Agent 6 ld-3

by Tom Rob Smith

  He crossed the traffic, arriving at the last few stalls positioned in front of the tea rooms. There were two fold-out tables covered with steel bowls filled with pumpkin seeds, green lentils, pulses and grains. Neither man seemed remotely interested in Leo. He moved on, pausing by a wagon spread with cuts of meat. A butchered cow’s head stared into the sky, cheek populated with flies walking a sinew tightrope. Mingled with the smell of offal was something sweet and following the smell he arrived at a narrow wagon covered with wooden boxes. The boxes were like small drawers each filled with an array of sugary snacks, nuql-e-nakhud, sugar-coated chickpeas, nuql-e-badam, sugar-coated almonds, nuql-e-pistah, sugar-coated pistachio nuts. Leo didn’t look at vendor, examining the products, choosing one, before making eye contact, saying at the same time:

  – Nuql-e-badam, three hundred grams.

  The man was young, no older than thirty, with smart eyes. Unlike the other two men he was interested in Leo. His expression gave little away and in so doing gave everything away. The control was practised, hatred contained. He filled a paper bag with the sugar-coated almonds. Leo paid for them, reaching for his wallet, putting his pomegranates down on the edge of the wagon. The man took the money and watched as Leo moved off. There had been no opportunity to ask his name without alerting his suspicions, no way of engaging him in conversation. Leo reckoned the odds that he was the suspect were high. However, hatred of the occupation was not confined to the insurgents.

  At the end of the road, some five hundred metres from the roundabout, Leo met an impatient captain. Nara was standing beside him. Leo said:

  – There’s a man selling sugared almonds at the north end of the market.

  – Is it him? Is it Dost Mohammad?

  – I couldn’t ask his name.

  – You have a sense for these things? Was it him?

  Leo had worked many cases, arrested many men.

  – It was probably him. Captain, I should warn you, this is going to end badly.

  The captain nodded.

  – But not for me.

  *

  Leo sat on the steps of a house, looking down at the paper bag of sticky sugar-coated almonds. A fly landed, sticking to the nuts, legs flailing, wings congealed with sugar and syrup.

  The hidden troops emerged, guns ready. The captain set off, leading his team, intent on making his arrest and sending his powerful statement to the city. Leo closed his eyes, listening to the screech of the tyres, the commotion in the market. There was screaming, shouting, a mixture of Russian and Dari. Shots were fired. Leo stood up. Beside him was the figure of Nara, perhaps the loneliest-looking person he’d ever seen.

  Together, they walked towards thdabout, past the blockade of soldiers, into the crowded market area, arriving at the same time as a helicopter circling low above them. The wind from its blades caught the tarpaulin tops of the market stalls and they filled out like sails. Some turned over, spilling their produce. Leo checked on the eggs. They were smashed, shell and yolk on the ground.

  Leo and Nara passed through crowds of Afghans, many on their knees, hands behind their heads, gun barrels pressed against their backs. The man who’d sold him pomegranates looked up at him, full of hatred. With the invasion, Leo could no longer hold a position in the margins, ignored and irrelevant, unseen, living an invisible existence. No longer a ghost, he was the face of the occupation as much as the zealous captain.

  The suspect was not dead. The Afghan and Soviet soldiers had cornered him in a space not far from a spice stall. He’d been shot in the arm: his hand was dripping blood. Nara touched Leo, remaining behind him, hidden from the suspect. Leo asked, already knowing the answer:

  – Was this the man that attacked you?

  She nodded.

  The suspect lifted up his shirt. Several plastic bags were attached to his torso – the kind used by juice stalls. They were leaking, liquid pouring down his body, soaking his clothes. Then a spark and a flame appeared in his hand, a burning match produced from nowhere. He slapped his trousers and the material caught alight, flames spreading to his shirt, the bags ablaze. In a second he was engulfed. His beard turned to fire. His skin shrank from his bones. The pain became too much and he ran from side to side, arms flailing, flames leaping into the sky. One of the soldiers raised his gun to kill him. The captain pushed the barrel down.

  – Let him burn.

  The suspect burned, eventually collapsing to his knees. The flames died down, the gasoline exhausted. He continued to move, less like a human, more a smouldering corpse animated by dark magic, coming to rest under one of the tables laden with spices. The table began to cook, spice pods popping in the heat. The air reeked, burnt flesh and sumac spice. Leo’s eyes followed the unusual coloured smoke into the sky, wisps of blues and greens. At every window, as far he could see, there were faces, young boys, young men, the spectators that the captain had so eagerly wanted for the arrest.

  In the tea rooms old men clutched their glasses, cigarettes between their fingers, as calm as if they’d seen this all before and were sure they would one day see it all again.

  The Border of Laghman and Nangarhar Provinces The Village of Sokh Rot 116 Kilometres East of Kabul 9 Kilometres West of Jalalabad

  Next Day

  Since she was only seven years old, weaving a carpet was considered too difficult for Zabi, so instead she’d spent the morning making two of the colours used in dyeing the fabric. Her nails were stained red from crushed pomegranate rinds. She sucked her fingertip, curious that a colour should have a particular taste: red tasted of sour fruit juice even more bitter and sharp than the foul chai-e-siay , the black tea her father drank every morning, stewed so strong it left a smudge around the glass rim. The second urn contained a brown dye, created by grinding walnut husks, more laborious to produce than red. She had to crack the husks, then crunch them to powder with a smooth stone, adding a little warm water, mixing the two together. She dabbed a spot on the end of her tongue. The brown husk paste had its own particular grainy texture but not much of a taste. She decided the colour brown was less of a taste, more of a texture, before deciding that this train of thought was proof that she was bored.

  Her mother and her khaha khanda, her group of close female friends, were sitting in a tight circle, talking while they crafted their patterned carpets. Some were intended for personal use, most were to be sold. Zabi was supposed to watch and learn. Making dye had been fun for a while, but her arms ached from crushing the husks and her mother was nowhere near finished. They would be working at the carpets for the entire day and perhaps tomorrow too and even the day after that. A square of sunlight appeared on the floor. The clouds had cleared. She wanted to go outside, aware that if she asked she’d be refused permission. Nervous of being told off, she edged along the floor, towards the door, collecting the steel urn that she’d been using to mix the paste.

  – I need some more water.

  Without waiting for a reply she ran out, full of mischievous energy, bare feet fast across the smooth mud path, running past the houses and out of the village.

  Her village was set among orchards that fanned out in every direction – the entire valley was green and lush, filled with trees planted so that there was always a new crop coming into season – almonds, walnuts, apricots, apples and black plums. Each orchard was watered by an irrigation system. A deep channel lined with concrete brought water from the mountains, gushing at speed before dividing into a smaller network that spread out across the orchards. According to her father, as a consequence of their ingenuity the village of Sokh Rot was one of the richest in the region, famous for its crops and a grand procession of mulberry trees that welcomed visitors when they travelled up the main road into the village centre.

  Despite the beauty of their surroundings, Zabi was the only girl who liked playing outside. Laila and Sahar were sometimes outside but they were only three years old and never ventured much beyond the perimeter of their houses, mostly feeding the goats. The other girls, the older
girls, spent their time inside. When they did leave the house they were dressed formally and always on a specific errand, never to play. Zabi could sit with them inside, with her mother, enjoying their stories. And she admitted that sometimes it was fun to be inside, if it was cold or raining, and sometimes it was fun to bake, to cook, stitch and make dyes for carpets, but not all the time, not every day.

  She stopped running, far enough away from the village not to be called back. She was still carrying the steel urn and she placed it down, at the foot of the largest apricot tree in the centre of the field third away from her village. She didn’t have any shoes on. It didn’t matter. She didn’t feel cold. Walking through the trees she thought upon something her mother had recently said: You are almost a woman now.

  Being called a woman sounded like a compliment. Even so, the remark had troubled her. The women in the village never played outside, never ran through the orchards and never climbed the trees. If being a woman meant doing none of those things, she’d prefer to remain girl.

  Nearing the outskirts of the orchards, she stood by the main irrigation channel that carried water down from the mountains. The channel was wide and deep: the flow was rapid. She picked up a leaf and dropped it on the surface, watching it speed away. No excuse about fetching water was going to spare her a telling-off. She’d be smacked. That didn’t bother her. The punishment she feared more than anything else was to be told that she would never be allowed to go outside. She looked up, mournfully staring at the mountains and wishing that one day she could climb them right to the very top and look down on the valley.

  Zabi was startled by a voice.

  – You there!

  She turned around, fearful that she was about to be scolded. An older boy was walking among the apricot trees. In the bright sunshine Zabi couldn’t make out his features. He asked:

  – Why do you look so sad?

  Zabi raised a hand, blocking the sun and focusing on the boy’s face. It was Sayed Mohammad. Sayed was a teenager, fourteen years old and not at all like his older brothers, who were rarely in the village. Shyly, Zabi stumbled a reply:

  – I’m not sad.

  – Liar! I can see you are.

  Zabi didn’t answer, intimidated by this young man. He was known in their village for his singing and poetry. Despite his youth, he would often sit and talk with adult men, sipping their bitter tea as though he was one of them. She asked, changing the subject:

  – What have you been doing?

  – I’ve been composing a poem.

  – You can do that while walking?

  Sayed smiled.

  – I compose them in my head.

  – You must have a good memory.

  He seemed to think about this assertion seriously. Sayed thought about most things seriously.

  – I have a technique for remembering poems. I sing them to other people. The ones that aren’t very good I quickly forget. Don’t you forget the things you don’t do very well?

  Trying to imitate his thoughtfulness, Zabi nodded, slowly. Before she could reply, he noticed her fingers.

  – Why are your fingers red?

  – I’ve been making dye.

  Zabi wanted to impress Sayed and blurted out:

  – Did you know that the colour red tastes bitter?

  To her surprise, he was interested.

  – Is that so?

  – I spent all morning making the dye. I tasted it several times.

  – What is it made from?

  – Pomegranate rinds.

  Zabi was pleased that she hadn’t said something stupid. Sayed scratched his facp›

  – Red has a bitter taste… I could use that idea in a poem.

  Zabi was amazed.

  – You could?

  – The Soviet Union’s flag is red, so saying red has a bitter taste is a political statement.

  He glanced at Zabi’s expression:

  – Do you know what the Soviet Union is?

  – They’re the invaders.

  He nodded, pleased.

  – The invaders! That can be the name of my poem. The first line could say something along the lines of…

  He trailed off again, closing his eyes, deep in concentration, trying various ideas.

  – Red flag as bitter as?

  Zabi suggested:

  – Pomegranate rinds?

  Sayed laughed.

  – Doesn’t that sound kind to our enemy? To suggest their ideology tastes like our national fruit? We can’t compare a fruit that grows here, in the soil of Afghanistan, to the flag of the invaders.

  With that proclamation, Sayed walked off, apparently forgetting about Zabi. Wanting to hear more, and not wanting the conversation to end on her stupid suggestion, she caught up with him.

  – Can you sing me a poem?

  – I don’t sing my poems to little girls. I have a reputation to think of. I sing only to warriors.

  Hurt, Zabi stopped walking. Sayed noticed her reaction.

  – Don’t take it so badly.

  Zabi wanted to cry. She hated being a girl. He softened his tone, saying:

  – Did you know that my father used to despise my poems? He would hit me and tell me to shut up. He said singing and poetry were for women, he told me to be more like my brothers. It is true, some poetry is for women, such as lullabies, or a nakhta, sung by women when they mourn the death of a hero. The nakhta made me think perhaps I should compose lyrics for heroes, not mournful, but triumphant, when they are victorious against the invaders. Poetry must be more than pretty and pleasant on the ear. It must have purpose. It must have anger.

  Sayed picked at the leaves of the trees, continuing:

  – I sang these new poems to my father. They changed his mind. He no longer hit me. He began to tell me more and more about events in our country so that my poems would be more accurate. Since that change I sing poems about the resistance, poems that are protests against the treatment of our Afghan brothers and sisters. My father is proud of me. He brings fighters in from the hills. They tell their stories, which I turn into poems. I am compiling a poetic history of our war, thousands of different poems. My father is going to take me travelling, through the hills, performing at different camps. Did you know that my brothers are warriors?

  – I didn’t know that.

  – They’re fighting the Soviets. Samir told me he was going to blow up a dam and bring water crashing down, sweeping away the Soviet tanks. They’ll come back to the village soon and I’ll turn their victories into the best poems I’ve ever composed. The whole village will gather round and listen.

  Sayed crouched down beside Zabi, whispering as though there were people in the orchard with them who might overhear:

  – Do you want to hear a poem that would have you arrested and shot dead if you sang it in the streets of Kabul? If I sing it for you, you mustn’t tell anyone, and no one can ever know. Promise to keep it a secret?

  Zabi was nervous and excited, and not wanting to seem afraid, she nodded.

  – I promise.

  Sayed began to sing:

  – O Kamal!

  He stopped.

  – Do you know who Kamal is?

  Zabi shook her head. She didn’t know anyone called Kamal.

  – Kamal is the President. Do you know what a president is?

  – An elder?

  – In a way, yes, he’s a ruler, a leader, but he was not chosen by us, by the people who live in this country, he was put in power by the invaders to do their bidding. Imagine if our village elder was chosen by another village located thousands of miles away. Would that make any sense? And then imagine if that elder hadn’t even been born in our village, but came from outside, came here, to our land and told us what we could and couldn’t do.

  Zabi understood: such a system didn’t make any sense.

  Sayed picked up his song:

  – O Kamal! Son of Lenin…

  He paused again.

  – Do you know who Lenin is?


  Zabi shook her head. The name was odd to her ear.

  – Lenin is the man who created Communism, which is the name of the religion that the invaders believe in. Lenin is a god to the invaders, or a prophet, a divine figure – they hang up photographs of him in their schools and buildings. They read his words and chant them.

  Sayed began his song again. O Kamal! Son of Lenin,

  You do not care for the religion and the faith

  You may face your doom and

  May you receive a calamity, O son of a traitor,

  O son of Lenin!

  Zabi didn’t fully grasp the meaning of the lyrics despite the explanation. However, she loved the sound of Sayed’s voice and at the end she clapped.

  Smiling, Sayed was about to take a small bow when, like a startled animal, he spun around, staring up into the sky. Zabi couldn’t hear anything except the rush of the water in the irrigation channel. Sayed didn’t move: eyes fixed on the empty blue sky. Belatedly Zabi heard the noise too, a noise unlike any other she’d heard before.

  Sayed grabbed her by the waist, lifting her into the nearest tree. Zabi climbed up.

  – What do you want me to do?

  – Look into the sky! Tell me what you see!

  Even though she was light, the tree wasn’t very old and the branches bent under her weight. The noise was growing louder. She could feel vibrations through the trunk. Unable to climb any further, she poked her head above the top of the tree.