She explained, trying to impress him:
– No matter how much you trust a person, they should always be kept under watch. The point is that as an agent we do not have the luxury of presuming people to be innocent.
– Do you know who said this?
Nara nodded, and declared proudly:
– Comrade Stalin.
Leo regarded his student speaking Stalin’s name as though he were a wise and adored village elder, friend to all and tyrant to none. Nara’s facial features were remarkably soft. There was hardly a harsh line in her face, round cheekbones, a small round nose and most notably large pale-green eyes. The weakness of the colour made them more striking, rather than less, as though only a few drops of colour had been mixed with water. They gave an impression of intense curiosity and, combined with her earnestness, it was as if she were trying to absorb and understand every detail of the world around her. Her face and demeanour reminded him of a young deer, an animal striving to appear magnificent, the keeper of the forests, but still young and scared. It was odd to associate her so strongly with a creature she’d never seen, and perhaps never even heard of. From appearances alone he would wager that she did not have the personality of an agent. There was a softness and openness that made it difficult to imagine her taking what were commonly referred to as necessary measures. Could she arrest her fellow countrymen? However, he accepted that appearances could be deceptive and he’d been wrong about people far too many times to put faith in such a superficial observation.
As for her understanding of Stalin’s words, they were abstract notions that she’d memorized in order to fulfil her ambitions. She’d never implemented those words, or seen an entire society changed by them, a population unable to trust anyone, even family, friends and lovers. To her Trust and Check was a Communist aphorism, something to repeat and to be praised for repeating. She was not merely ambitious but idealistic, a Utopian who genuinely believed in a vision of a perfect society, serious about the promise of progress, without a hint of cynicism, or a doubt in her mind. In this regard, she reminded Leo very much of Elena. Perhaps that was why he tolerated her fanatical loyalty to Communism, understanding it within the context of a character that could not live without a dream of some description. Perhaps also he warmed to her because underneath her certainty there was a touch of melancholy, as if her optimism had been painted over a troubled soul. He did not believe she’d stayed in the classroom merely because she wanted to work. She was hiding from something at home. Related to that, her assertiveness did not come naturally: it was practised. Sometimes she caught herself and retreated from a comment or observation, worried she’d gone too far. And just as Raisa had found beauty to be a dangerous asset, so did this young woman who made a conscious effort to be plain, wearing a uniform that was too large for her, the poor cut hiding her figure. Her hair was always tied back. There was never any suggestion of makeup, never a hint of perfume. Leo had seen her blush at attention, hating to be stared at, perhaps hating her own beauty because of it. Her beauty and her sadness had always struck him at the same time, as if it was impossible to observe one without the other.
Since there were no other students in the class, Leo was about to send her home when Captain Vashchenko entered. It amused Leo that the captain appeared to consider knocking a weakness and barging into a room an act of strength, a triumph over etiquette. They’d spoken on several occasions since the Christmas invasion and Leo found him to be straightforward to deal with. Ruthlessness was often far simpler to understand than moderation. If presented with a choice, the captain always took the most aggressive approach. He didn’t stand on ceremony. He wasn’t interested in privilege, nor seduced by the comforts available to a military officer. Not particularly tall, he was physically robust, well built; everything about him seemed dense and compact, his body, shoulders, chest and his jaw. To his own surprise, Leo found it hard to dislike him – it would be like disliking a shark, or another lethal predator. There was no outward or obvious psychological darkness, no sadism or perverse relish in violence – he was interested only in expediency. In short, he would do whatever it took and he would never back down.
The captain impatiently addressed Leo, speaking in Russian:
– A high-ranking officer from the 40th Army disappeared last night. There was no security breach in the headquarters. No sign of a disturbance. We believe it to be a desertion. A car is missing from the grounds. My men are looking for him. We have checkpoints on all the roads. We have found no sign of him. We need your help. No one knows Kabul as well as you.
– No one except the Afghans.
The captain had no time for Leo’s flippancy, pressing his demands:
– If he’s in the city, you’ll find him, I’m sure of that.
– How important is this man?
– He’s important. More important, we must show desertion cannot be tolerated.
It was the first desertion that Leo had heard of. He was sure many more would follow. Summers were long and hot, sickness was common, and they were far from home.
The captain seemed to notice Nara Mir for the first time.
– Is she one of your students?
– A trainee.
– Bring her with you.
– She’s not ready.
The captain shook the concern off with a wave of his hand.
– She’ll never be ready if she stays in here. See how she copes with a real investigation. We need agents, not students. Take her with you.
Understanding that she was the subject of the conversation, Nara Mir blushed.
Headquarters of the 40th Army Tapa-e-Tajbeg Palace 10 Kilometres South of Kabul
The palace was perched on a ridge, overlooking a valley that was in turn overlooked by a distant mountain range – a picturesque setting from which to orchestrate the occupation of Afghanistan. By international standards the palace was modest, more like a stately mansion, a colonial outpost, or a presidential dacha, certainly nothing to rival the magnificence of the Tsarist residences. Painted in pale colours and composed of pillars and large arched windows, it was previously a summer pavilion for a king grown weary of his capital’s bustle. Such was the abrupt slope of the hill that only the palace occupied the high ground; the gardens were on stepped-terrace fields below. Once irrigated and tended by a retinue of servants, the setting for royal entertainment, they were now neglected, overgrown and weather-beaten, desiccated rose bushes spotted with cigarette butts and bullet casings.
With Nara by his side, Leo stepped out of the car, still wearing green flip-flops and the clothes that he’d walked into and out of the lake. He’d been summoned to the palace before, like a miscreant subject, reprimanded for not wearing appropriate uniform and for not shaving, comments uttered by men who’d only recently arrived and had not yet fathomed the enormity of their task, clinging to petty rules while entire divisions defected and the Afghan military crumbled. Though he had paid no attention to their critcisms and was slovenly dressed, he doubted they would bother reprimanding him again. Several months had passed – enough time for them to be concerned with larger problems.
They were escorted into the building, curt introductions were made, the Soviet command acutely embarrassed by the disappearance of one of their own and resenting their presence, particularly the implication that Nara could help where their own men had failed. The interior had been damaged by battle, regal frivolity dethroned by the business of war. Ornate and decorative antiques were put to functional new purpose, covered with bulky radio transponders. The squatting army’s equipment was incongruous and ugly: the original intentions behind the palace, pleasure, decadence and beauty, were not the concerns of the austere new occupants. Maps of the country marked with tank formations and infantry divisions had been hung where works of art and royal portraits once looked down.
They were taken upstairs to the living quarters. The missing officer had been declared a deserter, pre- empting the results of the investigation, although in truth Leo couldn’t imagine what other fate might have befallen him. He was called Fyodor Mazurov and he was young for such an important position – in his early thirties. He’d
