Agent 6 (23 page)

Greater Province of Kabul
City of Kabul
Kabul Police Headquarters
Dih Afghanan
Same Day

Trainee agent Nara Mir was content to read her books while waiting for her teacher Comrade Leo Demidov to arrive. He was several hours late, a not unusual occurrence. Unreliable and erratic, he was perhaps the most peculiar man she’d ever met, certainly the most foreign, quite alien to her sensibilities. Despite this, she looked forward to his classes even if it was hard to imagine that he’d once been a member of the world-renowned KGB. At twenty-three, her training was nearly complete and soon she would become an agent supervising ideological education at schools and monitoring the students, assessing them, deciding which were likely to be assets to the regime and should be marked for government jobs and which were likely to prove problematic, perhaps even a threat. She did not consider such work spying: every teacher evaluated their students asd I t of their job, whether they worked for the State intelligence service or not. Excited by the prospect, she was at the forefront of the social changes, presented with an opportunity that hadn’t existed for women just a few years ago.

Nara’s recruitment was recent, part of the reformation of the Afghan secret police instigated less than three months ago. The previous organization, KAM, had been notorious, a cabal of butchers and sadists who pursued no greater purpose and served no ideology. She would never have worked for them. The dark days of their rule were over. A new president promised an era of restraint and probity. The Soviets were intent on developing her country into a great nation, as great as the USSR itself. Nara wanted to play her part in that development. The neighbouring Uzbek Soviet Socialist republic could boast of a population that was one hundred per cent literate. In Afghanistan only ten per cent of men could read and only two per cent of women. Life expectancy was forty years, compared to seventy in Uzbekistan. Almost half of all children died before reaching the age of five. No one could claim the status quo was worth preserving. In order to achieve these breakthroughs radical changes were needed. Opposition was inevitable. For progress to stand any chance people like her were needed to protect the regime. Vigilance was required against those who sought to cling on to the past. There were regions of Afghanistan that were locked in a way of life that hadn’t changed for thousands of years and consequently there had been and would continue to be dissent against any reforms. That was inevitable. Unfortunately, there would be loss of life. That was regrettable. In the city of Herat last year there had been an uprising against the compulsory education of women. Soviet advisers working in the city had been dragged into the streets and beheaded, their mutilated bodies paraded in a grotesque display. The only solution was a bombing campaign and the deaths of many civilians before the uprising was tamed. Violence was a necessary tool. She was sure these outbursts of bloody resistance were orchestrated by a few key influential traditionalist elements, men who would gladly see her stoned for taking a job, wearing a uniform. By isolating those dissidents many thousands of lives would ultimately be saved and the lives of many millions would be vastly improved.

She checked her watch. With still no sign of Comrade Demidov, she flicked through the pages in her exercise book, reading over the collection of quotes:

Ideas are more powerful than guns. We would not let our
enemies have guns, why should we let them have ideas?

The insurgency was largely illiterate, most fighters could not read or write. Yet they were possessed with a powerful idea – that this was an unjust invasion, that Communism was a foreign abomination and that they would ultimately prevail no matter how many well-equipped soldiers were sent here to die. God was on their side. History was on their side. Destiny was on their side. These ideas were far more dangerous than their outdated weapons. The challenge was how to disavow someone of the belief that victory was inevitable.

Hearing the door open, she looked up. Her teacher had arrived. With silver hair, greying stubble and skin that was much darker than many of his fellow Soviets, he was unique among the foreigners both in appearance and personality. She’d never seen him wear a uniform. She’d never seen him make much of an effort over his appearance. He seemed perpetually distractd, as though in a permanent daydream, with reality only infrequently demanding his attention. He was handsome, she supposed, although she quickly dismissed the observation as irrelevant. Belatedly he noticed that Nara was the only student in the class. He asked, his voice raspy and dry:

— Where is everyone?

She said:

— The others have gone home.

He looked around at the empty desks neither annoyed nor amused, his expression blank. She added by way of explanation, nervous that it would sound like a criticism:

— The class was supposed to start at midday.

Comrade Demidov checked the clock on the wall. He was three hours late. Turning back to Nara, he asked:

—
You’ve been here for three hours?

—
Yes.

—
How long were you planning to wait?

— I’m happy to catch up with my work. It’s quieter here than at home.

He walked towards her, picking up her exercise book, reading through her list of quotes. She explained:

— I wanted to make sure I understood our party’s wisdoms.

Every time she referred to the party, Comrade Demidov would look at her carefully, no doubt evaluating her loyalty. He said, reading from her page:

— Trust but Check.

She explained, trying to impress him:

— No matter how much you trust a person, they should always be kept under watch. The point is that as an agent we do not have the luxury of presuming people to be innocent.

— Do you know who said this?

Nara nodded, and declared proudly:

— Comrade Stalin.

Leo regarded his student speaking Stalin’s name as though he were a wise and adored village elder, friend to all and tyrant to none. Nara’s facial features were remarkably soft. There was hardly a harsh line in her face, round cheekbones, a small round nose and most notably large pale-green eyes. The weakness of the colour made them more striking, rather than less, as though only a few drops of colour had been mixed with water. They gave an impression of intense curiosity and, combined with her earnestness, it was as if she were trying to absorb and understand every detail of the world around her. Her face and demeanour reminded him of a young deer, an animal striving to appear magnificent, the keeper of the forests, but still young and scared. It was odd to associate her so strongly with a creature she’d never seen, and perhaps never even heard of. From appearances alone he would wager that she did not have the personality of an agent. There was a softness and openness that made it difficult to imagine her taking what were commonly referred to as necessary measures. Could she arrest her fellow countrymen? However, he accepted that appearances could be deceptive and he’d been wrong about people far too many times to put faith in such a superficial observation.

As for her understanding of Stalin’s words, they were abstract notions that she’d memorized in order to fulfil her ambitions. She’d never implemented those words, or seen an entire society changed by them, a population unable to trust anyone, even family, friends and lovers. To her
Trust and Check
was a Communist aphorism, something to repeat and to be praised for repeating. She was not merely ambitious but idealistic, a Utopian who genuinely believed in a vision of a perfect society, serious about the promise of progress, without a hint of cynicism, or a doubt in her mind. In this regard, she reminded Leo very much of Elena. Perhaps that was why he tolerated her fanatical loyalty to Communism, understanding it within the context of a character that could not live without a dream of some description. Perhaps also he warmed to her because underneath her certainty there was a touch of melancholy, as if her optimism had been painted over a troubled soul. He did not believe she’d stayed in the classroom merely because she wanted to work. She was hiding from something at home. Related to that, her assertiveness did not come naturally: it was practised. Sometimes she caught herself and retreated from a comment or observation, worried she’d gone too far. And just as Raisa had found beauty to be a dangerous asset, so did this young woman who made a conscious effort to be plain, wearing a uniform that was too large for her, the poor cut hiding her figure. Her hair was always tied back. There was never any suggestion of makeup, never a hint of perfume. Leo had seen her blush at attention, hating to be stared at, perhaps hating her own beauty because of it. Her beauty and her sadness had always struck him at the same time, as if it was impossible to observe one without the other.

Since there were no other students in the class, Leo was about to send her home when Captain Vashchenko entered. It amused Leo that the captain appeared to consider knocking a weakness and barging into a room an act of strength, a triumph over etiquette. They’d spoken on several occasions since the Christmas invasion and Leo found him to be straightforward to deal with. Ruthlessness was often far simpler to understand than moderation. If presented with a choice, the captain always took the most aggressive approach. He didn’t stand on ceremony. He wasn’t interested in privilege, nor seduced by the comforts available to a military officer. Not particularly tall, he was physically robust, well built; everything about him seemed dense and compact, his body, shoulders, chest and his jaw. To his own surprise, Leo found it hard to dislike him – it would be like disliking a shark, or another lethal predator. There was no outward or obvious psychological darkness, no sadism or perverse relish in violence – he was interested only in expediency. In short, he would do whatever it took and he would never back down.

The captain impatiently addressed Leo, speaking in Russian:

—
A high-ranking officer from the 40th Army disappeared last night. There was no security breach in the headquarters. No sign of a disturbance. We believe it to be a desertion. A car is missing from the grounds. My men are looking for him. We have checkpoints on all the roads. We have found no sign of him. We need your help. No one knows Kabul as well as you.

—
No one except the Afghans.

The captain had no time for Leo’s flippancy, pressing his demands:

—
If he’s in the city, you’ll find him, I’m sure of that.

—
How important is this man?

—
He’s important. More important, we must show desertion cannot be tolerated.

It was the first desertion that Leo had heard of. He was sure many more would follow. Summers were long and hot, sickness was common, and they were far from home.

The captain seemed to notice Nara Mir for the first time.

—
Is she one of your students?

—
A trainee.

—
Bring her with you.

—
She’s not ready.

The captain shook the concern off with a wave of his hand.

— She’ll never be ready if she stays in here. See how she copes with a real investigation. We need agents, not students. Take her with you.

Understanding that she was the subject of the conversation, Nara Mir blushed.

Headquarters of the 40th Army
Tapa-e-Tajbeg Palace
10 Kilometres South of Kabul
Same Day

The palace was perched on a ridge, overlooking a valley that was in turn overlooked by a distant mountain range – a picturesque setting from which to orchestrate the occupation of Afghanistan. By international standards the palace was modest, more like a stately mansion, a colonial outpost, or a presidential dacha, certainly nothing to rival the magnificence of the Tsarist residences. Painted in pale colours and composed of pillars and large arched windows, it was previously a summer pavilion for a king grown weary of his capital’s bustle. Such was the abrupt slope of the hill that only the palace occupied the high ground; the gardens were on stepped-terrace fields below. Once irrigated and tended by a retinue of servants, the setting for royal entertainment, they were now neglected, overgrown and weather-beaten, desiccated rose bushes spotted with cigarette butts and bullet casings.

With Nara by his side, Leo stepped out of the car, still wearing green flip-flops and the clothes that he’d walked into and out of the lake. He’d been summoned to the palace before, like a miscreant subject, reprimanded for not wearing appropriate uniform and for not shaving, comments uttered by men who’d only recently arrived and had not yet fathomed the enormity of their task, clinging to petty rules while entire divisions defected and the Afghan military crumbled. Though he had paid no attention to their critcisms and was slovenly dressed, he doubted they would bother reprimanding him again. Several months had passed – enough time for them to be concerned with larger problems.

They were escorted into the building, curt introductions were made, the Soviet command acutely embarrassed by the disappearance of one of their own and resenting their presence, particularly the implication that Nara could help where their own men had failed. The interior had been damaged by battle, regal frivolity dethroned by the business of war. Ornate and decorative antiques were put to functional new purpose, covered with bulky radio transponders. The squatting army’s equipment was incongruous and ugly: the original intentions behind the palace, pleasure, decadence and beauty, were not the concerns of the austere new occupants. Maps of the country marked with tank formations and infantry divisions had been hung where works of art and royal portraits once looked down.

They were taken upstairs to the living quarters. The missing officer had been declared a deserter, pre-empting the results of the investigation, although in truth Leo couldn’t imagine what other fate might have befallen him. He was called Fyodor Mazurov and he was young for such an important position – in his early thirties. He’d risen through the ranks with admirable speed. Reading his file, Leo noted that the soldier had no experience of living abroad and very little combat experience. He was a career soldier and Leo did not find it difficult to imagine the shock of his arrival in Afghanistan, so far from his familiar world. Nara said:

— I don’t understand why we’re coming here. We know he’s in Kabul. They’ve already searched his room here and found nothing. What do you expect to find?

Leo shrugged an answer.

— They might have missed something.

Nara pressed her point.

—
Such as what?

—
A room tells us a lot about a person.

Nara scrunched her face up in earnest concentration, trying to figure out how this might be true. Failing, she observed:

—
Searching a suspect’s apartment might make sense in the Soviet Union. There are very few possessions in most Afghan homes, some clothes, basic furniture and cooking utensils. A room tells us nothing about the people. Is this not also true for Soviet soldiers too? They are issued with standard kit. What would be different from one room to another?

—
There are always differences, even if two people own exactly the same objects, how they lay them out would still be of interest. And there are plenty of things that are not standardized. What about money, cigarettes, bottles of alcohol, letters, papers, a diary . . .

Nara pondered this.

—
A diary? Do many Russians keep a diary?

—
More women than men, but soldiers often find it helpful to make note of the day’s events.

—
I would be surprised if there were fifty diaries in the whole of Kabul, maybe in the whole of Afghanistan. Do you expect this soldier to keep a diary?

—
We’ll find out.

Fyodor Mazurov had been appointed a small bedroom on the top floor. It was peculiar accommodation for an officer managing a bloody occupation. Instead of a steel bunk of the kind that the military typically slept in, Fyodor Mazurov had slept in an elaborate four-poster bed, for no other reason than it was there to be used. The room was furnished with a chandelier, entirely smashed, like a collection of splintered teeth, and a walnut writing cabinet, one of the few items of furniture in the palace that remained unscathed. Lenin’s portrait stared out from over the bed, nailed up in haste and too small for the space it occupied, the shadow on the wallpaper from the previous portrait dwarfing his image.

Leo walked to the far corner of the room, taking in the sight before him. A man had been given this small space to make his own – his character would surely have made some mark on it. Nara remained by the door, apprehensive of disturbing his process, a sceptical observer. Leo asked her:

— What can you see?

She looked about the room without a great degree of confidence, doubting that she would see anything of interest. Leo ushered her over.

— Stand with me.

She joined him, regarding the room from the same position. She said:

— I see a bed.

Leo moved forward, peering under the bed. There was a pair of boots. He examined the soles: they were heavy duty, standard-issue black leather boots, too hot for Afghanistan, abandoned because they were impractical. He stood up, sliding his hand under the mattress, flipping it over. There was nothing underneath. Moving to the cabinet, he found it had been cleared. There were no papers. He peered into the bin. No rubbish had been thrown away. Leo said to Nara:

— Finding nothing can be a useful discovery. We know this much. It wasn’t a spontaneous or impulsive decision to run. He’s thought about it carefully. He tidied the room. He expected us to search it.

Leo opened the drawer, surprised to see his own reflection staring back up at him. It was an ornate mirror, larger than the portrait of Lenin, a wall mirror. He held it up, examining it. The mirror was heavy, an antique, backed with silver, a pattern engraved around the edge. He looked around the room.

— Where did this come from?

Nara pointed to the image of Lenin:

— Hasn’t he swapped the mirror for Lenin?

— No, this is much smaller than the picture that previously hung here.

Leo peered at the surface: the edges were covered with fingerprints.

— The mirror has been handled a lot.

Switching into Russian, he addressed the guard standing at the door.

— Do you know where this mirror came from?

The guard shook his head. Leo asked:

— Where’s the bathroom?

Carrying the mirror under his arm, Leo and Nara followed the guard to the bathroom, a gloomy room badly damaged by fighting: the windows were broken, and replaced with temporary boards. The mirrors had been shattered.

— There’s no mirror here.

Leo addressed the guard again.

—
How do you shave?

—
I don’t live here.

Leo hurried out of the room, back into the hall, examining the different shadows on the walls. He found a likely one. He hung the mirror: it was the same size, returned to its original place. He glanced at Nara.

— He took one of the few undamaged mirrors in the building and kept it in his room.

Nara moved closer, slowly understanding the process she was witnessing, excited by the significance of the discovery.

—
The officer was concerned about his appearance?

—
And what does that mean?

—
He was vain?

—
He met a woman.