After the attempted arrest of Dost Mohammad, Leo had accompanied his only surviving student back to her family home to help collect her belongings, the most important of which – her books on Marxism – had been hidden outside in the failed hope that her parents wouldn’t find them. Two Soviet soldiers provided protection. By the time they were ready to leave a crowd had gathered, pushing up to the edge of the vehicle. The soldiers fired shots into the air to disperse the mob while Leo bundled Nara into the car. As they drove through the crowd, a small plastic bag hit the windscreen. Acid leaked out and the glass smoked and melted. Leo ordered the soldiers to continue driving, not to get out of the car, sensing that the provocation was a prelude to an ambush. Nara remained calm, despised by the community she’d once been part of. In response to her exile, she practised her Russian.
— My Russian is not good. I would like to make it better. From now we must speak more Russian.
For the rest of the journey, as the windscreen bubbled and hissed, she read her Russian phrase book as though nothing were wrong.
Curious at the sound of this music, Leo found the discipline to delay smoking, slipping on his flip-flops. He entered the corridor and knocked on her door. Nara opened up, releasing the several heavy locks. She was wearing her uniform despite being off duty. She’d been granted the privilege of Soviet-level accommodation primarily because she was an important symbol of the insurgents’ failure to kill all the trainee officers, rather than a gesture of equality between the two forces. She was a talisman of the occupation, and they intended to protect her. Outside the barbed-wire fence and guard patrols she would only last a few hours.
On the living-room table was a bulky cassette player. Nara asked, in Russian:
— Is the music too . . . big?
She couldn’t find the word and changed into Dari.
— Is it too loud?
— No.
The music was bootleg Western pop, the kind that could be found in markets, spread out on shawls, with photocopied album covers, shipped in from other countries, sold at an enormous mark-ups, intended for the occupation force. Leo had no idea what the music was, or who the singer might be. The singing was English: the accent was American. The man had an excellent voice. Nara asked, genuinely nervous:
— Is it a mistake for a Communist to purchase the music of an American singer?
Leo shook his head.
— I don’t think anyone is going to mind.
— The captain gave me an allowance. I have never had my own money before. I spent it. I spent it all in a single afternoon. I kept buying things I didn’t need until the money was gone. Was I wrong to do that?
— No.
On >— The singer is called Sam Cooke. Have you heard of him?
— I don’t follow music.
They listen for a few more moments before Leo said:
— I knew an American singer once. He was a Communist and he visited Moscow many years ago when I was a young man. I provided security for him. He was called Jesse Austin. His voice sounded a little like this man’s voice. Except Jesse Austin didn’t sing pop songs.
Nara took a pen and pad from the living-room table, writing down the name JESSE AUSTIN, as if he were a suspect she needed to investigate.
— I will try to find him in the bazaar tomorrow.
Leo had never thought of looking for his music.
— If you find it, let me know. We can listen together.
Leo glanced around her apartment, at her Communist books now on display on the shelves, books that she’d once been forced to hide in the brickwork of an alleyway, the books that had infuriated her parents and brought about the attempt on her life. She owned very little else: the apartment was almost as empty as Leo’s. The song finished. The tape crackled. A new song began. Nara said:
— Your life in Moscow must be very different from your life here ?
Leo nodded, uneasy at the turn the conversation had taken.
— It was.
— Do you miss your family?
She’d never asked about his personal life before and he didn’t like her asking about it now. He was about to say goodnight and return to his apartment when she added:
— They’re going to execute my father.
Leo’s irritation melted away. He said:
— Yes. I know.
— My mother will be imprisoned. So will my brother. I’ve never lived without my family before.
— It will be hard.
She looked into Leo’s eyes with a pitiful mixture of loneliness and resolve.
— Does it get easier?
Leo shook his head.
— You find ways of coping.
Leo had not entered the apartment, remaining on the threshold, not wishing to embarrass her sense of propriety. She had not invited him in. It would be culturally inappropriate. However, he sensed that she did not want him to leave and wanted him to ask permission to come inside. She could not bring herself to make the request. Finally, Leo said:
— Try to get some sleep.
He turned and left, forcing himself not to look back to see if she was watching him.
Reaching the front door, Leo paused. He pictured her alone in that stark, freshly painted, soulless apartment. It was ridiculous that he should think of going back. She’d lost her family. Of course she wanted company. Was it precisely because she was alone tht he wanted to be with her? The two of them were in the same position, alone, outsiders. It didn’t need to become awkward. What was wrong with them becoming friends? He slowly turned around.
Nara was at the door. She had not shut it but she was not looking at Leo. Captain Vashchenko was at the end of the corridor, a map rolled up under his arm, walking towards them.
— I need to speak to both of you. Let’s talk in Leo’s apartment.
Nara waited until the captain had passed her before leaving her apartment, hiding behind him. Leo did not have a chance to catch her expression.
Inside his apartment, the captain spread out the map on the table, paying no attention as Leo tidied away his opium pipe. The captain took out his gun, using it to weigh the map down. It showed mountains and a valley near the city of Jalalabad, not far from the Pakistan border. The captain explained:
— I presumed a connection between the murders in Kabul and the failed bombing of the Sarobi Dam. I was correct. Dost Mohammad was behind the murders in Kabul. We found the body of Samir Mohammad at the dam, a known bomb-maker. The two men are brothers. According to our source, there are four brothers in total, a young boy called Sayed and a fighter called Fahad, a man feared as a great warrior. This family is a unit of insurrection. Their target is the stability of Kabul. Three days ago we sent a team to their home village, not far from Jalalabad. Hind helicopters were supposed to provide air support for a ground team. We’re told that the villagers opened fire. The helicopters retaliated. The conflict escalated.
He paused, glancing at Leo.
— Several hundred are dead, including women and children. We now have a problem of a different kind. Stories of the massacre have spread throughout the region. We fear they will inflame the insurgency, not just in the province where it took place but also in Kabul. News of the massacre has reached the capital. People are accusing us of striking the village as an act of revenge. Many of our Afghan allies are upset. They see our response as disproportionate.
Leo guessed where the captain was going.
— You have military internal affairs. Let them investigate. Make a show of justice.
— This isn’t about an investigation of our personnel. They were doing their job. This is a public-relations exercise. We need to go into the region and perform some kind of conciliatory gesture. You are our most experienced adviser, you understand these people. These terrorists are causing more problems dead than they did when they were alive. I want you to broker some kind of peace, some kind of compensation.
Considering the premise absurd, Leo scratched his stubble.
— Captain, I’ll be frank with you. Going to this village is a waste of time. They don’t want anything from us, except that we leave their country. I don’t have your authorization to offer that, do I?
Taking his gun, but leaving the map, the captain didn’t register Leo’s objection, saying:
— We leave first thing tomorrow morning. I need people to negotiate, people I trust, which is why I want Nara Mir to come with us. She’s proved herself to be a promising agent. It would be good to have at least one Afghan, for the sake of appearances.
Departing as abruptly as he arrived, he stopped by the door, looking back at the two of them.
— You will translate everything I said for her, won’t you?
The captain shut the door, leaving the two of them alone together.
The Road from Kabul to Jalalabad
100 Kilometres East of Kabul
25 Kilometres West of Jalalabad
Next Day
Leo sat in the back seat of the armoured UAZ beside Nara, the pair of them looking in opposite directions, their bodies angled away from each other. They’d been in this position for most of the long, uncomfortable journey, remaining silent and avoiding eye contact, staring at the view as their convoy had left Kabul, setting out along one of the most dangerous roads in the world, en route to Jalalabad. Forced into taking a diversion around the mountains, humbled before the Afghan landscape, the road passed through the Surobi Gorge where it twisted around sheer drops of several hundred metres, hillsides spotted with burnt-out carcasses of crashed vehicles. This was ambush territory, as lethal as the exit from the Salang Pass where insurgents hid in the mountains, picking off fuel convoys. A military officer was driving with the captain in the front beside him. There was a second vehicle in support with four more Soviet soldiers, a modest military convoy with radios ready to call for air support should it be required. Upon occasion the captain turned around and addressed some comment to Leo, his inscrutable, angular features providing no clue as to whether he guessed what had happened last night. It would be entirely consistent with Soviet protocol if the newly constructed apartment blocks were bugged.
Last night had been a mistake, an impulsive, hot-headed mistake of the most adolescent kind. They shouldn’t have kissed. Nara would surely agree. They’d been lonely, two lost souls in their bleak and empty new apartments. He couldn’t remember exactly how the kiss had happened – they’d been talking, standing close, examining the map spread on the table. She’d pointed out the village where her family came from, the village where she’d never been welcome. She’d shown Leo the route by which her grandfather used to smuggle fleeces into China, explaining how many of the smugglers died in the mountain passes. As though the thought had only just occurred to her, she realized that her grandfather would have known about the plot to kill her and probably approved of it. She became upset, explaining why. It was possible at this point Leo had touched her, merely to comfort her, or he’d brushed her hand by accident. He couldn’t be sure. Though the prelude was muddled in his mind, the kiss was clear, sexual desire for so long repressed by opium, or grief or both. For a moment he’d experienced an uncomplicated pleasure of the kind lost to him, an unstoppable urge, convinced nothing else made sense except following through on this impulse. Yet as he’d gripped her waist he’d felt her body trembling, overwhelmed by emotion, nervous and inexperienced. He’d pulled back. She’d stood before him, her mouth fractionally open as if trying to say something and unable to put together the words. They’d remained opposite each other for what seemed to be several minutes. It might only have been a matter of seconds before finally she’d walked out, quietly closing the door behind her.
After Nara had left Leo had smoked, filling his lungs with opium, his substitute for human contact.hausted, he rested his head against the bulletproof glass and closed his eyes.
*
Leo awoke to find the vehicle stationary. Nara wasn’t beside him. There was no one driving. He stepped out, opening the heavy armoured door. To his side of the road there were the blue-green waters of a lake. On the other side a steep mountain towered above them. They were at Darwanta Dam, not far from their destination, the village of Sokh Rot located in the valley on the other side of the mountain. The captain was standing with his officers, several of whom were smoking. Nara was by the water, gazing into it, separate from the others. Leo walked to her. Hesitant and conscious that the captain was watching them, he was unsure what to say. He touched the water, rippling her reflection.
— It doesn’t have to be a problem.
She didn’t say anything. Leo added:
— I take . . . responsibility. You were blameless in this.
He wanted to stop speaking but couldn’t help adding qualifications to each remark.
— It was a mistake, a mistake that we can put behind us. That’s how I feel.
She said nothing. Leo continued:
— The best thing would be to carry on as we were before. As though it hadn’t happened. We should concentrate on the task at hand. We’re close now.
He quickly qualified:
— I mean, we’re close to the village, rather than you and I, are close, because of last night. I’m not saying we can’t be close, in the future, as friends. I’d like to be your friend. If you want . . .
Leo wished the captain had requested helicopter transport, cutting the journey to minutes rather than hours. But considering the nature of the situation, an alleged massacre by two Hind helicopters, it would have been insensitive to enter the area by air, inflaming the outrage, or sparking panic. Leo did find it odd that the captain had insisted upon handling this problem himself. The intelligence that the massacre was energizing the insurgency in Kabul seemed vague. Equally vague was the notion that forgiveness could be bought with a development project, a medical centre, a school, a well or herds of plump livestock, or why this gesture would take up the captain’s time. Leo had packed nothing other than his pipe and a modest stash of opium, predicting that they would be forced to stay in nearby Jalalabad until the matter was concluded.
Nearing their destination, Captain Vashchenko became unusually talkative. He remarked:
— Do you want to know what my biggest disappointment has been since arriving in this country?
The question was rhetorical and he pressed ahead without waiting for, or wanting, an answer.
— During the invasion I was involved in the siege of the President’s palace, where the 40th Army is based. Where the defector was living – you went there.
Nara had understood enough to offer the name.
— Tapa-e-Tajbeg.
The captain nodded.
— The plan to capture the President. We expected the private guard to surrender. Unlike every other Afghan division they proved resilient. We had to fight our way in. It was the first time I’d ever fought in a royal palace. There was expensive crystal smashed across the floor. Chandeliers were falling from the ceilings. Paintings and works of art were shot to pieces.
The captain laughed.
— Imagine fighting in a museum, that’s what it was like. You’re taking cover behind antiques worth more than I’ll earn in a lifetime. Considering there was not a hope they were going to win, those guards fought bravely. I guess they knew they were going to die whatever happened. We secured the palace room by room. I wanted to be the one who caught or killed the President. What a prize that would’ve been! I made a guess he would be hiding in his bedroom. Doesn’t everyone retreat to the bedroom in times of danger? People associate it with safety, or the most appropriate room to die in. I was wrong. Another member of my team found the President in the bar. He had his own private bar. He was sitting on a chair, his back to the door, drinking a fifty-year-old Scotch. They shot him in the back, careful not to destroy the decanter. We drank the Scotch to celebrate. But I didn’t felt like celebrating. I’m still annoyed I picked the wrong room.
The captain shook his head in regret.
— I’ve never sho
t a dictator.
Leo remarked:
— You’ve installed another one. Perhaps you’ll get another chance.
To his surprise this amused the captain.
— If the time comes, I’ll be heading straight to his private bar. He turned around, an unexpressive man allowing himself a modest smirk.
— How about you translate that for her?
It was the last thing the captain had said before leaving Leo and Nara alone last night. He knew that they’d kissed. Leo had been right. The rooms had been bugged.
The Border of Laghman and
Nangarhar Provinces
Village of Sokh Rot
116 Kilometres East of Kabul
9 Kilometres West of Jalalabad
Same Day
Approaching the site of the massacre, the landscape began to change. The trees were no longer flecked with blossom; they were charred – branches scorched black, entire trunks burnt, reduced to charcoal silhouettes like a child’s pencil drawing. At the epicentre the road disappeared, replaced by a series of ash-black craters, circled by jagged stubs, like trolls’ teeth, where the trees had stood.
The captain ordered the car to stop. Leo stepped out, immediately noticing the sharp chemical smell leaching from the ground around him. When the wind blew, fine dust spiralled in the air, coils of black circling around them. Ash crunched underfoot. He caught Nara’s eye. She’d never seen the war outside Kabul. She was shocked. He wondered how long it would take her to justify this destruction, to rationalize it and formulate arguments about its necessity. No doubt the process had already begun.
The mud walls of the houses were not in ruins but altogether missing. In a few cases, on the outskirts, there were remnants, mu heaped in a mound, dried out and cracked by the heat. Leo asked:
— What did this?
The captain was wearing sunglasses and Leo stared at his own distorted reflection in the lens.
— These villages seem serene and quaint, your typical primitive backwater with cow-shit houses and kids chasing goats, pots and pans and bags of rice. This was a terrorist haven. The brothers who came from here were armed with enough explosives to create this kind of destruction, or worse. They were going to bring down an entire dam. Do you know how many people would’ve died, not only soldiers but civilians too? What did this? The villagers who lived here did this. They brought this upon themselves. Our helicopters came under heavy fire.