Allure of Deceit

by Susan Froetschel

  A mother should not hurry. Zahira cupped her hand around the full breast and squeezed with the other, using her fingers like scissors. Milk leaked out and Zahira suggested directing the baby’s mouth closer to the damp nipple. The baby latched on, sucked a few times, before pausing to stare up at Leila with beautiful eyes. Leila leaned over the baby, using her right hand to shove the breast back into the mouth.

  As the baby turned, Zahira noticed the top of her head was slightly sunken.

  Leila was frustrated. “They’re right. She doesn’t like looking at me.” Moving the baby to the floor, Leila let the blanket lay loose. “Let her go hungry and cold!”

  Then she quickly relented, swaddling the baby tightly and roughly plopping her down on a nearby cushion.

  “She may not be hungry,” offered Zahira. She was amazed the baby did not fuss more, but had to show she did not care. She wanted to ask about the color of the baby’s urine, but too many questions would put Leila on the defensive. Instead, Zahira pointed out that a baby that young could not possibly care about her mother’s face. The girl did not respond.

  Zahira sat back and waited patiently. Leila’s stare hardened through the long spell of silence. “Why are you here?” she asked.

  Leaning back so Leila could not check her face, Zahira explained she was in town for other business. Then Zahira pointedly asked about other visitors from Laashekoh. The girl shook her head. “Will you tell Parsaa that you have seen me?” Leila asked bitterly.

  “Not at all,” Zahira said.

  “You know he is why I am here?” Leila was nervous. “A good man would have understood that I had to follow orders from my father and my husband. Parsaa could have simply punished us and allowed us to remain at Laashekoh. He did not have to involve the foreign soldiers. That is what my attorney says.”

  Zahira asked the length of her sentence.

  “Six years.” Leila’s laugh was short. “It’s strange. This is supposed to be punishment, but I like it better here than living in Laashekoh. I would never go back. If only I didn’t have the child.”

  The mother was eager to rid herself of Hasti, and the infant sensed the resentment. But Zahira could not plead for the child. The idea had to come from Leila.

  “Could a relative care for her?” Zahira questioned in a cool tone.

  “My mother is in another prison,” Leila snapped. “And my sisters are stuck in Laashekoh and would be fools to ruin their marriage chances by caring for my child.” Leila suddenly twisted her head sideways. “Is that why you came here?”

  Zahira was silent and resisted glancing toward the infant. She could not show Leila how much she cared.

  But Leila saw.

  “This is why you refused to give me the abortion?” Leila charged. “You care more about her than me. And now you want me to hand her over to you?” She demanded that Zahira look her in the eye.

  Zahira faced Leila with a set expression and kept her voice steady. “I told you then. Too much time had passed. Only so much is possible in an area as remote as ours. It’s not my fault you did not come to me earlier.”

  “That is not what others tell me here!” Leila snarled with fury. “Why do you want her?”

  Other prisoners went silent and stared, and Leila sat up, resuming a polite demeanor.

  “She is not the only infant in Afghanistan,” Zahira tried well-practiced disdain before softening her voice. “My husband and I have no children and a large compound. It’s a good home with many resources.”

  She paused. “We could explain that I’m an aunt, and I could take her away today.”

  Leila was thoughtful. “My father said your father owned all the property around Laashekoh. That he allowed the villagers to farm and live in Laashekoh.”

  Zahira stiffened. “We have property, and I can also provide her with an education, a dowry.”

  Leila scoffed at the offer. “My attorneys are promising me great wealth.”

  Irritated, Zahira stood and prepared to leave. She would not let a girl in prison push her around. “Your daughter won’t live long enough to see your wealth. She is dehydrated and needs a doctor. Not an attorney. I am trying to help. What more could you want?”

  The inmate stood, too, placed both hands on Zahira’s shoulders, and whispered in her ear. The older woman stood still, absorbing the impossible request. “That would not be easy,” she finally responded.

  “If you really own the land, you decide who lives there, no?” Leila asked. “And he is nothing to you.” She smiled, somehow knowing that was not true.

  Leila did not wait for an answer. Regal and impulsive, she dismissed Zahira. “Go ahead, be my aunt. Take the child with you today. Do with her as you please. As long as you find a way to take care of Parsaa.”

  And Leila ordered Zahira not to return because she didn’t want to think of Laashekoh again.

  Zahira did not argue. Taking the child was easy after meeting with the prison warden and explaining she was a relative who lived near Leila’s village. The man made a notation and waved her away.

  But Zahira could not force Parsaa’s family to leave Laashekoh because she no longer owned the land.

  There was time. Leila could appeal her sentence but would be in prison at least a few more months. Besides, Leila had not set a deadline. The girl despised Laashekoh and would not want to return after her release. She talked about money and plans to travel. So Zahira convinced herself. She could move away before Leila returned for the child. She did not want Shareen to know the identity and cruel detachment of her birth mother.

  Turning slowly back and forth, Zahira cooed to the baby—Parsaa’s first grandchild. Zahira was proud about nurturing the infant back to health so quickly. The little girl was plump, content, alert. Before finding Shareen, Zahira had once believed that abortion was kinder than adoption. A mother could never trust a stranger with her child, and thoughts of Shareen with another woman were abhorrent.

  Zahira had rescued the child not once, but twice. Their relationship was exceptional, though it was ironic how much Zahira sounded like the women who opposed abortions for others but vehemently justified their own.

  Studying the baby’s face, Zahira thought she could see Parsaa in her eyes and definitely Leila in the outline of her jaw and mouth. Zahira did not want Parsaa to know of the child’s existence, not yet, and certainly not the identity of her parents. Otherwise, Parsaa and Sofi might try to claim the child, insisting on raising her in the intolerant village where the girl would never be treated as equal. Zahira might eventually tell Parsaa about the child, but only after leaving Afghanistan.

  She needed more money to leave and buy citizenship in another land, as advised by Paul—the $750,000 that would take her to Spain or Greece and all she had to do was purchase property. Or, $1 million would take her to the United States if she could create ten jobs. Canada and England were too cold.

  The United States was the safest destination. American soldiers had arrested the traffickers, and Leila would be regarded a security risk. Zahira needed Paul’s sponsorship and more money. Perhaps she could convince Parsaa to sell some of the land and share the proceeds. Or she could convince the western charities, so free with funds, that she needed more.

  “I rescued you before you were born and afterward, and I will rescue again,” she cooed to the child. Shareen belonged to her, and that made Zahira determined to restore her inheritance and pass along a new life, much more than a compound hidden away in a desolate canyon, to her baby girl.

  The conversation with Mohan meant that Parsaa returned to Laashekoh much later than he had intended. He slipped underneath the layers of blankets and, once still, could hear his heart pound. His mind played games at night, mixing past and present fears. He couldn’t stop thinking about the compound and how Blacker presided over his staff and the group of boys as if he were a king, training them to regard his dangers as threats for them. He remembered his own foolish, youthful pride as Zahira’s dark eyes constantly followed him.<
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  Such foolishness locked him into a secret, lifelong obligation. Yet the land around Laashekoh meant everything to him. No one knew who controlled the land, not even his wife. Blacker had claimed the transaction was registered in government offices, but the man was wily. The papers could have been forged, a ruse to convince Parsaa to do his bidding.

  Parsaa came to the same conclusion as always. He was afraid to travel to the provincial capital to verify the deed. He didn’t want to know. His life depended on everything staying the same—and that meant not asking questions or revealing his own secrets. And the old and never-changing decision pushed him into a fitful sleep.

  CHAPTER 12

  The leaves were long off the trees, but the day was unseasonably warm. Lydia wished she could take a walk in the nearby meadows protected by the city. Instead, she waited for two consultants. Henry didn’t want her dwelling on Michael’s death, though he did recommend trying a new strategy to collect information.

  Thus, the meeting with the consultants. Lydia waited alone, rocking slowly on her porch, with a cup of tea and a good mystery.

  The consultants had called to let her know that they were en route from the Lansing Airport. Less than fifteen minutes later, a rented Passat pulled in to her driveway. The loose-weave linen curtains moved with the breeze, blocked their view of the porch interior. The two did not hurry from the car. Instead, the young man looked down, probably studying a set of directions. The young woman behind the wheel was on the phone, gesturing toward the house.

  Lydia smiled. The two should have been warned that the woman who controlled a multibillion foundation lived frugally, keeping a low profile in mid-Michigan, far from the New York offices of GlobalConnect. She couldn’t blame them yet hoped they could provide state-of-the-art research and handle unexpected results.

  After a few minutes, the couple stepped out of the car, both dressed in neat, casual business attire well suited for the Lansing area, no expensive jewelry or shoes. As they walked up the driveway, Lydia opened the porch door and welcomed them.

  The young pair, Cara Rodriguez and Lawrence Walker, surprised her by accepting her offer of tea. Lydia set the water on the stove, found a tin of tea in the pantry, and arranged cream, sugar, and cups on a platter—while stealing glances from the window overlooking the porch. The pair set up two laptops and arranged papers on the table for Lydia to examine.

  She quickly delivered the hot water and tea to the table along with oatmeal cookies. For herself, she poured boiled water with no tea. The consultants looked surprised. “A habit learned from a dear friend in China,” Lydia explained. “Her family could not afford tea during the Cultural Revolution. The habit stuck, and she insists it helps digestion and circulation.”

  The two nodded and began their presentation. Based in Los Angeles, the former journalists had started their consulting firm, the Rodriguez-Walker Group, and quickly became known for matching charities with celebrities in need of redemption. Because of their meticulous research, the matchmaking worked well, and clients reported record donations. Nonprofits clamored to work with the firm, but the consultants were selective, searching for worthy causes and serious voices to ensure their own reputation for success.

  The firm eventually turned its efforts toward transforming recipients of charity into celebrities to draw attention to hard-to-solve problems. Once again, nonprofits, corporations, and government agencies eagerly sought these services.

  Rodriguez and Walker were skilled at evaluating foundations, improving performance, and crafting publicity that went viral overnight on social media. Lydia had already decided to hire the consulting firm. The problem was convincing them to work for GlobalConnect. The pair thrived on discovering obscure individuals and building global stories, and rumors abounded about the firm rejecting work from philanthropy’s most prominent players. Lydia could not appear too eager.

  Cara was up-front with her reservations. “Mrs. Sendry, the foundation’s figures on administrative costs are already quite strong. We don’t have to tell you that GlobalConnect is already a leader in the field.”

  “But shouldn’t we all strive to do better?” Lydia relied on her friendliest business tone.

  “Of course,” Cara agreed. “Our firm specializes in developing narratives for fundraising. We have a proven track record in that area. But . . .” She took a deep breath. “Because your foundation does not actively raise funds . . .”

  Lydia interrupted gently. “My son’s foundation.”

  Lawrence took over. “Yes. Please realize that the use of narratives for purposes other than fundraising would be new territory. We’ll be frank. We wouldn’t mind applying this approach to new areas.”

  “GlobalConnect would be a guinea pig in this new area you propose,” Cara added. “Our goal is to promote best practices for philanthropy. Many projects are started, but as a result of our research, some are left unfinished.”

  Pleased by the candor, Lydia tried not to smile. She followed closely as they reviewed the contents of a binder packed with graphs, photograph, and data—prepared specifically for the foundation. She also kept an eye on the window overlooking her front garden, annoyed by a group of small wrens chasing off a cardinal at the birdfeeder just outside. The cardinal flew off to a nearby maple, waiting for the feeder to clear.

  One possible way to increase motivation among employees and clients would be to highlight strong narratives with personal appeal, Lawrence explained. “Improved employee morale can increase trust and reduce administrative costs. We would conduct thorough research to identify specific employees and aid recipients with the approval of GlobalConnect’s board. We would use these stories to publicize the good work and connections.”

  Lydia offered more tea. Both nudged their cups forward for her to pour. Cara asked to try hot water.

  “We specialize in international investigations,” she continued. “For us, a story that relays international challenges and connections, through equal partnerships, is everything. We find the stories, fact-check them, shape them, and train the people to do the telling. You’d be surprised how many people don’t realize the opportunity of turning every day into a story. They don’t realize their level of control. We could develop training to motivate employees and select role models.”

  Both consultants nodded as they spoke—Cara’s a gentle bobbing while Lawrence’s was barely perceptible, a slight tilt of his chin. The two were so earnest, smart, and young, qualities that triggered reminders of her son.

  “Have you ever not found a story?” Lydia queried.

  “There are always stories,” Cara promised. “What’s difficult is finding appropriate themes, extracting two or more stories, and getting them to blend. And of course, ensuring there are no conflicts of interest. Solid research is essential and prevents embarrassment for everyone involved.”

  “But surely some stories must be flawed?” Lydia pretended to struggle to think of an example. “How often are there inaccuracies, exaggerations? Even criminal activity?”

  Lawrence was confident. “It happens quite often. We vet the backgrounds and all aspects of the subjects and organization very, very carefully.”

  Lydia then asked if she could see an example of data for a profile subject. The partners hesitated. “No names, but I’d like to see how details are organized and how much you can collect on someone based in a developing nation,” Lydia added. “A country without a lot of computers and record keeping. Say, a place as remote as Afghanistan?”

  Lawrence asked if GlobalConnect supplied employees with phones and laptops, and Lydia nodded. “That gives us great leeway,” Cara murmured.

  Lawrence reached for his laptop. “Give me a moment,” he said. “I can strip names from a data set.” He typed for a few moments in silence and then handed the computer over. Lydia tapped her way through the detailed worksheet on one beneficiary that described activities, categories of annual expenditures including alcohol and food, television and computer habits, and more. An
other worksheet listed travel history, credit-card expenses, telephone and Internet records, and transcripts for a worker based in Africa. “Impressive,” Lydia murmured. Noting her appreciation for confidentiality, she asked how they obtained so much information.

  Taking a deep breath, Lawrence resumed control of the laptop. The consultants relied on the newest data-collection software and analytic tools. “All legal surveillance,” he said. “We can provide layers of privacy protection as your organization needs, though it saves time if we can review personnel and case files, even e-mails, for story ideas. We do that because organizations often don’t recognize a great story developing before their very eyes. We collect a wide range of possibilities, make choices on which stories to pursue, and then conduct background checks. That process weeds many out.”

  “Many,” Cara reiterated.

  “And unlike the employee-background-check industry, we destroy data when we are done. From our point of view, it’s unconscionable for businesses, nonprofits, and universities to collect data on employee applicants, not just the employees themselves, and keep that indefinitely.”

  Lydia was surprised, and he assured her it happened more often than most realized. “We could present the complete data set for you, so your team can review, or just summaries and our recommendations for finalists.”

  The service was ideal for her purposes. All that was left for her to do was point them in a direction and convince them to provide a complete data set on Paul Reichart. She wanted them to move quickly.

  “Of course,” Lawrence said. “We must stress again, using the data for anything other than highlighting narratives for publicity purposes is untested. We cannot guarantee to reduce costs at the foundation.”

  “With this uncertainty, can you bill me and not the foundation?”