Agent 6 (24 page)

Greater Province of Kabul
Murad Khani District
Same Day

Nara proved invaluable in assessing the lists of women that the deserting officer had come into contact with. She knew most of the names either personally or by reputation and was quick to rule out those who would never have allowed themselves to become embroiled in the scandal of a romance. Leo was not convinced that his young protégée understood that love could make even the most reliable of characters behave unpredictably, doubting that Nara had ever fallen in love. But he decided to go along with her initial observations, having very little knowledge of the women on the list himself.

Despite Fyodor Mazurov having spent three months in the country very few opportunities for romance would have presented themselves. Unlike many war zones and capital cities, there were no brothels in Kabul, though Leo had heard mention from several senior military figures of a desire to create one for the influx of soldiers. The women would be brought in from abroad, from Communist allies in the east perhaps, flown in like crates of bullets or artillery shells with the brothels run not as a commercial venture but as part of the military infrastructure, kept secret to ensure that the pious sensibilities of the local population were not offended. This project, no doubt appointed a lewd code name of some sort, had not yet been implemented and so the young officer must have fallen in love with an Afghan woman. The status of women in the country meant that there were no female shopkeepers, no women at leisure in the teashops, and little likelihood of chance encounters on the street. Nara was adamant that the woman would have come from the upper classes, the only area of society where there was a degree of gender integration. Going through the officer’s list of meetings and duties, one woman stood out. He had regular meetings with an Afghan minister, a member of the new government, a man with a daughter in her mid-twenties, university educated, fluent in Russian and employed as the minister’s translator.

The address led them to a house built in the traditional style, with mud walls and decorative flourishes, hundreds of years old. Many similar houses had been destroyed and this craftsmanship no longer defined entire districts, existing instead as isolated examples, lonely remnants. Positioned on a narrow and ancient street, the colours rich red and brown, Leo thought it appropriate that romance had taken refuge in one of the few beautiful architectural areas that remained standing. Once a comparatively wealthy district, catering to the upper classes, it was difficult to view any part of the city as privileged. Nowhere was safe, nowhere was protected from outbreaks of violence.

Leo didn’t knock, but picked the heavy iron lock. It was an old design. The decorative engravings were mirrored by the craftsmanship of the mechanics – making it harder to open than many modern locks. Nara became nervous.

— What if I’m wrong? This man is a minister.

Leo nodded.

— We’ll be in a lot of trouble. But if we try and obtain permission we’ll offend the minister and give the suspect enough time to flee. So, the trick is . . .

Leo raised a finger to his mouth, indicating thith mudara remain silent. If they were wrong, they would sneak out without leaving any trace of their search. Eventually hearing the click of the heavy latch, Leo pushed the door.

Were their assumptions to prove correct he thought it unlikely that the minister was personally involved or even aware of his daughter’s situation. The risk to the minister was too great and judging from his record he was too canny a politician not to realize the extent of the repercussions, not with his Soviet allies, but with his Afghan colleagues. It was one thing to work with the Soviets, it was quite another to marry a daughter to a Soviet soldier. Leo doubted that the couple had fled the city already, although, privately, he hoped that was exactly what they’d done. His loyalties were not divided: they were firmly on the side of the couple. The daughter, whose name was Ara, was almost certainly sheltering her lover and planning their next move, believing they could wait out the first wave of searches and make their journey when attention was directed elsewhere.

An unusually large house, the ground floor was deserted. Like burglars, Leo and Nara stealthily climbed the stairs. Nara was so young and inexperienced that there was a peculiar sense of playacting about the moment, as if this were an exercise in agenting rather than the real thing. They arrived at a closed door. Leo pushed it open. Ara was seated at a writing table, papers spread before her, with her back to them. She heard their entrance, stood up and turned around, startled and afraid. There was no longer any option but to commit to the search. Taking a moment to recover her composure, she said, in Russian:

— Who are you? What are you doing in my house?

She was remarkably beautiful, with poise and grandeur, typically associated with privilege and education. Her shock was genuine. However, her indignation was forced, her voice trembling not with anger but with nervousness, a quite different tone. The deserter was here, Leo was sure of it.

Leo’s eyes darted around the room. There was no obvious hiding place. He spoke to Ara in Dari.

—
My name is Leo Demidov. I’m special adviser to the secret police. Where is he?

—
Who?

—
Listen to me carefully, Ara: there is a way for this to end well. Fyodor Mazurov could return to his duties, he could claim he was drunk, or he was homesick, or he thought it was a day off. It doesn’t matter what the excuse is. Some lie could be manufactured. He’s only been missing for eighteen hours. He has an unblemished military record. This is his first time abroad. Furthermore, your father is a minister. No one wants an embarrassment or a scandal, the Soviets would be as glad to conceal this as they would be to apprehend him. We can fix this if we work together. I need you to help me. Where is he?

Despite being ready to lie, Ara was tempted by this offer. Leo stepped forward, moving closer, trying to show to her that this was not a trap.

— We don’t have much time. If you lie to me, and the others find him without a deal being brokered, they may not make you the same offer. And they will find you, within a matter of hours. We’re not the only people searching for him. We’re not the only people who can draw the conclusions that brought us here.

Ara looked at Leo, then at Nara, evaluating the situation.

— I don’t know what yoursquo;re talking about.

Her voice was weak, barely able to finish the denial, the words crumbling away. Leo sighed.

— Then should I call for the military to search the house? They would be here within minutes. They will rip down walls and smash every piece of furniture.

Faced with this possibility, Ara abandoned the pretence, lowering her head. She walked to the door, turning back to Leo, imploring him:

—
You promise to help us?

—
I promise.

She studied his expression, trying to read into it some sign that he was a good man. It was hard to know what interpretation she drew. More likely, she accepted that she had no choice and led them downstairs, unlocking a door, taking them into a cellar.

The cellar served as a storeroom with low curved ceilings exploiting the naturally cooler air. Ara lit a candle, revealing Fyodor Mazurov in the corner, stunned by the sight of her with two secret police agents. Leo said, in Russian:

— Stay calm. I can help you. But you must do exactly as I say.

Mazurov remained silent. Leo noticed that his fists were clenched. He was almost certainly armed. He was ready to die for the woman he loved. With genuine curiosity rather than mocking cynicism, Leo asked:

— Tell me, what were you planning on doing? Running away together?

Ara took her lover’s hand. It was an audacious display of affection for an Afghan woman and Nara visibly reacted to the gesture. Mazurov replied:

— We were going to make our way to Pakistan.

He spoke without conviction. It was a foolhardy mission. They would have to navigate not only Soviet checkpoints but also the insurgents’ stronghold on the border. Yet Leo was in no position to criticize outlandish ventures. Feeling a strong sense of empathy towards them, he realized it was more than mere understanding or compassion – it was a desire to go with them. Their plans reminded him of his own attempt to reach New York, brave and stupid in equal measure. He asked:

— You planned to live there, happily in Pakistan?

Fyodor was about to contradict this notion when he stopped himself, swallowing the words. Leo guessed what their true aim had been.

— You were going to seek asylum? From who? The Americans? You wanted them to protect you?

This fact would guarantee his execution. For Leo to strike a deal and save Fyodor’s life, it was essential that they didn’t reveal this aspect of the plan. They would have to depict the eighteen-hour absence as a temporary loss of confidence, a night of sexual pleasure. Judging from the preoccupation his military superiors showed towards creating brothels, this excuse might find some sympathy.

Everyone was waiting for Leo to speak, as he assessed what course to take.

— First, you have to assure me that you’ll go along with everything I tell you to do. You must forget this plan to go to Pakistan. It’s crazy in any case. If the Soviets didn’t kill you, the mujahedin would. Next, you must return to your post and promiseloyalty to the army. Reassure them that this will never happen again.

Details of his improvised plan were interrupted by a noise above them. There was someone at the door. Leo looked up the stairs, hearing voices, addressing Ara.

— Your father?

Ara shook her head. There were many footsteps. Suddenly several Soviet soldiers entered the cellar. Mazurov reached for his weapon. The Soviets raised their weapons targeting Ara as well as him. Trapped, surrounded, the young officer tossed his gun to the floor, raising his hands above his head.

Ara looked at Leo, venomous in her reproach.

— You promised!

Leo didn’t understand where they’d come from. He hadn’t shared his plans: he hadn’t told anyone where they were going.

Slowly he turned to Nara. She was standing just behind him, her arms behind her back. Under his stare she said:

— The captain asked me to keep him informed of our movements.

Leo had made an amateur’s mistake. He’d believed Nara had been partnered with him to learn. She’d been partnered with him as a spy. Considering his own record, it was only logical that the captain should take such a precaution when dealing with a defector.

Fyodor Mazurov was led out under armed guard. Watching him, Ara remained silent, sensing that any display of affection might provoke the Afghan soldiers. She was not arrested: such an event would disgrace the minister. Her punishment would be decided by and carried out by her father. If she were shrewd she would deny that she loved him and put the blame entirely on his shoulders, claiming he was besotted with her. But she was in love and Leo thought it unlikely she’d deny the fact even though it was sure to bring her much hardship and disgrace.

As the last to leave the cellar, Leo said to his trainee, Nara Mir:

— You have the makings of an excellent agent.

She took the remark at face value, not understanding its implications. She smiled.

— Thank you.

Greater Province of Kabul
City of Kabul
Murrad Khani District
Same Day

The electricity was out across the neighbourhood and Nara was forced to finish her night-time prayers by the flame of a sooty gas lamp. In her thoughts were the lives of the deserter, Officer Fyodor Mazurov, and his lover, Ara, a woman Nara had previously admired as a progressive figure in their neighbourhood. Educated, employed, and intelligent, Ara had been a role model. Though she had behaved according to her duties, she wondered if she’d been right to inform Captain Vashchenko that Ara was their prime suspect. Had she not, Leo might have been able to save both of them. Yet their predicament could hardly be seen as Nara’s fault. She’d merely reported on their actions. They must carry responsibility. Not convinced by her own rationale, her prayers were interrupted by doubts. Ara would suffer shame and possibly physical violence. No matter how liberal her father might appear as a Communist minister, sexual politics were separate from mainstream politics and his attitudeowards this romance would be conservative. Fyodor would be tried by a military court. Ara would be judged and sentenced by her father.

Breathing deeply, without a sense of composure and balance she normally hoped to achieve through her prayers, she rolled up her mat. It was not expected for a woman to pray in congregation, the emphasis was upon private worship. Though there were no theological reasons why she should be prevented from praying in mosques, the conditions placed upon her attendance were so strict it made public worship onerous. At her last visit she had been accused of wearing perfume, eventually conceding that she’d used soap to wash her hands and that the soap may have been fragranced. After the humiliation of being sniffed by a jury of men, she now prayed in private.

Glancing around her room, at the prayer mat, the clothes, wardrobe, chair, lamp, she thought upon Comrade’s Demidov’s lesson. If an agent were to search her room the only possessions that revealed something distinct and controversial about her were those given to her by the Soviets – an exercise book and a cheap pen. Normally when she wanted to study she was forced to smuggle her textbooks into her bedroom. The books were stashed outside, sealed in plastic against weather and dirt, in a crevice in the broken mud-brickwork of the narrow side street. It was laborious to remove them without being seen by the neighbours or the boys who played in the alley and she often wondered if she was being excessively cautious, whether her training had altered her judgement. Caution made sense as a tactic: if her parents had reacted coolly to her enrolling in university it was troubling to conceive of their anger at her new occupation, working for the Afghan secret police.

Nara’s father, Memar, was one of the country’s leading architects. Appointed leader of his guild, he’d been elected as a liaison to the State functionaries, making him one of the most influential voices when it came to any major construction project in Kabul. A veteran of his craft, known as a master,
ustad
, he ran a programme for apprentices, including Nara’s older brother. Her brother had squandered the advantages handed to him. He was lazy, spending most of his time racing through the streets of Kabul on a customized, imported motorbike, impressing his friends. Handsome and popular, he was more interested in socializing than study. Nara had never been asked if she wanted to enrol in the programme, nor had she visited one of her father’s construction sites. The possibility of following his career had not only been denied to her, it had never even been imagined. He did not and would not discuss his affairs directly with her. In order to know anything about him she’d been forced to do her own investigations, listening to private conversations, reading his letters – a precursor to the profession she’d chosen.

She’d been able to discover that he had moved to Kabul from the countryside as a young man, funded by his own father, who’d made money smuggling animal skins and karakul fleeces across the Afghanistan–China border. He’d arrived intending to support his family back home, a village suffering from poor harvests in one of the worst droughts the country had ever seen. Keen to fit in with the established middle classes, he was worried that religious conservatism would make him appear provincial. Wealthy and devout, the driving forces of his life were religion and commerce, two energies that did not always harmonize. His business acumen allowed him to compromise. Nara attended school because so did the daughters of his clients. He tolerated her decision not to wear the chador only because his clients did not make their daughters wear it. For a daughter not to wear a veil was a powerfr harvestocial signal, one dating back to 1959 when women from bourgeoisie families appeared without their veils during the Anniversary of Independence Day in Kabul. But Nara was under no illusion that her father’s tolerance was anything more than a commercial strategy. At heart he was strict and pious, and her education vexed him greatly. In business he’d achieved everything he’d set out to accomplish. With regards to his family, he had not. His children consisted of a simpleton son and an unmarried daughter.

Nara spent many hours worrying about the fracture in their family. Not only was she unmarried, no one was courting her, not even the sons of the elite who claimed to be open-minded about her education. In practice even the most liberal men preferred a traditional wife, which was surely why the educated Ara had risked a relationship with a Soviet soldier. No one else would fall in love with her. The same was surely true for Nara. The difference was that she’d resigned herself to this fate.

Nara could have made the decision to split with her family and move out. However, no matter what their difficulties, she loved her parents and understood that moving out might mean losing them altogether. They would not visit her. She couldn’t accept there wasn’t a compromise. Her father had compromised before: his career was founded upon it. Compromise was the country’s future. The new Afghan president understood that. He’d compromised on the issue of faith. Many enemies of the State had claimed it was impossible to work for the People’s Democratic Party of Afghanistan while remaining a Muslim. They argued Communism meant bombing mosques and burning the Qur’an. The new president had taken a conciliatory approach towards Islam. Even with regards to the inflammatory issue of female education, the argument made in its defence had been drawn from scripture, quoting the passage in the Qur’an that described the creation of man and woman:

A single cell and from it created its mate, and from the two
of them dispersed men and women in multitude.

There was a religious foundation to ideas of equality. Nara needed to somehow communicate this with her parents. Her faith might take a different form to the worship they recognized but it was just as strong. She considered her family a test model, a microcosm for the country. If she gave up on her family how could she work towards uniting the country?

Nara got into bed, too tired to read or think any more. She wanted to sleep, exhausted by the day’s events. She was about to blow out the lamp when she heard a noise. Her parents and brothers weren’t at home. They’d gone to visit family in the countryside outside Kabul, a family that Nara had no relationship with. The extended family embodied the worst side of tradition and they would not accept her even as their guest. She crouched on her bed and opened the window. The property had been built on a steep rise of hillside. They lived in the top-floor apartment. She peered into the alley, the hiding place for her textbooks. There was nothing to see. She heard the noise again, a creaking sound. It was coming from inside the apartment.

She got out of bed, leaving her room, bare feet moving silently towards the front door. Their apartment was reached by a narrow brick stairway. Whenever anyone climbed the stairs the timber doorframe creaked. Usually Nara felt no fear even when she alone. There was a security gate at the bottom of the stairwayer frid of thick steel bars. The gate was padlocked. There was no way an intruder could reach the front door. Nara stepped forward, ear pressed against the timber. She waited.

Whether by the force of the door smashing, or out of shock, Nara fell to the floor, looking up to see two men enter the apartment, kicking aside the remains of the timber frame. Nara’s body reacted faster than her thoughts: she was up on her feet, scrambling towards the bedroom. One of the men knocked her to the ground. Clawing her way out from under his body, she reached the bedroom. As she got to her knees, the second man kicked her. The pain was unlike any she’d experienced before, a detonation inside her stomach. She collapsed and curled up into a ball, struggling for breath.

The man stared down at her with hate-filled eyes, a stranger who spoke with so much anger in his voice it was as if he’d known her personally.

— You betrayed your country.

While he spoke the other man dropped onto Nara, pinning her to the floor. He sat on her chest, his weight forcing the breath out of her lungs. Handed her notebooks, he proceeded to rip them apart, the pages of neat text, the quotes by Stalin, the lessons taught by Leo Demidov, shredded and falling about her face. With a fistful of paper, he tried to force the fragments into her mouth. She pressed her lips shut. The man responded by lifting himself up from her stomach, relieving the pressure, before dropping back down. As she gasped he shoved the paper inside her mouth, his knuckles on her teeth, filling her mouth. The man standing over them commented:

— You wanted an education . . .

Nara could not breathe. She scratched at the man’s face. He slapped her hands away, pushing more paper into her mouth. There was so much it was pressing down her throat, causing her to gag. She flailed, helpless, hooking onto her bed-sheets, pulling them down.

Unable to focus, her vision blurring, her hand clasped something – the pen used to write her notes. Gripping it tight, she clicked the nib and swung it at her attacker. It entered his neck. She was weak from the attack but it went deep enough to make him cry out. His hands came loose. Free from his grip, she spat out some of the notes, sucking in a partial breath. Able to see again, her thoughts coming together, her strength returning, she forced the pen in deeper, pushing as hard as she could, feeling his blood run down her hand. He toppled, falling on his side.

Nara stood up in disbelief at her sudden freedom, spitting out the rest of notes. She jumped onto the bed, moving as far away as possible within the confines of the small room. The second man was by his partner’s side. He removed the pen, causing blood to gush. In the ensuing confusion, the man hopelessly trying to stem the bleeding, Nara assessed the distance to the door. She would pass too close to her attackers. Even if she did sneak past she would be caught in the living room, or the stairway. Feeling the cool night breeze on her bare feet she turned around, facing the window. It was her only chance of escape. She stepped onto the ledge, climbing onto the roof.

With no electricity, there was no residual light from the streets. The city was dark, the blackout stretching across the neighbourhood like an oil slick, spreading across the valley and up distant hills, broken only by the flicker of gas lamps and candles. The more expensive properties and the government buildings had diesel generators and they dazzled: ghettoes of brightness.

She heard the remaining attacker’s hand slap down on the roof beside her and set off across the roof, bare feet against the concrete, directing herself towards her neighbours’ house, unable to distinguish between the darkness of the roofs and the darkness of the space in between. As her toes crossed the edge of her roof she pushed off, jumping as high as she could manage. Her feet spun in the air before landing on the adjacent roof. She tumbled forward, picking herself up and running again. There were heavy vibrations as her attacker landed behind her. She didn’t look back, running as fast as she could, the soles of her feet across the rough concrete, her eyes adjusting. She jumped, landing nimbly onto the next roof. She’d only taken a couple of steps when once again she felt vibrations – he was gaining. Unable to resist the urge to look back she saw his dark form only metres behind her, arms reaching out. Desperate, she turned forward, assessing the gap. It was too far. She’d never jump the distance. But she had nothing to lose.

Her feet left the roof, her body rising into the air. For a moment she was sure she’d land safely, then she began to fall, short of the next roof, hitting the side of the house. She was knocked back, tumbling down. With one hand she grabbed a window ledge. Unable to hold her weight, her fingers slipped and she fell again, landing awkwardly.

She lay still, unsure if she could move. Testing her body, lifting herself up, she felt pain but not enough to stop her. She waited, holding her breath. He hadn’t made the jump: she would’ve heard him. She peered up into the starry night sky, saw his dark form on the edge of the roof. He disappeared. He was searching for another way down.

She picked herself up, hobbling down the alley, stumbling, running, turning blindly. Her only advantage was the blackout, making her harder to follow. Reaching a main street, with no idea where she was or how far she’d run, she saw a woman entering a house. She ran towards her, pleading:

— Help me.

Nara was indecent, half naked, covered in dirt and mud. The woman shut the door.

With a stutter the electricity came back on. Streetlights flickered, purring overhead – illuminating her position.