Tom Smith - Agent 6

Eli entered the cell, regarding the man seated on the chair. His back was bandaged: the bullet had entered his right shoulder. There was an untouched plate of food in front of him. His face was pale from loss of blood. A blanket had been placed over his shoulders. Eli did not condone torture. His only concern was preserving the integrity of the border and in so doing, his own career. With the newspaper cuttings and the photographs he sat down in front of the man, holding the papers under the man’s line of vision. They brought him to life. Eli asked:

– What is your name?

The man did not respond. Eli pointed out:

– You face execution. It is in your interest to talk to us.

– What is the importance of this?

The prisoner reached out and grabbed hold of the papers – his fingers clamped tight around the scraps. Eli sensed that if he didn’t let go the man would rip them from his hands. Curious, he released his grip and watched the man gather the papers together in front of him, treating them with as much reverence as a treasure map.

22 March 1980

With his back to Kabul, Leo stepped into the lake fully clothed, plunging up to his knees and continuing to walk, his khaki trousers bleeding Saturn-rings of red dust onto the water. In front of him the snow-capped teeth of the Koh-e-Qrough mountain range bit into a pale blue sky. The spring sun was bright but not yet strong enough to temper the freezing river waters flush with mountain snowmelt. He knew the lake should feel cold as he raked his fingers through the emerald-green surface yet as the water level rose and flowed over the hip of his trousers he felt wonderfully warm. Were he to trust his body he would’ve sworn that these were tropical waters as pleasant as the sun on his cracked, tanned skin. He didn’t raise his arms, allowing them to sink into the lake, dragging behind him as he walked. Soon the water was up to his shoulders – he was on the cusp of the shallows, his feet arriving at the ledge where the depth increased sharply. Another step and he’d sink beneath the surface, the stones in his pockets weighing him down, easing him to the bottom where he’d come to rest, seated on the silt bed. At the borderline he waited, the water lapping at his top lip, close to his nose, the surface trembling with each slow breath.

The opium was thick in his blood. Until it thinned the drug would cocoon him against the cold, and everything else – the disappointment of the life he was living and the regrets of the life he’d left behind. Right now, in this moment, he was devoid of troubles, connected to the world by nothing more than a thread. He felt no emotion, just contentment, not in the form of happiness but contentment as the absence of pain, the absence of dissatisfaction – an exquisite emptiness of feeling. Opium had made him hollow, scooping out the bitterness and reproach. That he’d vowed revenge, promised justice and achieved nothing did not upset him. His failures had been banished by the drug, a temporary exile, held at bay, ready to return when the opium’s effects wore off.

The water lapping at his lips urged him to continue. One step further.

Why settle for a simulation of emptiness dependent on narcotics when the real thing was so close? Another step and he would be at the bottom of the lake, a trail of bubbles from his lips to the emerald surface the only trace of his existence. The stones in his pockets joined the chorus of whispers, urging him to take the final step.

Leo did not heed their call, remaining motionless. No matter how many times he stood here, no matter how sure he was that today was the day he would cross over, he could not bring himself to cut the thread that joined him to the world. He could not take the final step.

The opium began to thin. His senses reconnected with reality, coming together like planets realigning. The water was cold. He was cold. He shivered, reaching into his pockets and taking out the smooth stones, allowing them to drop beside him, feeling the vibrations as they struck the bed of the lake. He turned away from the mountains, churning the water, and slowly returned to shore, wading back towards the city of Kabul.

By the time Leo arrived at his apartment the sun had set and his clothes had dried, dripping a trail in the dust behind him as he’d cycled back from the lake. With the opium’s concentration in decline, running down like the sands of an hourglass, the feelings of failure and melancholy began to circulate in his system, a virus of the mind that had only temporarily been suppressed. He was isolated from his daughters, alone in the city; his only companion was the memories of his wife, thoughts that did not exist without the knowledge that her murderer had gone unpunished. The muscles across his back tightened at the recollection of his humiliating attempt to reach New York, the bullet scar in his shoulder stung as though the wound was raw, his brow furrowed as the details of the case surfaced in his mind. Why had Jesse Austin been shot and how was it connected to his wife? What was the truth behind that night? A dangerous restlessness began to bubble within him – he could not let the matter stand and yet he was further from the truth than ever before. Opium had become not an answer but merely a way of pushing these thoughts back for twelve or so hours.

Not bothering to change his clothes, he collapsed onto his bed, a thin mattress in the middle of the room. This apartment was unwelcoming and functional. He’d refused accommodation in government residences where officials lived safe behind guarded gates and barbed-wire fences, in newly built residential blocks where every apartment was fitted with air conditioning with back-up diesel generators should the electricity fail, which it often did. He never ate with the officers in canteens that served imported, vacuum-packed Russian food, nor did he socialize in the bars established for homesick Soviet soldiers. He existed like a distant moon, in orbit of the occupation but rarely seen, occasionally passing close enough to remind everyone of his existence before spinning into the depths of space on a lonely, elliptical trajectory.

Ignoring protocol, he’d found this apartment himself, agreeing the rent directly with the landlord rather than using the official Soviet channels. He had one criterion – it should be impossible to be mistaken for, or resemble in any way, the home he once shared with his wife and daughters. For this reason he liked the fact that he was near speakers erected outside a tea room that broadcast the muezzin’s call to prayer, a sound that filled his apartment, a sound that he’d never shared with his family. His intention was to crowd his life with things that didn’t remind him of Raisa – to make his existence so foreign there was nothing that flashbacked to the life he’d lost. The large windows opened to views of the city ntialthe surrounding mountains, a view that could not have been more different from Moscow. Even the layout of the apartment was peculiar: a single room large enough to serve as a bedroom, living area and kitchen. It was imperative there not be separate rooms. Closed doors played havoc with his imagination. His first apartment in Bala Hissar, the centre of old Kabul, had been designed for a traditional Islamic family with a back room intended for a wife and daughters. While living there Leo often heard the muffled sound of Raisa’s voice. He’d run to the door and throw it open only to reveal an empty room. Another night he’d heard the sound of Elena’s voice, then Zoya, both voices bringing him running. No matter how far-fetched the notion that his family might be together again and living with him, the imagined sound of their voices would bring him checking on empty rooms, sometimes three or four times a night. Insanity was not far away. His temporary solution had been to unscrew the doors, set up mirrors in the hallways so that he could see the empty space at all times. He’d begun looking for a more suitable apartment.