Allure of Deceit (37 page)

Cara placed the laptop on the table, directly in front of Lydia's chair, to narrow Paul's view of the room. He still did not know that another translator was listening nearby. Lydia pleaded with Paul to ask the Afghans to seek help, but Paul shook his head and explained that the compound was too far away from such care. Zahira, the only caregiver in the region, was dead.

Nothing could be done for him.

He wanted to confess. Thousands of miles away, Paul told his story, desperate for Lydia to understand and forgive.

“It was Rose,” Paul gasped. “All Rose.” Michael had refused to listen to advice not just from Paul but from other friends about convincing Rose to sign a prenuptial agreement. “Probably, you too, Lydia,” Paul said slowly. Lydia would not interrupt to argue or agree. Better to let him speak freely.

Michael was stubborn, insisting that the request indicated a lack of trust. He had chosen love over money and refused to let work, wealth, any wedge, come between him and Rose.

Yes, Paul had arranged for the bombing in India. The resentful can easily detect resentment in others. While working in Afghanistan, helping tech teams on cultural issues, he had talked with many marginalized young men bitter about the unending changes in their country. The mentally ill, abandoned by their families, with no prospects for jobs or marriage, could be easily manipulated. All Paul had to do was point out that Rose was an atheist who had once desecrated a copy of the Koran—and yet the Western woman continued to enjoy the rewards of travel and vast wealth. Paul casually passed along cash and copies of a newspaper photograph of Rose to three young men. The most desperate of the three, a young man by the name of Qasim, managed to travel to India.

The bomb had been intended for Rose alone. Qasim was advised on the time and place. But Michael had skipped a scheduled conference call from the company that day and died by his wife's side.

The foundation had been proposed a week before the wedding. The three friends sat on the porch, talking late into the night, staring at the stars, and finishing a bottle of sparkling wine. Michael had mentioned that he wanted to do something useful with his share of money from Photizonet, and Paul pointed out that his friend could start a foundation and that he would donate a good portion of his stock, too.

But Rose had immediately scoffed at the idea, suggesting that Michael could be a good citizen in other ways. Private foundations were ostentatious, arrogant displays of wealth, designed for tax avoidance. Corporate executives pillaged communities, constraining government spending, wresting control over social spending, while insinuating that governments could not do good work. For her, organized charity undermined democracy and reduced a community's power over deciding wants and needs. She was so opinionated, yet Michael adored her, listening to her and treating her as his only equal. Other employees had already expressed concern, wondering if Rose might try to take an active role in Photizonet. But not Paul. Never loyal Paul.

Until that night. He had been grateful for the late hour and cover of darkness on the bungalow's tiny porch. Otherwise, Michael would not have missed the hatred in his friend's eyes. Paul wept as he explained his regret to Lydia about what he called an accident and asked if she had known about the foundation.

She just shook her head, and Paul moaned. “Why did he keep that a secret? If only he had told me his plans . . .”

Paul was fading fast. At last, Lydia knew the reason for her son's death, though it didn't help. The murders were pointless.

She remembered how much the aid workers from the orphanage had aggravated him, and she reminded him that the two women had planned to apply for GlobalConnect funding. Paul insisted the crash was an accident.

His explanation seemed simple enough. The helicopter was overloaded. The pilot did not check and double-check the straps around the load. It didn't take much shifting for the helicopter with an uneven load to lose control. Paul's breathing was rapid and shallow, his eyes bright. “They . . . took . . . shortcuts.”

How did Paul know? Because the helicopter had taken off not far from the compound. As Paul spoke, his skin turned pale, shiny, and damp. His voice was rough and robotic.

She wondered why he knew so much more than the authorities about the women and why he didn't report the crash.

But she let him talk on. He begged her forgiveness and talked about wanting to protect the villages from intruders who wanted to boost their own reputations rather than abide by the wishes of ordinary Afghans. His voice faded to a whisper, and Parsaa moved close, trying to comfort Paul while holding more towels to the wound.

In the background, the clinic was in shambles. Paul groaned, but he had more to say to Lydia.

“You loved me like a mother. Michael loved me like a brother. I don't know why I did what I did.” His voice broke as he slumped in the chair.

“Please.” His voice broke. “For . . . give me.”

Lydia could not speak. She had nothing more to say to Paul Reichart.

Lydia called out for Kashif to join her on the porch. She no longer had reason to hide the translator. Kashif surprised Parsaa with a respectful greeting in perfect Dari.

The Afghans spoke back and forth, with quick translations for Lydia about how the blind husband had killed his wife in anger over a dead myna bird. Paul was unfortunate to be caught by stray bullets. Parsaa assured Lydia that others in the room were shaken but otherwise fine.

Lydia talked about reporting the crime. She was a witness, and wondered if Parsaa needed her to file a report. She did not mention Paul's confession to hiring a young Afghan who had killed Michael and Rose.

“It is over,” Parsaa said. Afghan judges would not punish a man over an honor killing, and outside authorities would add complications. Parsaa offered to bury Paul near Laashekoh, and she thanked him.

She also asked Kashif to advise Parsaa that a downed helicopter could be somewhere near the canyon. “You can notify the authorities before searchers arrive. Paul thought it was an accident, but there will be an investigation.”

Lydia then thanked Parsaa for helping Paul and offering candid thoughts on foreign charities. She asked him to contact her if the village had questions about other groups approaching the area.

He agreed, but was formal. The man would support a relationship that was reciprocal. She went on to ask if he would be willing to chat occasionally over Skype—advising GlobalConnect about how to approach other villages on needs for schools, healthcare, education, even computers.

Parsaa thought a moment, and looked at his son. The boy's face brightened when he heard the translator mention the word “computer.”

“There is interest here,” Parsaa admitted with a smile. “And my wife would be pleased if a computer convinced my son that reading and education are necessities.”

Lydia agreed that the boy would need to read in the fast-changing country.

The group said their farewells. The hour was late in Afghanistan, and Lydia was still shaken. But she also understood why Paul yearned to help such villagers, trying to separate and understand the strands of culture that could produce such hospitality and warmth even as worries about honor and change led to awful violence.

And the same could be said about Paul. An earnest desire to inspire good had led to envy, obsession, and control.

Parsaa mourned Paul's death and offered his condolences to Lydia. “The man was selfless. He saved my son's life, and I'll be forever grateful.”

And despite grief about her son, Lydia was grateful, too.

The call ended. Mohan and Aza told Arhaan about his wife's death, and the man wept, insisting that he had not meant to kill Zahira. Najwa comforted him, and he wrapped his arms around her.

Parsaa turned to the business at hand that required work throughout the night. He ordered his son to leave with Aza and follow her directions on where to dig two graves. Then Parsaa turned to Mohan. With Zahira dead, the caretaker no longer had reason to stay at the compound. The old man would listen to his wife and son and move to the city.

Parsaa was silent, ashamed that he had failed to protect Blacker's daughter, and Mohan read his mind. “It's not your fault. Zahira loved Arhaan in her own way. They fought. They slept with others.” The older man looked toward the ground, and Parsaa knew that both Mohan and his son wondered about his own relationship with Zahira.

Parsaa's feelings for the woman were complicated, and he wasn't sure he would ever understand. He had loved her like a sister, yet she had wanted something more. Trying to explain was useless, but he looked at Mohan and firmly shook his head.

Arhaan interrupted, suddenly lashing out in anger, blaming Parsaa and the foreigner for Zahira's death. He swore that Parsaa was no longer welcome to work his land. “And you can tell the village that there will be new lease terms!”

Parsaa sighed and glanced at Mohan. But Mohan was ready to leave, no longer willing to settle compound disputes. It was left to Parsaa to explain that Zahira had never owned the vast holdings surrounding the compound and Laashekoh.

“A debt was settled and the land was transferred before your marriage,” Parsaa noted quietly.

“That's nonsense,” Arhaan scoffed. “There were annual payments.”

“The village provided the compound with a share,” Mohan snapped. “Parsaa and I did your bidding to keep peace. You made assumptions, and Zahira did not want to upset you.”

And then there was Zahira's money from other sources.

Arhaan went silent as Mohan explained that most of the compound's funds came from foreign donors who had wanted Zahira to distribute contraceptives and healthcare in the region. Occasionally she sold supplies on the black market, but she feared getting caught and the stream of income ending. So she kept most of the drugs and supplies in storage at the compound.

Mohan and Aza did not plan to stay at the compound, and the blind man could not live alone. Parsaa guided Najwa outside so they could talk. “Are you all right here?”

The girl nodded and told Parsaa she had never felt more secure.

“Do you want to stay?” he asked, and she nodded. He mentioned that he no longer had her
peshkabz
, but she didn't care and said she no longer had a need for it. She wanted to forget her past, and she asked him to do the same.

Parsaa advised that she and Arhaan could remain at the compound. “But will Arhaan listen to you? He must be civil with you, the new caretaker, and Laashekoh.”

She nodded.

Holding a shovel, Saddiq waited for his father, though Parsaa was in a hurry to return to Laashekoh and show his wife that their son was safe. He asked Mohan to find another shovel so Parsaa could help with digging two graves. The boy insisted on pulling his father aside. There was something his father needed to know, Saddiq whispered, and they could hide the problem by digging a third grave.

Stunned, Parsaa lifted his hand to interrupt. He glanced around to check that others did not overhear. “First I must ask. Do you know where Thara is?”

The boy hesitated. “All I know is that she is not coming back.”

Parsaa felt sick, not ready to hear more. “If others ask this question, you do not know where she is.” He was stern. “Do you understand?”

The boy swallowed, relieved about not having to explain or lie. “I really do not know,” Saddiq offered.

Parsaa asked about the other body, but Saddiq was cryptic. “There is no other body. Someone else at this compound needs our help. A baby girl.”

The boy led the way to one of the compound's huts. Inside, a baby squirmed on a pile of bedding and whimpered. Saddiq picked up the child and handed her to his father. “Zahira took the baby from Leila.” His voice was firm, and he promised to explain more when his father was ready to hear. “But it is best for the child if Arhaan thinks she died tonight, too.”

Parsaa stared into the child's eyes. There was no need for questions. “I see,” he said softly.