Agent 6 (31 page)

Village of Sau
118 Kilometres East of Kabul
7 Kilometres West of Jalalabad
Same Day

At a casual count there were no more than forty houses and yet in this small village was a crowd of men so dense that many were standing shoulder to shoulder: the centre was as busy as a market in Kabul. There were young boys, grown men, elders. More were entering the village from the mountain trails – so many that some had taken position on the higher ground, squatting on a terrace ledge, lined up like crows on a telephone wire. The village had become a pilgrimage site, drawing people from every direction. Some were carrying gifts: jugs of goat’s milk and bowls of dried fruit, nuts and berries, as though there were a religious festival or wedding taking place. The celebratory nature of the gathering should have put Captain Vashchenko at ease. However, he seemed agitated. The Spetsnaz soldiers readied their weapons, taking up defensive positions, none of them going as far as to point their guns directly at the villagers, an act of provocation from which there’d be no turning back.

Appreciating that this situation could rapidly descend into violence, Leo took the lead, raising his arms, showing that he carried no weapons. He spoke in Dari:

— I am unarmed. We’re here to talk.

He appreciated that the claim he was unarmed carried little weight considering that he was flanked by heavily armed special forces. A wall of inscrutable expressions made it impossible to judge whether or not they’d even understood. Leo’s accent was easy for an urbanite Afghan to follow, perhaps harder in rural areas. He turned to Nara.

— Speak to them. Reassure them.

Nara stepped forward, joining Leo.

— The attack on the village of Sokh Rot was a terrible mistake. It does not represent the regime’s intentions. We wish to discuss how to rebuild this area. We want to replant the orchards and clean the soil. We want fruit to grow in those fields once more. We are here to listen to you. We wish to work with you, at your direction.

She spoke earnestly, with genuine regret at the destruction and sincere desire to rebuild the community that had been lost. Though this attempt at reconciliation was the stated purpose of their visit, the captain’s thoughts were clearly elsewhere. He was looking right and left, preoccupied, not asking for a translation and not giving any instructions of his own.

Among the crowd an animated discussion broke out, a pocket of noisy disagreement. Voices were raised, arguments overlapped. The discussion faded as suddenly as it had flared and the crowd returned to its state of silence. Taking a chance Leo moved towards the point where the debate had erupted. Studying the faces of the various villagers, he stopped beside an elderly man with an astounding fire-red beard. Defiance as bright as his beard blazed in his eyes. Fiercely proud, the man was dperate to speak, wanting to make a statement. It took an effort for him to remain silent. Leo suspected the smallest action would be enough to provoke him.

— The attack on Sokh Rot was an outrage. Help us. Advise us. How can we make it right?

As expected, the man could not hold his tongue. He pointed to the scarred landscape where the village had once stood.

— Help you? Here is how we will help you. We will defeat you. We will drive you from this land. And you will thank us for it for you do not belong here. You have powerful weapons. But no weapon built by man compares to the power of Allah. His love will protect us. We have been shown a sign that this is true.

The crowd reacted strongly. Men cried out for him to be quiet. Leo asked:

— What sign?

There were more calls for him to be silent but the old man was keen to speak.

— A child survives! A miracle boy! Look at all these people that have come to see the miracle! See how it inspires them. Leave our village. We do not want your help. We will rebuild our country without you!

Several in the crowd echoed his cry.

— Leave!

Parts of the crowd came alive, some clapping and cheering, while the more prudent creased their faces in irritation, shouting for the impetuous to be silent. Leo was quick to follow up.

— A survivor? A boy?

The old man was being escorted away from Leo. As he tried to follow, other men stepped in his path, blocking his way.

Captain Vashchenko pushed through the crowd, wanting to know more.

— What’s going on?

Leo explained:

— Not everyone was killed. A child survived the attack. They’re calling it a miracle.

The captain didn’t seem surprised. Leo asked:

— You knew about this child?

The captain didn’t deny it:

— We heard talk. First came the stories of the massacre, then stories of a boy. They believe the boy is proof that Communism will be defeated. Our sources in Kabul say that in just a few days the idea of a miracle child has become valuable propaganda for the insurrection. Poems are being sung about the boy being protected by the hand of God. It is ridiculous. But defections from the Afghan army jumped three hundred per cent yesterday alone. We have also lost five police officers: one turned his weapon on his comrades. It would seem that the miracle is more important than the massacre.

Leo began to understand the captain’s interest – a bombed village was hardly worth his attention, a miracle was. Nara joined them. Unaware of the developments, she said:

— We should leave. There are too many people. We cannot negotiate.

The crowd had not settled down. The captain shook his head.

— Tell them I want to see the child.

Leo was baffled.

— They’re going to refuse. It would be offensive to them. Nara is correct. We need to leave now. We can return when the mood is less volatile.

As though Leo had not spoken, the captain repeated:

— Tell them I want to see the child. Translate.

Leo stood his ground.

— We can come back when there are fewer people.

The captain turned to Nara.

— I want to see the child.

Under orders, Nara addressed the crowd, raising her voice:

— With your permission we wish to see this miracle boy for ourselves.

The request caused fury. Some men raised their arms while others called out, a hundred refusals at the same time. A rock was thrown, hitting Nara on the side of the face. She dropped down, clutching her cheek. Before Leo could reach her there was machine-gun fire. The captain’s gun was pointing at the sky. The soldiers were targeting theirs on the crowd. Leo edged to the captain’s side.

— If we walk away, no one dies. If we stay, the situation will become violent.

The captain was calm, ignoring Leo, helping Nara to her feet.

— Are you OK?

She nodded.

— Tell them once more to show me the boy.

Nara repeated the command in Dari. As soon as she finished speaking, the captain fired another burst from his gun into the sky. He lowered the gun, aiming it directly at the crowd. One of the soldiers took out a grenade, pulling out the pin and dropping it on the ground. Despite the threats, no man in the crowd made any movement or gave any indication of where the boy might be. Leo said:

— They’re not going to show you!

Believing this to be true, the captain moved to the largest house, spying the presents heaped outside. Leo followed. As the captain entered the house, he addressed his soldiers.

— Form a perimeter. No one comes in. Stay alert.

Leo and Nara entered the house. The soldiers remained outside, guns raised.

The interior of the house was dark: a thin layer of smoke had collected under the roof, smoke rippling like a trapped cloud. Candles were arranged in a rough semicircle and incense was burning. The smell was powerful, overwhelming. In the centre of the room, on a platform covered with a beautiful woven mat – arranged like a stage – was the boy. He was dressed in white shawls and was no more than fourteen years old although it was hard to be sure of his age since his appearance was so extraordinary. He was completely bald, with no eyelashes or eyebrows, dressed and positioned like a religious figure. There were no obvious burn marks, his skin was untouched by the fire and shrapnel – he seemed to have no injuries at all. There were two elderly men seated beside him, but not on the stage, framing him, signalling his importance: a fourteen-year-old higher than two elders. Looking carefully at the boy’s face, Leo saw that he was terrified.

The captain turned to Nara.

— Ask them how the boy survived the attack.

Nara translated his question. One of the elderly men spoke softly using one hand to gesture while the other remained upturned on his lap.

— You dropped bombs, burning trees and fields and people. Your machines departed, leaving the dead, some bodies as black as ash, others who appeared to be alive, but there was no life in their lungs. Buildings were burning. Trees were burning. Then, as the smoke cleared, we saw this boy. All his hair had been burnt off his body. He was naked. Yet there was not a mark on his body. He had been protected, walking barefoot through the carnage of your warplanes.

Once the elder had finished, Nara looked at Leo, unable to translate. The captain cried out:

— Translate!

Leo obliged, hurriedly summarizing. The elderly man looked at the captain, defiant, saying in Dari:

— This boy is the reason we will defeat you.

The captain didn’t wait for Leo to translate. He raised his gun and shot the boy in the head.

Same Day

Leo stood, hoping that the miracle might be true and that the boy would rise up uninjured and prove that he could not be killed with bullets or bombs and that he truly was protected by a divine power. The boy lay still, sprawled across the beautiful patterned rug, on the stage, with no trace of blood across his bright white shawls. Captain Vashchenko lowered his gun. Distinguished for bravery and courage, this soldier had shot a teenage boy to prove a point – that there was no God, or if there was, then this God was not in the business of intervening in wars. The Afghans had no supernatural force on their side. And they were fighting a force that would do whatever was necessary. All these ideas expressed in a single gunshot.

Leo stepped forward, reaching the stage, bending down and putting a finger on the boy’s neck, feeling the heat of his body. There was no pulse. The captain said:

— We’re done here.

Leo didn’t know this boy. He didn’t know his name or his age. Over the course of seven years in Afghanistan, he’d witnessed atrocities committed by Afghan Communists and by insurrection fighters, by religious fanatics and fanatical Communists – beheadings, murders, executions and firing squads. These deaths would continue no matter what he did or said. The captain would argue, correctly, that boy was old enough to fight, old enough to carry an AK-47, to fire at a convoy, to carry an explosive device. If he hadn’t died here, he might have died in a bombing raid or stepped on a mine. No one needed Leo’s outrage, certainly not the Afghans – they had their own anger. This was a military operation. The captain hadn’t lost his temper, hadn’t been motivated by hatred or sadistic pleasure, he’d weighed up the situation. The boy was an enemy asset, like a stockpile of rifles. His mission had been simple: disprove the miracle. Leo had been too busy worrying over his kiss with Nara to realize the stated objective of their mission had been a front for an assassination. He’d been blind: dulled by opium and a lack of sleep.

Two of the soldiers peered in, seeing the dead boy, checking that the captain was OK. They’d known the nature of their mission. The captain impatiently ushered Leo and Nara to the door.

— We leave, now!

None of the crowd would have been able to see the execution but they would have heard the shot.

Like a statue coming to life one of the elderly men in the hut wailed, a delayed cry of anguish. Startled by the noise, Leo spun round, guessing from the reaction that he was the boy’s father. At the same time, outside the house, the soldiers opened fire with bursts from their machine guns. From his position, still kneeling on the floor with his finger on the boy’s neck, Leo could see the crowd breaking apart, running, several men falling. The captain moved to the entrance, raising his gun, firing shots from the doorway.

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.