A safe distance from the village, Captain Vashchenko paused, catching his breath. He was pale, dizzy. The bandage he’d ripped for his wound was soaked through and blood was running into his hand. There seemed to be no one in close pursuit and he was confident he could make it to the jeeps. He turned back, regarding the village of Sau. There was every possibility the fighters would kill Nara Mir and Leo Demidov. But the miracle girl was still alive. The failed attempt on her life supported the notion that she was under divine protection, and proof the Soviets would lose the war. Vashchenko had made matters worse. Five soldiers were dead: their bodies would be picked upon like carrion, their uniforms turned into trophies, their weapons paraded – bullets that failed to kill a young girl.

There was a radio transceiver in the vehicle. He would call for air strikes across the entire mountain face. He would turn these lush green hills smouldering black. He would flatten every house. With this thought, the cain began to feel a little better.

Nangarhar Province

Rodat District - 15 Kilometres South of Jalalabad

3100 Metres above Sea Level - Next Day

Though Leo had not been executed, he was far from being safe. Coiled on the cave floor, Leo clasped his stomach. The cramps came in waves. His need for opium felt as desperate as being underwater, unable to breathe – how could he deny his body’s impulse to surface? Opium was as natural to him as air to his lungs. His body no longer understood how to function without the drug, physically and psychologically. He’d forgotten how an ordinary person exists hour by hour, how they cope with their frustrations and anxieties. Through narcotics, he’d banished pain and suppressed grief. For seven opium summers he had no needs other than the smoke inhaled into his lungs at the end of every day, achieving a state of numbness, necessary if he was not to attempt something foolhardy. He’d abandoned his grand plans, his journey to America, and put aside the ambition that he might one day find the man who murdered his wife. Though he might not have admitted as much, pretending he was merely delaying the journey, the truth was that he’d dropped the investigation, living solely by the clock of his addiction and the daily routine of oblivion. Without the drug the stark reality of his failure returned. He had not achieved the one thing that mattered most – justice for Raisa – the only thing he could offer her. Instead, he was a grown man who’d made an infant of himself, creating an opium womb.