Agent 6

  In the confusion, Leo neglected to check the old man. The elder had staggered to his feet and was striding towards him with a curved knife, the blade protruding from his hand like a talon. He raised it above his head, ready to strike. Leo’s training and combat instincts deserted him, leaving him helpless before this man’s blade.

  The elder’s arm spun away, as though yanked back by a string. The captain fired again, hitting the old man in the shoulder and stomach. The elder dropped the knife. A fourth shot knocked him to the floor, not far from the body of the boy. Leo remained in the same position, still waiting for the knife to hit his neck. The captain turned the gun on the second Afghan elder: a man who’d remained silent, cross-legged on the ground. The captain fired into his chest, killing him, before returning his attention to the fight outside.

  Leo slowly got to his feet, sure that he was going to topple, his legs heavy as lead. He felt delirious. Candles flickered, smoke swirled. An explosion outside brought him to his senses. Despite the fact that upon arrival he’d seen no Afghans carrying weapons, they’d evidently produced some. The captain remained in the hut, now on one knee, reloading then firing carefully from the doorway, entirely untroubled by the dead boy behind him.

  A burst of machine-gun fire cut through the roof, the line of bullets running along the mud floor. The trapped smoke escaped through the holes, daylight burst through. The villagers were firing from a position on the ridge. The captain returned fire, at the terraced fields, shouting orders at the other soldiers. He darted out, into the open. Another burst of fire came through the roof, hitting the body of the dead elder. Leo made no effort to find safety. Someone grabbed his wrist. It was Nara, pulling him to the back of the house.

  They were in the kitchen. There was a mud stove and beside it four women huddled together, a high stack of flat nan bread beside them, ready for the guests visiting the miracle boy. One nan was on the fire, burnt black. The women were too scared to move, letting the bread smoke. Machine-gun fire surrounded them. Leo crouched by the fire, sliding the burnt nan off the stove, regarding the four Afghan women carefully for the first time. One of them wasn’t a woman but a young girl, perhaps only seven or eight years old. The girl’s head was almost totally bald except for the odd clumps of hair twisted by heat. Her scalp was red and raw. There were burn marks on her face, burns to her hands. Slowly Leo began to question the things he’d seen. How could the boy’s hair have been burnt off by the fire without any damage to his skin? Miracles aside, there was no logic to the boyrsquo;s appearance. Leo had encountered many men, women and children who’d survived scenes of devastation and none of them looked like the boy – they looked like this girl. He realized the boy’s hair had been shaved. His appearance had been altered. He’d been dressed to fit the part. If there had only been one survivor, it hadn’t been the boy – it had been this girl. Her place had been substituted for a young man, perhaps someone the villagers hoped would grow into a warrior, or a symbol that could be taken from village to village. They would not have been able to use a girl in that way. The miracle needed to be a boy in order to be a miracle they could exploit. Leo glanced at Nara’s expression. She’d come to the same conclusion.

  From outside, the captain called their names. Leo raised a single finger to his lips. By the dim light of the stove Nara gave no response, standing still, her face obscured by the smoke rising from the burnt nan bread. Surely she understood the captain would kill this girl as he had killed the boy. The gender of the child was irrelevant.

  The captain shouted out:

  —We’re leaving!

  Leo moved to the door, gesturing for Nara to follow. She didn’t move, speaking in broken Russian, calling:

  — Captain Vashchenko, there is something you need to see.

  Same Day

  Not knowing why he’d been called, the captain entered the kitchen cautiously, his gun raised, expecting a trap. Stunned by Nara’s decision and convinced she didn’t understand the consequences of her actions, Leo tried to hurry them out, offering Nara a second chance to save the girl.

  — Let’s go.

  Leo had underestimated the bond between Nara and the party. She’d chosen the State over him, ignoring his advice, ignoring her own moral code – one that he knew she had. He would not allow her to make the same mistakes he had as an agent. She had made one already, showing no mercy to the deserting couple. But from this there would be no going back; she would be changed, like plastic warped in heat, unable ever to return to its previous shape. The conflicting forces were powerful. She was loyal to the party, loyal to the State. The State was her family now and Leo’s kiss last night had confirmed what she already knew. No Afghan man would ever marry her. She would be alone, hated by her community, protected only by the captain and men like him. Her life depended upon the occupation. If the Soviets lost the war, then she would die with them. Leo’s position, neither a Soviet nor an Afghan, offered her nothing.

  Gripping her hand, he said:

  — Nara, let’s go.

  She shook his hand free, pointing at the young girl and addressing the captain in awkward Russian.

  — The child.

  The captain’s impatience disappeared and his attention focused on the young girl, walking up to her, studying her. It took him no more than a few seconds to realize her significance. Leo cried out:

  — Leave her alone!

  He put a hand on the captain&rsshoulder. The captain stood up sharply, striking Leo with the butt of his gun.

  — Why do you think I came here personally, Leo Demidov? Why do you think I didn’t trust anyone else with this mission? I’m the only one prepared to do what needs to be done. Another man might’ve taken a look at this girl and not seen how dangerous she is. An enemy drugged on superstition will continue fighting even when they’re guaranteed to lose. This girl could cost hundreds of Soviet lives. She could cost thousands of Afghans their lives. Your mercy would result in far more bloodshed.

  He picked up the little girl, carrying her out of the house. Nara followed him. Leo remained in the kitchen with the three women: their faces obscured by the shadows, smoke from the fire swirling around them. Three strangers waiting to see what decision he would make. There was no reason why Leo should care what they thought. He would never encounter them again. It was irrational to be unsettled by their unseen eyes. Except that in the gloom they were no longer strangers for they had become the three women from his own life: his two daughters and his wife, Raisa. And nothing in the world mattered to him more than what they thought. It was irrelevant that he would never hold Raisa’s hand again, never touch her or kiss her. In all likelihood, he would never be reunited with his daughters either. Yet they were here with him now, in this room, judging him. The smoke from the fire had become the opium cloud in which he’d hidden. There was to be no hiding now. It was time to decide whether he could fail his family in a way that he had sworn that he would never do again.

  Returning to the main chamber, Leo bent down beside the body of the elder and picked up the man’s long curved knife.

  Same Day

  The village was burning. Scores of men lay on the ground. A few hopelessly clutched their wounds as if trying to put their bodies back together. Others were pitifully crawling away, leaving bloody trails in the dust. Leo walked between them, stepping over them, moving slowly, the knife in his hand, flat against his back.

  A house had been destroyed; a grenade tossed inside, a wall had collapsed, the timber roof was smoking. Three of the Spetsnaz soldiers were dead. A fourth was shot, unable to hold a gun, resting on the shoulders of the only remaining uninjured soldier. He was holding two guns, firing at the vantage points above them, bullets hitting the ridge. His voice was hoarse, shouting out, furious at the delay:

  — Let’s go!

  The captain forced the little girl onto her knees in the centre of the village, calling out to the mountains, to the hiding places where the survivors had fled and the fighters had taken up arms.
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  — Here is your miracle child! Here is the child that cannot be killed!

  He put the gun to her head.

  Striding up behind the captain, Leo swung the knife, imitating the elder’s line of attack and aiming at his neck. He was no longer as fast as he had been, his skills were diluted by age and opium. The captain heard him and turned, raising an arm to block the knife. The blade was sharp and cut into the captain’s forearm, slicing deep enough to make him drop his gun. Leo brought the blade up, ready to strike him again. The captain, ignoring his injury, kicked Leoo;s feet out from under him. Leo fell back, dropping the knife, staring up at the sky.

  The Spetsnaz soldier stepped towards Leo, lowering his gun. Leo rolled towards the girl still kneeling on the ground, called out in Dari:

  — Run!

  She didn’t move. She didn’t even open her eyes. There was a burst of machine-gun fire. But Leo had not been shot. Unable to understand how the man had missed, Leo looked up. He saw the Soviet soldier topple back, taking with him his injured colleague.

  Exploiting the distraction, several armed villagers advanced, firing their weapons. Alone, the captain pulled back, unarmed and under fire. Assessing the situation, outgunned, unable to reach the girl, he fled towards the path down the hill, chased by gunfire. Leo checked on the little girl. Her eyes were still closed. He sat up, crawling towards her. He touched her face. She opened her eyes, burnt lashes twisted together. He whispered:

  — You’re safe.

  Villagers were returning, armed and closing in. One man was leading them, tall, thin, awkward, armed with a Soviet-made AK-47. He walked up to the fallen soldier, the injured man, and shot him in the head. Turning to Nara, who’d remained motionless, he grabbed her arm, throwing her to the ground beside Leo. The miracle girl was carried away. The leader towered over Leo, regarding him with contempt and confusion.

  — Why did you attack your own troops?

  — I am not a soldier. I have no allegiance to men who would kill a child.

  — What is your name?

  — I am Leo Demidov, special adviser to the Soviet occupation. What is yours?

  — My name is Fahad Mohammad.

  Leo managed to conceal his recognition of the name. Nara failed. He was the brother of the man they’d arrested and killed in Kabul, brother of the bomb-maker shot at the dam, and brother of the boy killed in the village. Fahad turned to Nara.

  — You know me, traitor?

  Several of the fighters took aim.

  Same Day

  A safe distance from the village, Captain Vashchenko paused, catching his breath. He was pale, dizzy. The bandage he’d ripped for his wound was soaked through and blood was running into his hand. There seemed to be no one in close pursuit and he was confident he could make it to the jeeps. He turned back, regarding the village of Sau. There was every possibility the fighters would kill Nara Mir and Leo Demidov. But the miracle girl was still alive. The failed attempt on her life supported the notion that she was under divine protection, and proof the Soviets would lose the war. Vashchenko had made matters worse. Five soldiers were dead: their bodies would be picked upon like carrion, their uniforms turned into trophies, their weapons paraded – bullets that failed to kill a young girl.

  There was a radio transceiver in the vehicle. He would call for air strikes across the entire mountain face. He would turn these lush green hills smouldering black. He would flatten every house. With this thought, the cain began to feel a little better.

  Nangarhar Province

  Rodat District

  15 Kilometres South of Jalalabad

  3100 Metres above Sea Level

  Next Day

  Though Leo had not been executed, he was far from being safe. Coiled on the cave floor, Leo clasped his stomach. The cramps came in waves. His need for opium felt as desperate as being underwater, unable to breathe – how could he deny his body’s impulse to surface? Opium was as natural to him as air to his lungs. His body no longer understood how to function without the drug, physically and psychologically. He’d forgotten how an ordinary person exists hour by hour, how they cope with their frustrations and anxieties. Through narcotics, he’d banished pain and suppressed grief. For seven opium summers he had no needs other than the smoke inhaled into his lungs at the end of every day, achieving a state of numbness, necessary if he was not to attempt something foolhardy. He’d abandoned his grand plans, his journey to America, and put aside the ambition that he might one day find the man who murdered his wife. Though he might not have admitted as much, pretending he was merely delaying the journey, the truth was that he’d dropped the investigation, living solely by the clock of his addiction and the daily routine of oblivion. Without the drug the stark reality of his failure returned. He had not achieved the one thing that mattered most – justice for Raisa – the only thing he could offer her. Instead, he was a grown man who’d made an infant of himself, creating an opium womb.

  As Fahad Mohammad had led them out of the valley the withdrawal symptoms had begun, slowly at first, the body’s gentle reminder that he was an addict. When the warnings were ignored the symptoms became far worse. Leo shivered as they walked, his whole body trembling with cold even though they were travelling at great speed. Fahad’s pace was so remarkable, so quick, his legs so long and nimble that from time to time they needed to jog just to keep up. Leo and Nara took turns in carrying the miracle girl, whose name was Zabi. In shock, bewildered, she made no complaints and asked no questions. When Fahad was out of earshot, Nara wanted to talk to Leo but he was in no state to discuss anything. By dusk his condition had worsened dramatically. His whole body shook with each step and it took concentration just to keep on the path, one foot in front of the other, as his skin turned clammy and his brow dripped with sweat. The first air strikes occurred on the cusp of darkness, a burning bright glow and a chemical-fire sunrise. They paused briefly to look back at the fire sweeping the slopes, the bursts of light, at houses obliterated and fields turned to ash, villages scooped up and tossed into the air. Fahad ordered them to run as the strikes drew closer. Aided by the darkness they’d continued their escape into the night. They could hear, feel and smell the bombing, at one point a bomb detonated so close the entire path was covered with smoke. Fighter jets streaked the night sky, targeting the paths they’d only recently crossed, sending vibrations through the landscape as if this war was against the soil and rock of Afghanistan.

  Leo begged for a break, stopping by a river, pretending to sip from the water. He took out his wrap of opium and even though his pipe was smashed, he tried to fashion a way to burn it only to have Fahad grab the drug, crush it in his hand and toss the remains into the river. Crazed with anguish, as though he’d lost the love of his life, Leo plunged into the water, blindly scraping the surface for any trace and pitifully crying out.

  Sobbing like a child, waist-deep in the river, he’d turned around to see the three of them staring at him. He was too sick to feel humiliation. Fahad moved off without a word, carrying the girl. Nara waited for a few seconds and then followed, leaving Leo alone. Her departure was fortunate since Leo had lost control of his bodily functions, squatting in the river, throwing up at the same time as being struck by diarrhoea. When he eventually left the river he staggered after the others unable to straighten his back, lurching rather than walking, certain with each step that he’d fall to the ground and never stand again.

  By the time they were allowed to rest, he was delirious, barely able to comprehend his surroundings, with no idea where they were or in which direction they were travelling. They’d been given shelter in a village, but he hadn’t slept, throwing up at regular intervals until there was nothing in his stomach, coughing up bile and acidic spit, before returning to his foetal position on the jute mattress. At dawn Fahad hurried them on after a breakfast of flat bread and tea. Leo had refused the food, taking only small sips of sweet tea, unable to hold anything else down.

  The second day of walking had been wo
rse than the first. Not only did Leo feel sick, he was weak and exhausted. Fahad would not stop and would not slow down, always demanding that they walk faster. The air strikes entered their second campaign but the Soviet bombers were always one mountain range behind. Leo had staggered on without a thought in his mind except for the image of the opium on the surface of the river. Faced with a steep climb up a mountain path he was at the point of collapse. He felt no joy when Fahad had announced that they’d arrived. He merely allowed his legs to give way, falling to the ground at the mouth of the cave.

  *

  Feverish, huddled on the cold stone floor, Leo slowly realized that there was a hand resting on his shoulder. He rolled over to see that he’d been brought a steel cup of sweet black tea and as he clutched the cup, feeling the heat through the palms of his hands, he saw the woman who’d brought it to him. He sat up, spilling the tea on his fingers, ignoring the pain, astonished as Raisa wiped his brow with a cold rag. He wanted to touch her but feared that she was an apparition and any contact would make her shimmer and vanish. Dumb with joy, he watched her lips as she spoke, each word a miracle. She said:

  — Try to drink your tea while it’s hot.

  Leo obeyed, sipping the sweet black tea, while never taking his eyes off her, not even for a second.

  — I was dreaming about the first time we met. Do you remember?

  — When we met?

  — I stepped off at the wrong metro stop just to ask your name. You told me it was Lena. For a whole week, I told everyone that I was in love with a beautiful woman called Lena. Then I ran into you again, on the tramcar. I don’t know why I was so determined, when it was obvious you wanted to be left alone. I was sure that if I could just talk to you then you’d like me and if you liked me a little, perhaps, one day, you’d love me. And if that happened, if a person like you could love me, then how could I be a terrible person? When I found out you’d lied about your name I didn’t care. I was so excited to discover your real name. I told everyone that I was in love with a beautiful woman called Raisa. They laughed at me because last week it had been Lena and then this week it was Raisa. But it was always you.