Agent 6 ld-3

by Tom Rob Smith

  – 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 wher
e 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.

  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 protegee 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 tha
t 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.