Tom Smith - Agent 6

The two remaining men fired back, hopelessly, emptying their magazines at targets they couldn’t see. Fahad didn’t fire a shot, sinking to his knees, clasping his dead brother. He had failed. His love for his brother had blinded him. The boy was not a soldier. He should never have been allowed to come with them.

There was a rumble and the water level suddenly rose, from his waist up to his shoulders. The entire river swelled. The level of discharged surged. A mass of water was released from the dam. It crashed down around him. Fahad was separated from his brother’s body, picked up and lost in the newly created white rapids. Tossed downstream, he was helpless. A poor swimmer, he found himself underwater, his body pounded against the riverbed. He kicked hard, only for another wave to catch him, spinning him round. Smashed against a rock, he lost consciousness for a moment. When his thoughts returned, he was on the surface. The velocity of the river had dropped, the sudden swell had dispersed and he was able to keep himself from going under again.

In a matter of seconds he’d been carried several hundred metres downstream from the dam. The sound of machine-gun fire was distant. Alone, he allowed himself to be carried away by the river. Wretched, he wondered why he’d been saved.

Leo and Nara had been rescued from the fire minutes before the roof collapsed. Several members of the mob had tried to climb up, at the points where the building wasn’t ablaze. Their determination forced Leo into action, kicking their hands and stamping on their faces. As more of the building was engulfed, including the shop underneath the apartment, the mob waited for the pair to die. Nara buried her head in Leo’s shoulder, unable to watch as the flames moved closer. The sheets of tin roofing buckled and bent, becoming too hot for their bare feet, forcing them to hop like schoolchildren playing a game. Just as they were on the brink of deciding whether to jump into the flames or into the mob below, a Soviet military detachment arrived, investigating the deteurbance.

Helped down, they were brought to the police station, examined by a doctor, given food, and then told the news. The reason they’d been saved by a military detachment was because martial law had been imposed on the city. The attack on Nara had not been an isolated incident. Every member of Leo’s class of trainee students had been targeted in a coordinated series of attacks. Nara was the only survivor. The murders took place within a four-hour period. Marking out the crimes on a map of the city it was evident that one set of attackers couldn’t have carried them all out. In total there were fifteen dead: nine students and six family members, either because they’d been obstructive or because they’d been considered complicit in their child’s education. The murders themselves were savage. The intent was two-fold: to kill and to provoke. Some victims were found with their throats cut, their tongues sliced off. One man had been decapitated, the Communist sickle cut into his forehead. These were attacks on the institution of the secret police and part of a propaganda war fought not on radio airwaves but in blood, an event with enough scale and horror to be talked about across the entire city. A message was being sent to those considering forming an alliance with the infidel government – death awaited them. Leo took no consolation from the fact that he had always been honest with his students about the dangers of the profession they’d chosen, warning them that they’d experience hatred as they’d never experienced before.

Unlike the other officers, Captain Vashchenko did not appear perturbed or tired, entering the room with his usual abrupt efficiency.

– Nara Mir, you did well to survive. We’re impressed by your strength. You are a powerful symbol that we cannot be beaten so easily. As the only survivor you are also the key to solving these crimes.

Leo raised his hand, interrupting:

– Nara has only recently started learning Russian. Perhaps I should translate.

The captain nodded, showing no embarrassment at his mistaken presumption. Once Leo had finished, the captain continued:

– These murders are a sensation. They were intended to be. The city’s population is talking of nothing else. For this reason, we must solve this crime today. It seems to me no coincidence that at the same time as trainee agents were being murdered an audacious attack was launched on the Sarobi Dam. Had it succeeded there would have been a power shortage across the entire city. The two events together would have dramatically undercut our authority and made it impossible to plausibly assert that we were in control. Fortunately the Sarobi Dam attack failed. We’re trying to identify the bodies of the bombers.

Hearing the translation, Nara asked:

– What about the man I injured?

– His body was removed from your home before we arrived. We found the blood but nothing more. One thing is for certain: this cannot be allowed to stand. In the same way that the deserting officer is to be executed in order to send a clear signal to our soldiers, we must send a clear signal to the Afghans that those who threaten our operation will be killed.

Leo didn’t translate, instead asking:

– Fyodor Mazurov is to be executed?

He glanced at Nara to see ifhe understood. The shock on her face confirmed that she had. It was a lesson that could not be taught – she was forced to experience the sensation for herself, responsibility for another person’s death. Blind to the nuances of these emotions, the captain was breezy in his summary.

– As I said, he must be made an example of. For the same reason, we must make an example of these attackers and return life in the city to normal. I have repealed the order for martial law. The impact of these crimes must be reduced, not exaggerated. Life will continue as normal. And we will catch the killers.

There was silence. Nara said, in awkward Russian:

– And the woman, Ara?

The captain was becoming impatient with their interest in matters he considered concluded.

– That is a matter for her father. She has lost her job. He has been humiliated. I would imagine her life is difficult right now. She only has herself to blame.

Leo was clasping the bundle of incomplete letters in his pocket. He imagined his daughters listening to this conversation, he imagined Raisa standing beside him, and knew exactly how they would react. Outraged, they would plead for clemency; they would petition Vashchenko for Fyodor and Ara to be shown mercy. They would not understand that there was nothing Leo could do. They would not accept that as an excuse to stand idly by. But even imagining their anger, Leo was too beaten down, too tired, to stand up to this judgement, sensing its inevitability regardless of anything he might say or do. He was just an adviser, a man on the margins, paid for opinions whether they were heeded or not. He’d tried to save the couple. The satisfaction he might gain from outrage and indignation were of no use to them now. He mumbled:

– I tried.

Vashchenko and Nara looked at him. The captain asked:

– What did you say?

Returning the conversation to the investigation, Leo pointed out:

– How can we solve the murders when we don’t even have a suspect? You said yourself the body of the attacker was removed.

– We have a lead.

– Who?

Seeming to ignore the fact she didn’t speak fluent Russian, the captain addressed Nara directly:

– Your parents.

Shocked, she evidently understood what had been said, repeating in broken Russian:

– My… parents?

The captain registered Nara’s distressed response. He turned to Leo.