Lucas : Kabul, Afghanistan - April 1857

Captain Lucas North stretched his long legs and exhaled a puff from his hookah, affecting a disinterest in the chatter around him. Dressed as he was, in native costume, his presence attracted no particular attention and he felt quite at home in this setting.

He had grown up in Rawalpindi, some two hundred miles to the East of the city, across the Indian border.

His father had been an Anglican missionary and had been active until his death some ten years ago, and his mother the daughter of a Somerset Baronet. Though she fervently supported her husband's work, the climate had been too harsh for his delicate mother, who had not survived even twelve months after his birth. His father had remarried when he was four to the daughter of a wealthy Punjabi trader he had recently converted and he had come to love his pretty dark eyed stepmother, as if she were his own mother. A year later his younger brother Henry had been born, then his sister Ava and finally another brother Janif.

Rawalpindi, was one of the oldest inhabited cities in Northern India – so old in fact that the nearby town of Taxila could claim to have been home to a university for over 2,000 years old – having been founded in the fifth century BC. In his mind Rawalpindi would forever be a bustling cosmolitan city. In the winter the climate was pleasant but the summer months were unbearably warm and the only respite from the hot wind which blew through the streets was to be found in the cool of the covered garden courtyard where he and his brothers had retreated to splash about in the mosaic lined pool which stood in its centre.

At the age of thirteen, he had been sent to England to attend boarding school and had then enrolled in a military academy before returning to the east at the age of 21. At that time British and Russian forces were engaged in a conflict in Afghanistan and his knowledge of the east had quickly meant that he had been deployed to gather military intelligence. During his time under cover he had become fluent in Russian and had gained a fair command of both Pastho and Dari.

After two years in Afghanistan he had moved east to India and had been stationed in Delhi. His talent and intelligence had seen him promoted through the ranks to reach the rank of Captain. He had spent ten years in India and then, four years ago, war had broken out once more with the Russians, this time in the Crimea.

What had begun as a petty argument over who had access to the Holy lands had escalated into a full scale conflict in which the British and the French had aimed to check Russian expansion into the Middle East. After several months of fighting things had quickly deteriorated into chaos – the supplies and medical facilities needed to support the troops were completely lacking and the result was that many young soldiers lost their lives. The most infamous example of the military ineptness which characterised the Crimea was the infamous Charge of the Light Brigade, in which a British cavalry regiment had been called to charge against Russian lines. They were hopelessly outnumbered and had been mercilessly mowed down by Russian artillery.

Lucas had seen eighteen months service in the Crimea, again working under cover to gather information on Russian movements, before being captured at Sevastapol and imprisoned by the Russians. He preferred to forget the year he had spent in a Russian camp, and instead remember Elizabeta, his Russian bride. He had married her five months before being imprisoned, but once he had been released from prison he had been devastated to learn that she had taken ill during an outbreak of typhus and had died some six months earlier.

Stricken with grief he had thrown himself into his work, taking up the offer to work undercover in Afghanistan in order to keep watch on Russian ambitions. India was far too great a prize for the British to permit the Russians to extend their influence ever eastwards and as the war had not settled that question, his job was to see that that did not occur.

His skin tanned from the sun and dressed in native costume, he found he had little trouble passing for a local Pasthun. The tall light skinned race that inhabited the hills and plains of Afghanistan and the north west corner of India were noted for their distinctive green and blue eyes. From his youth in Rawalpindi he found it easy to copy the gestures of the Pasthun peoples and affect their mannerisms.

Though it was not yet ten o'clock in the morning, it was already oppressively hot, and he put the hookah down and ordered a glass of tea.

At a neighbouring table, one of the occupants engaged him in conversation about the weather, noting that the farmers would rejoice if only Allah would see fit to bring rain.

Lucas nodded, "Rain would be a blessing, if Allah would indulge us - Peace be upon him," he added, bowing his head.

The Afghans he found a friendly, hospitable people, generous to a fault with guests, but intensely defensive of their families honour and their livelihood. Life here was harsh and the people had to be tough to survive in the extremes the climate presented.

After a few minutes conversation he stood up, nodding politely to his neighbours and made his way to the door, making a note that there was nothing yet to concern him to file in a report.

Perhaps, after the tumult of the past four years, here in Afghanistan he would find himself finally able to relax.