Tom Smith - Agent 6

The cellar served as a storeroom with low curved ceilings exploiting the naturally cooler air. Ara lit a candle, revealing Fyodor Mazurov in the corner, stunned by the sight of her with two secret police agents. Leo said, in Russian:

– Stay calm. I can help you. But you must do exactly as I say.

Mazurov remained silent. Leo noticed that his fists were clenched. He was almost certainly armed. He was ready to die for the woman he loved. With genuine curiosity rather than mocking cynicism, Leo asked:

– Tell me, what were you planning on doing? Running away together?

Ara took her lover’s hand. It was an audacious display of affection for an Afghan woman and Nara visibly reacted to the gesture. Mazurov replied:

– We were going to make our way to Pakistan.

He spoke without conviction. It was a foolhardy mission. They would have to navigate not only Soviet checkpoints but also the insurgents’ stronghold on the border. Yet Leo was in no position to criticize outlandish ventures. Feeling a strong sense of empathy towards them, he realized it was more than mere understanding or compassion – it was a desire to go with them. Their plans reminded him of his own attempt to reach New York, brave and stupid in equal measure. He asked:

– You planned to live there, happily in Pakistan?

Fyodor was about to contradict this notion when he stopped himself, swallowing the words. Leo guessed what their true aim had been.

– You were going to seek asylum? From who? The Americans? You wanted them to protect you?

This fact would guarantee his execution. For Leo to strike a deal and save Fyodor’s life, it was essential that they didn’t reveal this aspect of the plan. They would have to depict the eighteen-hour absence as a temporary loss of confidence, a night of sexual pleasure. Judging from the preoccupation his military superiors showed towards creating brothels, this excuse might find some sympathy.

Everyone was waiting for Leo to speak, as he assessed what course to take.

– First, you have to assure me that you’ll go along with everything I tell you to do. You must forget this plan to go to Pakistan. It’s crazy in any case. If the Soviets didn’t kill you, the mujahedin would. Next, you must return to your post and promiseloyalty to the army. Reassure them that this will never happen again.

Details of his improvised plan were interrupted by a noise above them. There was someone at the door. Leo looked up the stairs, hearing voices, addressing Ara.

– Your father?

Ara shook her head. There were many footsteps. Suddenly several Soviet soldiers entered the cellar. Mazurov reached for his weapon. The Soviets raised their weapons targeting Ara as well as him. Trapped, surrounded, the young officer tossed his gun to the floor, raising his hands above his head.

Ara looked at Leo, venomous in her reproach.

– You promised!

Leo didn’t understand where they’d come from. He hadn’t shared his plans: he hadn’t told anyone where they were going.

Slowly he turned to Nara. She was standing just behind him, her arms behind her back. Under his stare she said:

– The captain asked me to keep him informed of our movements.

Leo had made an amateur’s mistake. He’d believed Nara had been partnered with him to learn. She’d been partnered with him as a spy. Considering his own record, it was only logical that the captain should take such a precaution when dealing with a defector.

Fyodor Mazurov was led out under armed guard. Watching him, Ara remained silent, sensing that any display of affection might provoke the Afghan soldiers. She was not arrested: such an event would disgrace the minister. Her punishment would be decided by and carried out by her father. If she were shrewd she would deny that she loved him and put the blame entirely on his shoulders, claiming he was besotted with her. But she was in love and Leo thought it unlikely she’d deny the fact even though it was sure to bring her much hardship and disgrace.

As the last to leave the cellar, Leo said to his trainee, Nara Mir:

– You have the makings of an excellent agent.

She took the remark at face value, not understanding its implications. She smiled.

– Thank you.

The electricity was out across the neighbourhood and Nara was forced to finish her night-time prayers by the flame of a sooty gas lamp. In her thoughts were the lives of the deserter, Officer Fyodor Mazurov, and his lover, Ara, a woman Nara had previously admired as a progressive figure in their neighbourhood. Educated, employed, and intelligent, Ara had been a role model. Though she had behaved according to her duties, she wondered if she’d been right to inform Captain Vashchenko that Ara was their prime suspect. Had she not, Leo might have been able to save both of them. Yet their predicament could hardly be seen as Nara’s fault. She’d merely reported on their actions. They must carry responsibility. Not convinced by her own rationale, her prayers were interrupted by doubts. Ara would suffer shame and possibly physical violence. No matter how liberal her father might appear as a Communist minister, sexual politics were separate from mainstream politics and his attitudeowards this romance would be conservative. Fyodor would be tried by a military court. Ara would be judged and sentenced by her father.

Breathing deeply, without a sense of composure and balance she normally hoped to achieve through her prayers, she rolled up her mat. It was not expected for a woman to pray in congregation, the emphasis was upon private worship. Though there were no theological reasons why she should be prevented from praying in mosques, the conditions placed upon her attendance were so strict it made public worship onerous. At her last visit she had been accused of wearing perfume, eventually conceding that she’d used soap to wash her hands and that the soap may have been fragranced. After the humiliation of being sniffed by a jury of men, she now prayed in private.

Glancing around her room, at the prayer mat, the clothes, wardrobe, chair, lamp, she thought upon Comrade’s Demidov’s lesson. If an agent were to search her room the only possessions that revealed something distinct and controversial about her were those given to her by the Soviets – an exercise book and a cheap pen. Normally when she wanted to study she was forced to smuggle her textbooks into her bedroom. The books were stashed outside, sealed in plastic against weather and dirt, in a crevice in the broken mud-brickwork of the narrow side street. It was laborious to remove them without being seen by the neighbours or the boys who played in the alley and she often wondered if she was being excessively cautious, whether her training had altered her judgement. Caution made sense as a tactic: if her parents had reacted coolly to her enrolling in university it was troubling to conceive of their anger at her new occupation, working for the Afghan secret police.

Nara’s father, Memar, was one of the country’s leading architects. Appointed leader of his guild, he’d been elected as a liaison to the State functionaries, making him one of the most influential voices when it came to any major construction project in Kabul. A veteran of his craft, known as a master, ustad, he ran a programme for apprentices, including Nara’s older brother. Her brother had squandered the advantages handed to him. He was lazy, spending most of his time racing through the streets of Kabul on a customized, imported motorbike, impressing his friends. Handsome and popular, he was more interested in socializing than study. Nara had never been asked if she wanted to enrol in the programme, nor had she visited one of her father’s construction sites. The possibility of following his career had not only been denied to her, it had never even been imagined. He did not and would not discuss his affairs directly with her. In order to know anything about him she’d been forced to do her own investigations, listening to private conversations, reading his letters – a precursor to the profession she’d chosen.