Allure of Deceit (22 page)

The soldier asked how the women responded.

Ahmed again glanced at Parsaa, who answered. “They were disappointed, but not surprised.”

“Did you exchange harsh words?”

Parsaa was calm, shaking his head.

“Did you hear them quarrel?”

“No,” Parsaa said, adding, “Except a scolding for their pilot.”

“Ah,” the man said to his colleagues. “The foreigners enjoy quarreling among themselves.” He asked more questions, for descriptions of the people who entered the village, how long they stayed. Did they carry packs or arms? Did they seem in a hurry or worried? Ahmed offered brief responses.

The lead soldier then turned and headed toward the wall overlooking the road leading to Laashekoh, the lush river valley and mountains beyond. The view did not draw his gaze though, and he glanced down at the old trail leading to the village, the only access to Laashekoh.

His men kept their eyes on the villagers and their hands on the M16s.

“So empty here,” the soldier concluded. He turned his back to the scene and leaned against the wall. “The reports advised this is not an easy place to reach, and they were right. Every mountain should have a road.”

“We were surprised the foreign workers found us,” Parsaa conceded.

“Did they talk about where they were headed next?”

The Laashekoh men shook their heads. They would not have divulged the location had they known.

The man sighed, pulled binoculars from his pack, and scanned the view quickly. “It's good that you did not try to lie to us. We saw where the helicopter landed below. Which direction did the copter head after takeoff?”

Parsaa stepped forward and brushed Ahmed's arm, before heading to the wall and standing next to the soldier. Facing the view, he pointed westward toward a tight set of mountains. “That way.”

The soldier glanced at Ahmed for his reaction, but Parsaa trusted his friend and did not turn. Yes, the helicopter had initially started off in that direction, before swerving away from the mountains toward the canyon in the opposite direction. Perhaps Parsaa could eliminate a nuisance for Zahira.

The soldier aimed the binoculars in that direction and then lowered them, speaking softly so only Parsaa could hear. “These women are mischief-makers. They invent problems and claim they are here to fix them. Others have complained, and we were looking for them before they went missing.” The man kicked at the dirt. “Your village could help with the search. But it could be easier for all of us if they are just found dead.”

He paused. “Let me ask again, was there any trouble here?”

Parsaa stared a long moment before shaking his head.

The leader signaled for the other three men to head for the gate, and his voice took on a normal volume. “This was the last stop where people have reported seeing them. Enjoy the quiet while you can—and hope that the foreigners are found quickly.”

Parsaa did not ask why. Hundreds of searchers could arrive in the area, and a hunt for missing foreign women would disturb Laashekoh for days to come.

The Afghan soldiers walked away, but tension lingered in the village. Ahmed wanted to follow, but Parsaa said no. “We should not aggravate them.”

Instead, he ordered Ahmed to find out which boy had been on watch and missed the soldiers' arrival. He also ordered a team to ruin the stretch of field where the helicopter had landed. “Add rocks, dig holes, anything,” he said. “We do not need more visits from helicopters.”

Not long afterward, Ahmed returned with a long face. “Who was it?” Parsaa demanded.

“Your son. Saddiq.” The younger man defended the boy, suggesting that the soldiers were skilled and, if they had a vehicle, had left it far away. He didn't mind if Parsaa showed lenience. “I'm not sure any of us would have spotted them.”

Parsaa cut his friend off. “Excuses are dangerous.” And so were distractions, he thought to himself. He ordered Ahmed to let Saddiq rough up the smooth meadow. “Alone. He doesn't need help, and he works until it's done.”

Saddiq was grateful to work alone on another task, though helicopters would find other landing spots in the valley. He worked tirelessly to ruin the expanse for another landing, rolling boulders and moving dirt with the help of an old rug and a few planks. As the sun fell, the task was almost done and Saddiq longed for water to clear the dust from his face and mouth. Instead, he slipped away and ran to Thara's favorite place for finding grasses, avoiding the path and twisting his way among the brush. She knelt not far from the fallen tree where they had first talked. He scanned the meadow, giving a soft bird call. She looked around, but he couldn't wait and approached along the forest's edge with the meadow.

He placed his hands on her shoulders. “I want you to leave,” he explained. “The next time my father is traveling or distracted by a visitor. Just walk away.”

“But I'm not ready,” Thara said, alarmed. “And I cannot leave on my own.”

“And we cannot leave together.” He explained that she would have to hide and wait until he could safely escape, too.

She asked about the soldiers. “More may come to search for the missing women from the orphanage.”

“That's why we must leave before they arrive,” Saddiq said.

Thara swallowed. “If I leave, how long do you think the villagers would search?” She pointed out the search could end quickly if the others thought she had run away.

He shook his head, after already deciding that a long search could work to their advantage. “Better they assume you are lost. In the meantime, be sweet with Karimah so she does not think that you ran away.”

“But what if someone follows and stops you? I cannot travel alone, and I cannot leave with you.” She stepped away from him. Girls were warned all their lives about what would happen if they were caught alone with a boy. She didn't want to talk about how such a violation could bring the worst punishment for both of them.

“We won't travel together. Not exactly. We will leave separately, first you and then me. Then no one can say that we left the village together.”

Thara glanced to the side, nervous. “But where will we go?”

“To Kandahar—to get the baby.” Saddiq assured her that he had a plan and reviewed the steps for how they would reach the city. “And if it does not go smoothly, if we think you are in any trouble at all, we can find an orphanage, and they will take you in.”

Her eyes brightened, but only briefly. “We're not orphans,” she said, with doubt.

“Those women didn't seem to care.” He was stubborn. “We must leave as soon as possible. Before something happens to the baby.”

“Leila won't hand over her baby to us,” Thara warned. “She is perverse and will want something from us.”

He was pleased that Thara did not trust her sister.

“We will find a way to trick her into doing what we want.” Saddiq darted away, through the trees, returning to the valley below to finish carrying out his father's order—making it impossible for another helicopter to land near Laashekoh.

CHAPTER 14

Once Leila had dispensed with the child, she returned to another section of the prison reserved for single women, young and old. She shared a cell with six other women—and thankfully, no children.

The younger women were expected to assist the elders, but the burden often shifted the other way. Leila charmed her fellow inmates by cleaning the cell, brushing their hair, sharing small treats, and flattering them. She was popular, and the entire group, young and old, doted on her, making tea, washing her clothes, and saving morsels from their meals for her.

In turn, she listened and learned prison ways.

The judge had sentenced her to six years for her role in trafficking children from the province of Ghōr, over the border into Pakistan. The young Afghan judge had seemed more upset about the plan to cross the border illegally—calling such dealings with Pakistan an embarrassment for Afghanistan. He also pointed out that US military personnel had cited aggravating factors, describing the young woman as a high security risk. Her attorneys were livid about a lack of specific evidence, but Leila did not protest and practiced looking contrite, and that won her a place in a more comfortable prison than where her husband and mother had been sent.

Leila truly did not mind prison. She had come so close to being trapped in a rural village with a brute of a husband who would have soon tired of her. She deserved much better than a dreary life in ­Laashekoh. She enjoyed hearing stories of the other women, and liked the attention from attorneys and NGO staff.

She also became accustomed to the horrified reactions to her face. What startled people the most was how half of her face was left untouched by the acid attack. One side, still haunting in its beauty, was a powerful contrast to the injuries of the other side.

The guards and attorneys were surprised by how she thrived in prison. She made new friends as, twice a day, the guards escorted her and other prisoners to the outside yard, where a larger group walked and exchanged pleasantries. At first the lawyers forced her to attend classes, but after discovering that she was one of the better students, Leila began enjoying the lessons. Every morning, guards escorted her to a classroom, led by a young Afghan woman who taught reading and writing, and during the afternoon, Leila attended classes offered by NGO volunteers. One teacher praised Leila, calling her a natural storyteller, and asked if she could share one of her essays with an attorney for an international nonprofit on women's rights. Journalists, NGO representatives, researchers suddenly wanted to interview her. A medical team started planning reconstructive surgery for her ravaged face.

Before long, Leila had a team of attorneys, one for her criminal case, another to monitor and negotiate media contacts, and another to review contracts and handle her finances. The attorneys set up a fund for her legal fees and plastic surgery, and they assured her that she would not have to worry about an income after prison. They were already working on securing permission for her to leave the prison for surgery outside the country.

“You have attracted the attention of the major international charities,” one attorney confided. “They will support you as long as you are a model citizen. Be yourself, and do nothing to anger them.”

Leila complied. She was a model prisoner, never complaining, fighting, or defying orders from the guards. From the start she cooperated with cellmates and worked hard to get along. She volunteered for prison tasks, but since the foreign charities had taken an interest, she no longer had to do the most unpleasant prison tasks. Prison administrators wanted to avoid international condemnation for mistreating a young woman who, despite her crimes, had already suffered so much.

The lead attorney maintained that the maximum sentence for a first offense of trafficking children by a young adult, especially a woman who had no control over the operation, should have been no more than a year. “The children came to no harm,” the lawyer scoffed. And he added that if her husband had not antagonized the Americans, a small bribe would have most likely resulted in the entire group winning fast release onto the streets of Kandahar.

The attorneys suggested that she not hurry to schedule surgery or file an appeal to reduce the sentence. Not yet, because the excessive sentence, the scars, the pregnancy helped generate sympathy.

Leila no longer minded the curious stares. If anything, her scars drew attention to her plight, followed by more donations. Her story prompted others to rush forward and show her another way of life for women. Smart, earnest, and generous women visited her, explaining that they were from other countries, volunteering in the prison or writing articles for newspapers and magazines. Most were fascinated by her confidence despite the scars, and most asked the same concerned questions. Her attorneys had advised her to cooperate and anticipate repeated questions, warning her to keep her answers consistent and avoid the temptation to exaggerate. She answered all the questions asked of her, but she avoided lengthy explanations.

Short answers let her control the details of her life as needed. In truth, she didn't really want others to know her entire life story. Leila still remembered her surprise when one woman asked if she was angry about the attack on her face. The question was a turning point for Leila. She considered her answer and, smiling, eventually shook her head and offered a simple reply. “It meant that someone cared deeply about losing me. Allah is forgiving. And so am I.”

The woman wrote a long article in another language that attracted new attention. Leila's teacher showed her a copy on a computer and explained how thousands of readers had viewed the article and her photographs. Leila liked how others listened to her, transcribing her comments into notebooks and shepherding the words outside the prison walls. She would have never found such power in Laashekoh.

The article traveled around the world, and before long backtracked to Kandahar. Local religious authorities were troubled. “Such forgiveness is not her province,” one imam scolded the prison warden. He reminded the warden of a verse from the Koran: “Whoever associates anything with Allah, he devises indeed a great sin.”