The Road from Kabul to Jalalabad

100 Kilometres East of Kabul - 25 Kilometres West of Jalalabad

Next Day

Leo sat in the back seat of the armoured UAZ beside Nara, the pair of them looking in opposite directions, their bodies angled away from each other. They’d been in this position for most of the long, uncomfortable journey, remaining silent and avoiding eye contact, staring at the view as their convoy had left Kabul, setting out along one of the most dangerous roads in the world, en route to Jalalabad. Forced into taking a diversion around the mountains, humbled before the Afghan landscape, the road passed through the Surobi Gorge where it twisted around sheer drops of several hundred metres, hillsides spotted with burnt-out carcasses of crashed vehicles. This was ambush territory, as lethal as the exit from the Salang Pass where insurgents hid in the mountains, picking off fuel convoys. A military officer was driving with the captain in the front beside him. There was a second vehicle in support with four more Soviet soldiers, a modest military convoy with radios ready to call for air support should it be required. Upon occasion the captain turned around and addressed some comment to Leo, his inscrutable, angular features providing no clue as to whether he guessed what had happened last night. It would be entirely consistent with Soviet protocol if the newly constructed apartment blocks were bugged.

Last night had been a mistake, an impulsive, hot-headed mistake of the most adolescent kind. They shouldn’t have kissed. Nara would surely agree. They’d been lonely, two lost souls in their bleak and empty new apartments. He couldn’t remember exactly how the kiss had happened – they’d been talking, standing close, examining the map spread on the table. She’d pointed out the village where her family came from, the village where she’d never been welcome. She’d shown Leo the route by which her grandfather used to smuggle fleeces into China, explaining how many of the smugglers died in the mountain passes. As though the thought had only just occurred to her, she realized that her grandfather would have known about the plot to kill her and probably approved of it. She became upset, explaining why. It was possible at this point Leo had touched her, merely to comfort her, or he’d brushed her hand by accident. He couldn’t be sure. Though the prelude was muddled in his mind, the kiss was clear, sexual desire for so long repressed by opium, or grief or both. For a moment he’d experienced an uncomplicated pleasure of the kind lost to him, an unstoppable urge, convinced nothing else made sense except following through on this impulse. Yet as he’d gripped her waist he’d felt her body trembling, overwhelmed by emotion, nervous and inexperienced. He’d pulled back. She’d stood before him, her mouth fractionally open as if trying to say something and unable to put together the words. They’d remained opposite each other for what seemed to be several minutes. It might only have been a matter of seconds before finally she’d walked out, quietly closing the door behind her.

After Nara had left Leo had smoked, filling his lungs with opium, his substitute for human contact.hausted, he rested his head against the bulletproof glass and closed his eyes.

***

Leo awoke to find the vehicle stationary. Nara wasn’t beside him. There was no one driving. He stepped out, opening the heavy armoured door. To his side of the road there were the blue-green waters of a lake. On the other side a steep mountain towered above them. They were at Darwanta Dam, not far from their destination, the village of Sokh Rot located in the valley on the other side of the mountain. The captain was standing with his officers, several of whom were smoking. Nara was by the water, gazing into it, separate from the others. Leo walked to her. Hesitant and conscious that the captain was watching them, he was unsure what to say. He touched the water, rippling her reflection.

—It doesn’t have to be a problem.

She didn’t say anything. Leo added:

—I take… responsibility. You were blameless in this.

He wanted to stop speaking but couldn’t help adding qualifications to each remark.

—It was a mistake, a mistake that we can put behind us. That’s how I feel.

She said nothing. Leo continued:

—The best thing would be to carry on as we were before. As though it hadn’t happened. We should concentrate on the task at hand. We’re close now.

He quickly qualified:

—I mean, we’re close to the village, rather than you and I, are close, because of last night. I’m not saying we can’t be close, in the future, as friends. I’d like to be your friend. If you want…

Leo wished the captain had requested helicopter transport, cutting the journey to minutes rather than hours. But considering the nature of the situation, an alleged massacre by two Hind helicopters, it would have been insensitive to enter the area by air, inflaming the outrage, or sparking panic. Leo did find it odd that the captain had insisted upon handling this problem himself. The intelligence that the massacre was energizing the insurgency in Kabul seemed vague. Equally vague was the notion that forgiveness could be bought with a development project, a medical centre, a school, a well or herds of plump livestock, or why this gesture would take up the captain’s time. Leo had packed nothing other than his pipe and a modest stash of opium, predicting that they would be forced to stay in nearby Jalalabad until the matter was concluded.

Nearing their destination, Captain Vashchenko became unusually talkative. He remarked:

—Do you want to know what my biggest disappointment has been since arriving in this country?

The question was rhetorical and he pressed ahead without waiting for, or wanting, an answer.

—During the invasion I was involved in the siege of the President’s palace, where the 40th Army is based. Where the defector was living – you went there.

Nara had understood enough to offer the name.

—Tapa-e-Tajbeg.

The captain nodded.

—The plan to capture the President. We expected the private guard to surrender. Unlike every other Afghan division they proved resilient. We had to fight our way in. It was the first time I’d ever fought in a royal palace. There was expensive crystal smashed across the floor. Chandeliers were falling from the ceilings. Paintings and works of art were shot to pieces.

The captain laughed.

—Imagine fighting in a museum, that’s what it was like. You’re taking cover behind antiques worth more than I’ll earn in a lifetime. Considering there was not a hope they were going to win, those guards fought bravely. I guess they knew they were going to die whatever happened. We secured the palace room by room. I wanted to be the one who caught or killed the President. What a prize that would’ve been! I made a guess he would be hiding in his bedroom. Doesn’t everyone retreat to the bedroom in times of danger? People associate it with safety, or the most appropriate room to die in. I was wrong. Another member of my team found the President in the bar. He had his own private bar. He was sitting on a chair, his back to the door, drinking a fifty-year-old Scotch. They shot him in the back, careful not to destroy the decanter. We drank the Scotch to celebrate. But I didn’t felt like celebrating. I’m still annoyed I picked the wrong room.

The captain shook his head in regret.

—I’ve never shot a dictator.

Leo remarked:

—You’ve installed another one. Perhaps you’ll get another chance.

To his surprise this amused the captain.

—If the time comes, I’ll be heading straight to his private bar. He turned around, an unexpressive man allowing himself a modest smirk.

—How about you translate that for her?

It was the last thing the captain had said before leaving Leo and Nara alone last night. He knew that they’d kissed. Leo had been right. The rooms had been bugged.