Using his knee, he shook the table, toppling one of the cola bottles to the stone floor. As it smashed and as the eyes of the men were drawn to the noise, he bolted forward, grabbing a dirty knife from the table and plunging it into the captain’s neck. With the aid of the distraction and his senses no longer dulled by opium, his speed was reasonable and Vashchenko failed to block the attack. The knife entered the captain’s throat. The two Afghan operatives looked down in horror, having discounted Leo as a threat. Fahad reacted first, drawing his gun and killing the Afghan officers. Fahad did not execute Vashchenko, leaving him seated. Leo grabbed the captain’s hands, pinning them down. Even mortally injured, the man was incredibly strong and tried to pull free. Leo didth="1equo;t let him move, holding his hands tight. The captain’s legs kicked, thrashed, he leant forward, almost touching Leo’s face. Finally he weakened, his eyes closing, but Leo still did not let go, pinning his hands down long after the captain had stopped moving.

Leo released Vashchenko and allowed him to drop to the floor. He stood up and remarked:

—He would never have allowed me to live. He would never have allowed himself to be captured. There was no compromise to be made.

It had been a long time since Leo had killed a man. Still seated, Greene edged his smart shoes away from the blood pooling on the ground, remarking:

—The Soviets have gone to extreme lengths to silence you. You’re worth more to them than I thought.

Salaam peered at the bodies. He knelt down, searching the captain’s pockets. Leo whispered to Greene:

— Will we be given asylum? Will you support my request? Greene considered.

—Yes.

***

Leo slowly climbed the stairs, confused whether he should be pleased or apprehensive. He could not be sure his defection would remain a secret. However, at long last, he had a passage to America and no matter what, Zabi and Nara would have a new home. With this thought, he hurried up the stairs, two steps at a time. At the top-floor corridor he ran down to the room, throwing open the door. The curtains were drawn back and a pale orange glow from the street spread across the bed linen. Nara and Zabi were nowhere to be seen. He entered the room, moving around the bed, finding them seated, cross-legged on the floor, hidden in the corner. He sat down beside them, unable to articulate what had taken place downstairs – that there was the chance of a new home. Despite his smile, he saw both Nara and Zabi staring at his hands. In his haste, he’d forgotten to wash them. They were smeared with blood. He considered putting them behind his back. Perhaps it was better that they’d seen. Bloody hands were the price he’d paid for their freedom.

SIX MONTHS LATER

Manhattan