Allure of Deceit (15 page)

Zahira did not agree and shook her head.

“He is still outside. You can tell him tonight.”

“I'm not ready,” Zahira said.

“Mohan and I can tell him?” Aza questioned.

“Not yet.” Zahira was stubborn.

“The baby will wake soon,” Aza reminded. “Be prepared to quiet her quickly.”

Zahira hurried toward her bedroom to check on the sleeping child. Her rosy pout and lashes like tiny fans were set against creamy, white skin. Zahira tried, but she still couldn't think of the child as her daughter.

The baby was renamed Shareen, after the woman who had died giving birth to Zahira. The name, rarely mentioned when Zahira was a child, should not prompt so many memories, and she hoped those would fade as the child exerted her own personality. One day Zahira might tell Parsaa about the baby. Only if she could be sure that the knowledge would draw him closer to her and the compound.

Bending over, Zahira picked up the baby. Shareen whimpered but remained asleep as Zahira left the house and moved slowly among the shadows to observe the compound. Privacy was the ultimate luxury at the compound, but so easy to steal.

Aza was preoccupied with settling Najwa in a squat building with no windows and summarizing the routines that had not changed in years. Breakfast was served just after sunrise and dinner at sunset. Both were served in the kitchen. “For now, this is your space, and you must take care of it. If compound guests arrive, you must give up the space.”

Najwa stood in the doorway as the older woman lit a lantern with a warning that the hut did not have electricity. “But there's a fireplace and small stove and wood here. There's a cistern, so you don't have to collect your own water. Use it sparingly. The rain is not as plentiful as it used to be.” She handed Najwa a key. “I have the other copy.”

Picking up her parcel, Najwa seemed nervous about stepping inside. “I don't share with other servants?”

“More servants make for more work,” Aza snapped. She brushed past Najwa in the doorway.

“Is there a master of this house?” Najwa asked.

The question could be viewed as bold, suggesting that Zahira might struggle to control the compound. Aza was calm. “Master Arhaan is here. But he is busy, and you won't see much of him.”

The woman paused. “Three warnings. Never disturb the master and mistress while they are at work. Lock your door at night, and I will check. And do not utter a word about what you see or hear in this compound. Or I will cut your tongue out.”

Najwa showed no fear and closed the door slowly. Aza, bent with age, faced the closed door for a long moment, before walking away.

The strange girl could not go near the infant. Zahira should have asked Parsaa more questions. Still, Zahira liked the idea of another person at the compound more awkward with children than herself.

Stepping back inside her home, Zahira returned the sleeping infant to the bedroom and smoothed the girl's fine hair. The child would not grow up in a backward place like Laashekoh. Zahira was relieved her husband showed no interest and preferred his mynas. Shareen would be beautiful, but no one at the compound would take notice. Zahira was determined to raise the child and eliminate the traits associated with her biological mother.

The child could not know her mother's identity, and Zahira and the child would leave the compound soon. Zahira leaned over and rubbed her cheek against the child's cheek. So soft.

Aza would return soon to feed and change the child.

Zahira slipped back outside, heading for a group of stone huts not used in years. The interiors were musty and dark, and she checked that no one else wandered outside before opening one door. Her eyes needed a moment to adjust and spot the figure waiting in the corner. She moved closer, and Paul Reichart wrapped his arms around her, stroking her hair.

“Is he gone yet?” he whispered.

She shook her head, grateful Paul did not say the name aloud. She loved Parsaa, but she needed Paul. “He will be here a while longer. Are you warm enough?”

He pulled her down to the floor strewn with carpets. “I am now,” he whispered. “You sure no one will come back here?

“No one has used these places for years.” The thought of when the rugs had last been beaten made her uncomfortable, and she pulled away to sit up.

She was nervous with no lock on the door and Parsaa so close.

Paul wanted to know the reason for Parsaa's visit. “Did he ask about the charity workers?”

“Not this time,” she murmured. “He would be thrilled to know they won't return.”

“I doubt anyone will find the crash site,” Paul went on as though using a checklist. “The helicopter didn't burn. It was easy to push boulders and branches from the cliff above. With winter coming . . .”

As he spoke, Zahira traced a dark leaf, part of the carpet's design, with her finger. She should ask if Paul had checked the helicopter for survivors. He placed his fingers under her chin and tipped her head back.

“You don't trust me,” he commented.

She didn't respond.

“No one knows that they stopped here.” He leaned over to kiss her, and she turned her head. “It's far enough away from the compound.”

“People won't ask questions?”

“The two women annoyed everyone they met.” He gave a short laugh. “They hurried to purchase a helicopter and didn't buy proper insurance. They couldn't wait to meet with me for advice. They'll be forgotten soon enough. You are fine.”

“I had nothing to do with them!” Zahira insisted. To scoff about others' death was wrong and reflected on his own weakness. She gave him a sidelong glance, but his face was in the shadows. The two dared not use a lantern.

Paul had warned her about the women's search for Afghan partners, how they were intrigued by healthcare workers who might know about unwanted children. They relied on a list of Paul's contacts in Afghanistan. The helicopter landed out of sight in the canyon, far enough away from the compound, and the three occupants hiked to Zahira's clinic. She responded coolly to their nervous questions.

At the time, she had not realized that she would be the last one to see the group alive. Mohan, Aza, and even Arhaan had heard the exchange, but not the crash. They did not know Paul had been nearby.

No one had to know about the visit, Paul promised. Tightening his grip on her, he placed his other hand under her chin and forced Zahira to face him. “The helicopter had a heavy load that was improperly secured. It's a pilot's responsibility to check loads along with the fuel and other gauges before takeoff.”

The crash site was rough terrain, and Zahira didn't want to check the scene herself or know details. “They will ask why we didn't report it.”

“If you didn't hear it . . .” He was calm. “Do you want investigators and questions?”

But investigators would arrive. She wished that the accident had happened far from her home. “Did you see them take off?” she asked.

“I was nowhere near the place.” He sat up. “I saw the wreck on my way here, and it was too late to help. But the problem is evident enough.” He paused. “The pilot probably had no problem moving upward or forward, but once he turned to exit the canyon . . . the load shifted, probably a broken strap. He lost control. An accident. End of story.”

She should not know such details, especially if the crash went unreported. The timing for a broken strap was off. The helicopter added no new load from the compound and had taken many turns during the journey from Laashekoh. She was nervous. Three foreigners were missing. Search crews would be dispatched. Investigators would focus on the last stop and the last person who saw the group.

Zahira didn't like the uncertainty. But she needed Paul's help to leave Afghanistan and escape constant reminders of a life she didn't share with Parsaa.

Paul grasped her shoulders and pulled her close. “They were a nuisance. It's a sensitive time, and we don't need more questions.” He kissed her and she closed her eyes, forgetting about the women, the helicopter, the compound. Zahira could only think of Parsaa and how much he didn't know.

CHAPTER 10

Before departing for Laashekoh, Parsaa met with Aza's husband. Mohan was a trusted aide to Zahira's father and more than a servant. His age of more than seven decades was unusual in the area, and the man was more cautious than ever. The village had celebrated
norooz
, the start of spring, more than twenty times since Blacker's death. Although many years had passed with no disturbance, the old man still worried about the compound's security.

Mohan was intent on collecting details about the newcomer.

He directed Parsaa to take a seat among the pillows and lit a lantern, casting a gold glow on the tiny space. Zahira had wanted to connect the caretaker's home to a generator, but Mohan refused. His house, a haven of simplicity, had not changed in years.

Mohan did not speak as he poured hot chai, thickened with yogurt, into two bowls. He placed the bowls on the stone slab in the middle of the rug and then stared at Parsaa. “You bring a stranger here. What do you know about her? And why can't you find her village?”

Parsaa pointed out that an aid worker was still searching for the girl's village, but Mohan dismissed the search. “The girl does not want her family to be found! She committed a crime against her community or ran away from a marriage. That puts the compound in danger.”

“We searched. She is unwanted, probably an orphan.”

Mohan grunted and suggested that Parsaa was naive. “She has her reasons for this secret. How do you know she did not collude with the traffickers?”

Parsaa had not considered the possibility and was mortified. The children, including Najwa, had been tied together. Arriving in ­Laashekoh, the girl wore shabby clothing and showed bruising. The American soldiers had believed her story.

Collusion didn't seem possible. But children could be wily, taking advantage of adult assumptions. Parsaa tried to remember the villagers' complaints about Najwa—how she refused to answer questions, stared at others, and crept about for no obvious reason. The girl's curiosity seemed random, focusing on ordinary conversations and relationships rather than specifics of village politics or finances. If Najwa was a spy, she had gained little useful information while in Laashekoh, unless village routines revealed more secrets than he realized. Worrying was foolish. The village had nothing to hide, and Najwa had expressed no interest in leaving, rushing to meet with traffickers and tell them what she learned.

He was convinced. A stay at the compound would be good for Najwa. The place had four adults. Fewer people meant fewer secrets. And Zahira knew how to keep secrets.

Mohan had more questions about Najwa. Did she try to run away from Laashekoh? Did she steal? Did she avoid work? The answers were no, no, no. Mohan did not ask if the girl stared in a quiet way, showed a hint of smile as she refused to answer questions, feigned puzzlement over specific directions, or wandered into other people's homes late at night to toss a book into the fire. Mohan did not ask if she was too attached to a possession like a knife. The complaints about her were vague, irrational. Perhaps that was why they were so unsettling.

Mohan then reviewed compound security. The man repeated himself every time Parsaa visited. The compound was located in a canyon with steep walls. Anyone who tried to reach the place had to pass near Laashekoh with its young guards on constant watch. Or the intruders had to be extraordinary climbers, with the ability to evade the odd traps and alarms that Mohan had set along the canyon edges, though those were deactivated when Zahira traveled or visitors were expected.

“Did the girl see the traps?” the old man asked.

“I was careful,” Parsaa promised.

Mohan dismissed such assurance. “I will relocate them. If she gets ideas or doesn't like the work here, she won't escape easily enough.”

Parsaa was quiet, wishing that Najwa would wander away. He wouldn't mind never seeing her again. In a flash, he rejected the thought as wrong and despised himself. In truth, he wanted Mohan's precautions to go untested. As years passed, few ventured near the compound, except those driving delivery wagons with supplies and messages for the small group. Friends of Blacker and Mohan had moved away or died. The paths leading to the compound were overgrown and treacherous. Even in Laashekoh, most young villagers, including Saddiq and his brothers, had no idea of the compound's existence.

The compound was too large for a couple without children—a worry that nagged Mohan for years. The size, isolation, security, and deliveries signaled unusual wealth and invited resentment. From the start, Parsaa had insisted that the best security was keeping people away—a condition over which they had little control unless Zahira and Arhaan cooperated.

Zahira and Arhaan did not get along, but the two were of one mind in refusing to relocate, change their routines, or embrace a modest lifestyle. They indulged in expensive hobbies that required steady deliveries. Only Mohan worried when a new driver was assigned.

The old man grumbled that neither Zahira nor Arhaan planned far into the future. They expected Mohan and Aza to live forever. As years passed, Mohan, gray and stooped, grudgingly acknowledged that more responsibility for security had shifted toward Parsaa. Yet the younger man's sense of loyalty for the compound had faded from honor to habit. So much that Parsaa often wondered if he didn't have more concern for Mohan and Aza than for Zahira or her husband. That might be why Mohan refused to relinquish control or hire other help. He expected one of Parsaa's sons and a wife to make a home in the compound and work for Zahira and Arhaan.

Yet Parsaa could not envision such an isolated life for any of his sons and delayed discussing such an option with his family. Mohan and Aza were elderly and would not live much longer. They eventually would have little choice but to move to the city, close to their son. Parsaa hoped that Zahira and Arhaan had the good sense to move away from the compound, too. Otherwise, they would be forced to accept help from others. Parsaa struggled to keep such thoughts to himself.