– Not difficult to improve on the food if the previous prisoners weren’t being fed.
The governor seemed stunned that not only could Leo understand and speak Dari, he could also make jokes in the language. He lahed loudly.
– You are right: any food is better than no food. That is true.
Unless his good humour concealed a darker soul, the man didn’t stand a chance. Leo guessed that he’d last no more than a month.
Nara had fallen back a little, her way of indicating that she wanted to talk out of earshot. Leo waited for the governor to hurry ahead to unlock a door and stopped, turning to Nara. Her voice trembled with emotion.
– They can’t see me like this.
– Like what?
– In a uniform… My parents.
– Do they know you’re a member of the secret police?
She shook her head, adding:
– You haven’t taught me how to question suspects. I’m training to be a teacher. I shouldn’t be here. It doesn’t make sense. There are others more suitable for this job.
– You were able to make an arrest. You can do this.
– I can’t.
– The fact that they’re your family should make no difference. Your family is the State.
– I’m scared.
If she had not been so merciless towards the deserting soldier Leo might have felt sorry for her.
– You’re not here to ask questions. You’re here to provoke them. The captain hasn’t sent you because he thinks you’re a skilled interrogator. There will be people already here who’ll handle the interrogation. You’re nothing more than a prop.
– A prop? I don’t understand.
– These interrogations are theatrical: people are brought in for effect. You’ll be paraded before your parents. That’s all. You’re not expected to ask any questions.
– I can’t do this.
The governor was lingering nearby, trying to ascertain the problem. A trace of impatience crept into Leo’s voice.
– Nara Mir, you’re an agent. You work for the State. You can’t find a task unpalatable and refuse to obey. In the end, you do as you’re told. You do whatever’s necessary. I have failed you as a teacher if I haven’t made that clear.
Nara forgot herself, suddenly angry, snapping at him:
– Would you interrogate your own parents?
Leo put a hand on her shoulder, a gesture of support that was not backed up by his reply.
– These dilemmas feel fresh and raw to you. But they’re old to me. They’re like a song I’ve heard too many times. Try to realize the awfulness of your position today isn’t remarkable, or exceptional, it’s ordinary.
Same Day
An entire wing had been appointed for the more important political prisoners and their interrogations. The stone floors were cleaner, the guards were more alert, and the overhead fans worked, a sure sign there was a concentration of Soviet officials nearby. One man greeted them, another adviser exported to Afghanistan. His expertise was the handling of prisoners, the extraction of information – a professional interrogator.
– My name is Vladimir Borovik.
Medium build, with greying hair and soft hands, Borovik had the anonymity of a mid-ranking bureaucrat. He was younger than Leo, perhaps forty years old, and he displayed unnecessary deference. It grated on Leo, the implication that he was somehow the authority in a place like this. More likely, the man was angling for a friendship, a fellow Soviet to keep him company in town and show him how to survive the next few months, where to drink, where to find women. Borovik ignored Nara completely, despite her being the crucial element in the interrogation. He spoke in Russian, at speed, giving Leo no time to translate:
– I only arrived a couple of weeks ago. They have me staying at a military base. I can’t say I like this country very much. But the pay is so good I couldn’t say no. I’ll earn five times the amount that I would back home. I plan to complete six months, maybe a year if I can stomach it, and then go home and retire. That’s the dream. I’ll probably end up going home, spending all my money in a month or two, and then I’ll be back here again.
Eventually Nara was forced to interrupt, putting to use her limited Russian:
– Excuse me, I did not understand.
Leo said in Dari:
– Nothing worth translating.
The prison governor had melted away, leaving them alone, not wanting to be involved. As they walked to the cell Borovik whispered to Leo, inexplicably lowering his voice as though they were in danger of being overheard:
– The woman’s parents haven’t asked about her well-being or safety, not once.
He nodded at Nara, continuing:
– I’ve told them she was viciously attacked. They don’t seem to care. There’s no question in my mind that they were involved. The father is a proud man. In my experience a proud prisoner is the easiest to break.
Nara looked at Leo for a translation. Leo said nothing, allowing Borovik to continue.
– The father is something of a bore. If he’s not silent and solemn, he’s ranting and raving about various political issues. The mother is always silent, even when I ask her a direct question. I can’t wait to see how they react to their daughter.
He looked at Nara carefully, adding:
– She’s a tasty one. Any chance she’s up for some fun later? She’s one of the more laid-back women here, isn’t she? I’ve been told only the ones in uniforms are the ones you can mess about with. A face mask means they don’t fuck, right?
Frustrated, Nara implored Leo:
– What did he say?
– Your parents are not cooperating.
Reaching the cell Borovik gave precise instructions about the order of their entrance.
– I will enter first, then you and finally Nara Mir. It is important that there is a gap of at least a minute between your entrance and hers, so that both parents presume that there are no more new arrivals. She will then step inside the cell and surprise them.
The cell was unlocked while Leo translated to Nara. She was struggling to pay attention. Finally she gave Leo a small nod, indicating that she understood her part in this performance.
A guard opened the steel door. Borovik entered, Leo followed behind. Her parents were seated on two chairs, side by side. Her mother was not wearing the chador, her face exposed. Ashamed, she remained stooped, hunched over, meeting no one’s eye, staring at the patch of stone floor between her feet. In contrast, her father’s hands were on his knees, head held high. Leo didn’t need to ask any questions. There could be no doubt that this man had either directly sanctioned or been a party to the plans to murder his daughter. Borovik was also right about the man’s pride. It bristled around him.
Borovik ushered the Afghan interpreter out of the room. There was no need for him with Leo present. The move surprised Nara’s father but he remained silent, waiting for them to speak. At this point Nara entered the cell, pausing by the door, before stepping into the room, hands awkwardly by her sides. Staged like amateur theatre, it was nonetheless an effective device. Her father regarded her uniform: his eyes drilled into the details of her clothes, the colours, the symbols of the new regime. From his reaction he already knew she worked for the government. He regained control of his expression, easing back into his seat.
Borovik leaned close to Leo.
– Ask him if he’s ashamed that he ordered an attack on his daughter.
Leo translated the question. Before the father could answer, Nara stepped forward.
– Father, please let me help you. There has been a mistake. I’m here to explain that you had nothing to do with the attacks. If you cooperate we can be out of here within hours.
A threat of violence could not have been as tormenting to him as this offer of help. Gasping at his daughter’s naivety, the father said:
– You will help me?
– Father, the nature of my employment must be a shock for you.
She
continued, deluded, narrating the fantasy of his innocence, a fiction constructed in the drive to the prison.
– We have our differences. But I know what these men cannot know. There is love between us. I remember holding your hand. You loved me as a child. As an adult, it has not been easy. I wanted to tell you about my recruitment. Consider this, you work for the government. You design buildings. I work for the government too. I will teach in universities, perhaps some of the buildings you helped create.
Her father shook his head, embarrassed by his daughter’s show of emotion and talk of love. He found it humiliating and silenced her:
– We found your boos, your political manifestos and your notes on how to identify recruits for government work and those who might be a threat. Were you going to inform on us? One day you would, if we had said the wrong thing or criticized the invaders.
– No, never, I want to help you.
– You cannot help me. You have ruined me. Not even a whore could have brought as much shame to our family as you have done.
Nara’s mouth fell open. Leo saw her falter, for a moment he wondered if she would need to steady herself against the wall. She didn’t. Her father continued, sensing weakness, wanting to hurt her, his desire to inflict pain stronger than self-preservation.
– I allowed you an education and you taught yourself to be blind. You cannot see what is happening to your own country. It has been invaded. It has been stolen from under your eyes and yet you celebrate this fact.
Still suffering from shock, Nara clung to one of her previous arguments, referencing her father’s role as a builder, a creator, not a terrorist.
– You work with the government. You are an architect.
– Shall I tell you what I learned from the history of the buildings around us? Hundreds of years ago the British invaders destroyed the ancient Charchata bazaar in retaliation for the murder of their envoy. That is how invaders weigh the life of one of their own against our nation. A whole city is not worth one of their officers, they would tear it down to rubble. The same will be true for the Soviets because this is not their home, not their land, no matter what destruction they bring they can always return to their cities and their families. I have never worked for the Soviets. I worked for the people of Afghanistan, the people of Kabul.
Nara stepped forward, only three paces from her father. Leo thought there was a chance he’d strike her, even in the cell. His arms and ankles were not restrained. Nara asked:
– You knew of the attack?
– Knew of it? I drew them a map of our apartment and marked with a cross where you would be sleeping.
Leo had not translated a word. He glanced at Borovik. The interrogator seemed to know exactly what was going on and said:
– The father has admitted his guilt, yes?
Leo nodded. Borovik continued:
– That was the easy part. What we need are the names of those involved.
Leo whispered:
– There is no chance he’ll give up those names. Borovik agreed.
– The pride that helped us will now work against us. You are right, the father wouldn’t tell us the names. His wife is a different matter.
Borovik gestured at the guard on the door. There was the sound of an adjacent cell being opened. A young man appeared, blindfolded, his hands tied behind his back. Leo didn’t recognize him. Nara’s mother stood up, raising her face for the first time, hands locked together, pleading:
– No!
It was a desperate, animal-like cry. Leo asked Borovik:
– Who is that man?
– It’s Nara’s brother. The mother seems keen on her son. She agreed to her daughter’s death. I wonder if she’ll agree to the death of her son.
Nara had turned almost as pale as her mother. Borovik whispered in Leo’s ear:
– I’ll wager I can get a name within five minutes.
Like a sultan calling for food, Borovik clapped his hands together.
A guard entered carrying a stainless-steel tray. On it was a single bottle of orange soda, the liquid luminous in the gloomy cell, the colour of the Fanta label a faded blue. The guard set the tray down on a table. He pulled a bottle opener from his pocket with all the formality of a waiter in a luxury hotel. The steel soda top clinked on the floor. Borovik stepped forward and began to drink straight from the bottle in long gulps, a thin orange line leaking from the side of his mouth until the bottle was finished. He placed the empty bottle on the edge of the table and let go. The bottle fell, as was intended, smashing in two. Borovik picked up the largest remaining portion by the neck, creating a jagged glass fist. It was a crude threat, breathtaking in its savagery, exploiting the notoriety of this place. Leo had seen enough. Without saying a word he walked out, brushing past the shocked figure of Nara, leaving the cell. Borovik called out to him from the door but Leo didn’t look back. Passing the exiled interpreter, Leo said:
– 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.
Greater Province of Kabul City of Kabul Sar-e-Chowk Roundabout
Same Day
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 o
pposed 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.
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