Next Day

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.

Like a nervous child, Leo hastily listed the points of interest:

—I know specifics, details regarding the equipment being used, tanks, helicopters, anything that is being used or about to be brought in. I know the deployment patterns of the 40th Army. I can tell you the projected mortality rate before the invasion and how that number has been revised since the invasion. I can do the same with the financial costs. I know the names of most of the senior officers and I know their sentiments on the war. I know our limits, how many soldiers we can afford to lose, how much money we’re prepared to spend. I can provide information so that you could accurately estimate the point at which the Soviet Union would have no choice but to retreat.

Greene flicked his cigarette on the carpet, watching to see it burn, before stubbing it out under his shoe.

—Let me explain the situation from our point of view. We’re not supposed to be involved in this war.

Salaam interjected:

—Pakistan is also not supposed to be involved in this war. The remark caused Greene to raise an eyebrow, as if the sentiment could only have been uttered ironically. He continued:

—In the United States there is no public appetite for becoming embroiled in this conflict. If we grant you asylum we risk opening a major rift with the Soviets, sparking a political fight the outcome of which we might not be able to control. They would demand your return. We would say no. And so on: who knows where it would end up?

Leo was quick to correct the assumption.

—I agree. It is essential the Soviets don’t find out about my defection. And there is no reason for them to know. They surely believe I was killed in bombing raids. The chances of me making it to Pakistan are slight, and I would never have managed it without Fahad’s help. The Soviets would never have imagined that the mujahedin would’ve aided me. Fahad could even claim tt they have me hostage and after a certain period of time announce that they’ve executed me.

Leo had not mentioned his daughters in Moscow, not wishing to complicate the issue further. Greene inhaled again, appearing to appreciate the degree of consideration that Leo had given the plan.

—Your suggestion is smart. Of course we wouldn’t announce your defection but there is a chance that they will find out all the same.

Leo waited, sensing that Greene was about to make his position clear.

—I’m sure you have much information that would interest us. I have a different proposition. We could debrief you here, pay you a sum of money—

—That’s no good. We need a new home, a new country. We would be found here, we would be hunted down and we would be killed.

Abdur Salaam glanced at Marcus Greene. The men were working in concert to obtain the information while giving nothing in return. Greene shrugged.

—If the United States were committed to involvement in the conflict, even through covert means, then yes, you would be an asset. The United States is not committed. The United States is undecided. And for that reason I am afraid to say we cannot accept you.