Allure of Deceit (35 page)

Parsaa could not help it. His pace quickened as he approached the compound, an old habit developed from his eagerness long ago, and he waited for Mohan at the wooded area along the compound's edge. Impatience to conclude an unpleasant chore had since replaced his youthful anticipation.

The older man caught up, too proud to call out for Parsaa to slow down, and he struggled to control his breathing. The compound might need more security, yet Mohan could not have it both ways—demanding support and applying rigid controls. Parsaa could no longer deny the need to plan for a replacement, despite his hopes that one would not be needed. The old man was stubborn, and wresting Parsaa's son from a lifelong obligation would be difficult.

Without a word, Mohan headed directly for the clinic and knocked. Zahira opened the door as if she had been waiting. Her headscarf was pulled forward, covering much of her forehead, and she was not alone. Aza hovered behind the counter, and another man at the computer said something in English before turning to welcome Parsaa.

Paul Reichart.

The man smiled and pointed to a computer screen—an older woman wore no veil and appeared concerned. Paul explained that the woman on the screen was the director of GlobalConnect and that she was seeking advice from Afghans about how to best deliver aid. She had questions, and he offered to translate.

Paul invited Parsaa to sit in another chair near the computer.

Parsaa declined. The Internet was another way for foreigners to intrude. Zahira and Paul had somehow found one another, and without understanding why, Parsaa found that disturbing.

CHAPTER 27

Lydia scheduled the Skype call with Paul, just a few hours after GlobalConnect's executive director, Annie, had advised him that he was still in the running for the award. If successful, he would replace Lydia on the board of directors and be groomed to serve as chairman.

The first step in the award process was an interview with an Afghan partner. “Lydia has full trust in you, Paul,” the director had advised. “She just wants a small chat before the formal interview with the rest of the search committee and the background check. No worries—a piece of cake!”

Cara had hired a Dari translator, Kashif, a young refugee studying physics at the nearby college, due to arrive any minute. Lydia didn't want to admit it after all Cara's work, but she was uncomfortable about testing Paul and the Afghan provider. “Can we trust this translator?” Lydia asked.

Cara suggested keeping details to a minimum.

“No need for the conversation to leave here, and I doubt there will be a confrontation.” Cara sat next to Lydia on the porch sofa. “For now, we are gathering information. If you need to pause, hit enter and send an empty message. I'll knock hard, and you tell him someone is at the door.”

Lydia worried that the translator might have met Paul. Cara assured her that the young man had lived in a refugee camp for a decade before receiving a scholarship to attend boarding school and then college. “I checked,” she said. “No connection to GlobalConnect. Don't forget, Afghanistan is big. More than thirty million people.”

Cara transferred Lydia's laptop for Skype to the front porch, on a table, and set up a space for the translator and a recorder in the living room. She studied Lydia's screen view and approved. “Good. The more Paul sees of the porch, the less nervous he will be.”

Not visible on the screen was a small, low table underneath the other table where a small netbook was hidden. Set for large print and muted sound, the netbook was ready for Google Chat. On the large table were papers. Lydia could sit back and pretend to examine reports while checking for messages on the netbook from Cara.

It was not yet noon in East Lansing and near 9:00 p.m. in Afghanistan.

Lydia would ask questions. Cara and the translator would test the accuracy of Paul's translation and how much he wanted the position on the board. Cara fussed over details. “Keep your handwritten questions near the keyboard and act natural. And don't worry too much about his responses. I'm recording the audio for later review.”

Kashif arrived, and he admired the gardens surrounding Lydia's home. “My parents grew flowers, too,” he explained. “They would have loved this home.”

The two women offered him snacks, asked his preferences for a beverage during what could be a long session, and then gave him detailed instructions. Kashif grew up in a refugee camp and was perceptive. He understood immediately that another man's candor was being tested.

The translator promised to signal Cara if Paul's translation of the Dari responses was off, and Cara returned to Lydia and lowered her voice. “Forget that we're in the next room. Don't look in our direction. You must not alert him that we are listening.”

She studied the screen one last time and asked if Lydia was ready. Lydia nodded and hit Paul's connection as Cara walked away. The program squawked, as if a strange box was being opened, and Paul appeared, his face close to the screen and the background blocked. He immediately noticed that she was not in her office, and she explained that she was on her porch, taking advantage of an unusually warm late autumn day.

The two exchanged pleasantries before Paul sat back and introduced Zahira. “We're in her clinic,” he offered.

Paul, not Zahira, walked around the clinic with the laptop facing away from him to give Lydia a quick tour. The clinic was immaculate, modern, with stainless-steel examining tables, cabinets, sinks, and equipment. The woman was elegant in dark-violet silk, a lavender veil framing her dark hair. Her voice was quick, professional, yet uncomfortable as she directed her gaze at the keyboard rather than the screen.

Paul posed Lydia's questions to the woman, and Lydia did not need a translator to know the answers were terse. Paul did most of the talking. The woman was robotic, perhaps frightened, and Lydia found herself feeling sorry for her. Perhaps she was embarrassed about her background. She had come so close to completing medical school in Moscow, Paul explained, but did not finish.

Lydia posed typical questions about the number of patients and services provided. Paul rattled off statistics. The clinic was informal, serving a tiny population in villages that lacked schools, running water, and power. Despite the lack of a degree, Zahira was overqualified as a community health worker and had received ample funding for more than two decades to provide women's reproductive-health services—she was the only source of care for more than five hundred families spread throughout the remote area where few were literate.

The bar was set low for health providers in the poorest parts of Afghanistan.

Lydia asked about the contraception prevalence rate and sensed hesitancy from Zahira. Paul translated. “She distributes the supplies but cannot be sure how or if the women use them.”

A family-planning program, while not illegal in Afghanistan, could not be publicized as pregnancy prevention. Instead, providers emphasized birth spacing that protected mothers' health. Women did not want their names revealed and preferred that records not be kept. Zahira worked alone, and Paul explained there was minimal follow-up care or counseling, before or after treatment.

Patients were also unwilling to talk with foreigners about their experiences. Paul sighed. “They would deny having asked for help or claim to have forgotten.”

Lydia asked about emergency care and the location of the nearest available doctor. Zahira glanced at Paul and, again, he spoke for her. The nearest caregiver was more than forty kilometers away. “The villagers do not have vehicles,” he reported. “Transferring seriously ill patients is impossible. It's a rough area, Lydia.”

Lydia asked about complications around injectable contraception and implants. She didn't like to think of women handling side effects like headaches, bleeding, and more on their own. Paul translated. The response was a curt “
Ne
.”

“But she is using the long-term methods?” Lydia pressed. Providers typically didn't trust rural women to manage daily pills. Paul nodded, and Lydia wondered if patients understood the trade-offs. Injectables lasted twelve weeks but could result in lasting fertility problems, weakened bones, or low birth weights for infants conceived as the medication wore off. Husbands often rejected use of implants that lasted three years.

When Lydia asked if women had to wait for approval from their husbands before using contraception, Zahira offered an earnest response, and Paul was impatient. “She rarely deals with such men. She expects the women to handle their husbands. Or lie about the care.”

Zahira did not seem shy. Lydia wondered why Paul spoke so much for Zahira.

And no records. No family guidance or follow-up care. No testing or follow-up studies. No advocacy or promotion. No community committee monitoring the care. Such were the ways of healthcare associated with shame and lack of women's control over their lives. The interview was surreal.

Lydia checked her list. She was running out of questions, and there was no message from Cara over Google Chat.

The exchange with her son's childhood friend was stilted. Perhaps it was the distance or the presence of Zahira. Maybe he guessed that others listened in and Lydia did not trust him. “You are working in a tough area, Paul.”

He nodded and started to talk. A knock sounded, and both Zahira and Paul turned away from the screen. An older woman pushed a disheveled teenager into the clinic with a long explanation. Shoes came off. The woman seemed pleased, but the boy was filthy and fatigued. He gazed about the clinic, and his eyes widened as he stared at the screen image of Lydia. She smiled. Boys of any age reminded Lydia of Michael.

Paul murmured something to Zahira, who snapped at the older woman. Scowling, the woman ordered the boy to sit on the floor behind the counter, out of sight of the camera. A long exchange ensued between the newcomer and Zahira, which Paul did not translate. Cara had warned in advance that the rapid back-and-forth conversation among Afghans often sounded like arguing. Longer sentences with rich descriptions did not necessarily lend themselves to exact translations in English.

The older woman alternated between scolding and cajoling, sounding like a mother giving a daughter advice.

Paul was irritated, snapping words in Dari, as Zahira returned to the chair beside him. She tried for an explanation, and he waved his hand, returning full attention to Lydia with an apology.

But there was no need for an apology, Lydia advised, pointing out how the busy clinic demonstrated support from nearby villages. As she spoke, there was another knock on the door, and Paul turned away again. Two Afghan men removed their shoes and entered, and greetings were exchanged. One was older, wiry, and short. The other man was tall, in his forties, surprised by the small gathering around the computer. He was uncomfortable, even wary, and Lydia couldn't tell if the feelings were directed at Paul or at the computer.

As Paul talked, the tall Afghan man scanned the space. The boy suddenly stood, his hands on the counter, and the expression on the man's face transformed in a matter of seconds—from weariness to amazement and pure joy, then relief and puzzlement. The boy looked nervous, as if caught in some mischief, and the man offered only a slight nod as if indicating the two would talk later.

Lydia watched as Zahira and Paul greeted the two men. Zahira gestured, offering her chair to the tall man, who declined. The older man said a few brief words, and Zahira returned a long string of sentences, as if trying to convince him of something. Paul followed with more comments. The man shrugged and leaned against the wall.

Her mind raced with thoughts of her son and his wife, his life's work, the fortune he had made. Lydia had to wait for Kashif's translation, but she could not imagine how anyone in the faraway clinic knew what happened to Michael and Rose.

Remembering Cara's advice, Lydia kept a patient smile and her eyes on the screen. She could not dwell on motives in a room thousands of miles away until later.

Paul turned back to the screen. “You can see this is a busy place.” He introduced the tall man as Parsaa, a leader of a nearby village. “And one of his sons is here, too. We can ask them to wait outside until we finish . . .”

“Oh, no!” She was out of questions for Paul. “Perhaps we should ask the father's permission if the boy can stay?”

As Paul spoke to the father and son, she shifted the papers. Still no reaction from Cara. Maybe the investigators were right—Michael's death was random. Perhaps her life would never feel whole again, and it was selfish to test Michael's lifelong friend.

Paul explained that the Afghans were shy about online communications and would observe. Lydia could not resist, pointing out how such interviews would help his chances for the award.

“I can be candid with you, Paul,” she said. “We don't need critics suggesting that a promotion is based on favoritism.”

Paul spoke with Parsaa. After a long exchange, the Afghan man approached the computer and said a few sentences. “He lives in ­Laashekoh, a successful farming village near here. He understands that GlobalConnect funds my work.”

“Salaam.” Lydia spoke slowly. She thanked the man for guiding Paul in that part of the world and asked questions about his village. The man listened closely, and his tone was positive and thoughtful. The village was small and far from city centers. Most villagers would appreciate more contact with caregivers, schools, and services, but distance also provided a form of security. Lydia asked whether Parsaa or other villagers had a chance to meet the aid workers who had just gone missing.

Paul offered a translation, and Zahira tried to interject, but he cut her off to state that the aid workers had passed through the area quickly. Zahira, Parsaa, and other villagers had not met with them. Lydia asked how long Parsaa had known Paul. Paul did not translate but simply answered the question. The two men had met almost a year earlier.