“Your son. Saddiq.” The younger man defended the boy, suggesting that the soldiers were skilled and, if they had a vehicle, had left it far away. He didn’t mind if Parsaa showed lenience. “I’m not sure any of us would have spotted them.”
Parsaa cut his friend off. “Excuses are dangerous.” And so were distractions, he thought to himself. He ordered Ahmed to let Saddiq rough up the smooth meadow. “Alone. He doesn’t need help, and he works until it’s done.”
Saddiq was grateful to work alone on another task, though helicopters would find other landing spots in the valley. He worked tirelessly to ruin the expanse for another landing, rolling boulders and moving dirt with the help of an old rug and a few planks. As the sun fell, the task was almost done and Saddiq longed for water to clear the dust from his face and mouth. Instead, he slipped away and ran to Thara’s favorite place for finding grasses, avoiding the path and twisting his way among the brush. She knelt not far from the fallen tree where they had first talked. He scanned the meadow, giving a soft bird call. She looked around, but he couldn’t wait and approached along the forest’s edge with the meadow.
He placed his hands on her shoulders. “I want you to leave,” he explained. “The next time my father is traveling or distracted by a visitor. Just walk away.”
“But I’m not ready,” Thara said, alarmed. “And I cannot leave on my own.”
“And we cannot leave together.” He explained that she would have to hide and wait until he could safely escape, too.
She asked about the soldiers. “More may come to search for the missing women from the orphanage.”
“That’s why we must leave before they arrive,” Saddiq said.
Thara swallowed. “If I leave, how long do you think the villagers would search?” She pointed out the search could end quickly if the others thought she had run away.
He shook his head, after already deciding that a long search could work to their advantage. “Better they assume you are lost. In the meantime, be sweet with Karimah so she does not think that you ran away.”
“But what if someone follows and stops you? I cannot travel alone, and I cannot leave with you.” She stepped away from him. Girls were warned all their lives about what would happen if they were caught alone with a boy. She didn’t want to talk about how such a violation could bring the worst punishment for both of them.
“We won’t travel together. Not exactly. We will leave separately, first you and then me. Then no one can say that we left the village together.”
Thara glanced to the side, nervous. “But where will we go?”
“To Kandahar—to get the baby.” Saddiq assured her that he had a plan and reviewed the steps for how they would reach the city. “And if it does not go smoothly, if we think you are in any trouble at all, we can find an orphanage, and they will take you in.”
Her eyes brightened, but only briefly. “We’re not orphans,” she said, with doubt.
“Those women didn’t seem to care.” He was stubborn. “We must leave as soon as possible. Before something happens to the baby.”
“Leila won’t hand over her baby to us,” Thara warned. “She is perverse and will want something from us.”
He was pleased that Thara did not trust her sister.
“We will find a way to trick her into doing what we want.” Saddiq darted away, through the trees, returning to the valley below to finish carrying out his father’s order—making it impossible for another helicopter to land near Laashekoh.
CHAPTER 14
Once Leila had dispensed with the child, she returned to another section of the prison reserved for single women, young and old. She shared a cell with six other women—and thankfully, no children.
The younger women were expected to assist the elders, but the burden often shifted the other way. Leila charmed her fellow inmates by cleaning the cell, brushing their hair, sharing small treats, and flattering them. She was popular, and the entire group, young and old, doted on her, making tea, washing her clothes, and saving morsels from their meals for her.
In turn, she listened and learned prison ways.
The judge had sentenced her to six years for her role in trafficking children from the province of Ghōr, over the border into Pakistan. The young Afghan judge had seemed more upset about the plan to cross the border illegally—calling such dealings with Pakistan an embarrassment for Afghanistan. He also pointed out that US military personnel had cited aggravating factors, describing the young woman as a high security risk. Her attorneys were livid about a lack of specific evidence, but Leila did not protest and practiced looking contrite, and that won her a place in a more comfortable prison than where her husband and mother had been sent.
Leila truly did not mind prison. She had come so close to being trapped in a rural village with a brute of a husband who would have soon tired of her. She deserved much better than a dreary life in Laashekoh. She enjoyed hearing stories of the other women, and liked the attention from attorneys and NGO staff.
She also became accustomed to the horrified reactions to her face. What startled people the most was how half of her face was left untouched by the acid attack. One side, still haunting in its beauty, was a powerful contrast to the injuries of the other side.
The guards and attorneys were surprised by how she thrived in prison. She made new friends as, twice a day, the guards escorted her and other prisoners to the outside yard, where a larger group walked and exchanged pleasantries. At first the lawyers forced her to attend classes, but after discovering that she was one of the better students, Leila began enjoying the lessons. Every morning, guards escorted her to a classroom, led by a young Afghan woman who taught reading and writing, and during the afternoon, Leila attended classes offered by NGO volunteers. One teacher praised Leila, calling her a natural storyteller, and asked if she could share one of her essays with an attorney for an international nonprofit on women’s rights. Journalists, NGO representatives, researchers suddenly wanted to interview her. A medical team started planning reconstructive surgery for her ravaged face.
Before long, Leila had a team of attorneys, one for her criminal case, another to monitor and negotiate media contacts, and another to review contracts and handle her finances. The attorneys set up a fund for her legal fees and plastic surgery, and they assured her that she would not have to worry about an income after prison. They were already working on securing permission for her to leave the prison for surgery outside the country.
“You have attracted the attention of the major international charities,” one attorney confided. “They will support you as long as you are a model citizen. Be yourself, and do nothing to anger them.”
Leila complied. She was a model prisoner, never complaining, fighting, or defying orders from the guards. From the start she cooperated with cellmates and worked hard to get along. She volunteered for prison tasks, but since the foreign charities had taken an interest, she no longer had to do the most unpleasant prison tasks. Prison administrators wanted to avoid international condemnation for mistreating a young woman who, despite her crimes, had already suffered so much.
The lead attorney maintained that the maximum sentence for a first offense of trafficking children by a young adult, especially a woman who had no control over the operation, should have been no more than a year. “The children came to no harm,” the lawyer scoffed. And he added that if her husband had not antagonized the Americans, a small bribe would have most likely resulted in the entire group winning fast release onto the streets of Kandahar.
The attorneys suggested that she not hurry to schedule surgery or file an appeal to reduce the sentence. Not yet, because the excessive sentence, the scars, the pregnancy helped generate sympathy.
Leila no longer minded the curious stares. If anything, her scars drew attention to her plight, followed by more donations. Her story prompted others to rush forward and show her another way of life for women. Smart, earnest, and generous women visited her, explaining that they w
ere from other countries, volunteering in the prison or writing articles for newspapers and magazines. Most were fascinated by her confidence despite the scars, and most asked the same concerned questions. Her attorneys had advised her to cooperate and anticipate repeated questions, warning her to keep her answers consistent and avoid the temptation to exaggerate. She answered all the questions asked of her, but she avoided lengthy explanations.
Short answers let her control the details of her life as needed. In truth, she didn’t really want others to know her entire life story. Leila still remembered her surprise when one woman asked if she was angry about the attack on her face. The question was a turning point for Leila. She considered her answer and, smiling, eventually shook her head and offered a simple reply. “It meant that someone cared deeply about losing me. Allah is forgiving. And so am I.”
The woman wrote a long article in another language that attracted new attention. Leila’s teacher showed her a copy on a computer and explained how thousands of readers had viewed the article and her photographs. Leila liked how others listened to her, transcribing her comments into notebooks and shepherding the words outside the prison walls. She would have never found such power in Laashekoh.
The article traveled around the world, and before long backtracked to Kandahar. Local religious authorities were troubled. “Such forgiveness is not her province,” one imam scolded the prison warden. He reminded the warden of a verse from the Koran: “Whoever associates anything with Allah, he devises indeed a great sin.”
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 yo
unger 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?”
Allure of Deceit Page 16
