Tom Smith - Agent 6

Last night had been a mistake, an impulsive, hot-headed mistake of the most adolescent kind. They shouldn’t have kissed. Nara would surely agree. They’d been lonely, two lost souls in their bleak and empty new apartments. He couldn’t remember exactly how the kiss had happened – they’d been talking, standing close, examining the map spread on the table. She’d pointed out the village where her family came from, the village where she’d never been welcome. She’d shown Leo the route by which her grandfather used to smuggle fleeces into China, explaining how many of the smugglers died in the mountain passes. As though the thought had only just occurred to her, she realized that her grandfather would have known about the plot to kill her and probably approved of it. She became upset, explaining why. It was possible at this point Leo had touched her, merely to comfort her, or he’d brushed her hand by accident. He couldn’t be sure. Though the prelude was muddled in his mind, the kiss was clear, sexual desire for so long repressed by opium, or grief or both. For a moment he’d experienced an uncomplicated pleasure of the kind lost to him, an unstoppable urge, convinced nothing else made sense except following through on this impulse. Yet as he’d gripped her waist he’d felt her body trembling, overwhelmed by emotion, nervous and inexperienced. He’d pulled back. She’d stood before him, her mouth fractionally open as if trying to say something and unable to put together the words. They’d remained opposite each other for what seemed to be several minutes. It might only have been a matter of seconds before finally she’d walked out, quietly closing the door behind her.

After Nara had left Leo had smoked, filling his lungs with opium, his substitute for human contact. hausted, he rested his head against the bulletproof glass and closed his eyes.

*

Leo awoke to find the vehicle stationary. Nara wasn’t beside him. There was no one driving. He stepped out, opening the heavy armoured door. To his side of the road there were the blue-green waters of a lake. On the other side a steep mountain towered above them. They were at Darwanta Dam, not far from their destination, the village of Sokh Rot located in the valley on the other side of the mountain. The captain was standing with his officers, several of whom were smoking. Nara was by the water, gazing into it, separate from the others. Leo walked to her. Hesitant and conscious that the captain was watching them, he was unsure what to say. He touched the water, rippling her reflection.

– It doesn’t have to be a problem.

She didn’t say anything. Leo added:

– I take… responsibility. You were blameless in this.

He wanted to stop speaking but couldn’t help adding qualifications to each remark.

– It was a mistake, a mistake that we can put behind us. That’s how I feel.

She said nothing. Leo continued:

– The best thing would be to carry on as we were before. As though it hadn’t happened. We should concentrate on the task at hand. We’re close now.

He quickly qualified:

– I mean, we’re close to the village, rather than you and I, are close, because of last night. I’m not saying we can’t be close, in the future, as friends. I’d like to be your friend. If you want…

Leo wished the captain had requested helicopter transport, cutting the journey to minutes rather than hours. But considering the nature of the situation, an alleged massacre by two Hind helicopters, it would have been insensitive to enter the area by air, inflaming the outrage, or sparking panic. Leo did find it odd that the captain had insisted upon handling this problem himself. The intelligence that the massacre was energizing the insurgency in Kabul seemed vague. Equally vague was the notion that forgiveness could be bought with a development project, a medical centre, a school, a well or herds of plump livestock, or why this gesture would take up the captain’s time. Leo had packed nothing other than his pipe and a modest stash of opium, predicting that they would be forced to stay in nearby Jalalabad until the matter was concluded.

Nearing their destination, Captain Vashchenko became unusually talkative. He remarked:

– Do you want to know what my biggest disappointment has been since arriving in this country?

The question was rhetorical and he pressed ahead without waiting for, or wanting, an answer.

– During the invasion I was involved in the siege of the President’s palace, where the 40th Army is based. Where the defector was living – you went there.

Nara had understood enough to offer the name.

– Tapa-e-Tajbeg.

The captain nodded.

– The plan to capture the President. We expected the private guard to surrender. Unlike every other Afghan division they proved resilient. We had to fight our way in. It was the first time I’d ever fought in a royal palace. There was expensive crystal smashed across the floor. Chandeliers were falling from the ceilings. Paintings and works of art were shot to pieces.

The captain laughed.

– Imagine fighting in a museum, that’s what it was like. You’re taking cover behind antiques worth more than I’ll earn in a lifetime. Considering there was not a hope they were going to win, those guards fought bravely. I guess they knew they were going to die whatever happened. We secured the palace room by room. I wanted to be the one who caught or killed the President. What a prize that would’ve been! I made a guess he would be hiding in his bedroom. Doesn’t everyone retreat to the bedroom in times of danger? People associate it with safety, or the most appropriate room to die in. I was wrong. Another member of my team found the President in the bar. He had his own private bar. He was sitting on a chair, his back to the door, drinking a fifty-year-old Scotch. They shot him in the back, careful not to destroy the decanter. We drank the Scotch to celebrate. But I didn’t felt like celebrating. I’m still annoyed I picked the wrong room.

The captain shook his head in regret.

– I’ve never shot a dictator.

Leo remarked:

– You’ve installed another one. Perhaps you’ll get another chance.

To his surprise this amused the captain.

– If the time comes, I’ll be heading straight to his private bar. He turned around, an unexpressive man allowing himself a modest smirk.

– How about you translate that for her?

It was the last thing the captain had said before leaving Leo and Nara alone last night. He knew that they’d kissed. Leo had been right. The rooms had been bugged.

Approaching the site of the massacre, the landscape began to change. The trees were no longer flecked with blossom; they were charred – branches scorched black, entire trunks burnt, reduced to charcoal silhouettes like a child’s pencil drawing. At the epicentre the road disappeared, replaced by a series of ash-black craters, circled by jagged stubs, like trolls’ teeth, where the trees had stood.

The captain ordered the car to stop. Leo stepped out, immediately noticing the sharp chemical smell leaching from the ground around him. When the wind blew, fine dust spiralled in the air, coils of black circling around them. Ash crunched underfoot. He caught Nara’s eye. She’d never seen the war outside Kabul. She was shocked. He wondered how long it would take her to justify this destruction, to rationalize it and formulate arguments about its necessity. No doubt the process had already begun.

The mud walls of the houses were not in ruins but altogether missing. In a few cases, on the outskirts, there were remnants, mu heaped in a mound, dried out and cracked by the heat. Leo asked: