Agent 6

Pakistan North-West Frontier Province Peshawar 43 Kilometres South-East of the Afghan Border

The truck shuddered over a pothole – one of many in the stricken road – and Leo woke, having dozed on the world’s most expensive bed, several million dollars’ worth of heroin concealed in flour bags branded with the emblem of a Western aid charity. The voice of his addiction was still demanding that he smoke but it was growing fainter by the day. Though it was a cruel test of his determination, surrounding him with drugs, opium had only ever been a way of suppressing his desire to desert his post, to nullify his restlessness and his impossible hopes of an investigation into the murder of his wife. What had once been unachievable was within his grasp: passage to America and a path to New York.

They’d crossed into Pakistan shortly after clearing the minefield. Since they’d walked in almos complete darkness they were unable to ascertain if all the mines had been detonated. The question of whether they were blessed or whether it was chance remained unanswered. Leo didn’t spend too long dwelling on the matter. As a soldier in the Great Patriotic War, he’d seen examples of his friends believing they were saved by a miracle, a bullet lodged in a religious trinket, devoting themselves to understanding the meaning of this only to be killed a few weeks later. Despite his scepticism, he was pleased that their guide’s hostility had softened. As the sun rose, brushing away the last of the storm, the four of them had stopped on the crest of a Pakistani hill and looked back to see Soviet attack helicopters in the distance circling the Khyber Pass. Had they waited for daylight they would have been caught. Whatever the truth of the matter, it certainly felt like a miracle.

Cold, filthy and exhausted, they’d reached Dara, a small town in the northern tribal region of Pakistan that existed like the capital city of an unofficial nation. Misunderstood as a lawless buffer state, it was instead governed by the laws of survival and commerce. While Leo had expected the sight of a Soviet civilian, a woman, a badly burnt young girl and a mujahedin fighter to attract attention, this was a town entirely without convention, dominated not by religious stricture or government policy but by brazen material needs – a trading bazaar for three of the world’s top commodities: drugs, weapons and information. They were concerned with the questions of what you wanted to buy and what you wanted to sell. There were cottage heroin factories dotted through the town like teashops, bags of unprocessed opium sold for dollars, packed on the backs of mules. Weapons were tested and inspected, taken out of town and fired at tree stumps. Crates of bullets were examined as if they were treasure chests of rubies and emeralds. War funds were raised. War funds were stolen. Allegiances were bought and broken. Intelligence was sold. Victories were invented and defeats denied. From the north there was an influx of Afghan refugees, many with terrible injuries, legs sliced with shrapnel, fleeing the conflict. From the south came a trickle of Western journalists and travellers, some dressed in traditional loose-fitting clothes, others in designer khaki trousers, with sophisticated gadgets. Judging from the small number of journalists, even though this was the closest point of access to Afghanistan, Leo surmised that the war had so far failed to capture the West’s imagination. Such an absence of interest did not bode well for his defection.

Though no longer in Afghanistan, they were still in danger. The Soviets were active in the tribal region, crossing the border with a frequency that showed blatant disregard for Pakistani sovereignty. Leo had heard discussion of a series of covert operations intended to destabilize the area and bring pressure on Pakistan to patrol the full length of the border, closing it down. Extreme acts of provocation were being planned as punishment for helping the mujahedin even if Pakistan’s stated policy was neutrality. These Communist agents would be Afghan, perhaps disguised as refugees. Some were even corrupt mujahedin. Fahad found it implausible that any mujahedin fighter could be bought by the Soviets. Leo told him that he had seen lists of men who were on the Soviet payroll, identified by code names, arguing that on any side there were always men who could be bought, characters with weaknesses that could be exploited. Fahad had shaken his head in disgust, saying Leo spoke like a Westerner, rotten with compromise and ambiguity.

Fahad had wasted little time in getting them off the streets and into a chai-khana, where they were taken to a back room while he arranged transport to Peshawar, the region’s capital. Only thercould they make contact with Pakistani intelligence, or more specifically the ISI – the Inter-Services Intelligence, known for its close ideological association with Islamic fundamentalism. It was among the mujahedin’s most powerful allies.

As soon as Fahad left, the three of them fell asleep, a small fire keeping them warm, lying together on a coarse woven mattress with a single thick blanket covering them. They were like characters from a fairytale. When Leo awoke he found Fahad sipping tea by the fire, his long, gangly body tucked under a blanket. He was a truly remarkable soldier, a man who didn’t seem to rest, or lower his guard. His strength was not intended to impress, it was not bravado – he had no interest in Leo’s opinion of him. Seeing that Leo was awake, he offered him sweet green tea. Leo accepted, joining him by the fire, in silence, improbable allies: but improbable allies would be needed again if the ISID were willing to connect them with the CIA.

*

It was evening by the time they reached their destination. Descending from the truck, Leo was taken aback by the bustle of Peshawar, adjusting to the commotion after their remote, dark days in the mountains and tribal regions. The millions of dollars of heroin they’d been sleeping on would only fetch such a price on the streets of America or Europe, on these noisy streets the sacks were worth no more than a few thousand dollars each. The truck rumbled on, a rickety exhaust pipe spluttering black smoke. Leo wondered whether the drugs had a better chance of arriving in America than they did.

They followed Fahad down narrow side streets, shop fronts and gutters clogged with brightly coloured candy papers, like fallen blossom after a storm. The city was distinct from Kabul with a stronger sense of colonial architecture – ornate, pink-red brick buildings with clock towers framed by tree-lined avenues. Like Kabul, the contrast between ancient and new was sharp. Majestic mosques centuries old stood beside modern buildings that looked as if they would struggle to survive another year. Telephone posts emerged like weeds, at odd angles, jutting up, sprouting hundreds of wires that sagged across streets. Decay and wealth circled each other. The neighbouring war had made this lost outpost important, giving it a new and highly lucrative industry – espionage, professionalized deceit.

Fahad led them to a guest lodge intended for a Western clientele; a painted wooden sign hung from the side of the building, written in English: GOOD NIGHT

LODGE

A light bulb flickered intermittently in the narrow corridor. An unmanned reception desk was being used to store barrels of cooking oil. Fahad didn’t bother ringing the buzzer for attention. He walked straight through, under a broken ceiling fan limp and askew like a desiccated insect sucked dry and left to hang in a spider’s web. They entered a small restaurant. Several square tables were lined up against a wall but on one side only, as if waiting to be executed by firing squad. They were covered in red and white plastic tablecloths and set out with bright yellow napkins, unclean cutlery, each with a hundred partial fingerprints. The customers were a mix of strung-out tourists, lost souls running from home, adventurers and mercenaries. They were distinguishable by their physical strength, or lack of, and their kit, wearing leather boots laced up above their ankles or flip-flops with colourfully painted toenails. The Soviet high command had been worried about the mujahedin filling their ranks with Western mercenaries, fighters bought with drug money, believing only Westerners knew how to fight, when in fact the mujahedin, in this terrain, were the best fighters in the world. Their fight was personal, a matter of principle not profit, and they had no time for mercenaries. They didn’t trust their motives and thought them intrinsically unreliable. The groups sat at their tables, making plans over plates of oily chips. There was no alcohol and apparently no staff. Some of the customers turned around, regarding the new arrivals, curious, some too doped up to care. As Fahad slipped into the kitchen, a cockroach boldly passed him by, running out as though he were the establishment’s only waiter. Within seconds Fahad returned with a key.

On the top floor there were five rooms, three on one side and two on the other. They took the last room, the corner room, with windows on both streets. There was a bed, no bathroom – the facilities were shared one floor down. The floors creaked. The plaster was stained. The bed sheets had not been washed, only tucked in after the last occupants. Fahad tossed the key onto the bed.

– I will meet the ISI. If they refuse to help us, the mission has failed. I do not have any contact with the CIA myself. And we cannot approach them without ISI’s permission.

– We could go direct to the embassy and make our way to Islamabad.

– Not without Pakistani permission. We’re in their country now. My orders are strict. They will decide what to do. If you try to reach the American Embassy without me, I’ll find you and I’ll kill you.

With that warning, Fahad left.

Leo picked up Zabi, putting her on the bed. She asked:

– Are we going to die?

– No.

– But he said Nara interrupted:

– Ignore what he said.

Leo added:

– We haven’t had a chance to discuss what is happening. It must be very confusing. Do you understand why it is dangerous for you to live in Afghanistan?

She bit her fingernail, saying nothing. Leo carried on:

– The Soviets fear defeat very much.

– Why?

– They worry it will make them look weak. They are prepared to go to extraordinary lengths to stop this from happening. They have many weapons. They will use them, on anyone, men, women, children. The country is not safe, not for you, not for me, not for Nara.

Zabi said:

– Where are we going to live?

– We must find somewhere else.

– Can we live here?

– I don’t think so.

Nara sat beside her.

amp;md There are many people from our country here. They have lost their homes, their family, just like you and I. They have nothing. They live in refugee camps, thousands sleeping under sheets of plastic with no clean water. It is a hard life. It would be dangerous, perhaps as dangerous as the war itself.

With precocious intelligence, Zabi followed the arguments put to her.

– Where else can we go?

Leo answered:

– There is a chance we can travel to America. Have you heard of this country?

She shook her head.

– It is far away. It is very different from the world you know. It is a place without war, with clean water, with food, somewhere safe, a place where we have a chance. There is no opportunity for us here. We would spend all our time struggling just to survive.

Zabi shrewdly asked:

– What troubles would there be in America?

– There will be challenges. It will be unrecognizable to you. And we will be foreign. We will be outsiders. They speak a different language. You would have to learn a new way of life. But if you manage to learn their language and their way of life, you have a chance of being accepted as one of them.

Zabi asked Nara:

– Are there mountains like here?

Nara was embarrassed. She asked Leo:

– I don’t know. Are there mountains in America? He nodded.

– It is a very large country. There are mountains. There are deserts. There are forests. There are beaches. You can swim in lakes or the sea.

Zabi asked:

– What is the sea?

Not only had she never seen the sea, she had no idea what it was. Leo thought for a moment, comprehending the scale of the journey for this young girl. He wondered how best to explain.

– The sea is an area of water as big as a country. Instead of land there is water, and the water is as deep as the mountains are tall. It is full of animals, like a lake, but some of the animals are very big, as big as this building.

Zabi was amazed by this idea. She exclaimed:

– A fish as big as a building!

– They’re called whales. They’re not fish. They breathe air, like us.

– If they breathe air why do they live in the water?

Leo paused, remembering conservations like this with Elena when she was young. She was fascinated by the world, always asking for information. The endless questions, parodied by her sister, were a display of intimacy and trust as much as they were about curiosity. The same was true with Zabi – she was reaching out to him at the same time as she was reaching out to the concept of this new world. Yet this new world would be one without his daughters. If he left Pakistan as a traitor, he would never see Elena and Zoya again. He found the notion impossible to accept, as impossible as the idea that he would never solve the murd of his wife. But the truth was that to return to the Soviet Union, as a known defector, would result in his execution. Even more troubling, there was a possibility both daughters would be punished if it were ever found out that he’d fled the country. Their safety depended upon the presumption that Leo had been killed in the air strikes or executed by the mujahedin. Secrecy was of paramount importance. He wouldn’t be able to write to them. He wouldn’t be able to call. If he fell sick, he would be alone. If they fell sick, he would not be able to sit by their side.

In a sombre frame of mind he failed to answer Zabi’s question, standing up. She squeezed his hand.

– Tell me more about the sea.

Leo shook his head.

– That’s enough for now.

He stroked back her hair. Zabi asked:

– Have you been to America?

– I tried to go there once but I didn’t make it.

– Will we make it?

– We have a good chance.

Zabi heard his uncertainty. She took Nara’s hand.

– And even if we don’t, you’ll stay with me? Nara nodded.

– I will never leave you, no matter what happens. I promise.

There was no uncertainty in her voice. Nara would die for this girl. Leo hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

Leo waited by the window, watching the street below. Behind him, Zabi and Nara were asleep. Though he wanted to let them rest he was profoundly anxious. Ten hours had passed since Fahad left the guest lodge. In a few hours it would be morning and there had been no word. The option open to them if Fahad should fail was to strike out for the American Embassy on their own, to try and reach Islamabad and make their case for asylum without the Pakistani intelligence service acting as a broker. Aside from the logistical challenges of the journey, Leo wasn’t convinced that the deal could be made without Pakistani approval. The only other choice was to run.

He opened the door, checking the corridor. It was empty. He knocked on the door of the room opposite. There was no reply. Examining the lock, he found it so flimsy that a shove with his shoulder snapped the timber frame. A search of the room revealed no bags and no belongings. He checked the window. Unlike the previous room there was a way down to the street – the ledge to the sign to the ground – difficult but not impossible. He hurried back, waking Nara.

– I want you to stay in the other room. Don’t turn the light on. Don’t make a sound. If anything happens to me, escape. Don’t make your way to Islamabad. Don’t try to go to the American Embassy. Don’t trust anybody. Just run.

Nara didn’t argue, picking Zabi up, who was still half-asleep, and carrying her across the hallway. She lingered by the door, slipping back out, kissing Leo on the cheek before retreating to the room and shutting the door.

Leo returned to his room, sitting on the edge of the bed. He looked around for something that might be used as a weapon. Unable to find anything, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror. His appearance was wild and ragged, not the impression he wanted to present if he was trying to sell himself as an important source of information. He hastily straightened his hair and was about to head downstairs to the bathroom when there was a knock on the door.

Leo stood to the side, calling out:

– Who is it?

– Fahad.

He opened the door. Fahad entered, with two men dressed in suits. The Pakistani intelligence officer was the older of the two, in his late sixties, with thin hair and lively eyes. The CIA agent was the same age as Leo. His face was gaunt. The whites of his eyes were tinged with yellow. He was a tall man with a slight, skeletal frame. Whereas Fahad’s sinewy body suggested strength and dexterity, there was no such implication from the CIA agent, whose physique indicated a life of reading, drink and intrigue. From one addict to another, there was an immediate connection, a silent communication. Unlike Leo, the agents were exceptionally well tailored and tidy, with jackets and crisp shirts, though neither wore a tie. In the case of the CIA agent, there was a sense that his meticulous tailoring served to conceal the subtler indications of his addiction. With the Pakistani agent the tailoring seemed to be an orthodox indication of his power and status. The CIA agent shook Leo’s hand.

– My name is Marcus Greene.

He spoke perfect Russian, before continuing in fluent Dari:

– We should speak a language that we all understand.

The Pakistani agent shook Leo’s hand, also speaking in Dari.

– Abdur Salaam. That is not my real name, but it will do for the purposes of this meeting.

Greene smiled.

– Marcus is my real name. I’m not quite as cautious as my friend.

Abdur Salaam smiled in return.

– You do not have Soviet agents trying to kill you. Not that I believe our guest desires to kill me. Fahad vouches for your sincerity. He rarely vouches for anyone, let alone a Soviet.

Greene walked to the window, checking the streets, apparently without any sense of concern, an idle glance, before perching on the window ledge, his legs stretched out in front of him, tidying the line of his trousers while asking:

– You want to defect, Mr Demidov?

The tone of the question was flippant. There was scepticism and reluctance. Of more concern, there was very little excitement. Leo answered carefully:

– In exchange for asylum, not just for myself but – Yes, for the girl and the woman, where are they, by the way?

– They’re safe.

Greene paused, registering the distrust. Leo added:

– We would want a new life, the three of us.

Greene replied with a quick nod, as if he’d heard this request a thousand times and was keen to return to the intelligence on offer:

– You’re not a soldier, are you? You’re a civilian employee of the Afghan government, an adviser. What kind of information do you have?

Leo made his case:

– I have worked for the Afghan government for seven years.

– In what capacity?

– I was training their secret police force. Before the Com munist regime took power, I was helping them to survive. After they took power, I continued helping them to survive, the tools and resources changed, the job remained the same.

Greene lit a cigarette.

– What did you do before you came to Afghanistan, Mr Demidov?

– I worked for the KGB.

Greene inhaled deeply, holding the smoke in his mouth. Fahad grew impatient, a soldier, not accustomed to the subtleties of diplomatic negotiations. He snapped at Leo:

– Talk about Soviet operations in Afghanistan, not the KGB. That is the information that we want you to share.

Like a nervous child, Leo hastily listed the points of interest:

– I know specifics, details regarding the equipment being used, tanks, helicopters, anything that is being used or about to be brought in. I know the deployment patterns of the 40th Army. I can tell you the projected mortality rate before the invasion and how that number has been revised since the invasion. I can do the same with the financial costs. I know the names of most of the senior officers and I know their sentiments on the war. I know our limits, how many soldiers we can afford to lose, how much money we’re prepared to spend. I can provide information so that you could accurately estimate the point at which the Soviet Union would have no choice but to retreat.

Greene flicked his cigarette on the carpet, watching to see it burn, before stubbing it out under his shoe.

– Let me explain the situation from our point of view. We’re not supposed to be involved in this war.

Salaam interjected:

– Pakistan is also not supposed to be involved in this war. The remark caused Greene to raise an eyebrow, as if the sentiment could only have been uttered ironically. He continued:

– In the United States there is no public appetite for becoming embroiled in this conflict. If we grant you asylum we risk opening a major rift with the Soviets, sparking a political fight the outcome of which we might not be able to control. They would demand your return. We would say no. And so on: who knows where it would end up?

Leo was quick to correct the assumption.

– I agree. It is essential the Soviets don’t find out about my defection. And there is no reason for them to know. They surely believe I was killed in bombing raids. The chances of me making it to Pakistan are slight, and I would never have managed it without Fahad’s help. The Soviets would never have imagined that the mujahedin would’ve aided me. Fahad could even claim tt they have me hostage and after a certain period of time announce that they’ve executed me.

Leo had not mentioned his daughters in Moscow, not wishing to complicate the issue further. Greene inhaled again, appearing to appreciate the degree of consideration that Leo had given the plan.

– Your suggestion is smart. Of course we wouldn’t announce your defection but there is a chance that they will find out all the same.

Leo waited, sensing that Greene was about to make his position clear.

– I’m sure you have much information that would interest us. I have a different proposition. We could debrief you here, pay you a sum of money – That’s no good. We need a new home, a new country. We would be found here, we would be hunted down and we would be killed.

Abdur Salaam glanced at Marcus Greene. The men were working in concert to obtain the information while giving nothing in return. Greene shrugged.

– If the United States were committed to involvement in the conflict, even through covert means, then yes, you would be an asset. The United States is not committed. The United States is undecided. And for that reason I am afraid to say we cannot accept you.

Same Day

Greene and Salaam descended the stairway at a brisk pace, keen to terminate the meeting since no deal could be struck on their terms. Leo followed behind, pleading, the negotiations on the brink of collapse:

– There must be something I can say to persuade you. Some intelligence I could give you now, to prove my worth.

Greene answered without turning around:

– You should tell me as much as possible.

– I’m not going to tell you everything only to be left behind.

– Then we’re at a dead end. I’m going to discuss you with my superiors. It is possible they’ll take a different view. You should wait here. It will only take a few days.

– You’re going to recommend that they refuse my request for asylum? You’re going to claim the information I offer is not worth the risk?

– In the end, this is not my decision.

Leo could no longer hide his desperation.

– They’ll listen to you! They’ll accept whatever recommendation you make. You’re the only person who has met me!

Greene was about to reply when he stopped so abruptly that Leo almost bumped into him. Standing at the bottom of the stairs was Captain Vashchenko.

The captain was positioned between two Afghan men, special operatives and his guides to this region since he spoke neither Dari nor Urdu. Vashchenko was dressed as a traveller and wearing Western clothes. His disguise fitted him poorly: he looked awkward in casual clothes. Despite the humid night he was wearing a baggy jacket, no doubt concealing a weapon. Fahad, on the step behind Leo, reahed for his gun. Greene indicated that they should remain calm, keen to avoid an exchange of fire in the stairway. An uneasy standoff remained until, speaking in Russian, the captain called up:

– We can’t let you take him.

Vashchenko presumed that the CIA would accept Leo gladly. Greene could have corrected him, declaring that he had no interest in Leo, which would have ended the standoff immediately. Instead, he gestured towards the restaurant.

– Why don’t we discuss this?

The Pakistani intelligence officer was less polite. Unable to speak Russian, he addressed Greene in Urdu. Leo couldn’t understand what was said, watching their body language. Greene nodded, trying to hold his colleague back, fearing a descent into violence. He replied to Salaam in Urdu, before adding in Russian:

– Let’s talk.

Leo was impressed rather than surprised that Vashchenko had found him. The military presence over the Khyber Pass suggested that he’d guessed Leo’s intentions. After all, he had attempted to reach America before. Even if he didn’t know how Leo would try to defect, he’d staked out Peshawar confident that they would travel through the city. The captain’s unauthorized presence in Pakistan was audacious. Discovery and capture would create a major diplomatic incident. Leo thought it unlikely the Kremlin would have directly cleared him to cross the border. The Afghan operatives could be disowned but there could be no mistaking a Soviet military officer. It was possible that he was acting alone, out of personal zeal, determined to put right the mistake he’d made in the village of Sokh Rot.

They sat at one of the garish tables, still cluttered with dirty plates that hadn’t been cleared. Leo, Greene and Salaam on one side, the captain on the other. Fahad and the two Afghan soldiers remained standing, hands on their weapons, like warrior guards at a meeting of kings. Greene addressed the remaining customers in English. Leo guessed that he was telling them to leave, an order they obeyed without question. Only the mercenaries didn’t hurry, wondering if there was a market for their services. As the room emptied, Greene lit a new cigarette, striking the pose of a genial professor ready to listen to a student’s presentation. Vashchenko spoke directly to Leo.

– No one thought you survived. Except for me. I’ve read your file. You have embarked on some perilous journeys. I knew you’d try to reach Pakistan. I’m here to talk you out of it. Leo, you’re a war hero, you have served your country for many years. We cannot allow you to defect. More importantly, I do not believe you want to defect.

Leo did not reply, waiting for Vashchenko to finish. The gentle persuasion would surely be followed by a threat.

– Leo, we made a mistake with the young girl. I made a mistake. You were only trying to protect her. I understand why you behaved as you did. I am a father too.

The sentiment was laughable but Leo was careful not to show any reaction.

– I honestly believed her death would save thousands of lives otherwise I would never have acted in the way that I did. Maybe I was right, maybe I was wrong. It is irrelevant. The myth of a miracle child has spread and the myth isn’t dependent on her. Killing her would have no effect. The story has a life of its own. That is whatI failed to understand. Let me bring you back. There will be no charges. The three of you can live in the Soviet Union if you wish. Wouldn’t Nara and the girl like that? You have been in Afghanistan long enough. You have accrued a considerable salary. You would live in comfort, in your own land, close to your own daughters. You should think of your daughters. What are their names? Vashchenko was perfectly aware of their names.

– If you follow through with this, they will never see their father again. They might even be subject to an investigation, questions might be asked about their loyalty.

The threat was shrewdly targeted. The offer was tempting. Leo considered the prospect of returning to Moscow. He would be reunited with his daughters. Nara and Zabi would be safe. Yet could he trust the offer and trust the captain to keep his word? He might be executed as soon as he returned to Kabul. The defector, Fyodor, who’d escaped only for a day, and for no other reason than because he’d fallen in love, had been executed. Leo’s betrayal was far more serious.

Allowing Leo to think upon the mixture of incentives and warnings, Vashchenko turned to Greene, angling his attacks at the nation ready to accept him.

– You should consider carefully whether this man is asset or a liability.

Before Leo could interject Greene answered in fluent, graceful Russian:

– We have considered the matter carefully. We’ve already accepted his petition for asylum. Furthermore, he is not in Soviet-controlled Afghanistan, he is in Pakistan, and you have no legal hold over him here. My colleague Salaam is furious at your unauthorized entry into his country. I’m afraid we can’t let you have him.

Leo managed enough composure not to exclaim aloud, or gaze at Greene in dumb surprise, trying to react as if this lie were the truth, and an obvious truth at that. Greene toyed with his packet of cigarettes.

– I should point out, were you to be arrested in Pakistan, a Soviet officer – which I presume you to be – the Pakistani government would be upset. You would be classified as a spy. It could cause problems for you, problems far worse than the problems you’ve come here to solve.

Greene quickly translated his comments into Urdu for the Pakistani intelligence officer, who nodded. Leo knew that there was no chance Captain Vashchenko would ever allow himself to be caught alive. And were he to be found dead in Peshawar, the Soviet government would deny that he was working for them, rolling out any number of excuses.

A timid young waiter arrived at the table carrying four bottles of cola on a steel tray. The captain knotted his fingers together, placing his hands on the table.

– The Pakistanis provide aid and weapons to the Afghans. The pretence of their neutrality is not asset to the Soviet Union. We do not care about upsetting their feelings.

Greene glanced at Salaam, muttering an abbreviated translation, before saying to the captain:

– Where does that leave us? Suffice to say that murdering a CIA operative in Pakistan would change the United States’ perspective on the war dramatically.

The captain smiled.

– No one needs be hurt. We just washouan. It is as simple as that. I believe he is of no use to you. The United States should not be foolish enough to send troops into Afghanistan. Why become embroiled in a conflict so far away? Demidov’s information is of no relevance to you.

Though his expression hadn’t changed, somehow Greene’s face communicated an intense dislike of the captain.

– I’m sorry, I still don’t know your name…

Leo remarked:

– He is Captain Anton Vashchenko.

There was silence for a while, calculations being made, options being considered. Greene continued smoking, dumping ash into the untouched cola. The captain was growing impatient. He switched back towards Leo.

– Demidov, return to Afghanistan with me. You do not belong in America. The two people you are trying to protect are no longer in danger. And your defection would put your daughters at home in a terrible position.

Leo lowered his head, considering the danger that Elena and Zoya faced if his defection were known.

Judging from the movement of his eyes, Captain Vashchenko had begun to discreetly weigh up the degree of threat. Fahad was his only serious opposition. Greene seemed oblivious or unconcerned, inhaling deeply, blowing smoke through his nose. Leo was convinced that Vashchenko’s next remark would be his last before he resorted to violence. The captain said:

– Do not get involved in Afghanistan. The Afghans hate you as much as they hate us. If you do not interfere in our affairs, if you refuse to supply weapons to the mujahedin, we will bring order and the rule of law within a matter of months. We will open schools, rebuild roads, repair infrastructure. We will educate the population. If the United States joins this war you will condemn the country to years of chaos. You will not find an ally at the end of it. You will create a regime that will despise you as payment for your support. Greene dropped his cigarette into the cola bottle, where it fizzed on the surface.

– I will pass on your message to my superiors.

Greene translated the conversation. Salaam listened carefully then spoke to Greene for a moment. Greene translated:

– Salaam will allow you to walk out of here without being arrested. That’s the best he can offer. Live to fight another day. He has no interest in escalating hostilities with the Soviets.

Leo had remained silent through these discussions. They were coming to an end with no resolution between the parties. He had no option but to act.

Using his knee, he shook the table, toppling one of the cola bottles to the stone floor. As it smashed and as the eyes of the men were drawn to the noise, he bolted forward, grabbing a dirty knife from the table and plunging it into the captain’s neck. With the aid of the distraction and his senses no longer dulled by opium, his speed was reasonable and Vashchenko failed to block the attack. The knife entered the captain’s throat. The two Afghan operatives looked down in horror, having discounted Leo as a threat. Fahad reacted first, drawing his gun and killing the Afghan officers. Fahad did not execute Vashchenko, leaving him seated. Leo grabbed the captain’s hands, pinning them down. Even mortally injured, the man was incredibly strong and tried to pull free. Leo didth="1equo; t let him move, holding his hands tight. The captain’s legs kicked, thrashed, he leant forward, almost touching Leo’s face. Finally he weakened, his eyes closing, but Leo still did not let go, pinning his hands down long after the captain had stopped moving.

Leo released Vashchenko and allowed him to drop to the floor. He stood up and remarked:

– He would never have allowed me to live. He would never have allowed himself to be captured. There was no compromise to be made.

It had been a long time since Leo had killed a man. Still seated, Greene edged his smart shoes away from the blood pooling on the ground, remarking:

– The Soviets have gone to extreme lengths to silence you. You’re worth more to them than I thought.

Salaam peered at the bodies. He knelt down, searching the captain’s pockets. Leo whispered to Greene:

– Will we be given asylum? Will you support my request? Greene considered.

– Yes.

*

Leo slowly climbed the stairs, confused whether he should be pleased or apprehensive. He could not be sure his defection would remain a secret. However, at long last, he had a passage to America and no matter what, Zabi and Nara would have a new home. With this thought, he hurried up the stairs, two steps at a time. At the top-floor corridor he ran down to the room, throwing open the door. The curtains were drawn back and a pale orange glow from the street spread across the bed linen. Nara and Zabi were nowhere to be seen. He entered the room, moving around the bed, finding them seated, cross-legged on the floor, hidden in the corner. He sat down beside them, unable to articulate what had taken place downstairs – that there was the chance of a new home. Despite his smile, he saw both Nara and Zabi staring at his hands. In his haste, he’d forgotten to wash them. They were smeared with blood. He considered putting them behind his back. Perhaps it was better that they’d seen. Bloody hands were the price he’d paid for their freedom.