Tom Smith - Agent 6

– They need you.

Soliciting the help of a guard, Leo left the wing, keen to get outside, finally managing to gain access to the dusty ground of an empty exercise yard. He walked to the furthest corner and sat against the wall, closing his eyes, his legs stretched out in sun, the rest of his body in shade. Having not slept last night, he was tired and in the pleasant heat he quickly fell asleep.

*

When Leo woke up, the angle of the shade had changed and there was sunlight across half his body. Using the back of his hand, he wiped his mouth. It was only now that he noticed that he was not alone. Nara was seated not far from him, on the dusty ground of the exercise yard, her back against the wall. He had no idea how long she’d been there. Squinting at her, he noted that she had not been crying. Leo asked, his voice croaky:

– And?

– My mother loves my brother. She gave us a name.

Nara had changed. She was different. She was numb.

Leo surveyed the roundabout, one of the busiest junctions in the city. Sar-e-Chowk was much more than an intersection – it was a marketplace, not just for material goods but for an exchange of information and services. Wagons were set up around the edge of the traffic, displaying produce. Behind them were busy tea rooms populated with men perched on plastic chairs surveying the activity like lookouts on the bows of ships. Clutching glasses of tea, with cigarettes snagged between long thin fingers smouldering dangerously close to their wire-wool beards, no men had ever looked wiser. Deals were done, ideas disputed, people discussed. This was a hub – a commotion of gossip, rumour and trade churned through the population as if by the circular motion of the traffic, a hub entirely outside the Communist regime’s control with no phone lines to tap or letters to intercept.

With a calculated air of nonchalance, Leo ambled between market wagons, drifting among the hundreds of people as they headed home at the end of the day. Some were still buying, some were stopping to talk: other vendors were packing up as the daylight began to fade. He did not have long to find his target. Captain Vashchenko was fixed upon taking their prime suspect into custody today. Nara Mir’s mother had given them the name of a young man – Dost Mohammad. According to her confession, he was the principal organizing force behind the attacks. He had approached Nara’s father with news of the plan, asking them to be away on a specific date.

To the captain, speed was the priority, not prudence. Leo sensed the question of guilt was of secondary interest. There had been no serious investigation into the allegation. The bare minimum of checks had been made. The Afghan police knew very little about the man beyond the basics of his occupation. They couldn’t find a photograph among their files. Their bureaucracy was woefully undeveloped. Information was the spine of any credible authoritarian regime – a government needed to know its people. Despite the numerous shortcomings, the captain would not waiver from his determination to make an arrest within twenty-four hours of the attacks.

When Leo had opposed rushing into the market without even knowing what the suspect looked like the captain had chided him, pointing out that in Afghanistan they couldn’t behave as the KGB had done in Leo’s time, making arrests at four in the morning when everyone was asleep. It would appear to the enemy as a feminine act of deception and subterfuge. If they wanted to subdue Afghanistan they needed to demonstrate bravery, courage and audacity. Guile and slyness were vices here, not virtues. A public display of justice in one of the busiest roundabouts in the city would be a robust and proportionate response to the savagery of last night’s murders. As for the danger of resistance within the crowd, the captain did not see this as a problem. He went as far as to hope that the enemy would show themselves. Let them take up arms. They would be killed.

Without a photograph, they knew only that the suspect owned a wagon normally found at this roundabout, selling a variety of typical Afghan sweets, dried fruit and sugared and honey-coated nuts. As a suspect profile, it was one of the worst Leo had encountered. According to some, Dost Mohammad was twenty-five years old, according to others he was thirty. Since many men didn’t know how to count, an age was often chosen as a signifier of appearance. Leo would have to strike up a conversation, assess whether the man was Dost Mohammad. He was then to return to the team waiting nearby, allowing them to storm the market and make the arrest. It was presumed that no one would be suspicious of a man in green flip-flops with the telltale signs of opium use in his eyes and face. Leo wasn’t so sure.

Searching for the stall, Leo assessed the problems. It would be impossible to secure the area: there were countless exits even with a large team of reinforcements. There were many vantage points for the enemy. There might be lookouts. The suspect had been working here for many years. He knew the market dynamic, the ebb and flow of customers; he would have an instinct for when something was wrong. Leo decided to make a purchase to seem a little less out of place. One old man sold nothing but eggs, cartons stacked high. He showemarkable composure despite the frantic bustle around him threatening to bring his stock crashing to the ground. At a fruit stall Leo bought pomegranates, and was handed the thinnest of plastic bags that stretched with the weight of fruit – the last batch of the season. He’d almost completed a full circuit of the market. There was only the north end of the roundabout remaining.

He crossed the traffic, arriving at the last few stalls positioned in front of the tea rooms. There were two fold-out tables covered with steel bowls filled with pumpkin seeds, green lentils, pulses and grains. Neither man seemed remotely interested in Leo. He moved on, pausing by a wagon spread with cuts of meat. A butchered cow’s head stared into the sky, cheek populated with flies walking a sinew tightrope. Mingled with the smell of offal was something sweet and following the smell he arrived at a narrow wagon covered with wooden boxes. The boxes were like small drawers each filled with an array of sugary snacks, nuql-e-nakhud, sugar-coated chickpeas, nuql-e-badam, sugar-coated almonds, nuql-e-pistah, sugar-coated pistachio nuts. Leo didn’t look at vendor, examining the products, choosing one, before making eye contact, saying at the same time:

– Nuql-e-badam, three hundred grams.

The man was young, no older than thirty, with smart eyes. Unlike the other two men he was interested in Leo. His expression gave little away and in so doing gave everything away. The control was practised, hatred contained. He filled a paper bag with the sugar-coated almonds. Leo paid for them, reaching for his wallet, putting his pomegranates down on the edge of the wagon. The man took the money and watched as Leo moved off. There had been no opportunity to ask his name without alerting his suspicions, no way of engaging him in conversation. Leo reckoned the odds that he was the suspect were high. However, hatred of the occupation was not confined to the insurgents.

At the end of the road, some five hundred metres from the roundabout, Leo met an impatient captain. Nara was standing beside him. Leo said:

– There’s a man selling sugared almonds at the north end of the market.

– Is it him? Is it Dost Mohammad?

– I couldn’t ask his name.

– You have a sense for these things? Was it him?

Leo had worked many cases, arrested many men.

– It was probably him. Captain, I should warn you, this is going to end badly.