Agent 6 ld-3

by Tom Rob Smith

  Nangarhar Province Rodat District 15 Kilometres South of Jalalabad 3100 Metres above Sea Level

  Next Day

  Though Leo had not been executed, he was far from being safe. Coiled on the cave floor, Leo clasped his stomach. The cramps came in waves. His need for opium felt as desperate as being underwater, unable to breathe – how could he deny his body’s impulse to surface? Opium was as natural to him as air to his lungs. His body no longer understood how to function without the drug, physically and psychologically. He’d forgotten how an ordinary person exists hour by hour, how they cope with their frustrations and anxieties. Through narcotics, he’d banished pain and suppressed grief. For seven opium summers he had no needs other than the smoke inhaled into his lungs at the end of every day, achieving a state of numbness, necessary if he was not to attempt something foolhardy. He’d abandoned his grand plans, his journey to America, and put aside the ambition that he might one day find the man who murdered his wife. Though he might not have admitted as much, pretending he was merely delaying the journey, the truth was that he’d dropped the investigation, living solely by the clock of his addiction and the daily routine of oblivion. Without the drug the stark reality of his failure returned. He had not achieved the one thing that mattered most – justice for Raisa – the only thing he could offer her. Instead, he was a grown man who’d made an infant of himself, creating an opium womb.

  As Fahad Mohammad had led them out of the valley the withdrawal symptoms had begun, slowly at first, the body’s gentle reminder that he was an addict. When the warnings were ignored the symptoms became far worse. Leo shivered as they walked, his whole body trembling with cold even though they were travelling at great speed. Fahad’s pace was so remarkable, so quick, his legs so long and nimble that from time to time they needed to jog just to keep up. Leo and Nara took turns in carrying the miracle girl, whose name was Zabi. In shock, bewildered, she made no complaints and asked no questions. When Fahad was out of earshot, Nara wanted to talk to Leo but he was in no state to discuss anything. By dusk his condition had worsened dramatically. His whole body shook with each step and it took concentration just to keep on the path, one foot in front of the other, as his skin turned clammy and his brow dripped with sweat. The first air strikes occurred on the cusp of darkness, a burning bright glow and a chemical-fire sunrise. They paused briefly to look back at the fire sweeping the slopes, the bursts of light, at houses obliterated and fields turned to ash, villages scooped up and tossed into the air. Fahad ordered them to run as the strikes drew closer. Aided by the darkness they’d continued their escape into the night. They could hear, feel and smell the bombing, at one point a bomb detonated so close the entire path was covered with smoke. Fighter jets streaked the night sky, targeting the paths they’d only recently crossed, sending vibrations through the landscape as if this war was against the soil and rock of Afghanistan.

  Leo begged for a break, stopping by a river, pretending to sip from the water. He took out his wrap of opium and even though his pipe was smashed, he tried to fashion a way to burn it only to have Fahad grab the drug, crush it in his hand and toss the remains into the river. Crazed with anguish, as though he’d lost the love of his life, Leo plunged into the water, blindly scraping the surface for any trace and pitifully crying out.

  Sobbing like a child, waist-deep in the river, he’d turned around to see the three of them staring at him. He was too sick to feel humiliation. Fahad moved off without a word, carrying the girl. Nara waited for a few seconds and then followed, leaving Leo alone. Her departure was fortunate since Leo had lost control of his bodily functions, squatting in the river, throwing up at the same time as being struck by diarrhoea. When he eventually left the river he staggered after the others unable to straighten his back, lurching rather than walking, certain with each step that he’d fall to the ground and never stand again.

  By the time they were allowed to rest, he was delirious, barely able to comprehend his surroundings, with no idea where they were or in which direction they were travelling. They’d been given shelter in a village, but he hadn’t slept, throwing up at regular intervals until there was nothing in his stomach, coughing up bile and acidic spit, before returning to his foetal position on the jute mattress. At dawn Fahad hurried them on after a breakfast of flat bread and tea. Leo had refused the food, taking only small sips of sweet tea, unable to hold anything else down.

  The second day of walking had been worse than the first. Not only did Leo feel sick, he was weak and exhausted. Fahad would not stop and would not slow down, always demanding that they walk faster. The air strikes entered their second campaign but the Soviet bombers were always one mountain range behind. Leo had staggered on without a thought in his mind except for the image of the opium on the surface of the river. Faced with a steep climb up a mountain path he was at the point of collapse. He felt no joy when Fahad had announced that they’d arrived. He merely allowed his legs to give way, falling to the ground at the mouth of the cave.

  *

  Feverish, huddled on the cold stone floor, Leo slowly realized that there was a hand resting on his shoulder. He rolled over to see that he’d been brought a steel cup of sweet black tea and as he clutched the cup, feeling the heat through the palms of his hands, he saw the woman who’d brought it to him. He sat up, spilling the tea on his fingers, ignoring the pain, astonished as Raisa wiped his brow with a cold rag. He wanted to touch her but feared that she was an apparition and any contact would make her shimmer and vanish. Dumb with joy, he watched her lips as she spoke, each word a miracle. She said:

  – Try to drink your tea while it’s hot.

  Leo obeyed, sipping the sweet black tea, while never taking his eyes off her, not even for a second.

  – I was dreaming about the first time we met. Do you remember?

  – When we met?

  – I stepped off at the wrong metro stop just to ask your name. You told me it was Lena. For a whole week, I told everyone that I was in love with a beautiful woman called Lena. Then I ran into you again, on the tramcar. I don’t know why I was so determined, when it was obvious you wanted to be left alone. I was sure that if I could just talk to you then you’d like me and if you liked me a little, perhaps, one day, you’d love me. And if that happened, if a person like you could love me, then how could I be a terrible person? When I found out you’d lied about your name I didn’t care. I was so excited to discover your real name. I told everyone that I was in love with a beautiful woman called Raisa. They laughed at me because last week it had been Lena and then this week it was Raisa. But it was always you.

  Leo didn’t dare to blink, forcing his eyes to remain open, as if a flutter of his eyelids could wipe her from existence. Clutching the tea tight to prevent him from taking her hands, he said:

  – I’m sorry I didn’t make it to New York. I tried. If you’d been by my side I know we would have made that journey. The truth is I’ve never amounted to anything without you. Loving you was the only achievement I’ve ever been proud of. Since you died, I’ve been a distracted father and worst of all, I’ve become an agent once more – doing a job you despise.

  As he began to cry, the image of Raisa became blurred. He cried out:

  – Wait!

  He wiped the tears away only to see that the woman in front of him was no longer his wife but Nara Mir.

  Nara sat silent for some time before asking:

  – Raisa was the name of your wife?

  Leo closed his eyes. Immersed in darkness, he breathed deeply.

  – Raisa was the name of my wife.

  In all the years of smoking opium he’d never been gifted with a clear vision of his wife, never experienced a hallucination, never seen her before him or felt her near him even for a fleeting moment. Now, without any drug, she’d been by his side. It was wrong to call these withdrawal symptoms – the opposite was true, opium had been a withdrawal from the world. These were the symptoms of a man returning to the world.

  He st
ood up, slowly. With one hand on the cave wall, he found his way outside. It was night. The moon was bright. Before him, the valley dropped down steeply and in the distance mountains rose like the spine of a dormant prehistoric monster. Village fires flickered like disgraced stars tossed down from the sky while those in the heavens sparkled brilliantly, as numerous as he’d ever seen. No longer numb, Leo felt childlike wonder at this view. He was not yet done with this world. Not only did he feel it, he believed it too.

  Next Day

  Nara sat at the entrance of the cave watching the sunrise. Light sliced by the jagged mountaintops into uneven beams promised a perfect day. The sight of sun gave her no pleasure and no feelings of hope. On the run, chased by the bombs of the Soviet aircraft, exhausted, she had no time or energy to dwell upon her actions. Reaching safety, taking shelter in the cave, she could think only of her decision to call out for Captain Vashchenko. The sound of her words echoed in her head: her voice was awful, full of self-satisfied pride, deluded belief that she was performing a valuable duty to the State. There is something you must see.

  She’d beckoned him to an injured girl knowing his intentions exactly. He would shoot the girl as he had shot the boy. She could not claim ignorance as an excuse. She had been prepared to watch the execution of a seven-year-old girl.

  Her identity had changed and there was no undoing the transformation. Even when her family had plotted her death, observing the hatred in her father’s eyes she had never doubted the nature of her character. She was a good person. She had been wronged and misunderstood. Her intentions were noble. She was not like the men who attacked her: she was not like her father planning her death or her mother silently standing by. She would not be defined by rage and anger. She would be motivated by hope, idealism, and she was not afraid to make a stand. Yes, the repercussions were that she was alone and unloved. Better to be isolated than to compromise her beliefs, striving for acceptance from those she did not respect. There was no value in love that was dependent upon pretence. For as long as she could remember she’d been someone who did the right thing, no matter how difficult that made her life. That was no longer true.

  The conclusion was inescapable. Having lost one family, she was not prepared to lose another – the State. She was a coward. It begged the question of whether her values had been nothing more than personal ambition reconfigured as ideology. Just as she’d been unable to resist the captain’s decision, she’d been unable to support Leo’s resistance, standing on the side, incapable of making a stand. She was a traitor in the eyes of the Communist state and a traitor in the eyes of the Afghan people. To Leo, she was morally weak. Had she worked so hard at her education in order that she might manufacture justifications for the murder of a young girl? Was this why she’d read so many books? Her sense of shame was intense. The feeling was akin to grief, as though her identity had died. The prospect of young Zabi waking up and asking for breakfast, unaware of the fact that Nara had called out for her execution, made it difficult to breathe. She sat, snatching gulps of air.

  Nara stood up, leaving the cave and moving down the path. They’d not been guarded since any attempt to run was futile, even with several hours’ head start there was nowhere to hide. They would be tracked down and killed. Only a few paces away the narrow mountain trail narrowed, with a sheer vertical drop of some thirty or so metres to one side. Arriving at the drop Nara looked down. Without any sense of self-pity she accepted it was the only option remaining. She no longer knew how to live. She no longer knew her place in this world. She could neither go back to the Communist regime, nor could she go back to the little girl. She closed her eyes, ready to step out, falling to her death.

  – What are you doing?

  Startled, Nara turned around. Zabi was standing close by. Responding in an uncertain voice, Nara said:

  – I thought you were asleep?

  Zabi raised her arms, displaying the burns.

  – My skin hurts.

  The pale ointment that had been used to treat the burns had rubbed off. The brittle scabs and damaged skin were exposed. There were raw patches of red. Nara ushered her back, shooing her away.

  – Go to the cave. Please, go back.

  – But I can’t sleep.

  – Go to the cave!

  At the sound of Nara raising her voice, Zabi slowly turned around.

  Alone again, Nara looked down at the drop. Instead of death, her mind was full of thoughts of how to make a new ointment. Without one, Zabi would scratch the scabs and the wounds could become infected. Nara knew a little about the natural properties of mountainside vegetation, taught to her by her grandfather when she was a young girl. She’d cherished those lessons. He knew every plant that grew on the Afghan mountains; during his years as a smuggler he’d been forced to survive off the vegetation on several occasions. Instead of thoughts of suicide, she recalled that juniper berries could be used to create a soothing balm, particularly when mixed with natural oil, such as that pressed from nuts or seeds.

  She turned her back on the drop, and ran to catch up with the tiny figure of Zabi. Nara called out to her:

  – Wait!

  Zabi stopped walking. Nara bent down, examining the girl’s skin.

  – It’s important you don’t scratch.

  Zabi whimpered.

  – It itches.

  Hearing the girl’s distress, Nara began to cry, unable to stop.

  – I’ll make you a new ointment. And then it won’t itch any more, I promise.

  Confused by Nara’s tears, Zabi stopped crying.

  – Why are you crying?

  Nara couldn’t answer. Zabi asked:

  – Does your skin hurt too?

  Nara wiped away her tears.

  Same Day

  Having slept for the first time in three days, Leo sat up awkwardly, his muscles aching. The cramps were still painful. His hands trembled from dehydration, lack of food, exhaustion. His lips were cracked, his skin broken. His nails were black with dirt. His hair was wild. Without the aid of a mirror, he began to tidy himself up. He used a splintered match to scrape the dirt from his nails, one by one, a thick line of grime accumulating on the match, wiped on the ground. Using a cup of cold water he made an attempt at washing his face, picking the patches of dry skin from his lips and straightening his hair.

  The voice inside him demanding opium was a constant nagging rather than a deafening demand, now quieter – more like a distant whisper. He felt strong enough to ignore it. Another voice had returned, his own, and it demanded he concentrate on the matter at hand, escape, not into an opium seclusion, but escape from their predicament. First, he needed to assess his situation: he was not sure how many soldiers there were in this base. He was not even sure where they were located.

  As his thoughts turned to the possibility of escape a question arose: to where and to what end? For so many years his life had been directionless, it was hard to remember a time when he was driven by dreams and ambitions of his own. He could no longer drift through days and weeks, in a haze of opium smoke. There were decisions to be made. He had a new family to look after. The plans of the Soviet defector returned to his thoughts, the aspiration of crossing the border into Pakistan and taking asylum with the Americans, seeking their protection in exchange for the information he had about the occupation of Afghanistan. It would serve two ends: survival and an opportunity to reach New York. Yet while that option would protect Nara and Zabi, there would be grave risks to his daughters in Moscow if he defected. His mind had grown slack with opiate-laziness and was unaccustomed to such dilemmas. Sensing the enormity of the journey ahead, Leo felt hungry, a sensation one that yesterday he would’ve sworn he’d never experience again.

  Nara and Zabi were sitting at the mouth of the cave. He joined them, discreetly noting his surroundings and the number of soldiers. The girls were eating shlombeh, milk curd with flat bread studded with spices. Though he felt better, he decided against milk curd, instead ripping pieces of the warm fla
t bread. He ate slowly, chewing carefully. The dough was dense and pungently seasoned with crushed cardamom seeds. He ripped another fragment, the oil turning his fingertips yellow. Watching him eat, the young girl said:

  – Are you better now?

  Leo finished chewing before replying.

  – Much better.

  – What was wrong with you?

  – I was sick.

  Nara said to Zabi:

  – Let him eat.

  But Zabi continued her questioning.

  – What were you sick with?

  – Sometimes a person can become sick from giving up. They’re not suffering from a disease. They have no sense of purpose, or direction, despair can make a person sick.

  Zabi concentrated on everything he said as carefully as if it was the wisdom of an ancient professor. She noted:

  – You speak my language very well for an invader.

  Zabi was forthright, blunt in her observations and fearless for a girl without a family, so far from home, a home that she’d witnessed being destroyed. Leo answered:

  – When I arrived in this country I was a guest. There was no Soviet army. No military garrisons. And I set about learning your language. But you are right. Now that my country has invaded, I am no longer a guest.

  – Is Len-In your god?

  Leo smiled at the way in which she pronounced the name. He gently shook his head.

  – No, Lenin is not my god. How did you know that name?

  Zabi took another spoonful of the milk curd.

  – A friend told me. He was going to compose a poem. He’s dead now. He died in the attack. My family is dead too.

  – I know.

  Zabi made no more mention of her family or the attack that had killed them. She ate the milk curd without any showing any outward display of grief. She possessed a degree of introspection unusual in a young child, perhaps a form of retreat from the horror of the events she’d witnessed. She would need help. She was in shock. At the moment, she was behaving as though events unfolding were quite normal. Unsure what to say to her, he noted the burns on Zabi’s hands and arms and head – they’d been freshly covered with an ointment. He asked: