Lydia studied Rose’s parents. “But I thought the foundation must have been her idea.”
“Not at all,” Tim said, with a rueful laugh. “That would have been a sudden turnaround from her graduate work.” Rose had studied philosophy and economics, he explained, and that involved a cross-country comparison of charitable giving versus government spending and efficiency. The origin of the word forgiving was giving, and she traced how charitable practices over the years implied that recipients were wrongdoers who were weak and deserved no control. “She was adamant that basic obligations like education and health belonged to the government.”
“We did not want to interfere,” Rebecca interrupted. “We read that the foundation was Michael and Rose’s idea, but often wondered just how and when the idea started.”
Lydia ran her hand along the edge of a photo—Michael standing alongside his old car with his best friend and waving to the camera. She regretted not including Rose’s parents in the planning for the foundation, not asking them about what they knew. “I would have agreed with her.” She sighed. “The two of them handed over a mission statement for a foundation to Michael’s attorney a few days before the wedding. The paperwork was not finalized, but the attorney said it was clearly their intention.”
She paused. “Henry said I didn’t have to go through with it. I didn’t want to run a foundation, but I had to respect their intentions.”
Tim closed his eyes, and Rebecca reached for Lydia’s hand. “It was Michael’s fortune, and we had assumed that the foundation was Michael’s idea or yours. But then we found a letter among Rose’s belongings only a few weeks ago.”
Lydia was curious. Her investigators had been on site when the couple’s belongings were separated, packed, and sent to each set of parents—along with a thorough inventory of all belongings. The investigators had examined computers, clothing, jewelry, books, kitchen equipment, furniture, and more.
“I couldn’t bear to go through the boxes for months,” Lydia admitted. “It was too painful.”
“But we didn’t find the note there.” Rebecca offered an understanding smile. “It was in a pocket of a jacket that Rose left at our house just before the wedding. We left that jacket in the front closet.” Her voice broke. “As if she were still at home.”
“For months, we didn’t think to go through the pockets.” Tim pulled out a folder from the stack of albums, extracted a letter on notebook paper, and handed it over to Lydia.
Tim shook his head. “We almost didn’t show you. Didn’t want to think about the two of them quarreling before the wedding.”
The writing was tiny and neat. The lines of the notebook paper were narrowly spaced. Lydia was sure the page matched the notebook paper that Michael had used for the mission statement. According to the attorney and the staff at Photizonet, the paper had not come from company office supplies. But a few coworkers pointed out that Michael often carried around his own personal notebook, jotting down ideas or working out problems.
The investigators had gone through the couple’s belongings so carefully and specifically searched for such a notebook, but the one with narrow lines was not found. The investigators suggested that Michael had used scrap paper. Or the notebook had been tossed in a cleaning frenzy before the wedding.
Lydia wondered what else had not been found.
She couldn’t speak, and Rose’s parents shifted, uncomfortable over Lydia’s long silence. “The note probably does not mean much,” Rebecca offered. “They were happy, wonderful together, and neither one knew what real quarreling meant.”
Tim asked if Lydia had ideas about who the P in the note might be. “I’m guessing it might be Michael’s best man at the wedding. Paul Reichart?”
“Maybe,” Lydia murmured. “I don’t know. It’s a lovely note.”
Tim put his hand out, and she returned the note reluctantly. Lydia wondered if Rose’s parents had ever suspected that something other than random terrorism had been behind the deaths, if they had organized their own investigation.
They asked no more questions about Paul and continued turning the loosened, yellowed pages of old photo albums. Lydia could not stop thinking about the note—it was more distracting than suspicious. Yet she no longer felt like talking and wanted to be alone.
Not long afterward, Rose’s parents bid farewell, ready to leave together for their hotel room and an early start back to Toronto. Another get-together was promised.
Alone, Lydia could not sleep. Sitting in the darkness of her living room, she reflected on her detailed conversations with Paul before and after the memorial service. She had wanted to hear everything Michael had said to his friend during those final weeks. Paul never mentioned conversations about a prenuptial agreement or plans for a foundation. He certainly did not mention the couple quarreling.
She still remembered the call from Paul after he had heard television reports about plans for the foundation. He asked if the reports were true. By then, she had memorized her son’s scrawled mission statement, framed and hanging on her office wall:
Paul had been quiet. If anything, he seemed stunned that the couple had bequeathed most of their fortune to a foundation—the most generous and active venture-philanthropy group in the world. He pointed out the last phrase was an Afghan proverb.
Lydia had repeated Henry’s admonitions to Paul, that the statement was bare-bones, the goals could be achieved in any number of ways—education, economic development, small-business support, family planning, all sorts of environmental programs, job creation. It had not dawned on politicians that there were simply not enough decent jobs or resources for the world’s seven billion people—as many as ten billion before the end of the century—and Michael apparently wanted to do his part.
Paul had offered complete support for the foundation and offered to resign his company position. Lydia probably shouldn’t trust her memory, but she remembered sensing a quiver in his voice as if he had been about to cry. And she had hired him on the spot. Paul and Michael had been childhood friends, a friendship she had encouraged. The two went on to be college roommates, and Paul was one of the company’s earliest hires. He was not a software engineer but a sociologist, and Michael had insisted that introducing revolutionary technology required cultural sensitivity.
At one of the foundation’s early planning meetings, Paul volunteered to also serve on the board, but Henry had shot that down as impossible. The great sum of money, a deluge of applications, and scrutiny by government officials and media required professionals with track records in philanthropy. Lydia had already selected the board and wanted to keep it as small as legally possible. She reassured Paul that, with experience, he would gain more responsibility and get his turn. He volunteered to work overseas, and it had been easy for her to forget his initial surprise and keen interest in running the foundation.
Henry had been adamant about keeping the board small, too, so that Lydia could add her own imprint to the organization early on. He urged her to decide on policies quickly, and put the foundation on a steady path. Compensation was fair, but capped. GlobalConnect employees were prohibited from self-promotion or investments that could present conflicts of interest. Grant recipients were forced to work in teams including members with opposing political views.
Early on, Paul had chafed at such suggestions. He explained that joint grants resulted in unnecessary struggles and inefficiency. “Best standards are well known,” he insisted. “You could point recipients in the right direction from the very start.”
She thanked him for his candor but also reminded him that Michael was known in the tech field for bringing opponents together for creative solutions.
Lydia turned on the computer, kept off during the Thanksgiving celebration. She checked her e-mail and then searched through old conversations with Paul, especially those shortly before and after the bombing. The e-mails still suggested that Paul Reichart had no clue about GlobalConnect before Michael’s death, and she had long associated that
with innocence. Michael’s wealth was not new and he was not arrogant. His company’s management had changed little over its few years in operation. The only new events in Michael’s life were marriage and the plan to start a foundation.
Authorities in India and with the US State Department insisted the death was a random act of violence. But Rose’s note suggested Paul had known more than anyone had realized—that perhaps the idea for a foundation had been his all along. Rose initially resisted, but the couple had listened to an old friend and eventually agreed.
It wasn’t much of a motive. Paul got his way. The foundation was launched, though he did not play a major role as he once might have hoped. If anything, he had more reason to resent Henry and Lydia.
She turned off the computer, but could not stop thinking. Instead, she wandered through the quiet house and sat on a window seat, staring out at the familiar shapes of her fence and maple trees against a starry sky. She couldn’t remember when Paul had last tried calling with a suggestion. Maybe she and Henry had rejected too many of his ideas.
No one knew that Lydia had planned on naming her son’s friend as her replacement.
It bothered her that Paul had not mentioned his role as a mediator in the couple’s quarrel about a foundation. An imagination could run wild at night, especially after a day of indulging in memories. Perhaps Paul owed Lydia an explanation, but he was more than six thousand miles away, and she wasn’t sure what questions to ask.
CHAPTER 6
The villagers were eager to rid themselves of Najwa before the day began. It was still dark as Sofi helped tie Najwa’s few belongings, mostly worn clothes discarded by the women of Laashekoh, into a bundle, and the boys readied the donkey that would take her away.
The hum of a distant engine, an ATV, interrupted from the valley below. A visitor had arrived, and delivering Najwa to the compound would have to wait.
By the time the visitor arrived, the sky was mottled blue with streaks of rose clouds near the rising sun. Paul Reichart entered the gate, embraced Parsaa in the Afghan way, and explained he was on his way to another village. “It’s good to be back,” he said.
Parsaa chided Paul for traveling alone at night. Travel in the remote areas around Laashekoh could have treacherous moments. The nearest roads were desolate and rough. Parsaa did not mention he had seen the man camping out the night before.
“More people, more problems.” Paul smiled and, noticing the donkeys with packs, asked if Parsaa was about to leave.
Parsaa explained that the errand could wait and directed the guest toward the courtyard. Ahmed shouted for older children to bring breakfast for the visitor—mashed fruit and yogurt, naan, a large glass of warm milk.
Parsaa was pleased. Paul had been immensely helpful with returning orphans to their home villages and listened to suggestions from the villagers. He had provided supplies and encouraged the families to welcome the returning children.
But many parents took the news hard. Parsaa, Paul, and the American soldiers had to explain repeatedly that the children had not missed out on a grand opportunity. Instead, villagers had been tricked into thinking their children would train as apprentices and save. The parents would have received no payments by post. Instead, the children would have been separated, to work long hours at dangerous or humiliating tasks—and punished if they even mentioned their parents or home villages. Eventually, the young laborers would have forgotten details about their old life, and the parents would never have heard from the children again.
A few families had danced about, hugging their children, overjoyed about a rescue from a life of unending work, abuse, and misery. Others wailed, berating Parsaa, Paul, and the soldiers, demanding to know how families would handle another mouth to feed.
Parsaa trusted Paul after such an experience, and hoped that the man could eventually answer his questions about the foreign women who claimed to represent an orphanage.
Parsaa didn’t have to wait long. A younger boy carried hot water for tea. The boy’s stuffed animal dangled from a thin rope looped around his waist, and Paul’s eyes locked onto the toy. “You had visitors?”
“A group from an orphanage in Kabul,” Parsaa said. “A day ago.”
Paul seemed to know about the women yet asked Parsaa to describe the visit.
“They are seeking Afghan partners,” Parsaa said. He noted the women were controlling, yet not as prepared as Paul to work in Afghanistan.
The assessment pleased Paul. “They are new to the country,” he said. “Do not worry about them.”
Paul bent over the dish, scraping the plate with the bread and downing the milk as if he had not eaten in two days, and Parsaa nodded for the boys to bring more food. “The women asked about orphans and wanted to help. But of course they were too late.”
“Did they mention me?” Paul asked.
“They knew of you. One spoke Dari, though we did not understand everything she asked.”
Paul asked how long the women stayed, and Parsaa explained it was not long because they arrived by helicopter. Paul said a word to himself. It sounded like dama, fog, or perhaps it was an English word.
“Their priority is not Afghans,” Paul said. “They’re trying to make a name for themselves and push their way into my work in this area. They won’t last long.”
Parsaa explained how the women were keen to find young children so he did not mention Najwa, and Paul said that was wise. Parsaa then asked if Paul had heard any word on Najwa’s parents.
“Nothing,” Paul said. “I checked online and made calls to Helmand, Kandahar, and other provinces on the off chance she did not come from Ghōr. So many children are not registered, and thousands go missing. All ages.”
Parsaa did not want the other villagers to hear talk about the Internet with its stories about Laashekoh and asked if Paul had told other charities about Laashekoh, the trafficking arrests, and the orphans.
“No.” Paul was adamant. “But more representatives of charities will travel here. Some will be helpful, and some will interfere.” Leaning back, he asked what Parsaa thought of the two women and if he would consider partnering with such groups.
Parsaa thought a moment and was careful with his response. “They think they have a better way. We don’t need such partners.”
Paul laughed. “You are not alone.”
Parsaa asked how many foreign charities were in the country and Paul explained there were more than fifteen hundred organizations. “We call them nonprofits or nongovernmental organizations. Some provide food, education, or healthcare. Some want to build schools and hospitals. Others train lawyers or businesspeople. Others want to preserve antiquities or protect wildlife. The list is long—more than the rocks in the walls around this village.”
Parsaa worried. Zakat was an obligation for his community—to help those in need. The village enjoyed excess harvests and was generous, distributing a larger share of the harvest than required to other villages less fortunate. Parsaa had never imagined that others might see his community deserving of zakat.
The foreigners could not understand which villages were in need and most deserving. Even Paul did not know the full extent of Laashekoh’s resources.
Parsaa asked why the women and other workers traveled to Afghanistan. “Why don’t they stay and help their own country?”
Paul sighed before explaining how some felt guilt about the war and the disruptions. Others wanted stability in Afghanistan, and many accompanied the soldiers to promote education, health, and systems of justice. “For others, it’s just a job or even a way to become famous in their fields.”
Parsaa frowned. He asked who paid for the costly programs and travel. During the war’s early years, other countries provided the money for Afghanistan, Paul said. Later, corporations and other private sources sent donations.
The man paused and then explained that about 90 percent of Afghanistan’s government budget was funded by foreign sources. Parsaa was stunned and asked about Paul’s orga
nization. How did he get his money?
“It’s from a wealthy woman in the United States,” the aid worker said shortly. “Her son invented a product and started a big company, which earned him more money than one person could ever need.”
“The parents control that money and give it away?” Parsaa asked politely. “Zakat?”
Paul shook his head. “He died young. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“But how does this woman know what is needed here?” Parsaa pressed.
“People like me,” Paul said. “We visit, ask questions, identify problems . . .” His voice drifted off.
“Is she a Muslim?” Paul shook his head slowly.
The funding and the sources bothered Parsaa. The warlords once distributed money, too, but villagers understood the reasons. “These groups—we need to know their plans in advance.”
“Most of the charities mean well. They seek local partners and they listen.”
But that’s what the women wanted from Laashekoh, Parsaa countered.
“Be careful what you sign,” Paul advised. He offered to look over any paperwork. The groups were supposed to register with the government, describing purposes and funding sources.
“Villages should take care of their own problems,” Parsaa said. “If outsiders come in, we lose control.”
“Government officials like nonprofits. In my country and Afghanistan, too. They bring in money, they spend money locally. The good groups hire Afghans—more than seventy thousand are working for nonprofits.”
Parsaa asked if the governments had control of the nonprofits.
“They pay little attention,” Paul said. “Unless there are complaints. But it’s too early . . .” Parsaa waited, sensing that Paul did not trust the women from the orphanage. “Besides, I doubt they will return.”
Parsaa hoped Paul was right. “Allah rewards those who give, if their motives are good. Otherwise, giving can divide villages, and cooperation vanishes. Charities can look for problems that do not exist, and villages learn to claim problems they do not have. Laashekoh does not need such help.”
Allure of Deceit Page 7
