‘They are saying, gospodin, “Death to Socialism, Long Live Free Afghanistan”.’
‘What are you going to do with them?’ The general turned to the KGB man.
‘I think they’d look nice hanging from that big tree over there, don’t you, Comrade General? A sort of warning and an information-piece. We used to send captured bandits to KHAD-i-Panj, Afghan Secret Police Office Five, but they always died under interrogation there.’
‘They don’t have any rights then, as prisoners, Comrade Sementsev?’
‘They are not soldiers, they are criminals. Hanging them from a tree is justice. Assembling with arms is a crime under the Constitution of Afghanistan, and revolt against the State is a capital offence. State Security has a blanket instruction covering all such positive cases. All is in order. A proper report will be made out, of course.’
He spoke quietly and patiently, almost soothingly: in much the same manner as a humanitarian official in the West might to an old lady who was objecting to the destruction of a rabid dog.
The words of the official document of the Ministry of Defence of the USSR ran through the general’s head. ‘The Soviet Armed Forces shall be ready at any moment to inflict a shattering, repelling blow against imperialist aggressors …’
The Soviet group lunched at the Sementsevs’ large, sprawling villa, a frenchified one built in the reign of King Amanullah Khan, in the nineteen twenties.
Natalia Sementseva plodded back and forth, carrying bowls of fruit, shashlik, yoghurt, bottles of wine and loaves of bread from the kitchen to the dining-room. They had three servants, but she was more accustomed to looking after the entertaining herself. She was as fat as Vassily Sementsev was hefty: but that was why he had married her. She came from the Ukraine, where men, she thought, tended to be rather crude, and she was pleased that she had landed such a sophisticated husband. ‘I’m pretty high up in State Security already, Natalia,’ he’d told her when he was only a fairly junior clerk, ‘but I have prospects, you know.’ In addition to being a perfect civil servant, he had an uncle who supplied many of Moscow’s high officials with fresh fruit and other delicacies from Azarbaizhan.
It was a good meal, but the general had taken a little too much Georgian wine. His face became flushed and he looked morose.
Never mind, thought Natalia, as she watched him sitting there glowering, we are getting guests corresponding to our status at last, even if we are stuck in this mudhole called Afghanistan.
‘I see a man,’ the general was saying, in a deep, growling voice, ‘a man with long hair and tattered clothing, covered in lice, howling at the enemy as he rushes upon him, a long knife in his hand. He is little better than an animal, with eyes blazing and murder in his heart.’
‘Comrade General, you have described these beasts, these murdering Afghan savages, perfectly,’ breathed Sementsev, delighted at the picture and revelling in the distinguished company he was now keeping.
General Kishniyev wagged his forefinger at the KGB man. ‘I have seen these men, Comrade State Security Committee Director, seen them many years ago. I saw them when I was serving at the front, in the Great Patriotic War, when we drove the Germans back. I was eighteen years old then, in the Red Army, fighting for the Motherland.’
Sementsev was slightly confused. Perhaps the general had drunk a little too much. ‘Saw them? But surely there weren’t any Afghan savages on the Russian steppes?’
‘No, they were not Afghan bandits, Sementsev, they were our own Russian partisans, our own guerrillas fighting for our land. And the fascists consumed them with flames, incinerated them with flame-throwers. They took many of them prisoner, too, and then they hanged them, hung them on trees. People come to resemble their enemies, Sementsev.’
Natalia was biting her knuckles. She wasn’t over-bright, but even this suburban housewife, who had just heard the recital of an encounter with evil terrorists, and then heard this equated with the heroic Russian resistance, knew that something dreadful must now happen. She braced herself, as if to meet a blow.
Sementsev leapt to his feet, panting. His eyes were staring, his composure gone. For one wild moment he wondered whether this was a provocation, a test of his own loyalty. You had to be careful, after all. Recently the police in Moscow had been tested, by Andropov’s personal order. Squads of provocateurs had broken traffic laws and offered vodka to the police when caught. Almost all the vodka had been accepted, and no charges were made by the police. But then all the policemen concerned were jailed, to concentrate the minds of the rest.
No, this wasn’t anything like that, he was almost sure. The KGB’s Third Directorate was responsible for army loyalty and for identifying disruptive elements. He must act now, even if it was only a trick.
He took a deep breath. All present, his wife, Major Bakunin and the captain, were goggling at the general. But the older man’s eyes were looking straight ahead, fixedly, as if watching some far-off scene. He hardly seemed to be there at all, as he repeated hoarsely, ‘Yes, yes, yes! Tactical superiority over the fascist enemy!’
‘General Boris Kishniyev!’ Sementsev’s voice was hysterical. ‘You are under arrest. The charge is treason and slandering the people of the Soviet Union. You know as well as anyone else that we are not fascists and do not oppress the toiling masses of Socialist Afghanistan. In Soviet Law, all members of the Armed Forces, of any rank, are answerable to the KGB for any political statement.’
The general, looking at nobody, very slowly removed his belt with the gun in its polished holster, placed it on the table before him, and held out his arms, as if for manacles.
He looked up, his eyes mild as a baby’s. ‘Comrade Officer of the Committee for State Security, I feel happy now, contented. Better than I have ever felt since the liberation of the Motherland after the Great Patriotic War. Do you, Comrades, also know what it is to feel freedom and contentment: to have found a chance to do your human duty?’
Two hours later, his wrists in irons, General Kishniyev was led to an aircraft and flown to Soviet Military Headquarters, Tashkent, en route for Moscow. Once there, he was sent for treatment to the Kazan Special Psychiatric Hospital, to become the two hundred and sixteenth major dissident in mental care.
When he saw the stamp of the Directorate of KGB Surveillance and Special Checking on the general’s dossier, the head physician immediately filled in his diagnosis in the space provided. It read ‘Formal diagnosis: Schizophrenia caused by philosophical intoxication.’
Massive doses of haloperidol, specific for schizophrenia, are the standard treatment for this condition in the USSR. In normal people, it causes fear, insomnia and physical rigidity. Those who have suffered its effects seldom recover from the horror derived from its generic name: ‘Butyrophenone madness’.
‘Son of a pig! Spit that out. You are not allowed to eat before you are hanged!’
The ancient guerrilla, Anwar, a porter in earlier life, smiled quietly, and took no notice.
The Afghan security agent, there as a witness, so that all the forms would be correctly filled in, struck him on the head.
The oldster smiled again, and asked, ‘Does the brave policeman envy me my chew?’ He did not have many teeth left, at seventy-four, and had been working on this morsel since he went into the cave, two days ago. He had had nothing else, except some water, in his mouth.
The security man wrinkled his nose in disgust as the starving man, thin as a stave, spat out a piece of motor-tyre.
The official report said, ‘None of the terrorists would admit guilt and, all documents being in order, they were hanged at precisely three o’clock.’
2 Compassionate leave for Mr Khan
New Delhi
India
JUNE 8–14
‘You have taken a lot of leave already this year, Mr Khan,’ said the head of the department. He was not enjoying the heatwave in the Indian capital. And he had to spend far too much of his time dealing with applications for time off from staff who usually d
id not deserve it. They also generally had ingenious and less than candid reasons for asking for all this free time.
‘Besides, Mr Khan, there is a lot of work coming in, and we need your linguistic skills.’ He leant back in his chair and looked belligerently at the broken air-conditioner jammed against the window. Mr Khan, he reflected, looked every inch a prince; courtly, very tall, muscular and dignified as well. But after all …
‘I know, sir. But you know, too, that I have always done my duty.’ The Mirza Ilyas Khan knew that he had to go through this bureaucratic palaver. It wasn’t as if he really needed a job. He could live without it. But, having been brought up knowing several languages, in a family with the equivalent of the Western work-ethic and an intense sense of duty, he could not, at nearly fifty years of ago, change his approach to life: nor did he want to. It had served him well. So he worked where he could be useful.
‘Of course, I do realize that family affairs must be attended to,’ said the director, thinking, although he did not say so, that the Mirza was indispensable to the department. Coming from forebears in Afghanistan and Turkestan, his connections and inside knowledge were international and important. That was in addition to his linguistic abilities. These things still counted for a great deal in the East. They probably always would, the director reflected. After all, he was not exactly a peasant himself. Mind you, India was a democratic and free country, but still …
‘And we do, of course, appreciate your dedication to your work, Mr Khan.’
‘Thank you, Shree Director. Of course, Director, you will have noted that I have, in fact, had less than half the time off that anyone else has had. And mine is, I assure you, a serious and delicate family problem. I am fully prepared to work my forthcoming holiday period, all of it, if necessary, in lieu.’
‘That will not be necessary, Mr Khan: though we shall expect you to do whatever extra is involved in the upcoming workload of this Department. I shall allow you the required time off on this occasion, then. But please do try to abate your demands upon our patience in future.’ After all, one had to keep some kind of rein on the staff.
The Mirza cleared his throat. ‘Sir, I am most grateful. You can have no idea how much your generosity means to me in this vital matter.’
The director looked up at him, surprised at the intensity of the Mirza’s words. Something really was worrying Khan. He began to feel sympathy for this slightly mysterious man. Mr Khan came into the office, worked hard and well, and went away again, day after day, year after year. He was a man of culture, of education, from a world that the director only dimly perceived; a world which somehow included poetry and horse-racing, ancient warriors and kings, courts and nobles of the old days.
He stood up.
‘That’s settled then. But you can only have from next Wednesday morning until the Friday afternoon. Two and a half days. You will not be paid, and I can’t yet say whether it will affect your pension entitlement.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ The Mirza bowed, hand on heart, and left.
It was Thursday. That left the Mirza a little time to settle a few small affairs. Over the weekend he went to inspect the family property, near Delhi. He was the last trustee of the estate to reside there, and his thoughts were solemn as he walked among the tombs of his ancestors who had lived and died in India. And there were other things to consider. He made his will, and spent more time than usual with his wife, Salima, and son, Amin Jan, telling them tales of his ancestors, of chivalry and bravery, of victory and defeat, and of his own youth.
The Mirza’s family had settled in India following the last of the many Mongol and Afghan conquests, before the British took over. His own life, as well as being rooted in the ancient traditions, was influenced by a public school education, by service in the army, and by his fame as a considerable chess player, an athlete and a crack shot. He spent much of the weekend with his rifle at the club range. He was preparing, as all the members knew, for the interdepartmental shooting championship.
On the Monday, he went to the Air India offices in New Delhi to get his ticket. The price was 2,866 rupees; $300 – nearly three years’ income for an average Afghan. The weekly flight at this time of year left Delhi Airport at 08.25 on Wednesday, Flight IC 451. It returned on Friday, leaving at 09.25, arriving in the Indian capital just after midday.
The Afghan tourist visa, valid for a week, was no problem. Karmal’s government liked to encourage Indian citizens, as a counter to the Pakistanis next door. It was even said that the Afghan communist chief had once tried to pressure Mrs Gandhi into a visit, expressing the hope that a friendship between India and Afghanistan would make Pakistan like meat in a sandwich.
‘You’re not a journalist?’ the clerk at the Afghan visa office asked.
‘Oh, no.’
‘Good. We don’t let them in. They only write lies. But you are welcome. I’m glad you’re not going to cause trouble.’ Three photographs, seven dollars, and he had his visa.
On Tuesday the Mirza sat at his desk, looking at documents and rows of figures, at letters and files, at memos and printouts. He got through his work, but he thought of Aslam Jan. Fifteen years old, and he was dead: the child of relatives of both his father and mother, the same blood as his, the same genes. The boy’s parents were dead too, murdered, it was said, and God alone knew who else. He had heard about Aslam through a diplomat in Delhi, who had received a letter via the diplomatic bag, from someone in Afghanistan. All it had said was, ‘Mirza. Your cousin Aslam Jan, an orphan, has been killed by order of the enemy.’ In Persian, the message contained only fifteen words, one for each of Aslam’s years.
3 Account paid
Kabul
Afghanistan
JULY 14–16
Compared to Delhi, it was cool at Kabul International Airport, with the morning breeze sweeping southwards from the Paghman ranges, and the snow-capped Hindu Kush standing sentinel beyond.
The Mirza had no problems with the customs officials, but he was kept waiting while people rushed about, looking for the immigration police. There were Russians everywhere, shouting and running about: nothing like the controlled efficient machines of popular fancy. Their frustration was not helped by the attitude of the Afghan officials, never known for their urbanity, who were plainly disgruntled and showed it at every opportunity.
The whole effect was unusual, almost quaint. It could well have been the performance of a very bad play, he thought, written and directed by someone who was trying too hard to imagine what a Central Asian country under Soviet domination might be like.
It was midday before he got to the city centre, and half-past twelve when he found his kinsman, the retired Colonel Sakafi, at his house near Tiger Gate, on one of the two hills which cut the Afghan capital in two. The Mirza had taken great care to make sure that nobody was following him.
The old colonel was sitting in a chair, swathed in an eiderdown draped over a low table, underneath which hot air blew from an electric fan-heater at his feet. He didn’t mind when the power failed. It meant that the guerrillas had sabotaged the power lines again.
The colonel showed delight, but no surprise, at the arrival of his guest. He’d sent the message, after all, and had known there would be some kind of answer soon.
The Mirza embraced him, and took a place beside him in the sandali.
‘Aslam Jan is dead, killed by the Rouss?’
‘Captured in Panjsher valley mouth with other guerrillas, tortured and hanged. We buried him, of course, but …’
‘But he has yet to be avenged?’
‘Yes.’
‘“Verily we are from him, and to him we must return!” Since this is a matter of badal, blood feud, we have to know who was responsible, so that I can do my duty.’
‘We do know. The Muhjahid commander sent us word that we could have the right of retaliation, in accordance with tradition. We have to deal with a Colonel Vassily Sementsev.’
‘Who is he, and where is he to be found?’
>
‘Russian KGB, Colonel, State Security. His office, well guarded, is in the city, not far from here. He also killed another Afghan, named Lalbaz, of Turkestan, in the street a week ago. Without penalty. We’d have executed him anyway, for that.’
‘Where does he live?’
‘He occupies, with his wife, a large villa on the Bagram road a mile or so out of town. It was built by Zaki Puladi.’
‘I know the house. We’ll have to reconnoitre the area, though.’
‘We can do that very quickly. How long are you here for?’
‘Colonel, I must catch the Air India flight to New Delhi, leaving Kabul Airport on Friday morning at 9.25, your time.’
‘Mirza: that means you’ve only got tomorrow! It will be hard to discover his routine in that time, almost impossible I would say.’
‘We’ll have to do what we can. What gun have you got? I’d like a long-range rifle.’
The colonel smiled.
‘Oh my brother, I have a lovely one, all ready for you. Follow me and I’ll show it to you now.’
The old man led the way to his woodshed in the garden behind the house. Inside it, a camouflaged door swung aside when the colonel pulled on it. ‘I keep a small heater in here, to make sure all is dry and ready,’ he said.
The shed had been built against a small cave, which was full of weapons. The Mirza didn’t like the look of the bundles of dynamite sticks so near the naked lamp flame, but he said nothing. Pulling a long package wrapped in plastic sheeting from a wooden box, Colonel Sakafi presented it to the Mirza, holding it out on the inside of his forearms, palms upraised. It was the gesture of the armourer offering his weapon to the Crescentader, the Muhjahid, of old. Both smiled. There was hunting to be done.
Back in the house, the Mirza looked at his new gun. New it was, all right: it had hardly been used. A Soviet SKD, a Samossarjadij Karabin Dragunow, a beautifully-made, sniper’s carbine.