Since returning from the arrest of the deserting officer, Leo had smoked for several hours in an attempt to suppress an almost unbearable sense of restlessness. Listening to the plans hatched by the two lovers hoping to embark on an impossible journey reminded him not only of his own thwarted ambitions to reach New York but also the journeys he’d made with Raisa, across the Soviet Union and into Budapest. Witnessing their determination, misguided though it was, he was forced to ask whether he’d abandoned the dream of solving Raisa’s murder. He reminded himself of the conditions he’d been placed under. He could not leave Afghanistan without bringing ruin to his daughters back home in Moscow. Anyway, the advice he’d offered to Fyodor and Ara had been the truth: to reach Pakistan posed insurmountable difficulties. The roads were controlled by Soviet forces: the air was patrolled by fighters and helicopters, while the mountains and footpaths were governed by the Afghan insurgents, who’d kill a Soviet on sight, deserter or not. In the end, the couple hadn’t even made it out f Kabul. Yet there was something noble about their failure. He could not deny the romanticism of such a venture. He thought of Elena: it was the kind of plot she might have become embroiled in had she been born here in Kabul.

Gradually, in the midst of these thoughts, he became aware of a noise, an urgent knocking on the door. He didn’t lower his pipe, lying sprawled on his bed – curious as to whether the noise was real or imagined. He had no intention of getting up, content to wait and see. There was a second attempt, even more frantic this time, accompanied by a cry. It was a woman’s voice. Leo sucked deeply on his pipe and remained perfectly still, holding the precious smoke in his lungs. He made no move to stand, or open the door, passive and motionless. The voice called out his name:

—Leo Demidov!

He exhaled, regarding the opium-smoke shapes, before scratching the side of his unshaven face and deciding the woman was real, rather than imagined. Half-heartedly he called out:

—The door is unlocked.

His voice was barely a whisper. And she hadn’t heard. She knocked again. It took an enormous effort for him to raise his voice:

—The door is unlocked.

The door flung open and a woman caked in mud and dirt ran in. She shut the door, locking it, before falling to the floor in a weeping heap. Hair was strewn across her face, ragged and wild, she looked up at Leo. It was Nara Mir: his most promising student.