Agent 6 ld-3

by Tom Rob Smith

  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 a
long 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.

  Same Day

  Not knowing why he’d been called, the captain entered the kitchen cautiously, his gun raised, expecting a trap. Stunned by Nara’s decision and convinced she didn’t understand the consequences of her actions, Leo tried to hurry them out, offering Nara a second chance to save the girl.

  – Let’s go.

  Leo had underestimated the bond between Nara and the party. She’d chosen the State over him, ignoring his advice, ignoring her own moral code – one that he knew she had. He would not allow her to make the same mistakes he had as an agent. She had made one already, showing no mercy to the deserting couple. But from this there would be no going back; she would be changed, like plastic warped in heat, unable ever to return to its previous shape. The conflicting forces were powerful. She was loyal to the party, loyal to the State. The State was her family now and Leo’s kiss last night had confirmed what she already knew. No Afghan man would ever marry her. She would be alone, hated by her community, protected only by the captain and men like him. Her life depended upon the occupation. If the Soviets lost the war, then she would die with them. Leo’s position, neither a Soviet nor an Afghan, offered her nothing.

  Gripping her hand, he said:

  – Nara, let’s go.

  She shook his hand free, pointing at the young girl and addressing the captain in awkward Russian.

  – The child.

  The captain’s impatience disappeared and his attention focused on the young girl, walking up to her, studying her. It took him no more than a few seconds to realize her significance. Leo cried out:

  – Leave her alone!

  He put a hand on the captain amp;rsshoulder. The captain stood up sharply, striking Leo with the butt of his gun.

  – Why do you think I came here personally, Leo Demidov? Why do you think I didn’t trust anyone else with this mission? I’m the only one prepared to do what needs to be done. Another man might’ve taken a look at this girl and not seen how dangerous she is. An enemy drugged on superstition will continue fighting even when they’re guaranteed to lose. This girl could cost hundreds of Soviet lives. She could cost thousands of Afghans their lives. Your mercy would result in far more bloodshed.

  He picked up the little girl, carrying her out of the house. Nara followed him. Leo remained in the kitchen with the three women: their faces obscured by the shadows, smoke from the fire swirling around them. Three strangers waiting to see what decision he would make. There was no reason why Leo should care what they thought. He would never encounter them again. It was irrational to be unsettled by their unseen eyes. Except that in the gloom they were no longer strangers for they had become the three women from his own life: his two daughters and his wife, Raisa. And nothing in the world mattered to him more than what they thought. It was irrelevant that he would never hold Raisa’s hand again, never touch her or kiss her. In all likelihood, he would never be reunited with his daughters either. Yet they were here with him now, in this room, judging him. The smoke from the fire had become the opium cloud in which he’d hidden. There was to be no hiding now. It was time to decide whether he could fail his family in a way that he had sworn that he would never do again.

  Returning to the main chamber, Leo bent down beside the body of the elder and picked up the man’s long curved knife.

  Same Day

  The village was burning. Scores of men lay on the ground. A few hopelessly clutched their wounds as if trying to put their bodies back together. Others were pitifully crawling away, leaving bloody trails in the dust. Leo walked between them, stepping over them, moving slowly, the knife in his hand, flat against his back.

  A house had been destroyed; a grenade tossed inside, a wall had collapsed, the timber roof was smoking. Three of the Spetsnaz soldiers were dead. A fourth was shot, unable to hold a gun, resting on the shoulders of the only remaining uninjured soldier. He was holding two guns, firing at the vantage points above them, bullets hitting the ridge. His voice was hoarse, shouting out, furious at the delay:

  – Let’s go!

  The captain forced the little girl onto her knees in the centre of the village, calling out to the mountains, to the hiding places where the survivors had fled and the fighters had taken up arms.

  – Here is your miracle child! Here is the child that cannot be killed!

  He put the gun to her head.

  Striding up behind the captain, Leo swung the knife, imitating the elder’s line of attack and aiming at his neck. He was no longer as fast as he had been, his skills were diluted by age and opium. The captain heard him and turned, raising an arm to block the knife. The blade was sharp and cut into the captain’s forearm, slicing deep enough to make him drop his gun. Leo brought the blade up, ready to strike him again. The captain, ignoring his injury, kicked Leoo; s feet out from under him. Leo fell back, dropping the knife, staring up at the sky.

  The Spetsnaz soldier stepped towards Leo, lowering his gun. Leo rolled towards the girl still kneeling on the ground, called out in Dari:

  – Run!

  She didn’t move. She didn’t even open her eyes. There was a burst of machine-gun fire. But Leo had not been shot. Unable to understand how the man had missed, Leo looked up. He saw the Soviet soldier topple back, taking with him his injured colleague.

  Exploiting the distraction, several armed villagers advanced, firing their weapons. Alone, the captain pulled back, unarmed and under fire. Assessing the situation, outgunned, unable to reach the girl, he fled towards the path down the hill, chased by gunfire. Leo checked
on the little girl. Her eyes were still closed. He sat up, crawling towards her. He touched her face. She opened her eyes, burnt lashes twisted together. He whispered:

  – You’re safe.

  Villagers were returning, armed and closing in. One man was leading them, tall, thin, awkward, armed with a Soviet-made AK-47. He walked up to the fallen soldier, the injured man, and shot him in the head. Turning to Nara, who’d remained motionless, he grabbed her arm, throwing her to the ground beside Leo. The miracle girl was carried away. The leader towered over Leo, regarding him with contempt and confusion.

  – Why did you attack your own troops?

  – I am not a soldier. I have no allegiance to men who would kill a child.

  – What is your name?

  – I am Leo Demidov, special adviser to the Soviet occupation. What is yours?

  – My name is Fahad Mohammad.

  Leo managed to conceal his recognition of the name. Nara failed. He was the brother of the man they’d arrested and killed in Kabul, brother of the bomb-maker shot at the dam, and brother of the boy killed in the village. Fahad turned to Nara.

  – You know me, traitor?

  Several of the fighters took aim.

  Same Day

  A safe distance from the village, Captain Vashchenko paused, catching his breath. He was pale, dizzy. The bandage he’d ripped for his wound was soaked through and blood was running into his hand. There seemed to be no one in close pursuit and he was confident he could make it to the jeeps. He turned back, regarding the village of Sau. There was every possibility the fighters would kill Nara Mir and Leo Demidov. But the miracle girl was still alive. The failed attempt on her life supported the notion that she was under divine protection, and proof the Soviets would lose the war. Vashchenko had made matters worse. Five soldiers were dead: their bodies would be picked upon like carrion, their uniforms turned into trophies, their weapons paraded – bullets that failed to kill a young girl.

  There was a radio transceiver in the vehicle. He would call for air strikes across the entire mountain face. He would turn these lush green hills smouldering black. He would flatten every house. With this thought, the cain began to feel a little better.