Allure of Deceit (27 page)

He didn't know. Maybe he didn't like being thought of as so different from his parents and brothers. “One day we were all friends, and the next our parents banned us from talking with you. Maybe I'm terrified the same could happen to our family.”

“The villagers don't like us. Your parents will not mind if I leave Laashekoh. But they may not be happy about you bringing a baby to the village. You could be in trouble.”

He wasn't sure and didn't want to admit that his parents were unkind or unjust. Thara warned that she may know his parents better than he did. He caught his breath and wondered if the journey to Kandahar was a horrible idea. But Thara would refuse to go back, and he couldn't abandon her along the highway. He did not dare voice his worst fears aloud.

She propped herself up on one elbow. It was as if she could read his thoughts, and the fear was contagious. “You understand, Saddiq, I cannot go back,” she whispered. “They would never believe that we traveled to Kandahar separately. They would punish us. Severely.”

“No, not in Laashekoh . . . ,” he murmured.

She sighed, and he was fascinated by the graceful curve of her neck. “Maybe not for a boy. But for a girl, one who is Leila's sister? I cannot go back. We can find the baby, but we should try to stay in Kandahar. Maybe at an orphanage. Or we could find work and care for Leila's baby ourselves.”

That was not his plan. But Saddiq needed Thara to retrieve the infant and didn't argue. The baby was the only way of blunting his parents' anger. Surely, his parents could not be angry with their first and only grandson. He hoped the child looked more like Ali than Leila. How could his family blame Thara for alerting Saddiq to the child's existence?

Already Saddiq felt a connection with that child. And he missed his mother and father, but he had little doubt about how they might have responded upon hearing his plan. They would have lashed out at Thara and denied that the child belonged to Ali. Eventually his parents would listen and forgive all, but only after Saddiq returned to ­Laashekoh with the child.

Saddiq wanted Ali's baby. He would not allow his parents or the villagers to blame Thara. They did not trust her, and that alone would have stopped the rescue plan. It was easier to return home and explain—with an infant as proof.

CHAPTER 19

Leila's youngest attorney described himself as a victim advocate paid by a group of foreign charities reviewing her case. He had established a fund to collect donations specifically for her care. When he visited, he offered compliments and brought along soaps, creams, linens, and other gifts that made life in prison more comfortable.

He had studied in London and was an expert in international law, human rights, and gender discrimination—not that it mattered in Afghanistan courts. The country had no uniform legal system. His organization's goal was to demonstrate the inconsistencies and introduce international norms. “A
jirga
will review the appeal case and apply Islamic law as they see it. That interpretation controls your future.” If the decision did not go her way, he would organize a global campaign using media contacts, Facebook, and Twitter to shame and antagonize local authorities.

In the meantime, the legal team proceeded with their claims.

He advised Leila to maintain a low profile and avoid criticism from resentful inmates or local elders. He urged her to keep sharing her gifts, distributing expensive items among the guards and the smaller items among the inmates. She continued with her classes, including study of the Koran and Sharia law, searching for examples to apply to her case—especially examples that could be supported by witnesses. “The research is tedious,” he noted. “But it will bring great rewards.”

Leila still could not believe that donors from other countries cared so much for her. They had never met her. “You are sure that I'm not regarded as a common criminal?”

“They are moved by your story,” he insisted. “Your accusers will eventually forget, and there is plenty of money in your fund for bribes.” He negotiated all arrangements with the foreign charities. The foreign charities were generous but could also intimidate, pry, and control.

“That reminds me,” the attorney interrupted. “Afghan military investigators may want to talk to you about a recent incident. A helicopter carrying staff from a Kabul orphanage went missing. The last stop was in Laashekoh.”

“What can I tell them from prison?” she asked.

“They will ask if the villagers would harm such workers.”

She thought about the previous advice—not to lie. But the question was too tempting. She wondered if the orphanage had checked on her sisters.

“Parsaa, the leader.” She frowned and nodded slowly. “He does not appreciate outsiders. He would resent foreigners trying to remove children from the villages.”

“Is he dangerous?”

“He could be.” Her eyes were wide.

The attorney warned her not to answer questions without him present. Then he summarized the civil suit the legal team intended to file against Laashekoh, for her share of her father's property. He described that as a low priority, compared to the possibility of Leila working as a representative for one of the charities, earning a living, and having her own house in the city or abroad, with all the clothes and food she could ever want. “You will travel and tell your story. You could become famous.”

She laughed.

“This is serious,” he scolded gently. “These opportunities are not available to every woman in prison. You are fortunate in attracting their interest. Your only job is to be cooperative and friendly. But proceed with caution. You haven't told the other inmates much?”

She shook her head.

“Good. Too much talk gives the story away.”

He was uptight, and she was not foolish. The attorney could not possibly trust her.

“Most important, do not lie,” he ordered. “Liars are forgetful. Better to stop talking. The foreign charities prefer a neat, simple story.”

Falling silent, she thought about her tale presented to him and her teachers. She had not told her entire story. In the writing class, the teacher demonstrated how to select details for essays and use only words and descriptions that contributed to the overall theme, always showing and not telling.

Leila had a theme—she had been deprived and deserved more. She had a right to discard her worst memories of Laashekoh and withhold details. The teacher praised Leila's stories and essays and distributed them to others as models.

But then the young lawyer would not let her forget her biggest mistake. “Have you had contact with those caring for your child?”

Leila shrugged and shook her head.

“Surely they will arrange visits and I can see her?”

He would not admit that he wanted the caregivers to return the child to prison, and she was annoyed.

“Travel is difficult for my family, and they cannot bring it here.” Besides, she did not want to move to the section of the prison for children and mothers.

The attorney lowered his voice but did not disguise his revulsion. “Do not use the word ‘it' to refer to your daughter. She is your child, your little girl, your infant, a precious treasure.” He looked around to make sure no one listened. “That child is the center of your world. You are ready to risk all for her, you want a better life for her—such sentiments should be mentioned with every breath.”

Leila slumped against the wall and averted her eyes. She was bored, not ashamed.

“You do feel that way about your child,” he coached.

She lashed out. “You care more about her than you do about me!”

“That is not true. I represent you. Do you not realize your good fortune?”

She pressed her fingers to her forehead and wished she could erase the child from her life. “No one has asked about her. They don't need to know . . .”

“She was born in prison. The charities know about her. They will ask questions, and we must file truthful reports. The donors are not stupid. They have more money than either you and I can comprehend. But I can assure you, reactions in the United States and Britain to a mother showing no concern for her child would be similar to the reactions in Afghanistan. The foreigners can be more judgmental.”

Her eyes were hard, and she questioned him gently as if he were a child. “But not about a woman in prison?”

He shook his head, incredulous. “Some of the biggest American charities are supporting your case. The NGO workers do not care about your crimes. They want to help you. But they will question why the baby is not with you. You cannot toy with them.”

He expected her to lie, and she spoke the truth. “The child is noisy and needy. I prefer being alone.”

He sat quietly for a few moments, and she wondered if he would give up on her. It didn't matter. She wouldn't mind staying in prison. The surgery to repair her face would be nice, but not necessary.

The attorney didn't walk away. He waved his hand. “All right. I'll avoid mentioning the child. The charities will review your case and probably still arrange the surgery and ask for early release. They will continue to take care of linens, special food, other small comforts. But the big funding could come with an official post, going on tour, giving interviews and speeches, perhaps even writing a book—and those will require the child.”

She understood, but felt trapped.

“Donor interest may not last for long. The story can have no flaws.”

Leila despised him when he was polite. The attorney could turn compassion on and off the way the guards controlled the prison lights, and he had once mentioned that his team had no shortage of clients. The attorneys were intelligent, and she had to be careful with her words. The men recorded the sessions and questioned any discrepancies.

He stared at her and finally asked if Leila even knew the baby's location.

“She is in good hands,” she offered.

“So you know where she is at?” He was eager and pleased. “Tell me. I can retrieve her and find a place for her in the city. Your siblings can help. We can arrange photos and visits . . .”

“No!” Leila didn't want the attorney traveling anywhere near ­Laashekoh and asking questions. Her sisters, already married off or in servitude, could be bitter. She had to stall the questions. Zahira was clever, too, and she would find a way to keep the baby. “I'm not ready for this.”

The attorney sat back and studied Leila. “People gossip about a mother who hands her child to a community that was so cruel.”

Laashekoh was cruel, and Leila impulsively decided that moment to fight for the child if Zahira had not carried out her side of their bargain. And if Zahira had evicted and ruined Parsaa, Leila would resist the attorneys and forget the child. Leila longed to know, but dared not ask questions about Parsaa. He was a petty detail in the stories of her new life.

“She is not in Laashekoh!” Leila countered. “And it won't be as easy. The woman may refuse.”

His face softened. Portraying herself as victim was that easy.

“The law is on your side,” he promised. Afghanistan was an Islamic republic, he explained. Parents could not lose custody rights over a child regardless of their sins. Strangers could assist orphans, but the children still should know their ancestry and the identity of their parents. “The child will help you. Hold her again. You will change your mind.”

He only wanted his photographs, and Leila wanted him to forget the child. “Not yet,” she pleaded. “A good mother does not want to raise her child in prison.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Westerners would understand that sentiment. If all goes well, you will have more than enough money to hire someone to care for the child.” Then he pressed for the name of the woman who took the child. Leila was silent, and he asked if Leila trusted the woman.

She tilted her head, showing the unscarred side with a sweet smile. “I have lost all trust. It is better that way.” She dropped her head into her hands and let tears of frustration flow. The questions ended. The lawyer patted her gently on the shoulder and prepared to leave, but did not turn off the recording device. A tiny light still glowed red. “At least give me directions how to find this woman,” he said. “We should check on the child's welfare.”

The baby was a minor problem, Leila thought to herself, one she could handle. Why, the lawyer himself had mentioned the new flow of donations into her fund and how she might need to pay bribes. Any baby would do for the lawyer's photos. Plenty of mothers did not want their children. Leila had to find such a woman and ensure that her attorneys did not venture near Laashekoh.

CHAPTER 20

The morning traffic was heavy again, drivers hurrying for appointments and deliveries did not want to stop, let alone risk giving rides to runaways, radicals, or criminals. The drivers were also wary of packs that could hide explosives or weapons.

So Saddiq and Thara walked until they reached the next pull-off area. They hid their sling-packs among a pile of rocks off the side of the highway, then they watched for drivers to take a break. As the morning wore on, more drivers stopped to trade goods, chat, or nap.

Taking a deep breath, Saddiq approached one driver waiting with his wife and children, while Thara followed meekly behind. He was polite, explaining that he had finished an errand with a younger brother in a nearby village and needed a ride back to his parents' home in Kandahar.

The man looked Saddiq up and down before pointing to the back of his pickup truck. Wood rails attached to each side of the back allowed the man to carry more grain into the city. The children climbed into the back of the truck, arranging themselves on top of the sacks close to the rails. Saddiq did not lend Thara assistance in climbing up and remembered to call her Yar. He told her to sit behind him so she wouldn't tumble off the back of the truck, but spoke brusquely as if she were an annoying younger brother forced to tag along.