Tom Smith - Agent 6

She’d beckoned him to an injured girl knowing his intentions exactly. He would shoot the girl as he had shot the boy. She could not claim ignorance as an excuse. She had been prepared to watch the execution of a seven-year-old girl.

Her identity had changed and there was no undoing the transformation. Even when her family had plotted her death, observing the hatred in her father’s eyes she had never doubted the nature of her character. She was a good person. She had been wronged and misunderstood. Her intentions were noble. She was not like the men who attacked her: she was not like her father planning her death or her mother silently standing by. She would not be defined by rage and anger. She would be motivated by hope, idealism, and she was not afraid to make a stand. Yes, the repercussions were that she was alone and unloved. Better to be isolated than to compromise her beliefs, striving for acceptance from those she did not respect. There was no value in love that was dependent upon pretence. For as long as she could remember she’d been someone who did the right thing, no matter how difficult that made her life. That was no longer true.

The conclusion was inescapable. Having lost one family, she was not prepared to lose another – the State. She was a coward. It begged the question of whether her values had been nothing more than personal ambition reconfigured as ideology. Just as she’d been unable to resist the captain’s decision, she’d been unable to support Leo’s resistance, standing on the side, incapable of making a stand. She was a traitor in the eyes of the Communist state and a traitor in the eyes of the Afghan people. To Leo, she was morally weak. Had she worked so hard at her education in order that she might manufacture justifications for the murder of a young girl? Was this why she’d read so many books? Her sense of shame was intense. The feeling was akin to grief, as though her identity had died. The prospect of young Zabi waking up and asking for breakfast, unaware of the fact that Nara had called out for her execution, made it difficult to breathe. She sat, snatching gulps of air.

Nara stood up, leaving the cave and moving down the path. They’d not been guarded since any attempt to run was futile, even with several hours’ head start there was nowhere to hide. They would be tracked down and killed. Only a few paces away the narrow mountain trail narrowed, with a sheer vertical drop of some thirty or so metres to one side. Arriving at the drop Nara looked down. Without any sense of self-pity she accepted it was the only option remaining. She no longer knew how to live. She no longer knew her place in this world. She could neither go back to the Communist regime, nor could she go back to the little girl. She closed her eyes, ready to step out, falling to her death.

– What are you doing?

Startled, Nara turned around. Zabi was standing close by. Responding in an uncertain voice, Nara said:

– I thought you were asleep?

Zabi raised her arms, displaying the burns.

– My skin hurts.

The pale ointment that had been used to treat the burns had rubbed off. The brittle scabs and damaged skin were exposed. There were raw patches of red. Nara ushered her back, shooing her away.

– Go to the cave. Please, go back.

– But I can’t sleep.

– Go to the cave!

At the sound of Nara raising her voice, Zabi slowly turned around.

Alone again, Nara looked down at the drop. Instead of death, her mind was full of thoughts of how to make a new ointment. Without one, Zabi would scratch the scabs and the wounds could become infected. Nara knew a little about the natural properties of mountainside vegetation, taught to her by her grandfather when she was a young girl. She’d cherished those lessons. He knew every plant that grew on the Afghan mountains; during his years as a smuggler he’d been forced to survive off the vegetation on several occasions. Instead of thoughts of suicide, she recalled that juniper berries could be used to create a soothing balm, particularly when mixed with natural oil, such as that pressed from nuts or seeds.

She turned her back on the drop, and ran to catch up with the tiny figure of Zabi. Nara called out to her:

– Wait!

Zabi stopped walking. Nara bent down, examining the girl’s skin.

– It’s important you don’t scratch.

Zabi whimpered.

– It itches.

Hearing the girl’s distress, Nara began to cry, unable to stop.

– I’ll make you a new ointment. And then it won’t itch any more, I promise.

Confused by Nara’s tears, Zabi stopped crying.

– Why are you crying?

Nara couldn’t answer. Zabi asked:

– Does your skin hurt too?

Nara wiped away her tears.

Having slept for the first time in three days, Leo sat up awkwardly, his muscles aching. The cramps were still painful. His hands trembled from dehydration, lack of food, exhaustion. His lips were cracked, his skin broken. His nails were black with dirt. His hair was wild. Without the aid of a mirror, he began to tidy himself up. He used a splintered match to scrape the dirt from his nails, one by one, a thick line of grime accumulating on the match, wiped on the ground. Using a cup of cold water he made an attempt at washing his face, picking the patches of dry skin from his lips and straightening his hair.

The voice inside him demanding opium was a constant nagging rather than a deafening demand, now quieter – more like a distant whisper. He felt strong enough to ignore it. Another voice had returned, his own, and it demanded he concentrate on the matter at hand, escape, not into an opium seclusion, but escape from their predicament. First, he needed to assess his situation: he was not sure how many soldiers there were in this base. He was not even sure where they were located.

As his thoughts turned to the possibility of escape a question arose: to where and to what end? For so many years his life had been directionless, it was hard to remember a time when he was driven by dreams and ambitions of his own. He could no longer drift through days and weeks, in a haze of opium smoke. There were decisions to be made. He had a new family to look after. The plans of the Soviet defector returned to his thoughts, the aspiration of crossing the border into Pakistan and taking asylum with the Americans, seeking their protection in exchange for the information he had about the occupation of Afghanistan. It would serve two ends: survival and an opportunity to reach New York. Yet while that option would protect Nara and Zabi, there would be grave risks to his daughters in Moscow if he defected. His mind had grown slack with opiate-laziness and was unaccustomed to such dilemmas. Sensing the enormity of the journey ahead, Leo felt hungry, a sensation one that yesterday he would’ve sworn he’d never experience again.

Nara and Zabi were sitting at the mouth of the cave. He joined them, discreetly noting his surroundings and the number of soldiers. The girls were eating shlombeh, milk curd with flat bread studded with spices. Though he felt better, he decided against milk curd, instead ripping pieces of the warm flat bread. He ate slowly, chewing carefully. The dough was dense and pungently seasoned with crushed cardamom seeds. He ripped another fragment, the oil turning his fingertips yellow. Watching him eat, the young girl said:

– Are you better now?

Leo finished chewing before replying.

– Much better.

– What was wrong with you?

– I was sick.

Nara said to Zabi:

– Let him eat.

But Zabi continued her questioning.

– What were you sick with?

– Sometimes a person can become sick from giving up. They’re not suffering from a disease. They have no sense of purpose, or direction, despair can make a person sick.