Eli entered the cell, regarding the man seated on the chair. His back was bandaged: the bullet had entered his right shoulder. There was an untouched plate of food in front of him. His face was pale from loss of blood. A blanket had been placed over his shoulders. Eli did not condone torture. His only concern was preserving the integrity of the border and in so doing, his own career. With the newspaper cuttings and the photographs he sat down in front of the man, holding the papers under the man’s line of vision. They brought him to life. Eli asked:

—What is your name?

The man did not respond. Eli pointed out:

—You face execution. It is in your interest to talk to us.

—What is the importance of this?

The prisoner reached out and grabbed hold of the papers – his fingers clamped tight around the scraps. Eli sensed that if he didn’t let go the man would rip them from his hands. Curious, he released his grip and watched the man gather the papers together in front of him, treating them with as much reverence as a treasure map.

SEVEN YEARS LATER

Greater Province of Kabul

Lake Qargha - 9 Kilometres West of Kabul

22 March 1980

With his back to Kabul, Leo stepped into the lake fully clothed, plunging up to his knees and continuing to walk, his khaki trousers bleeding Saturn-rings of red dust onto the water. In front of him the snow-capped teeth of the Koh-e-Qrough mountain range bit into a pale blue sky. The spring sun was bright but not yet strong enough to temper the freezing river waters flush with mountain snowmelt. He knew the lake should feel cold as he raked his fingers through the emerald-green surface yet as the water level rose and flowed over the hip of his trousers he felt wonderfully warm. Were he to trust his body he would’ve sworn that these were tropical waters as pleasant as the sun on his cracked, tanned skin. He didn’t raise his arms, allowing them to sink into the lake, dragging behind him as he walked. Soon the water was up to his shoulders – he was on the cusp of the shallows, his feet arriving at the ledge where the depth increased sharply. Another step and he’d sink beneath the surface, the stones in his pockets weighing him down, easing him to the bottom where he’d come to rest, seated on the silt bed. At the borderline he waited, the water lapping at his top lip, close to his nose, the surface trembling with each slow breath.