A Shadow Intelligence

by Oliver Harris

  I gave it a beat.

  ‘It’s very nice to hear your voice. There’s not many people here I’ve met who I have much in common with.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  ‘Would you meet me for a coffee?’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Today.’

  ‘Okay,’ Aliya said. ‘A quick one.’

  ‘Do you know Café Corso on the corner of Bayanaul Street? I can be there at seven.’ Corso was far enough away from the governmental district for discretion without it being impractical for her to get to.

  ‘Seven? I think so. I will try.’

  ‘I will be there.’

  ‘Okay.’ She hung up.

  Too easy, I thought. The doubt was drilled into you over time: no one simply took your hand when you reached out.

  I sent an encrypted email to Hugh Stevenson, informing him that Joanna had hacked into Vectis. I asked him to see whether Vauxhall had any previous concerns about the private intelligence company, but suggested he move carefully.

  I bought a new shirt, checked my phone for news. Semey had kicked off in a serious way. News of the young man’s death in custody had spread fast. Another protester had been injured and was critical in hospital. The square was filled with chanting, braziers lit, flames promising violence of their own.

  Is this a revolution? Piper had asked. A Central Asian spring? I took a brief look at inflation rates and average incomes. These were the ones to watch, short of being able to watch the silent majority itself, the weather creeping through its heart, approaching that magic point of collective rage when risking your life became a rational act. That was what I had prided myself on assessing in CX reports. A horizon watcher, as Joanna had mocked. There were several online tools for calculating the likelihood of civil unrest, but I didn’t feel any of them took enough account of people like Aliya.

  I pocketed the Makarov, and wondered what I was trying to protect myself from.

  Café Corso was over the top for a first date, but I wanted somewhere with front of house as a line of defence. They did Russian-inflected dishes, heavy on cream and pastry. The interior decoration involved doilies and cross-stitch cushions decorated with children sledging. Somewhere a sleazy expat might think was discreet, but not so high-end that you’d run into government men and their mistresses. I chose a seat out of earshot of other diners, but with a sightline to the door.

  These situations are never my favourite: the fact is that at least one of you might be risking your life by turning up. And yet the appearance of relaxed confidence is all. Nine people inside, five staff, four customers: two men talking Italian at the counter; a man and a woman in dark suits at a window table, poring over designs for what looked like a nightclub. Lace curtains on a brass pole divided the window in half. Above them, the sky was getting dark. Streetlamps caught fresh flurries of snow in the air.

  She entered a moment later. The fur of her hood framed her face, sparkling with tiny diamonds of ice. I got up and hugged her, feeling for wires or weapons. Then I kissed her cheek. It was cold.

  ‘I’m so glad you could come. You must be freezing. Sit down.’ She placed her bag in her lap, looked around.

  ‘Been here before?’ I asked, in Russian. ‘Never.’ She spoke English. That was fine with me. You didn’t truly get to know someone unless they were speaking their first language, but if English made her feel safe, or want to show off, English was fine.

  ‘It’s okay, a little eccentric. Forgive the cushions.’

  ‘I forgive them. You have the word “kitsch” – is that right?’

  ‘Borrowed off the Germans, yes.’

  ‘Kitsch.’ She tried the word in her mouth. Her make-up was fresh, her drop earrings caught the light.

  ‘How was your day?’

  ‘Fine.’

  I passed her the menu. ‘Go wild.’

  ‘You take all your women here?’

  ‘Only the ones that write such superb fiction.’

  She considered this. ‘Is it obvious?’

  ‘To me.’

  Aliya ordered hot chocolate with cream. I ordered sbiten, a Russian drink with honey and spices. When the waitress left I said, ‘I thought the story was quite brilliant. The way you used such clarity of language to describe confusion, both lucid and utterly at sea.’

  ‘At sea?’

  ‘Lost. You say, in the story, there is clarity in being lost. That is the heart of it, for me. The magazine I’ve mentioned it to – The Walbrooke Review – are very interested. I know the editor there, Jack Morley. He’s a nice guy. The magazine’s small but read by influential people. They’ve published Anna Starobinets, Guzel Yakhina, I believe she’s of Tajik origin.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘You know her work?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘It would be amazing.’

  ‘What are you working on?’ I asked. ‘At the university.’

  ‘My thesis.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘I don’t think you’d be interested. It is not to do with business.’

  ‘I have interests beyond business.’

  ‘I am looking at the idea of authentic literatures, the invention of folk cultures. A lot of it is fantasies, sometimes made by the communist party. Many of our heroes were selected by the Soviets – secular poets and thinkers.’

  ‘But is it not true that you had “bards” here?’

  ‘Yes, singers. An oral tradition. But now they are gone. I am not sure people will bring them back, or should try.’

  ‘That sounds a provocative angle.’

  ‘In a Western university it would not be provocative.’

  ‘Do you get funded?’

  ‘Very little.’

  ‘But enough to survive on?’

  ‘Just.’

  Our drinks and cake arrived. She ate the cream off the hot chocolate first. I sipped the sbiten and was transported back to a winter in Moscow, when I had decided Russia was the country I loved the most: the stark, magisterial beauty of the place, the cautious friendships, the writers I had met.

  ‘And what exactly do you do?’ she asked.

  ‘I advise people investing money. I’m here to do some research. It is very dull.’

  If I embodied the West she hadn’t attacked me yet. Perhaps her politics were a private matter, to be preserved in fantasy.

  ‘Will you go back to England for Christmas?’ she asked. ‘I’m not sure yet.’

  ‘What about your family?’

  I was momentarily thrown. The image that flickered into view was of Croxley Green. It was replaced by Toby’s parents: richer, more glamorous.

  ‘They are dead,’ I said.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘A long time.’

  ‘Are you married?’

  ‘No,’ I said. She raised an eyebrow quizzically. I changed the subject.

  ‘What do you make of recent events here? The ethnic tensions?’

  ‘I think a lot of it is exaggerated.’

  I managed to stifle a laugh at her audacity.

  ‘Your family is originally from Russia, no?’

  ‘My father came here in 1970.’

  The Virgin Lands campaign, I thought: Khrushchev trying to turn the emptiness into agriculture, importing Russians by the thousands to summon wheat from the steppe.

  ‘What did he think of moving here?’

  ‘He felt he was doing his duty. At that time a lot of Russians came, to farm. It was an adventure. That is what they told them. Building the socialist future. My grandmother was furious when she learned that my mother was marrying a Russian. But I solved everything when I was born. I am harmony.’

  I laughed. ‘You are exceptionally harmonious.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘So your mother is not Russian.’

  ‘No. My father rose quite high in agricultural work. Under the Soviets, he would have been looked after. Now, ethnic Russians can only rise s
o high. They are made to feel uncomfortable. Sometimes people refuse to serve them.’

  ‘Does he think about going back?’

  ‘He loves this country.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And my grandmother is with them. She is not well. Home is not such a good place to be. But I am saving money.’ She wiped cream from her lips.

  ‘Do you feel free here?’

  She shrugged. ‘You are free until you want to criticise the government. People are not used to thinking for themselves anyway. Do you like it here?’

  ‘Very much so.’

  ‘You preferred Almaty to Astana.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It is nicer.’

  ‘It is pretty. I like places that don’t entirely work, though, the less pretty ones.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. They are just themselves. People are surprised you are there. I like places that haven’t been expecting me.’

  She drank her chocolate, considering this. ‘Does England work?’

  ‘Sometimes. Have you been to Europe?’

  ‘No.’ She hesitated as she said it, which made me curious.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘What do you mean, “really”?’

  ‘You sounded uncertain.’

  ‘I have never been out of Kazakhstan. It is not easy for us. Why don’t you have a wife?’

  ‘I’m never anywhere for long – not in England.’

  She waited for a proper answer.

  ‘I haven’t found someone I want to be with. I am a very private person.’

  ‘You date Kazakh women?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘A rich English businessman in Astana and you have not found a wife.’ Her eyes held a wry glint that reminded me of Joanna.

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘I can’t have been paying attention. Still, I’m not being sent home yet.’

  ‘You think you will be sent home?’

  ‘It was a joke. I’m very much my own boss anyway, and I would happily stay here. Perhaps I will.’

  She looked sceptical. I felt the lightheadedness that comes as you begin to enter your cover and believe the things you say; when you are most convincing and most vulnerable. Stay sharp, I thought. Maybe it was too hot in here, sudden comfort after the cold. The Italians left, a family of four arrived. It was 7.15 p.m.

  ‘May I ask,’ I said. ‘Is there a special man in your life? A boyfriend?’

  She shook her head, stirred the remains of the cream into the chocolate. ‘I do not have time. A man will want me to stop working.’

  ‘All men?’

  ‘Kazakh men.’

  ‘Marry an Englishman.’ I turned my cup in its saucer. ‘I mean, I have heard this is still a very traditional society.’

  ‘More than ever.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Traditions are returning. People’s idea of tradition.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Now we have some independence, people want Kazakh identity. We have Russia above, China next to us. Both big powers.’

  ‘And how do you feel about this?’

  ‘I don’t know. You have a lot of questions, but you are the one who has seen the whole world. What do I know?’

  ‘I’ve seen very little of the world.’

  ‘I don’t mean to be angry. It has been a stressful week. Do you know where the bathroom is?’

  ‘Downstairs, I believe.’

  ‘Excuse me.’

  She went, taking her bag. I searched her coat pockets: headphones, receipts for lunch, blister pack of Pipofezine, an antidepressant. The life report placed Aliya’s home twenty minutes’ drive away, but I’d checked the bus routes and they were slow. And, in this weather, unpredictable. I thought I could find a way to accompany her.

  Aliya returned, appearing more composed. I needed to get her out of here.

  ‘You are interested in my politics?’ she said.

  ‘I’m curious.’

  ‘We won’t be a serious country until we have democracy.’

  ‘But people approve of the President.’

  ‘Of course. He is all we know. He has kept us out of war.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s all you can ask.’

  ‘For now. Soon things must change.’

  ‘The people I have met here are good people. I think maybe your country can remain peaceful. Advance, and remain peaceful.’

  I called for the bill, paid in cash. ‘I’ll drive you home, if you like. I’ve got a feeling the buses might be difficult.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Well, I was going to go towards Koyandy. There’s a supermarket out there that stocks some European things I can’t get anywhere else. It’s open late.’

  ‘Really? That’s quite close to where I live.’

  ‘Perfect.’

  ‘You have a car?’

  ‘Yes. I’m parked just around the corner.’

  A home visit was good due diligence. She would invite me in. Hard, if not impossible, to fake a family.

  ‘No. It is not necessary,’ she said suddenly.

  ‘I am driving you,’ I said. ‘No arguing.’ I was surprised by a burst of adrenalin. I watched her wrestle with something that evidently needed to be said.

  ‘You must understand,’ she said, finally. ‘My home is not rich.’

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  I’d left the car a street away. She climbed in without comment. I kept the headlights off for as long as possible, in case someone was looking out for them, only switching them on once we were on the main road. She looked at me curiously.

  Night had settled, with a quarter moon sharpened by the cold. Her directions led us into older eastern suburbs, in the process of being brought into line with the architectural look of the capital. All the surrounding villages were meant to be put in order by 2020. Right now it looked like a construction site: concrete plants, steel frames, tower cranes with aviation warning lights.

  ‘A city changes faster than a human heart,’ I said.

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘Baudelaire.’

  ‘Oh, I know Baudelaire. Les Fleurs du Mal.’

  ‘He’s one of my favourites.’

  ‘Do you think it’s true, about the city?’

  ‘This city, for sure.’

  Digital visions of the paradise to come decorated the hoardings of building sites. Faceless people moved through an imagined world: hotels, shopping centres, residential compounds with their own golf courses. Build it and they will come. Oil dreams. Aberdeen, Houston, Kuwait City, Baku. Crude trades at over $100 and cities appear. You can make any ideology seem successful. But it’s not the future, it’s just money. It runs out.

  I put the radio on. Semey on a knife edge. Nazarbayev on his way to address protesters’ concerns.

  ‘Have you heard about this?’

  ‘No.’ Aliya looked as shocked as I did. ‘Really?’ You could hear the crowd on the radio, chanting. When would he appear? The protesters weren’t going anywhere. Now even more people would join them. Maybe it was a stroke of genius. If anyone could pull it off, it was Nazarbayev.

  ‘The President knows this is it,’ I said. ‘This is how things start.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Think it will work?’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘He’d better have something good to say.’

  ‘It is Nazarbayev. He just needs to appear.’

  We crossed the city’s ring road. A minute later Aliya directed me left, into a cluster of low, plain houses. Her home was set back from the road, lights on. I stopped the car.

  ‘Have a good night,’ I said.

  ‘You should come in,’ Aliya said. ‘They’ll be amused.’

  ‘Wonderful.’

  ‘In a nice way.’

  The entrance was set back, no windows overlooking. No cars parked up.

  ‘I won’t stay long.’

  Aliya’s mother answered the door. She looked like her d
aughter: tall, dark-eyed. Her father appeared behind her with a grey moustache and two days’ stubble.

  ‘This is Toby,’ Aliya said. ‘He is English. He gave me a lift home.’

  ‘A guest!’ The father shook my hand and pulled me in. The living room was low-ceilinged, warm. Filling one end was a dresser whose shelves held Soviet china. The grandmother lay on a couch to the side, face folded towards her toothless mouth and small dark eyes.

  We sat on cushions around a low, lace-covered table. The mother produced a loaf of home-baked shelpek, Kazakh flatbread. The father opened a bottle of vodka and found two glasses. I looked around. A rare thing, access to ordinary homes. The people who are not bad or powerful and so rarely worth spying on but can sometimes change history. Cable TV box, television tuned to Europa Plus, the non-state news station, showing reports from Semey, the crowd outraged in the snow, waiting.

  The mother switched it off, as if this were a private concern. I had a quick look at the local wi-fi connections on my phone, preparing to email malware to Aliya’s mobile. That was the goal I’d set myself, although it was feeling more uncouth by the minute. They had KazakhTelecom broadband, connection speed 5 Mpbs. Decent enough.

  The father offered me vodka. His right arm was artificial, the hand prosthetic.

  ‘To the friendship of our countries – two great empires, once upon a time.’ He had the Russian habit of smiling with the eyes alone. I imagined him forty years ago, arriving in this part of the world, in the southern reaches of the Soviet Union, full of wonder about the life ahead of him. Astana was an administrative base for the agricultural project. A land of travellers soon to be extinguished by Soviet wheat farming.

  Aliya’s mother fussed over having company, fetching bowls of pilaf, saucers of sweets. Aliya knelt beside her grandmother. There was a transparent flash of pity, a genuflection. She kissed the old woman’s hands and the grandmother ran a hand through her hair. Then she stared at me.

  ‘Who is he?’

  Aliya spoke Russian. ‘He is English. Visiting.’

  ‘A prince?’ The grandmother cackled.

  ‘She thinks you might be royal,’ Aliya called over. Her parents laughed.

  ‘I’m the next-best thing.’

  I felt that lightheadedness again. You get moments on a job – especially after a drink – when you’re in a life, a home like you imagined a home might feel like. Enclosed in a moment. You’re welcome there. But it’s always someone else’s home, and no one knows who you are.