Tom Smith - Agent 6

– The sea is an area of water as big as a country. Instead of land there is water, and the water is as deep as the mountains are tall. It is full of animals, like a lake, but some of the animals are very big, as big as this building.

Zabi was amazed by this idea. She exclaimed:

– A fish as big as a building!

– They’re called whales. They’re not fish. They breathe air, like us.

– If they breathe air why do they live in the water?

Leo paused, remembering conservations like this with Elena when she was young. She was fascinated by the world, always asking for information. The endless questions, parodied by her sister, were a display of intimacy and trust as much as they were about curiosity. The same was true with Zabi – she was reaching out to him at the same time as she was reaching out to the concept of this new world. Yet this new world would be one without his daughters. If he left Pakistan as a traitor, he would never see Elena and Zoya again. He found the notion impossible to accept, as impossible as the idea that he would never solve the murd of his wife. But the truth was that to return to the Soviet Union, as a known defector, would result in his execution. Even more troubling, there was a possibility both daughters would be punished if it were ever found out that he’d fled the country. Their safety depended upon the presumption that Leo had been killed in the air strikes or executed by the mujahedin. Secrecy was of paramount importance. He wouldn’t be able to write to them. He wouldn’t be able to call. If he fell sick, he would be alone. If they fell sick, he would not be able to sit by their side.

In a sombre frame of mind he failed to answer Zabi’s question, standing up. She squeezed his hand.

– Tell me more about the sea.

Leo shook his head.

– That’s enough for now.

He stroked back her hair. Zabi asked:

– Have you been to America?

– I tried to go there once but I didn’t make it.

– Will we make it?

– We have a good chance.

Zabi heard his uncertainty. She took Nara’s hand.

– And even if we don’t, you’ll stay with me? Nara nodded.

– I will never leave you, no matter what happens. I promise.

There was no uncertainty in her voice. Nara would die for this girl. Leo hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

Leo waited by the window, watching the street below. Behind him, Zabi and Nara were asleep. Though he wanted to let them rest he was profoundly anxious. Ten hours had passed since Fahad left the guest lodge. In a few hours it would be morning and there had been no word. The option open to them if Fahad should fail was to strike out for the American Embassy on their own, to try and reach Islamabad and make their case for asylum without the Pakistani intelligence service acting as a broker. Aside from the logistical challenges of the journey, Leo wasn’t convinced that the deal could be made without Pakistani approval. The only other choice was to run.

He opened the door, checking the corridor. It was empty. He knocked on the door of the room opposite. There was no reply. Examining the lock, he found it so flimsy that a shove with his shoulder snapped the timber frame. A search of the room revealed no bags and no belongings. He checked the window. Unlike the previous room there was a way down to the street – the ledge to the sign to the ground – difficult but not impossible. He hurried back, waking Nara.

– I want you to stay in the other room. Don’t turn the light on. Don’t make a sound. If anything happens to me, escape. Don’t make your way to Islamabad. Don’t try to go to the American Embassy. Don’t trust anybody. Just run.

Nara didn’t argue, picking Zabi up, who was still half-asleep, and carrying her across the hallway. She lingered by the door, slipping back out, kissing Leo on the cheek before retreating to the room and shutting the door.

Leo returned to his room, sitting on the edge of the bed. He looked around for something that might be used as a weapon. Unable to find anything, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror. His appearance was wild and ragged, not the impression he wanted to present if he was trying to sell himself as an important source of information. He hastily straightened his hair and was about to head downstairs to the bathroom when there was a knock on the door.

Leo stood to the side, calling out:

– Who is it?

– Fahad.

He opened the door. Fahad entered, with two men dressed in suits. The Pakistani intelligence officer was the older of the two, in his late sixties, with thin hair and lively eyes. The CIA agent was the same age as Leo. His face was gaunt. The whites of his eyes were tinged with yellow. He was a tall man with a slight, skeletal frame. Whereas Fahad’s sinewy body suggested strength and dexterity, there was no such implication from the CIA agent, whose physique indicated a life of reading, drink and intrigue. From one addict to another, there was an immediate connection, a silent communication. Unlike Leo, the agents were exceptionally well tailored and tidy, with jackets and crisp shirts, though neither wore a tie. In the case of the CIA agent, there was a sense that his meticulous tailoring served to conceal the subtler indications of his addiction. With the Pakistani agent the tailoring seemed to be an orthodox indication of his power and status. The CIA agent shook Leo’s hand.

– My name is Marcus Greene.

He spoke perfect Russian, before continuing in fluent Dari:

– We should speak a language that we all understand.

The Pakistani agent shook Leo’s hand, also speaking in Dari.

– Abdur Salaam. That is not my real name, but it will do for the purposes of this meeting.

Greene smiled.

– Marcus is my real name. I’m not quite as cautious as my friend.

Abdur Salaam smiled in return.

– You do not have Soviet agents trying to kill you. Not that I believe our guest desires to kill me. Fahad vouches for your sincerity. He rarely vouches for anyone, let alone a Soviet.

Greene walked to the window, checking the streets, apparently without any sense of concern, an idle glance, before perching on the window ledge, his legs stretched out in front of him, tidying the line of his trousers while asking:

– You want to defect, Mr Demidov?

The tone of the question was flippant. There was scepticism and reluctance. Of more concern, there was very little excitement. Leo answered carefully:

– In exchange for asylum, not just for myself but – Yes, for the girl and the woman, where are they, by the way?

– They’re safe.

Greene paused, registering the distrust. Leo added:

– We would want a new life, the three of us.

Greene replied with a quick nod, as if he’d heard this request a thousand times and was keen to return to the intelligence on offer:

– You’re not a soldier, are you? You’re a civilian employee of the Afghan government, an adviser. What kind of information do you have?

Leo made his case:

– I have worked for the Afghan government for seven years.

– In what capacity?

– I was training their secret police force. Before the Com munist regime took power, I was helping them to survive. After they took power, I continued helping them to survive, the tools and resources changed, the job remained the same.

Greene lit a cigarette.

– What did you do before you came to Afghanistan, Mr Demidov?

– I worked for the KGB.

Greene inhaled deeply, holding the smoke in his mouth. Fahad grew impatient, a soldier, not accustomed to the subtleties of diplomatic negotiations. He snapped at Leo:

– Talk about Soviet operations in Afghanistan, not the KGB. That is the information that we want you to share.