skin shrank from his bones. The pain became too much and he ran from side to side, arms flailing, flames leaping into the sky. One of the soldiers raised his gun to kill him. The captain pushed the barrel down.

  — Let him burn.

  The suspect burned, ev
entually collapsing to his knees. The flames died down, the gasoline exhausted. He continued to move, less like a human, more a smouldering corpse animated by dark magic, coming to rest under one of the tables laden with spices. The table began to cook, spice pods popping in the heat. The air reeked, burnt flesh and sumac spice. Leo’s eyes followed the unusual coloured smoke into the sky, wisps of blues and greens. At every window, as far he could see, there were faces, young boys, young men, the spectators that the captain had so eagerly wanted for the arrest.

  In the tea rooms old men clutched their glasses, cigarettes between their fingers, as calm as if they’d seen this all before and were sure they would one day see it all again.

  The Border of Laghman and

  Nangarhar Provinces

  The Village of Sokh Rot

  116 Kilometres East of Kabul

  9 Kilometres West of Jalalabad

  Next Day

  Since she was only seven years old, weaving a carpet was considered too difficult for Zabi, so instead she’d spent the morning making two of the colours used in dyeing the fabric. Her nails were stained red from crushed pomegranate rinds. She sucked her fingertip, curious that a colour should have a particular taste: red tasted of sour fruit juice even more bitter and sharp than the foul chai-e-siay, the black tea her father drank every morning, stewed so strong it left a smudge around the glass rim. The second urn contained a brown dye, created by grinding walnut husks, more laborious to produce than red. She had to crack the husks, then crunch them to powder with a smooth stone, adding a little warm water, mixing the two together. She dabbed a spot on the end of her tongue. The brown husk paste had its own particular grainy texture but not much of a taste. She decided the colour brown was less of a taste, more of a texture, before deciding that this train of thought was proof that she was bored.