Allure of Deceit (2 page)

Leaving the podium, Annie cast a sheepish look in Lydia's direction. The board's chair would not want to hear excuses. The security team would be disciplined the next day. Some members would lose their jobs.

Paul was nauseated and could not hide his disgust. He left the ballroom, ready to return to Asia. He could not bear to hear others talking about Michael, especially Annie. She had never even met the tech wizard.

GlobalConnect was not a democracy. Rather than define, identify, and emphasize global problems and leading solutions, the board relied on a scattershot approach, spreading resources too far and forcing programs to compete. Grant applicants and policymakers played games, and staff wasted Michael's money, all weakening GlobalConnect's sense of purpose. Paul didn't blame Lydia. She cared, but she wasn't tough enough to see how people manipulated the grant process. He hated to admit it, but Michael's wife might have been right. The executive staff was too controlling, yet too timid to make decisive, radical plans to overhaul all of society.

Lydia had lost her way.

The hostess of the charitable ball, Lydia Sendry, observed the crowd with a mix of pleasure, calculation, and regret. Mostly regret. Ever lurking in the back of her mind was escape, the desire to return home to Michigan and her memories of Michael. She kept a low profile at such public events. Her simple dress in forest green was indistinguishable among the black tuxedos. Near seventy years of age, she pretended to be feeble, using a walker in public, even though it was shoved into a closet at home. She encouraged vague rumors about ill health.

Her table was positioned so she could survey the entire room and guest exchanges. In turn, guests constantly glanced Lydia's way, checking for reactions from the woman who controlled the board, the policies, and the huge and unending flow of funding.

Annie's blunt reminders about democracy were true but troubling.

The foundation honoring her son was vast. Although relatively new, it operated in more than thirty developing nations and could be counted on to distribute at least $400 million annually for a mix of organizations. GlobalConnect was influential, yet it limited support to some fifty groups per year. Competition was intense.

Lydia's thoughts could not help but drift to Michael. He would have enjoyed the party, but not judging the passions of others. She certainly did not relish the role. She despised controlling the money inherited after the death of her only son.

Such an inheritance was unnatural. The young man had started his own tech company in his early twenties, piggybacking on German research and developing an affordable system that allowed Internet data to travel with light waves. The system, low-cost and fast, required no elaborate infrastructure. For the first time, communities could set up their own intranet around a chain of solar-powered lighting.

As with any revolutionary innovation, the system destroyed entire industries, upending the world's most powerful cable, satellite, and telecommunications companies. The traditionalists resisted the new technology. So, Michael had bypassed American and European markets, sending startup teams to the least developed countries in the world. His firm, Photizonet, went public six years later, and he became the richest man in the world.

Michael married his college sweetheart. No one had known that Rose, his young wife, was pregnant as the couple set off for a honeymoon in India, a brief stay at the Oberoi Amarvilas in Agra before heading off to hike in Nagarkot. A prep meeting was organized for Rose to discuss preferences on hiking routes and guides. At the last minute, Michael decided to skip a company conference call and accompany his wife to the luncheon meeting.

As the couple headed into the restaurant, a young man in neat Western attire shouted a greeting before he tossed a small package their way. Michael stepped in front of his wife and caught the explosive device.

Indian news media had quickly identified the victims, and Lydia learned about the deaths from news shows the next morning. The corporation contacted her, explaining how they had already dispatched her son's longtime friend, employee, and best man to Agra. Paul Reichart was not a tech wizard. Instead, he had worked for Photizonet's cultural development department, organizing teams that profiled and prepared communities throughout Asia before arranging installations. Lydia would never forget the distraught call from Paul—his voice broken, as he prepared to accompany the remains home. Representing the family, Paul had acted as an intermediary with the Indian police.

Police quickly tracked the attacker, who had distinctive scars from burns on one side of his face. A large, ornate dagger was tucked inside the man's belt, and police killed him on the spot. Later, the officers determined that the troubled man was from northern Helmand Province, Afghanistan, and had been living in India illegally. The drifter had little education and no work experience. All that was known was that he had described himself as an orphan, the son of house servants who had died years earlier in a horrific fire.

The thirty-year-old inventor, his wife, and their unborn child had died less than a week after the marriage. Only their attorney knew about the inkling plan for a foundation.

The day after the couple's funeral, Michael's attorney had met with Lydia. Her son had reached out to Henry Strohn while in graduate school. The gruff man had advised Michael throughout the tech startup and then served as his personal attorney. Reading from neat notes, Henry quickly described his last meeting with the couple and the numerous documents signed, including the couple's wills and a living trust. Toward the end of the meeting, Michael mentioned an intention to start a charitable trust or foundation. He asked Henry to investigate several key areas—family planning, education, environmental protection, human rights, and citizenship as related to curtailing poverty.

“The discussion was brief,” Henry had admitted. He turned to a pile of folders and extracted a piece of notebook paper. “This was the last instruction I received from your son.”

Lydia had held the paper, dazed, as Henry continued. As far as he knew, no one else had known about the couple's plans. The primary beneficiaries of their living trust, Michael and Rose, were dead. “Children, yet unnamed, of Michael and Rose Sendry” were listed as a secondary beneficiary along with Lydia.

She was sole heir to her son's majority share in the corporation and his wealth, as well as the notion of a foundation—with little guidance other than a handwritten mission statement scrawled on what looked like a piece of scrap paper.

“As far as we can determine, that paper is all that exists regarding the foundation,” Henry had explained. No board of directors had been appointed, no funds designated or distributed. Official forms had not been signed or filed. “We began research and were waiting for a final review from your son. From the company's point of view, the statement and plans are vague.” Henry paused. He asked if Lydia had known anything about Michael's plans to start a foundation with his share of Photizonet profits.

She shook her head. “Not a clue. Though I'm not surprised. He was so generous.”

“And frugal,” Henry added. He didn't have to tell Lydia. Michael had adored Rose for sharing his enthusiasm to live far below their means. The two had shopped at thrift stores and farmers' markets. He took pride at the high mileage on his 2005 Corolla, and she enjoyed growing vegetables and cooking for friends at home. “Too frugal. Their bungalow in Redwood City? No security. Three bedrooms, one and half baths.”

“They were so happy there.” Tears burned her eyes. “There are no other beneficiaries on the trust? And what about Rose's parents?”

“Unlike the foundation, the intentions for the living trust are clear. As you know, Michael rejected a prenuptial agreement, refusing to accept my advice or Rose's, for that matter. He also wanted to list her parents as a beneficiary, but Rose was firm. She asked that he leave her parents out of the trust for the time being until the two sides of the family got to know each other better.”

Every sentence pointed to the couple's desire to live simply and practice generosity with their wealth.

“Lydia, I must say something before we go on.” Henry took the scrap from her hands and placed it on the desk between them. “As far as I can tell, you and perhaps Rose's parents are the only candidates with reason to resist this last-minute addition in their estate plans.”

Lydia had felt like a fool for not immediately understanding. Of course, a proposed foundation locked up Michael's vast fortune.

“But you're his mother,” he had continued in his soft, businesslike way. “He could make colleagues laugh with his stories about thrifty parents, but he trusted your good sense implicitly. He would trust your instincts.” He pointed to the note. “It's your decision whether we proceed on a foundation.”

He advised there was no need for her to hurry. “I suspect that no one else knows about this piece of paper. And even if they do, you don't need to act. The courts would agree. The foundation was proposed, not finalized. Or, we can file the paperwork for a foundation.”

Lydia remembered staring at the paper with its ragged edge and re-reading the words. The writing was tight, unevenly spaced, like a young boy's work in elementary school. There was no doubt that the crooked writing belonged to her son. She asked if Michael had been alone when he handed over the paper. Henry shook his head.

“Rose was in the room. He drafted it himself and handed it over to me.” The attorney looked down at his hands. “I can only guess, but I would presume they had talked about this plan beforehand.”

Lydia had no more questions. Ignoring a final wish from her son was unthinkable. She told Henry to continue work on the foundation, relying on the mission statement supplied by her son.

He nodded. “You are the best judge of Michael's wishes. You can shape the foundation and its rules to guide future leaders.”

A hands-off approach was so tempting and would have been the healthiest option for her. She could live her life, trust others to make decisions, and walk away from the headaches associated with so much money.

Instead, Lydia took active control from the start. She based the foundation in Michigan. She wanted a small board of directors and a long list of strict rules. She asked that the announcement be delayed until absolutely necessary. When news of GlobalConnect was released, the reaction was unanimous surprise. Apparently, Michael and Rose had not confided in any friends or colleagues at work.

Lydia had her reasons for tight control. She was sure, even months later, that Michael's death was not a random act of terrorism. She spent a small fortune on investigations of hotel staff in India, Photizonet staff and competitors, the tourist agency, and the guides. Early on, the investigation covered Rose's family as well as the couple's closest friends, including Henry Strohn and Paul Reichart. Photizonet work had required frequent travel by employees to Asia, but the investigators unearthed no connections with the killer. Young people in the region could be easily tricked into carrying such packages for a small fee. Anyone might have co-opted the man to toss the package at the couple.

The list of those with reason to envy Michael was endless. His innovations had disrupted the tech world. But leads dwindled. Investigators could not determine whether a stranger had instigated the attack or the young man had acted on his own.

The investigators warned that her son may not have been the target.

Her desire for answers was stronger than ever, but Lydia kept the obsession to herself. She used the foundation to observe and test interactions of staff, critics, Photizonet colleagues, and grant recipients. GlobalConnect was her best tool for asking questions, maybe learning the reasons behind the senseless deaths of her son and daughter-in-law.

Lydia could not rest. She no longer trusted her judgment about others' motivations. She constantly pored over possible reasons why anyone might want to harm Michael.

A hand touched her shoulder, interrupting the memories. Annie gently asked about resuming the parade of grant applicants, and Lydia nodded. Annie was a strict organizer, scheduling every minute of Lydia's time at such events. Conversations with the potential grant recipients typically lasted about ten minutes. If Lydia fingered the pearl clip holding her hair back, she needed more time. If she sipped her drink, grapefruit juice with a touch of salt, an aide stepped in to halt the meeting.

More often than not, Lydia cut the meetings short.

“It's been the most delightful evening,” said the director of a powerful health nonprofit, as he bowed and kissed her hand. One of Annie's assistants hovered nearby, timing the conversation. The executive thanked her for a recent check and outlined new initiatives as she sipped the grapefruit juice.

Next was the director of a small group that ran natural-family-planning programs in rural Texas. Pearl Hanson was a Texas conservative, practical and stubborn. Despite limited tools and her brash ways, her program had raised awareness about the economic benefits of small families. The link between wealth and family planning prompted even devout women to pursue methods of contraception on their own. Pearl understood and didn't cast blame.