Tom Smith - Agent 6

She heard the remaining attacker’s hand slap down on the roof beside her and set off across the roof, bare feet against the concrete, directing herself towards her neighbours’ house, unable to distinguish between the darkness of the roofs and the darkness of the space in between. As her toes crossed the edge of her roof she pushed off, jumping as high as she could manage. Her feet spun in the air before landing on the adjacent roof. She tumbled forward, picking herself up and running again. There were heavy vibrations as her attacker landed behind her. She didn’t look back, running as fast as she could, the soles of her feet across the rough concrete, her eyes adjusting. She jumped, landing nimbly onto the next roof. She’d only taken a couple of steps when once again she felt vibrations – he was gaining. Unable to resist the urge to look back she saw his dark form only metres behind her, arms reaching out. Desperate, she turned forward, assessing the gap. It was too far. She’d never jump the distance. But she had nothing to lose.

Her feet left the roof, her body rising into the air. For a moment she was sure she’d land safely, then she began to fall, short of the next roof, hitting the side of the house. She was knocked back, tumbling down. With one hand she grabbed a window ledge. Unable to hold her weight, her fingers slipped and she fell again, landing awkwardly.

She lay still, unsure if she could move. Testing her body, lifting herself up, she felt pain but not enough to stop her. She waited, holding her breath. He hadn’t made the jump: she would’ve heard him. She peered up into the starry night sky, saw his dark form on the edge of the roof. He disappeared. He was searching for another way down.

She picked herself up, hobbling down the alley, stumbling, running, turning blindly. Her only advantage was the blackout, making her harder to follow. Reaching a main street, with no idea where she was or how far she’d run, she saw a woman entering a house. She ran towards her, pleading:

– Help me.

Nara was indecent, half naked, covered in dirt and mud. The woman shut the door.

With a stutter the electricity came back on. Streetlights flickered, purring overhead – illuminating her position.

Since returning from the arrest of the deserting officer, Leo had smoked for several hours in an attempt to suppress an almost unbearable sense of restlessness. Listening to the plans hatched by the two lovers hoping to embark on an impossible journey reminded him not only of his own thwarted ambitions to reach New York but also the journeys he’d made with Raisa, across the Soviet Union and into Budapest. Witnessing their determination, misguided though it was, he was forced to ask whether he’d abandoned the dream of solving Raisa’s murder. He reminded himself of the conditions he’d been placed under. He could not leave Afghanistan without bringing ruin to his daughters back home in Moscow. Anyway, the advice he’d offered to Fyodor and Ara had been the truth: to reach Pakistan posed insurmountable difficulties. The roads were controlled by Soviet forces: the air was patrolled by fighters and helicopters, while the mountains and footpaths were governed by the Afghan insurgents, who’d kill a Soviet on sight, deserter or not. In the end, the couple hadn’t even made it out f Kabul. Yet there was something noble about their failure. He could not deny the romanticism of such a venture. He thought of Elena: it was the kind of plot she might have become embroiled in had she been born here in Kabul.

Gradually, in the midst of these thoughts, he became aware of a noise, an urgent knocking on the door. He didn’t lower his pipe, lying sprawled on his bed – curious as to whether the noise was real or imagined. He had no intention of getting up, content to wait and see. There was a second attempt, even more frantic this time, accompanied by a cry. It was a woman’s voice. Leo sucked deeply on his pipe and remained perfectly still, holding the precious smoke in his lungs. He made no move to stand, or open the door, passive and motionless. The voice called out his name:

– Leo Demidov!

He exhaled, regarding the opium-smoke shapes, before scratching the side of his unshaven face and deciding the woman was real, rather than imagined. Half-heartedly he called out:

– The door is unlocked.

His voice was barely a whisper. And she hadn’t heard. She knocked again. It took an enormous effort for him to raise his voice:

– The door is unlocked.

The door flung open and a woman caked in mud and dirt ran in. She shut the door, locking it, before falling to the floor in a weeping heap. Hair was strewn across her face, ragged and wild, she looked up at Leo. It was Nara Mir: his most promising student.

Though she was less than a few paces away, her body muddy and bruised, speaking directly to him – a pitiful figure that would surely elicit sympathy from any normal man – Leo felt disconnected from her. The experience was akin to being submerged under bathwater and looking up at this woman. They belonged to different worlds: his was warm and calm while her was troubled and cold. The sensation wasn’t indifference, or callous disregard. He wanted to know what she was saying and interested to know what had happened. Feeling the rush from his last inhalation, he sucked in deeply through his nose and imagined if gods existed they would watch mankind as Leo now watched Nara, distant observers of events unravelling before them.

Leo closed his eyes.

*

Nara stopped speaking. Her mentor, the inscrutable Leo Demidov, the man she’d come to in her hour of need, had taken one look at her distressed state and fallen asleep. She hadn’t been bundled up in his arms, comforted with a promise that she would be protected. Her teacher allowed her to remain on the floor, bloodied and bruised, without an offer of help or even an expression of concern. Oddly, the lack of attention had a calming effect. By some margin she was the most competent person in the room.

She stood up, moving towards the bed, regarding her mentor with a pipe protruding from his open palm, head and body slumped like a puppet whose strings had been cut. She could smell opium. She hadn’t known that he was an addict but it seemed obvious now. He was erratic, absent-minded, unreliable but it was hard when judging a foreigner not to suppose their eccentricities were due to the fact that they were from another land.

Taking control, she assessed her situation. She was inside and behind a locked door. Had the streetlights not come on she might have been able to reach the apartment without being seen. As it was, she’d been chased all the way here, unable to shake her attacker. She hurried to the window, crouching down, looking out. Expecting to see just one person she discovered there was commotion on the street: at least five or six men. She couldn’t make out their faces. An angry gathering had formed at the foot of the steps. No doubt the sight of a half-clothed woman running into a Soviet adviser’s home at night had caught the attention of the neighbours. Her attacker had been only seconds behind her: he was already with the crowd, stirring their emotions. He would not give up. They were organizing a group, a lynch mob to kill them both, just as had happened in Herat, when Afghan women and Soviet advisers alike had been executed.

Mapping her position in the city in relation to government installations, Nara tried to work out where help might come from. The Soviet Embassy was at the southern end of Darulaman Boulevard. She needed a telephone. She retreated from the window, returning to Demidov on the bed. He was out cold. Abandoning her teacher, she searched the apartment, unable to find a telephone. For a man who believed that searching a person’s belongings would reveal details of their character it was odd that he owned so little. There was less furniture in his entire apartment than her room at home. Unless panic had blinded her, there was nothing of any use. She searched the apartment again, thinking that in her haste she must have missed the telephone. On the second search she found the socket and stared at it blankly until she understood he did not own a phone. It was characteristic of him. He would not want to be contacted or bothered. Their best chance of escape had vanished. Panic swelling in her chest, she dropped to her mentor’s side, shaking him violently by the scruff of the neck. If he didn’t own a phone maybe he owned a gun.