A guard opened the steel door. Borovik entered, Leo followed behind. Her parents were seated on two chairs, side by side. Her mother was not wearing the chador, her face exposed. Ashamed, she remained stooped, hunched over, meeting no one’s eye, staring at the patch of stone floor between her feet. In contrast, her father’s hands were on his knees, head held high. Leo didn’t need to ask any questions. There could be no doubt that this man had either directly sanctioned or been a party to the plans to murder his daughter. Borovik was also right about the man’s pride. It bristled around him.

Borovik ushered the Afghan interpreter out of the room. There was no need for him with Leo present. The move surprised Nara’s father but he remained silent, waiting for them to speak. At this point Nara entered the cell, pausing by the door, before stepping into the room, hands awkwardly by her sides. Staged like amateur theatre, it was nonetheless an effective device. Her father regarded her uniform: his eyes drilled into the details of her clothes, the colours, the symbols of the new regime. From his reaction he already knew she worked for the government. He regained control of his expression, easing back into his seat.

Borovik leaned close to Leo.

—Ask him if he’s ashamed that he ordered an attack on his daughter.

Leo translated the question. Before the father could answer, Nara stepped forward.

—Father, please let me help you. There has been a mistake. I’m here to explain that you had nothing to do with the attacks. If you cooperate we can be out of here within hours.

A threat of violence could not have been as tormenting to him as this offer of help. Gasping at his daughter’s naivety, the father said:

—You will help me?

—Father, the nature of my employment must be a shock for you.

She continued, deluded, narrating the fantasy of his innocence, a fiction constructed in the drive to the prison.

—We have our differences. But I know what these men cannot know. There is love between us. I remember holding your hand. You loved me as a child. As an adult, it has not been easy. I wanted to tell you about my recruitment. Consider this, you work for the government. You design buildings. I work for the government too. I will teach in universities, perhaps some of the buildings you helped create.

Her father shook his head, embarrassed by his daughter’s show of emotion and talk of love. He found it humiliating and silenced her:

—We found your boos, your political manifestos and your notes on how to identify recruits for government work and those who might be a threat. Were you going to inform on us? One day you would, if we had said the wrong thing or criticized the invaders.

—No, never, I want to help you.