Tom Smith - Agent 6

– There’s no mirror here.

Leo addressed the guard again.

– How do you shave?

– I don’t live here.

Leo hurried out of the room, back into the hall, examining the different shadows on the walls. He found a likely one. He hung the mirror: it was the same size, returned to its original place. He glanced at Nara.

– He took one of the few undamaged mirrors in the building and kept it in his room.

Nara moved closer, slowly understanding the process she was witnessing, excited by the significance of the discovery.

– The officer was concerned about his appearance?

– And what does that mean?

– He was vain?

– He met a woman.

Nara proved invaluable in assessing the lists of women that the deserting officer had come into contact with. She knew most of the names either personally or by reputation and was quick to rule out those who would never have allowed themselves to become embroiled in the scandal of a romance. Leo was not convinced that his young protegee understood that love could make even the most reliable of characters behave unpredictably, doubting that Nara had ever fallen in love. But he decided to go along with her initial observations, having very little knowledge of the women on the list himself.

Despite Fyodor Mazurov having spent three months in the country very few opportunities for romance would have presented themselves. Unlike many war zones and capital cities, there were no brothels in Kabul, though Leo had heard mention from several senior military figures of a desire to create one for the influx of soldiers. The women would be brought in from abroad, from Communist allies in the east perhaps, flown in like crates of bullets or artillery shells with the brothels run not as a commercial venture but as part of the military infrastructure, kept secret to ensure that the pious sensibilities of the local population were not offended. This project, no doubt appointed a lewd code name of some sort, had not yet been implemented and so the young officer must have fallen in love with an Afghan woman. The status of women in the country meant that there were no female shopkeepers, no women at leisure in the teashops, and little likelihood of chance encounters on the street. Nara was adamant that the woman would have come from the upper classes, the only area of society where there was a degree of gender integration. Going through the officer’s list of meetings and duties, one woman stood out. He had regular meetings with an Afghan minister, a member of the new government, a man with a daughter in her mid-twenties, university educated, fluent in Russian and employed as the minister’s translator.

The address led them to a house built in the traditional style, with mud walls and decorative flourishes, hundreds of years old. Many similar houses had been destroyed and this craftsmanship no longer defined entire districts, existing instead as isolated examples, lonely remnants. Positioned on a narrow and ancient street, the colours rich red and brown, Leo thought it appropriate that romance had taken refuge in one of the few beautiful architectural areas that remained standing. Once a comparatively wealthy district, catering to the upper classes, it was difficult to view any part of the city as privileged. Nowhere was safe, nowhere was protected from outbreaks of violence.

Leo didn’t knock, but picked the heavy iron lock. It was an old design. The decorative engravings were mirrored by the craftsmanship of the mechanics – making it harder to open than many modern locks. Nara became nervous.

– What if I’m wrong? This man is a minister.

Leo nodded.

– We’ll be in a lot of trouble. But if we try and obtain permission we’ll offend the minister and give the suspect enough time to flee. So, the trick is…

Leo raised a finger to his mouth, indicating thith mudara remain silent. If they were wrong, they would sneak out without leaving any trace of their search. Eventually hearing the click of the heavy latch, Leo pushed the door.

Were their assumptions to prove correct he thought it unlikely that the minister was personally involved or even aware of his daughter’s situation. The risk to the minister was too great and judging from his record he was too canny a politician not to realize the extent of the repercussions, not with his Soviet allies, but with his Afghan colleagues. It was one thing to work with the Soviets, it was quite another to marry a daughter to a Soviet soldier. Leo doubted that the couple had fled the city already, although, privately, he hoped that was exactly what they’d done. His loyalties were not divided: they were firmly on the side of the couple. The daughter, whose name was Ara, was almost certainly sheltering her lover and planning their next move, believing they could wait out the first wave of searches and make their journey when attention was directed elsewhere.

An unusually large house, the ground floor was deserted. Like burglars, Leo and Nara stealthily climbed the stairs. Nara was so young and inexperienced that there was a peculiar sense of playacting about the moment, as if this were an exercise in agenting rather than the real thing. They arrived at a closed door. Leo pushed it open. Ara was seated at a writing table, papers spread before her, with her back to them. She heard their entrance, stood up and turned around, startled and afraid. There was no longer any option but to commit to the search. Taking a moment to recover her composure, she said, in Russian:

– Who are you? What are you doing in my house?

She was remarkably beautiful, with poise and grandeur, typically associated with privilege and education. Her shock was genuine. However, her indignation was forced, her voice trembling not with anger but with nervousness, a quite different tone. The deserter was here, Leo was sure of it.

Leo’s eyes darted around the room. There was no obvious hiding place. He spoke to Ara in Dari.

– My name is Leo Demidov. I’m special adviser to the secret police. Where is he?

– Who?

– Listen to me carefully, Ara: there is a way for this to end well. Fyodor Mazurov could return to his duties, he could claim he was drunk, or he was homesick, or he thought it was a day off. It doesn’t matter what the excuse is. Some lie could be manufactured. He’s only been missing for eighteen hours. He has an unblemished military record. This is his first time abroad. Furthermore, your father is a minister. No one wants an embarrassment or a scandal, the Soviets would be as glad to conceal this as they would be to apprehend him. We can fix this if we work together. I need you to help me. Where is he?

Despite being ready to lie, Ara was tempted by this offer. Leo stepped forward, moving closer, trying to show to her that this was not a trap.

– We don’t have much time. If you lie to me, and the others find him without a deal being brokered, they may not make you the same offer. And they will find you, within a matter of hours. We’re not the only people searching for him. We’re not the only people who can draw the conclusions that brought us here.

Ara looked at Leo, then at Nara, evaluating the situation.

– I don’t know what yoursquo; re talking about.

Her voice was weak, barely able to finish the denial, the words crumbling away. Leo sighed.

– Then should I call for the military to search the house? They would be here within minutes. They will rip down walls and smash every piece of furniture.

Faced with this possibility, Ara abandoned the pretence, lowering her head. She walked to the door, turning back to Leo, imploring him:

– You promise to help us?

– I promise.

She studied his expression, trying to read into it some sign that he was a good man. It was hard to know what interpretation she drew. More likely, she accepted that she had no choice and led them downstairs, unlocking a door, taking them into a cellar.