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Back A Shadow Intelligence
Chapters (58)
  1. Cover
  2. Also by Oliver Harris
  3. ONE
  4. TWO
  5. THREE
  6. FOUR
  7. FIVE
  8. SIX
  9. SEVEN
  10. EIGHT
  11. NINE
  12. TEN
  13. ELEVEN
  14. TWELVE
  15. THIRTEEN
  16. FOURTEEN
  17. FIFTEEN
  18. SIXTEEN
  19. SEVENTEEN
  20. EIGHTEEN
  21. NINETEEN
  22. TWENTY
  23. TWENTY-ONE
  24. TWENTY-TWO
  25. TWENTY-THREE
  26. TWENTY-FOUR
  27. TWENTY-FIVE
  28. TWENTY-SIX
  29. TWENTY-SEVEN
  30. TWENTY-EIGHT
  31. TWENTY-NINE
  32. THIRTY
  33. THIRTY-ONE
  34. THIRTY-TWO
  35. THIRTY-THREE
  36. THIRTY-FOUR
  37. THIRTY-FIVE
  38. THIRTY-SIX
  39. THIRTY-SEVEN
  40. THIRTY-EIGHT
  41. THIRTY-NINE
  42. FORTY
  43. FORTY-ONE
  44. FORTY-TWO
  45. FORTY-THREE
  46. FORTY-FOUR
  47. FORTY-FIVE
  48. FORTY-SIX
  49. FORTY-SEVEN
  50. FORTY-EIGHT
  51. FORTY-NINE
  52. FIFTY
  53. FIFTY-ONE
  54. FIFTY-TWO
  55. FIFTY-THREE
  56. FIFTY-FOUR
  57. FIFTY-FIVE
  58. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I was in the country ostensibly to learn who controlled its mountain passes. Someone in Vauxhall had identified this as important – China was using Tajikistan as a bridge to the Middle East – and I was happy to spend a couple of weeks based in the capital, Dushanbe, heading to the mountains when I could. On the way back to Dushanbe one time, I decided to return through the Yagnob valley to see if I could find the isolated village of Yagnob itself. People there were said to be descendants of people from the ancient kingdom of Samarkand. They spoke a language that hadn’t changed significantly in five thousand years. When they prayed, it wasn’t towards Mecca but in the direction of the highest mountain peak, the stepping stone to heaven.

I didn’t find any Yagnobi. I ended up deeper into the valley than I probably should have done, especially on a raw February night. When I bumped into a crew of Russian soldiers, I was low on food and water, and almost relieved to see them. I still had vodka and cigarettes, and this, combined with the fact that they were strung out on heroin, saved me from summary execution. They invited me to their camp.

The camp was a dirt-walled hole in the ground. I was led between sandbags into something resembling a First World War trench, where everyone was wasted and they were using fuel barrels to make moonshine. Reza sat among it all, serene, pupils constricted to pinpoints. I thought he was one of the locals, in his filthy kaftan and turban and beard. Then I heard his accent. He reminded me of pictures I’d seen of British special forces in Yemen in the 1940s, looking as if the desert wind had whittled them down to a foreign core.

He spent a long time assessing me, trying to establish which intelligence service was operating on his territory. We ate around a table with a carpet on top and embers burning beneath it. They melted snow for water. Every few mouthfuls someone would raise a toast and we’d knock back another fifty millilitres of vodka. When the Russians sank into oblivion, Reza proposed we borrow their motorbikes and go up the mountain. That was fine by me.

I remembered him howling into rain at the peak.

‘This is it, right? This is what I call getting off base.’