Agent 6

Greater Province of Kabul 10 Kilometres East of the City of Kabul Pul-i-Charkhi Prison

Like a sprawling desert fortress, the prison was surrounded by yellow-brick outer walls, three times the height of a man, running unevenly across the terrain, linking squat guard towers with pyramidal roofs. Rake-thin guards in ill-fitting uniforms slouched in the shadows, antique rifles slung over their shoulders. The scene would not have looked out of place in an American Western, the frontier outpost, housing gunpowder, whiskey and stables. Leo regarded the institution through the smudged lens of his aviator sunglasses, his eyes drawn less to the building itself and more to the vast space around the prison. It was in the middle of nowhere, rising from an arid plain; there was no clue for its existence: a fortress with nothing to protect, no river, or valley, no crops or people, as if it had been built thousands of years ago, surviving s away, the reason for its construction was eroded by the sand. There was no doubting the symbolism of this far-flung place: geographically and morally beyond the reach of civilization, a world of its own. Leo had heard talk of fifteen thousand people being executed here but he was numb to these statistics, numb to notoriety. Over the course of his life he’d heard so many numbers about so many different prisons, seen so many lists, heard so many whispered atrocities. Whatever the true number might be, it was certain that not one of those men or women had received proper burials, their bodies tossed into shallow graves outside the walls. Perhaps that’s why they’d designed the prison to look like a fortress, to guard over the angry souls trapped in the sand. It was a fanciful idea and one Leo might have taken more seriously if he had ever believed in life after death.

He entered the prison-fortress, akin to being allowed into a medieval castle through the great gates. And like a medieval castle, this was a facility concerned solely with the preservation of power. These walls had nothing to do with justice. The Soviet occupation force had immediately recognized the prison’s importance and sent a detachment of soldiers, as many as to the power stations and government ministries. This was where the dirty work of protecting a regime took place, processing the risky elements of the population. Soviet objections to the previous President’s techniques weren’t underpinned by morals, there was nothing wrong with a bloody purge, but murder had to be smart, and for the benefit of the party, rather than a personal grievance. Indiscriminate murder was a tactical mistake, undermining the Communist regime; murder needed to pacify, not aggravate, to make the job of the occupation easier, not more complicated.

Though he did not know them, the Soviet soldiers nodded at Leo as he passed them by, one foreigner saluting another. There was no such camaraderie between soldiers of different nationality: the Afghans and Soviets weren’t mixing, separated not merely by language but by profound mistrust. Only three months ago Pul-i-Charki had been under the direct control of a tyrannical president shot dead by the Soviets. Some of his deputies had been also been killed, but many of his prison guards were still here, subsumed beneath a new tier of management. Within a matter of minutes Leo counted three distinct groups: the Soviet troops, the new Afghan guard and the remnants of the old guard. If anyone asked him to write a report he’d argue the chances of an uprising were high. Corruption, betrayals and enemy informers were inevitable. His recommendation would be for Soviet reinforcements to take over the prison entirely. This unreliable patchwork of allegiances was repeated across the army and police. Leo knew of military advisers who believed the only solution was to have the Soviets do everything. Integration and cooperation were a fiction, peddled by politicians reluctant to commit more troops.

Nara had regained some composure, fearful of seeming weak in this fierce and unfriendly environment. As far as Leo could ascertain, she was the only woman officer. Hundreds of eyes trailed her with a muddle of lust and contempt. They were being shown the way by a highly obsequious prison governor, newly appointed by the regime and eager to please. He gave a commentary on his changes to the prison, pointing out various details, including the newly cleaned and improved kitchens that would provide basic but wholesome food. Leo remarked:

– Not difficult to improve on the food if the previous prisoners weren’t being fed.

The governor seemed stunned that not only could Leo understand and speak Dari, he could also make jokes in the language. He lahed loudly.

– You are right: any food is better than no food. That is true.

Unless his good humour concealed a darker soul, the man didn’t stand a chance. Leo guessed that he’d last no more than a month.

Nara had fallen back a little, her way of indicating that she wanted to talk out of earshot. Leo waited for the governor to hurry ahead to unlock a door and stopped, turning to Nara. Her voice trembled with emotion.

– They can’t see me like this.

– Like what?

– In a uniform… My parents.

– Do they know you’re a member of the secret police?

She shook her head, adding:

– You haven’t taught me how to question suspects. I’m training to be a teacher. I shouldn’t be here. It doesn’t make sense. There are others more suitable for this job.

– You were able to make an arrest. You can do this.

– I can’t.

– The fact that they’re your family should make no difference. Your family is the State.

– I’m scared.

If she had not been so merciless towards the deserting soldier Leo might have felt sorry for her.

– You’re not here to ask questions. You’re here to provoke them. The captain hasn’t sent you because he thinks you’re a skilled interrogator. There will be people already here who’ll handle the interrogation. You’re nothing more than a prop.

– A prop? I don’t understand.

– These interrogations are theatrical: people are brought in for effect. You’ll be paraded before your parents. That’s all. You’re not expected to ask any questions.

– I can’t do this.

The governor was lingering nearby, trying to ascertain the problem. A trace of impatience crept into Leo’s voice.

– Nara Mir, you’re an agent. You work for the State. You can’t find a task unpalatable and refuse to obey. In the end, you do as you’re told. You do whatever’s necessary. I have failed you as a teacher if I haven’t made that clear.

Nara forgot herself, suddenly angry, snapping at him:

– Would you interrogate your own parents?

Leo put a hand on her shoulder, a gesture of support that was not backed up by his reply.

– These dilemmas feel fresh and raw to you. But they’re old to me. They’re like a song I’ve heard too many times. Try to realize the awfulness of your position today isn’t remarkable, or exceptional, it’s ordinary.

An entire wing had been appointed for the more important political prisoners and their interrogations. The stone floors were cleaner, the guards were more alert, and the overhead fans worked, a sure sign there was a concentration of Soviet officials nearby. One man greeted them, another adviser exported to Afghanistan. His expertise was the handling of prisoners, the extraction of information – a professional interrogator.

– My name is Vladimir Borovik.

Medium build, with greying hair and soft hands, Borovik had the anonymity of a mid-ranking bureaucrat. He was younger than Leo, perhaps forty years old, and he displayed unnecessary deference. It grated on Leo, the implication that he was somehow the authority in a place like this. More likely, the man was angling for a friendship, a fellow Soviet to keep him company in town and show him how to survive the next few months, where to drink, where to find women. Borovik ignored Nara completely, despite her being the crucial element in the interrogation. He spoke in Russian, at speed, giving Leo no time to translate:

– I only arrived a couple of weeks ago. They have me staying at a military base. I can’t say I like this country very much. But the pay is so good I couldn’t say no. I’ll earn five times the amount that I would back home. I plan to complete six months, maybe a year if I can stomach it, and then go home and retire. That’s the dream. I’ll probably end up going home, spending all my money in a month or two, and then I’ll be back here again.

Eventually Nara was forced to interrupt, putting to use her limited Russian:

– Excuse me, I did not understand.

Leo said in Dari:

– Nothing worth translating.

The prison governor had melted away, leaving them alone, not wanting to be involved. As they walked to the cell Borovik whispered to Leo, inexplicably lowering his voice as though they were in danger of being overheard:

– The woman’s parents haven’t asked about her well-being or safety, not once.

He nodded at Nara, continuing:

– I’ve told them she was viciously attacked. They don’t seem to care. There’s no question in my mind that they were involved. The father is a proud man. In my experience a proud prisoner is the easiest to break.

Nara looked at Leo for a translation. Leo said nothing, allowing Borovik to continue.

– The father is something of a bore. If he’s not silent and solemn, he’s ranting and raving about various political issues. The mother is always silent, even when I ask her a direct question. I can’t wait to see how they react to their daughter.

He looked at Nara carefully, adding:

– She’s a tasty one. Any chance she’s up for some fun later? She’s one of the more laid-back women here, isn’t she? I’ve been told only the ones in uniforms are the ones you can mess about with. A face mask means they don’t fuck, right?

Frustrated, Nara implored Leo:

– What did he say?

– Your parents are not cooperating.

Reaching the cell Borovik gave precise instructions about the order of their entrance.

– I will enter first, then you and finally Nara Mir. It is important that there is a gap of at least a minute between your entrance and hers, so that both parents presume that there are no more new arrivals. She will then step inside the cell and surprise them.

The cell was unlocked while Leo translated to Nara. She was struggling to pay attention. Finally she gave Leo a small nod, indicating that she understood her part in this performance.

A guard opened the steel door. Borovik entered, Leo followed behind. Her parents were seated on two chairs, side by side. Her mother was not wearing the chador, her face exposed. Ashamed, she remained stooped, hunched over, meeting no one’s eye, staring at the patch of stone floor between her feet. In contrast, her father’s hands were on his knees, head held high. Leo didn’t need to ask any questions. There could be no doubt that this man had either directly sanctioned or been a party to the plans to murder his daughter. Borovik was also right about the man’s pride. It bristled around him.

Borovik ushered the Afghan interpreter out of the room. There was no need for him with Leo present. The move surprised Nara’s father but he remained silent, waiting for them to speak. At this point Nara entered the cell, pausing by the door, before stepping into the room, hands awkwardly by her sides. Staged like amateur theatre, it was nonetheless an effective device. Her father regarded her uniform: his eyes drilled into the details of her clothes, the colours, the symbols of the new regime. From his reaction he already knew she worked for the government. He regained control of his expression, easing back into his seat.

Borovik leaned close to Leo.

– Ask him if he’s ashamed that he ordered an attack on his daughter.

Leo translated the question. Before the father could answer, Nara stepped forward.

– Father, please let me help you. There has been a mistake. I’m here to explain that you had nothing to do with the attacks. If you cooperate we can be out of here within hours.

A threat of violence could not have been as tormenting to him as this offer of help. Gasping at his daughter’s naivety, the father said:

– You will help me?

– Father, the nature of my employment must be a shock for you.

She continued, deluded, narrating the fantasy of his innocence, a fiction constructed in the drive to the prison.

– We have our differences. But I know what these men cannot know. There is love between us. I remember holding your hand. You loved me as a child. As an adult, it has not been easy. I wanted to tell you about my recruitment. Consider this, you work for the government. You design buildings. I work for the government too. I will teach in universities, perhaps some of the buildings you helped create.

Her father shook his head, embarrassed by his daughter’s show of emotion and talk of love. He found it humiliating and silenced her:

– We found your boos, your political manifestos and your notes on how to identify recruits for government work and those who might be a threat. Were you going to inform on us? One day you would, if we had said the wrong thing or criticized the invaders.

– No, never, I want to help you.

– You cannot help me. You have ruined me. Not even a whore could have brought as much shame to our family as you have done.

Nara’s mouth fell open. Leo saw her falter, for a moment he wondered if she would need to steady herself against the wall. She didn’t. Her father continued, sensing weakness, wanting to hurt her, his desire to inflict pain stronger than self-preservation.

– I allowed you an education and you taught yourself to be blind. You cannot see what is happening to your own country. It has been invaded. It has been stolen from under your eyes and yet you celebrate this fact.

Still suffering from shock, Nara clung to one of her previous arguments, referencing her father’s role as a builder, a creator, not a terrorist.

– You work with the government. You are an architect.

– Shall I tell you what I learned from the history of the buildings around us? Hundreds of years ago the British invaders destroyed the ancient Charchata bazaar in retaliation for the murder of their envoy. That is how invaders weigh the life of one of their own against our nation. A whole city is not worth one of their officers, they would tear it down to rubble. The same will be true for the Soviets because this is not their home, not their land, no matter what destruction they bring they can always return to their cities and their families. I have never worked for the Soviets. I worked for the people of Afghanistan, the people of Kabul.

Nara stepped forward, only three paces from her father. Leo thought there was a chance he’d strike her, even in the cell. His arms and ankles were not restrained. Nara asked:

– You knew of the attack?

– Knew of it? I drew them a map of our apartment and marked with a cross where you would be sleeping.

Leo had not translated a word. He glanced at Borovik. The interrogator seemed to know exactly what was going on and said:

– The father has admitted his guilt, yes?

Leo nodded. Borovik continued:

– That was the easy part. What we need are the names of those involved.

Leo whispered:

– There is no chance he’ll give up those names. Borovik agreed.

– The pride that helped us will now work against us. You are right, the father wouldn’t tell us the names. His wife is a different matter.

Borovik gestured at the guard on the door. There was the sound of an adjacent cell being opened. A young man appeared, blindfolded, his hands tied behind his back. Leo didn’t recognize him. Nara’s mother stood up, raising her face for the first time, hands locked together, pleading:

– No!

It was a desperate, animal-like cry. Leo asked Borovik:

– Who is that man?

– It’s Nara’s brother. The mother seems keen on her son. She agreed to her daughter’s death. I wonder if she’ll agree to the death of her son.

Nara had turned almost as pale as her mother. Borovik whispered in Leo’s ear:

– I’ll wager I can get a name within five minutes.

Like a sultan calling for food, Borovik clapped his hands together.

A guard entered carrying a stainless-steel tray. On it was a single bottle of orange soda, the liquid luminous in the gloomy cell, the colour of the Fanta label a faded blue. The guard set the tray down on a table. He pulled a bottle opener from his pocket with all the formality of a waiter in a luxury hotel. The steel soda top clinked on the floor. Borovik stepped forward and began to drink straight from the bottle in long gulps, a thin orange line leaking from the side of his mouth until the bottle was finished. He placed the empty bottle on the edge of the table and let go. The bottle fell, as was intended, smashing in two. Borovik picked up the largest remaining portion by the neck, creating a jagged glass fist. It was a crude threat, breathtaking in its savagery, exploiting the notoriety of this place. Leo had seen enough. Without saying a word he walked out, brushing past the shocked figure of Nara, leaving the cell. Borovik called out to him from the door but Leo didn’t look back. Passing the exiled interpreter, Leo said:

– They need you.

Soliciting the help of a guard, Leo left the wing, keen to get outside, finally managing to gain access to the dusty ground of an empty exercise yard. He walked to the furthest corner and sat against the wall, closing his eyes, his legs stretched out in sun, the rest of his body in shade. Having not slept last night, he was tired and in the pleasant heat he quickly fell asleep.

*

When Leo woke up, the angle of the shade had changed and there was sunlight across half his body. Using the back of his hand, he wiped his mouth. It was only now that he noticed that he was not alone. Nara was seated not far from him, on the dusty ground of the exercise yard, her back against the wall. He had no idea how long she’d been there. Squinting at her, he noted that she had not been crying. Leo asked, his voice croaky:

– And?

– My mother loves my brother. She gave us a name.

Nara had changed. She was different. She was numb.