Agent 6 ld-3

by Tom Rob Smith

  After Nara had left Leo had smoked, filling his lungs with opium, his substitute for human contact. hausted, he rested his head against the bulletproof glass and closed his eyes.

  *

  Leo awoke to find the vehicle stationary. Nara wasn’t beside him. There was no one driving. He stepped out, opening the heavy armoured door. To his side of the road there were the blue-green waters of a lake. On the other side a steep mountain towered above them. They were at Darwanta Dam, not far from their destination, the village of Sokh Rot located in the valley on the other side of the mountain. The captain was standing with his officers, several of whom were smoking. Nara was by the water, gazing into it, separate from the others. Leo walked to her. Hesitant and conscious that the captain was watching them, he was unsure what to say. He touched the water, rippling her reflection.

  – It doesn’t have to be a problem.

  She didn’t say anything. Leo added:

  – I take… responsibility. You were blameless in this.

  He wanted to stop speaking but couldn’t help adding qualifications to each remark.

  – It was a mistake, a mistake that we can put behind us. That’s how I feel.

  She said nothing. Leo continued:

  – The best thing would be to carry on as we were before. As though it hadn’t happened. We should concentrate on the task at hand. We’re close now.

  He quickly qualified:

  – I mean, we’re close to the village, rather than you and I, are close, because of last night. I’m not saying we can’t be close, in the future, as friends. I’d like to be your friend. If you want…

  Leo wished the captain had requested helicopter transport, cutting the journey to minutes rather than hours. But considering the nature of the situation, an alleged massacre by two Hind helicopters, it would have been insensitive to enter the area by air, inflaming the outrage, or sparking panic. Leo did find it odd that the captain had insisted upon handling this problem himself. The intelligence that the massacre was energizing the insurgency in Kabul seemed vague. Equally vague was the notion that forgiveness could be bought with a development project, a medical centre, a school, a well or herds of plump livestock, or why this gesture would take up the captain’s time. Leo had packed nothing other than his pipe and a modest stash of opium, predicting that they would be forced to stay in nearby Jalalabad until the matter was concluded.

  Nearing their destination, Captain Vashchenko became unusually talkative. He remarked:

  – Do you want to know what my biggest disappointment has been since arriving in this country?

  The question was rhetorical and he pressed ahead without waiting for, or wanting, an answer.

  – During the invasion I was involved in the siege of the President’s palace, where the 40th Army is based. Where the defector was living – you went there.

  Nara had understood enough to offer the name.

  – Tapa-e-Tajbeg.

  The captain nodded.

  – The plan to capture the President. We expected the private guard to surrender. Unlike every other Afghan division they proved resilient. We had to fight our way in. It was the first time I’d ever fought in a royal palace. There was expensive crystal smashed across the floor. Chandeliers were falling from the ceilings. Paintings and works of art were shot to pieces.

  The captain laughed.

  – Imagine fighting in a museum, that’s what it was like. You’re taking cover behind antiques worth more than I’ll earn in a lifetime. Considering there was not a hope they were going to win, those guards fought bravely. I guess they knew they were going to die whatever happened. We secured the palace room by room. I wanted to be the one who caught or killed the President. What a prize that would’ve been! I made a guess he would be hiding in his bedroom. Doesn’t everyone retreat to the bedroom in times of danger? People associate it with safety, or the most appropriate room to die in. I was wrong. Another member of my team found the President in the bar. He had his own private bar. He was sitting on a chair, his back to the door, drinking a fifty-year-old Scotch. They shot him in the back, careful not to destroy the decanter. We drank the Scotch to celebrate. But I didn’t felt like celebrating. I’m still annoyed I picked the wrong room.

  The captain shook his head in regret.

  – I’ve never shot a dictator.

  Leo remarked:

  – You’ve installed another one. Perhaps you’ll get another chance.

  To his surprise this amused the captain.

  – If the time comes, I’ll be heading straight to his private bar. He turned around, an unexpressive man allowing himself a modest smirk.

  – How about you translate that for her?

  It was the last thing the captain had said before leaving Leo and Nara alone last night. He knew that they’d kissed. Leo had been right. The rooms had been bugged.

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

  Same Day

  Approaching the site of the massacre, the landscape began to change. The trees were no longer flecked with blossom; they were charred – branches scorched black, entire trunks burnt, reduced to charcoal silhouettes like a child’s pencil drawing. At the epicentre the road disappeared, replaced by a series of ash-black craters, circled by jagged stubs, like trolls’ teeth, where the trees had stood.

  The captain ordered the car to stop. Leo stepped out, immediately noticing the sharp chemical smell leaching from the ground around him. When the wind blew, fine dust spiralled in the air, coils of black circling around them. Ash crunched underfoot. He caught Nara’s eye. She’d never seen the war outside Kabul. She was shocked. He wondered how long it would take her to justify this destruction, to rationalize it and formulate arguments about its necessity. No doubt the process had already begun.

  The mud walls of the houses were not in ruins but altogether missing. In a few cases, on the outskirts, there were remnants, mu heaped in a mound, dried out and cracked by the heat. Leo asked:

  – What did this?

  The captain was wearing sunglasses and Leo stared at his own distorted reflection in the lens.

  – These villages seem serene and quaint, your typical primitive backwater with cow-shit houses and kids chasing goats, pots and pans and bags of rice. This was a terrorist haven. The brothers who came from here were armed with enough explosives to create this kind of destruction, or worse. They were going to bring down an entire dam. Do you know how many people would’ve died, not only soldiers but civilians too? What did this? The villagers who lived here did this. They brought this upon themselves. Our helicopters came under heavy fire.

  Leo didn’t know the classified technical specifications of the Hind attack helicopters, but they were heavily armoured: their blades were titanium tipped. Rifle and machine-gun fire wouldn’t be enough to bring them down.

  – How heavy was the fire?

  The captain kicked at the ground.

  – The situation we are here to address is not an investigation into whether our pilots made the wrong decision. Fuel-air bombs were an appropriate choice of weapon, in my view. We’re here to convince these people that there are better and smarter options than fighting us – that fighting us is going to bring misery to millions.

  Picking up on an earlier term, Leo asked, the jargon meaning nothing to him:

  – Fuel-air bombs?

  He’d never heard of them before. The captain briefly glanced at Nara. Even though she’d spied on Leo, even though she’d reported on the deserters, she was still foreign and the captain would only trust her so far. He spoke softly, quickly, making sure she couldn’t follow his Russian:

  – They produce blasts of a longer duration, a pressure wave that is much harder to survive. They suck up the oxygen from the surrounding air. Normal explosives contain a large percentage of oxidizer. Thermobaric weapons are mostly fuel.

  Listening to the captain, Leo understood why the military p
lanners were so sure they would win this war. They had weapons of such ingenuity that anything other than a victory was illogical. He remarked:

  – To ensure no one survives?

  – They’re designed for cave networks. If the bomb can’t destroy the entire cave, it can at least suck out the air, turning a base that is safe structurally into a death trap.

  Leo added:

  – And villages?

  Leo didn’t expect an explanation, the captain was already walking away, but he belatedly understood their use. They were weapons that would ensure everyone died, reducing the visible scars of the attack without compromising the lethal intent.

  Nara crouched down. There was a steel cooking pot, turned black, but otherwise undamaged. She rubbed a small patch of it clean.

  Outside the former centre of the village a shallow lake of ash was forming. The toxic surface lapped at Leo’s feet. The network of irrigation channelould ered the orchards had been destroyed in the attack. The water was still being carried down from the mountains but now it had nowhere to go. He scooped up a palm full of water. It trickled through his fingers, leaving a smear across his skin. He rubbed the residue with his thumb. The captain was becoming impatient:

  – We need to move into the hills, talk to the people and discover what they want. Obviously we’ll we replant the orchards, clean up the water, and distribute the land to the relatives of those who were killed. You’ll handle the negotiations.

  Leo stood beside Nara.

  – Nara and I will go alone. It would be best if you and your men stayed here.

  The captain shook his head without giving the idea a moment’s thought.

  – Could be dangerous.

  – No more dangerous than if you come with us.

  The captain took out a pair of binoculars, regarding the nearest village.

  – They’re going to get a medical centre or a school. We don’t need to be too precious about it.

  *

  The nearest village to the site of the massacre was called Sau. It consisted of a cluster of houses located on the side of the mountain, at an altitude several hundred metres above the valley floor. From their position the villagers would have been able to watch as the helicopters hovered over their neighbours, launching missiles, dropping bombs, fire consuming the trees and houses. Though the village didn’t look far away it took almost an hour to cross the scorched land and climb the terraced slopes, following the irrigation channel, walking along the concrete edge. The captain had not only insisted upon coming with them, he’d brought his five soldiers. Leo was confused by his approach. It was true: there was an element of danger. But ambushes were unlikely within the village itself. The mujahedin’s tactics were to attack Soviet positions while presenting the enemy with no targets to retaliate against, forces that dissolved into the mountains. Their aim was not to recapture cities since such a victory offered Soviet troops a target to attack. Refusing to engage in conventional warfare, instead, they would slice at the occupation, inflicting upon it a series of cuts, some deep, many shallow. They would bleed the Soviets while the Soviets dropped bombs on dust and rock, or, in this case, apricot trees.

  His brow damp with perspiration, Leo wiped his face, studying the approaching village. Sau was small. Whereas the village of Sokh Rot was founded in the lap of once-fertile orchards, this village had no obvious industry other than livestock, herds of goats that scattered as they neared it. For such a small village there was a large crowd in the centre, several hundred men, many times more than would normally be found in a village this size. Leo caught up with Nara and the captain.

  – What do you make of that?

  He pointed at the crowd. More people were arriving, travelling down from the mountain paths and across the valley. The captain surveyed the landscape, observing the crowd. Inscrutable, he remarked solemnly:

  – They want to see the destruction for themselves.

  Leo shook his head, pointing to the opposite side of the valley.

  – Why are they crossing the valley? They can see the devastation from there. Why are they coming here?

  The captain didn’t reply.

  *

  Uneasy, Leo climbed the last few metres, entering the centre of the village and finding himself completely surrounded.

  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 h
ow 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.