Allure of Deceit (23 page)

The prison officials urged Leila to use more care with her words and assured the imam that they had punished her. But the meetings and interviews continued. Funding from foreign NGOs flowed into the women's section of the prison, and the warden would not risk putting a stop to that flow.

Leila did not spend much time in the cell, typically attending classes or walking outside. For interviews or meetings with her attorneys, guards escorted her to a private room. She did not boast about the classes, the visitors, the interviews, or the funding. When other inmates asked why she was whisked away from the cell so often, Leila shrugged. “Perhaps the guards want to show my face to others as a warning.” She tried not to lie to her new friends and relied on words like
could
or
perhaps
.

The foreigners pitied her, and she used that compassion to her advantage. She had few regrets, and life in prison was more pleasant than dull Laashekoh. She did not miss her husband and didn't argue when the attorneys and the visitors from the NGOs blamed her predicament on him. Yes, the transport of children was his idea. No, she had not understood where the children were from or their destination. She had simply obeyed her husband. She was also quick to add that perhaps her father had not understood the exact nature of the operation. Leila missed her father and ached whenever thoughts of him came to mind, but she was not so quick to defend her mother.

Her new independence still amazed Leila—her terror about being separated from her mother and sharing a cell with strangers had soon transformed to relief. Mari would have complained and talked all day, trying to control every word, every move, every part of her existence in a space that was tighter than their home in Laashekoh. The woman would have cared only about money, not understanding the interests of the foreigners or the need for classes.

Without the classes, her attorneys would have never heard her story.

It helped immensely that her mother and husband refused to talk at all, let alone answer questions. Leila feigned fear, begging her attorneys not to let anyone know how much she had talked about the crimes. She sought assurances from the legal team that her words would not be repeated to Mari or Jahangir. “I fear for my life—even in here,” she whispered, raising one hand to cover the scar.

Her lawyers warned against discussing any details of the trafficking operations or problems in Laashekoh with the other prisoners. “Talk to NGOs, the lawyers, but not the police or other prisoners,” one attorney had warned. “Other prisoners could testify against you in court to get reduced sentences for themselves. And trust me, they will soon resent the attention and funding coming your way. And never lie to the foreigners. They have ways of checking these stories.”

“You could get celebrity status,” another attorney confided.

Leila promised great care in how she spoke. More importantly, she listened. Her success at telling stories stemmed from discerning what others wanted to hear. About her own life, she presented an alternative story, cemented by refining and retelling over and over. She also withheld enough details, sustaining suspense and luring her listeners into assumptions that she did not necessarily share. She longed to forget life in Laashekoh, and talking with strangers reinforced her version of memories.

She kept her opinions and dreams to herself. The end of some stories should not be told.

PART 3

Allah does not love the mischief-makers.

—Koran 28:77

CHAPTER 15

The board of directors met monthly. Lydia did not attend most meetings, traveling to New York no more than twice year, and instead participated via Skype. She viewed the boardroom on her screen and remained quiet, listening closely to executive staff for long periods. Colleagues who expected a disengaged participant soon discovered their error as she followed up with pointed questions. More than once, staff members wanted to sink into their chairs as she asked about specific expenditures or the methodology behind a pilot program. No one could get away with glossing over budget details or country research that relied solely on the CIA's
World Factbook
.

Lydia had dedicated an old laptop for the Skype sessions, placed slightly above her head in her office. She kept the lighting low so that slight changes in her expression were less noticeable.

Lydia was the board's chairwoman, but she let Annie, the executive director, run the meetings.

This meeting had a long agenda and included an initial survey of award candidates from the Rodriguez-Walker Group. Prepared for a lengthy meeting, Lydia had a teapot waiting nearby. Cara was in New York for the meeting, and Lydia wasn't surprised when the discussion turned hot as the consultant presented recommendations for the new award program. Lydia folded her hands and listened.

Recognition would be distributed jointly to grant recipients and GlobalConnect employees, Cara explained. The board and the executive staff would choose finalists and keep the names secret until thorough background checks were completed. She reported on the four candidates in Afghanistan, two men and two women: An entrepreneur who ran a bicycle shop and trained others to repair and distribute bikes to the community, and a teacher who organized a network of schools for several hundred boys and girls; and a young, imprisoned mother who taught other prisoners how to read and write, and an older woman who provided healthcare services to rural villages.

Paul Reichart worked with the woman providing healthcare.

Only Henry understood that Lydia wanted to put a spotlight on Paul and his connections in Afghanistan. She wanted the thorough background check. Yet Henry warned Lydia: If she was too pushy, Paul would sense a trap.

Let the program roll naturally, Henry advised.

As Lydia had expected, the board and the executive staff gravitated to the stories of the two women—and she made a note to herself to request an audit to ensure that the Afghan programs reflected the country's demographics. Favoring one gender, ethnicity, religion, or age over another was a sure way to divide communities and trigger resentment. Both women lived near the village of Laashekoh, but the similarities ended there, Cara explained. The health provider had more experience. She had no staff and started with a group from the Netherlands before meeting Paul and obtaining a steady stream of supplies and funding through GlobalConnect. The younger woman was in prison for participating in a child-trafficking ring, and wrongly so, according to her supporters. She had been the victim of an acid attack, yet she was taking classes and using her new skills to train other women in reading, writing, and activism for women's rights. The younger one had an active legal team, and NGOs were competing to represent her.

Neither woman could present much documentation to support outcomes. Neither had conducted research.

Cara summarized her report. “Birthrates are slightly below average for Afghanistan in the Laashekoh area, and the child mortality rate is low. The children are well nourished—despite a lack of nearby schools and a low literacy rate. And the family-planning candidate has been funded for years. She has provided impromptu training of other caregivers, all of this highly informal. Paul and others credit her as contributing to the area's economic security. The younger woman has tremendous support, but a short track record.”

The participants in New York murmured among themselves. Annie spoke up. “Paul's woman is clearly the better candidate with the longer track record. And it would be nice to recognize someone who knew Michael.” The group nodded, nervously glancing at the screen showing Lydia.

“One glitch though.” Cara held up her hand. “Paul Reichart requested that his connection be withdrawn.”

Everyone in the room started asking questions at once. Lydia frowned, but held off from speaking.

Cara took a deep breath. “He says the woman is shy. He's also worried that the publicity could put her life in danger.”

Annie tapped the conference table for attention. “We can't force employees or recipients into this. But I must admit I'm uncomfortable with the other candidate who has a big legal team and short track record. She may be . . . too well groomed.”

Another staff member recommended skipping Afghanistan. “Too much political turmoil.”

But others pushed back. The country needed help. The charity had a tough time hiring experienced staff who wanted to work in the country for the right reasons.

“Could we do this by surprise?” asked another senior staffer. “Paul is too modest.”

“Surprise means no background check.” Cara was firm. “That's too risky.” Elliot, the board member who represented Photizonet's tech side, suggested that staff send out a blanket e-mail, notifying all employees about a possible background check that required opting out. “With luck, Paul won't read the e-mail. Who does anymore?”

Henry groaned, and Annie advised such a maneuver would violate the law. The US Fair Credit Reporting Act required that employees be notified about background checks with specific notice. The correspondence could cover no other topic.

“Some employees would quit over that,” Henry added.

Elliot asked if a background check was all that necessary.

“Skipping a background check?” For the first time, Cara turned to Lydia. “No way. If a candidate refuses to undergo a background check . . . if some issue is exposed later, that defeats the purpose of good publicity.”

Elliot threw up his hands. “This is an award, for Pete's sake. We all know Paul.” He looked around the boardroom, but found little support. Michael had always welcomed Elliot's brash ideas, but the foundation staff did not feel the same.

“He works for us, people,” the director of communications said. “Can't we fire an employee for refusing a background check? The board and the foundation are liable for what they do!”

Annie shook her head. “Federal law prohibits checks on current employees without notification—unless criminal activity is suspected. I'll send you the text later.”

The group was silent, absorbing the information.

Lydia kept her voice light. She could not show how much she cared about Paul keeping his name in the ring for the award. “Giving an award away may not be so easy.”

CHAPTER 16

Paul arrived alone shortly after sunrise, and once again, the village of Laashekoh had little warning. The air was clear and cold as gusts whipped at trees and clothing. He explained that he had camped near the river and left his off-road vehicle far enough away before tackling an early-morning climb toward Laashekoh. Parsaa was surprised by the aid worker's prolonged stay in the area, but Paul had already traced the origin of Najwa's blade.

“If the girl and the
peshkabz
come from the same place, she is from Helmand and not Ghōr.”

The detail mattered less with Najwa away from the village. Parsaa asked if Paul would help search for the foreign workers. “Did you see Afghan soldiers?”

Paul looked surprised and shook his head, and Parsaa explained how the soldiers had mentioned that the village was the last to see the women. “But I'm not so sure.”

Paul stopped. “Really?”

The women had talked about another stop nearby before returning to the city, Parsaa explained. “Did they say where?” Paul asked. “Did you tell the soldiers?”

Parsaa shook his head. “A helicopter can shift direction once it moves out of sight.”

The villagers were heading out for a search. Parsaa wanted to check the ridges near the canyon leading to Zahira's compound, though he couldn't imagine why a group intent on helping orphans would visit the lonely place. He invited Paul to join them.

Frowning, Paul asked if the villagers had seen or heard any sign of a crash, and Parsaa shook his head.

“Then the helicopter is not around here,” Paul insisted. “There is no point in wasting your time.” Instead, he advised that they wait for the Afghan military to coordinate a search.

The other villagers were pleased, easily convinced to give up on a day of searching, but not Parsaa. The women could be injured, waiting for assistance. It was better if the men of Laashekoh found the women first. Besides, he didn't want large groups of strangers arriving in ­Laashekoh and asking questions.

Paul pointed out that Afghan conditions, the dust and sand, were tough on helicopters. He was critical of the women's operation and suggested that they had not invested in proper maintenance. “The helicopter may have broken down. They could be anywhere between here and Kabul.”

“All the more reason to find them quickly,” Parsaa said. “They were not prepared for a long stay.”

“Wait, friend,” Paul urged. “If an air search produces no results, the army will organize a grid search, and then we can help.”

Paul seemed so sure, and other villagers agreed. The men were eager to expand the fields before winter hardened the soil. Parsaa acquiesced and Ahmed signaled that the search could wait until Afghan soldiers arrived.

Once the two men were alone, Paul was blunt. He didn't trust the women. One of the missing women, the one in charge, was married to a man who headed a major mining company. “Who knows? She could be scouting this area for her husband. The charity could be a way to build connections. Or the missing helicopter could be a stunt to draw attention.”

Parsaa was not worried. The government owned all underground resources. Foreigners could not take over mining operations. Paul pointed out that Afghanistan needed foreign partners to access the minerals. The big companies were good at nagging governments to change rules for jobs. “It would change the landscape around here.”

“There will be no mining leases here.” Parsaa was firm.

The American seemed surprised. Parsaa wasn't sure if it was because of the villagers' lack of interest in mining wealth or the confidence that Laashekoh could keep prospectors at bay.

Paul didn't argue and offered to help in the fields. “I'd rather grapple with dirt and boulders than paperwork,” he said.