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: