Headquarters of the 40th Army

Tapa-e-Tajbeg Palace - 10 Kilometres South of Kabul

Same Day

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 risen through the ranks with admirable speed. Reading his file, Leo noted that the soldier had no experience of living abroad and very little combat experience. He was a career soldier and Leo did not find it difficult to imagine the shock of his arrival in Afghanistan, so far from his familiar world. Nara said:

—I don’t understand why we’re coming here. We know he’s in Kabul. They’ve already searched his room here and found nothing. What do you expect to find?

Leo shrugged an answer.

—They might have missed something.

Nara pressed her point.

—Such as what?

—A room tells us a lot about a person.

Nara scrunched her face up in earnest concentration, trying to figure out how this might be true. Failing, she observed:

—Searching a suspect’s apartment might make sense in the Soviet Union. There are very few possessions in most Afghan homes, some clothes, basic furniture and cooking utensils. A room tells us nothing about the people. Is this not also true for Soviet soldiers too? They are issued with standard kit. What would be different from one room to another?

—There are always differences, even if two people own exactly the same objects, how they lay them out would still be of interest. And there are plenty of things that are not standardized. What about money, cigarettes, bottles of alcohol, letters, papers, a diary…

Nara pondered this.

—A diary? Do many Russians keep a diary?

—More women than men, but soldiers often find it helpful to make note of the day’s events.

—I would be surprised if there were fifty diaries in the whole of Kabul, maybe in the whole of Afghanistan. Do you expect this soldier to keep a diary?

—We’ll find out.

Fyodor Mazurov had been appointed a small bedroom on the top floor. It was peculiar accommodation for an officer managing a bloody occupation. Instead of a steel bunk of the kind that the military typically slept in, Fyodor Mazurov had slept in an elaborate four-poster bed, for no other reason than it was there to be used. The room was furnished with a chandelier, entirely smashed, like a collection of splintered teeth, and a walnut writing cabinet, one of the few items of furniture in the palace that remained unscathed. Lenin’s portrait stared out from over the bed, nailed up in haste and too small for the space it occupied, the shadow on the wallpaper from the previous portrait dwarfing his image.

Leo walked to the far corner of the room, taking in the sight before him. A man had been given this small space to make his own – his character would surely have made some mark on it. Nara remained by the door, apprehensive of disturbing his process, a sceptical observer. Leo asked her:

—What can you see?

She looked about the room without a great degree of confidence, doubting that she would see anything of interest. Leo ushered her over.

—Stand with me.

She joined him, regarding the room from the same position. She said:

—I see a bed.

Leo moved forward, peering under the bed. There was a pair of boots. He examined the soles: they were heavy duty, standard-issue black leather boots, too hot for Afghanistan, abandoned because they were impractical. He stood up, sliding his hand under the mattress, flipping it over. There was nothing underneath. Moving to the cabinet, he found it had been cleared. There were no papers. He peered into the bin. No rubbish had been thrown away. Leo said to Nara:

—Finding nothing can be a useful discovery. We know this much. It wasn’t a spontaneous or impulsive decision to run. He’s thought about it carefully. He tidied the room. He expected us to search it.

Leo opened the drawer, surprised to see his own reflection staring back up at him. It was an ornate mirror, larger than the portrait of Lenin, a wall mirror. He held it up, examining it. The mirror was heavy, an antique, backed with silver, a pattern engraved around the edge. He looked around the room.

—Where did this come from?

Nara pointed to the image of Lenin:

—Hasn’t he swapped the mirror for Lenin?

—No, this is much smaller than the picture that previously hung here.

Leo peered at the surface: the edges were covered with fingerprints.

—The mirror has been handled a lot.

Switching into Russian, he addressed the guard standing at the door.

—Do you know where this mirror came from?

The guard shook his head. Leo asked:

—Where’s the bathroom?

Carrying the mirror under his arm, Leo and Nara followed the guard to the bathroom, a gloomy room badly damaged by fighting: the windows were broken, and replaced with temporary boards. The mirrors had been shattered.

—There’s no mirror here.

Leo addressed the guard again.

—How do you shave?

—I don’t live here.

Leo hurried out of the room, back into the hall, examining the different shadows on the walls. He found a likely one. He hung the mirror: it was the same size, returned to its original place. He glanced at Nara.

—He took one of the few undamaged mirrors in the building and kept it in his room.

Nara moved closer, slowly understanding the process she was witnessing, excited by the significance of the discovery.

—The officer was concerned about his appearance?

—And what does that mean?

—He was vain?

—He met a woman.