The figure slowly approached and eventually took the form of old Mohan. Mohan refused to sit, standing beyond the firelight. His eyes focused on Parsaa.
Suddenly, Parsaa remembered his promise to Zahira to return and check on Najwa. He was a day late, maybe two. But Mohan was annoyed, and Zahira was probably angry, too.
The timing could not be worse. Parsaa had led others to believe that Saddiq left the village for an errand at the compound, and he hoped other villagers did not start asking Mohan questions. Parsaa would not apologize for failing to check on Najwa, not when the village had a missing child. He approached Mohan, standing between him and the others to block their view, and held out both hands to greet him.
Mohan did not reciprocate with his usual warmth, and the two men walked away from the fire toward the wall. Mohan was curt, talking about how a broken promise could not be repaired.
“Has the girl behaved?” Parsaa questioned.
“She is a troublemaker,” Mohan said. Irritated, Parsaa asked why the man had not brought Najwa back to the village. Mohan held his head high. “It is too late. Zahira’s husband has taken a liking to her. You should not have brought her to the compound at all.”
Parsaa pressed his fingers against his brow, and the pain cleared his head. He explained that a young girl had gone missing from the village, but the words had the sound of an empty excuse.
“Yet you have time to sit around a fire for idle conversation?” Mohan’s only priority was protecting the compound and Zahira. “Zahira is worried for her life, and you no longer come around to check on her anymore? Her fool of a husband does not need sight to sense the disinterest.”
More problems and guilt. “Does Zahira want me to remove Najwa?”
“She wants more than that,” Mohan said.
Parsaa offered to leave for the compound immediately. “Do we need other men?” Parsaa asked.
“You could bring one of your sons. We could begin his training.”
“Tonight may not be the time for training.” Parsaa kept his voice low. Mohan shrugged, waved for the other man to hurry, and then climbed back over the wall to wait. Parsaa was relieved that Mohan was in no mood to socialize with the men by the fire.
The village men looked at him expectantly, but Parsaa offered the briefest explanation: “A problem at the compound.”
At home, Sofi followed him as he retrieved a rifle. “What’s wrong? Is this about Saddiq?”
Dishonesty is like a sedative. He wanted to say yes, but shook his head. Parsaa went to the large wooden chest where the family stored weapons and ammunition. He selected a weapon and then stared at his son’s rifles. If the boy had planned to travel far, he would have taken a weapon. “This is not about Saddiq.”
Sofi had heard his comments to the other men. “But perhaps Saddiq is really there . . . ?”
Parsaa glanced around the room and wondered how far the boy had gone. His toughest shoes, a knife, and his pakol were missing. His pack waited in the corner, though Parsaa was certain the boy was not in the vicinity of Laashekoh. No one had thought about searching for Thara near the compound, and Parsaa wondered if Saddiq had tried searching there.
“Anything is possible.” Parsaa embraced his wife and told her he would return by early morning. Outside he joined Mohan, who did not speak at all, and the two began the long hike.
A sullen companion made the trip drag. Parsaa led in silence along the twisting trail. The older man could not keep up, and Parsaa tried to keep his pace in check. Before leaving with Najwa, he could not remember the last time he had traveled the path with another person—the beginning of another strange night with Zahira.
The night sounds were muffled, the air had an icy stillness.
Parsaa was not totally surprised that Arhaan befriended Najwa. Both were outcasts. Parsaa would check the compound and, whether Arhaan liked it or not, would bring Najwa back with him. She would be more difficult than before, but she would not stay in Laashekoh for long. As soon as they returned, he would leave for the provincial capital, with Najwa, to find her work. He would also ask discreet questions about the missing children. If Thara and Saddiq were not in Lashkar Gah, he would travel to Kandahar.
Parsaa thought about seeing his son. He could not bear to hear details and would order Saddiq to stay quiet. But first Parsaa had to find Saddiq—without villagers hearing about his inquiries.
Not knowing Saddiq’s location was tortuous, and desperate for tranquility, Parsaa focused on a night prayer. Walking was not the preferred form for praying, and improper form could lessen the rewards unless one was confronting an enemy.
Yet there was always the enemy within, or so Parsaa had convinced himself long ago. His praying was deliberate, not mindless chanting. Moving through the crisp night air, reciting the centuries-old words, was far more comforting than mulling over the problems of Saddiq, Zahira, or Thara.
While praying, Parsaa truly felt alone and in control. The prayers erased worries, if only temporarily, and a still mind was stronger than one pulled in many directions.
CHAPTER 24
The weather had warmed, and leaving Kandahar was easy without Thara or the packs.
Rather than walk westward, Saddiq ran in the opposite direction toward the city center, where the traffic’s pace was slower than that of donkeys. The traffic on Highway A1 was heavy, as hundreds of trucks, cars, and bicycles crawled along, all trying to escape the crowded city center. Saddiq watched laborers walking away from a construction site, how they bartered for rides with drivers. He found an open area without competitors. Standing tall, he pointed west on A1 and shouted, “Lashkar Gah?”
A motorcycle soon pulled over with a loud roar.
“I’m headed that way,” the man shouted. “Can you help with gas?” Saddiq showed the man a small bill.
“Hop on!” The young man pointed to grip bars beside his seat but advised Saddiq to hold onto his shoulders in traffic. “We don’t want to make other drivers nervous.”
Saddiq asked why the drivers were so nervous, and the man explained that Taliban gangsters traveled in pairs on the cycles, one driving and the other wielding an assault rifle. Or the extremists sent in children to rob truckloads or carry bombs when they wanted to stop a competitor’s shipment. The man complained bitterly about criminals who ruined the highway and Afghanistan’s reputation for hospitality.
“Good to be heading out tonight,” he added. “The Afghan soldiers are running a convoy. Just keep your hands visible.” The man then asked Saddiq where he was headed, and the boy described the bridge just a short ways before Lashkar Gah.
“Tap my shoulder when you want me to stop.” The man then waved his hand in the air. “And get rid of the pakol—or prepare to give it over to the wind!”
Saddiq stuffed the hat inside his perahan, and they roared off, zigzagging to pass the slow-moving trucks in the city and avoid the craters left by bombs beyond the city limits. Two hours later, Saddiq was sore after sitting so long in one position, and his cheeks felt raw, whipped by the rush of air. But the ride was exhilarating, and before long, they reached the bridge, not far from where Saddiq had left the packs. The boy tapped the man’s shoulder and the motorcycle pulled neatly over to the side of the road.
Saddiq jumped off the seat and stood back, admiring the motorcycle one last time. “It’s a wonderful machine.”
The driver nodded and smiled. “I hope that you own one someday, too, and give another Afghan boy a ride. Khoda hafiz.”
The sight of the lumpy packs, waiting side by side among the rocks for their two owners, made him ache. Saddiq remembered the one beautiful, peaceful night of sleeping by Thara’s side, and no matter what happened to him, he would never regret helping her escape from Laashekoh.
He thought about leaving Thara’s makeshift pack behind, but then he decided it might be useful for carrying the baby. He opened her pack and removed her clothes and the long, dark locks of hair. He rubbed the soft hair against his cheek, tempted to
keep a few strands. Instead, he moved his pack far away before returning to empty hers. He pocketed the heart-shaped rock. He hid her clothes and the other contents underneath some rocks. Perhaps he would return someday. With his back to the fierce wind, Saddiq shook the gray rag of a blanket and watched the hair scatter.
For the rest of the day, he walked northward. The trip went quickly without the detours and his companion, and it didn’t take long to find the compound that Thara had described. The sun was almost down and he waited in a stand of trees, wondering why his father had not said much about the place.
Saddiq regretted not asking Thara about how many people lived with Zahira. The compound had more buildings than Laashekoh, most small in size. Several structures were large, modern, and well built. Other than smoke drifting from one building in the center, the compound was still—no sign of people working or children cavorting in the open areas.
With nightfall, the air again turned cold. Saddiq wished that he could find shelter from the wind and a sip of water. Yet approaching any structure without knowing what waited inside carried risk. He would have limited time to find the baby. Most buildings had windows, but all were small and high. There was no guarantee that he could overhear a baby’s cry inside.
With barricades and lookout posts, the place resembled a deserted military camp—and light was plentiful in the largest building that didn’t look like a home at all.
Suddenly, a man stepped away from a dark building. A dark bird rode along on his shoulder. Squawking, the bird took off for a branch high in a nearby tree and issued a call that sounded almost human. “Door begee! Door begee!” Keep away.
A myna. The man’s movements were jerky, cautious, like those of the bird, and his smile was odd. The bird circled over the compound before swooping down to land on the man’s shoulder again, pecking at a treat from his hand. They vanished into the shadows surrounding the building, though Saddiq was not sure whether they had entered. No lights went on. Silence returned, night fell, and the building remained dark.
Saddiq was anxious, ready to return to his family and sleep in his own bed. He wanted to find the baby and remove her quickly. One bad guess would ruin his chances, and Saddiq could not move until he figured out which building sheltered the child.
Exhausted, he didn’t want to think about what to do next if the baby had been transferred to another location and, instead, he forced himself to study the place. The compound was deadly quiet, and the canyon walls felt like a trap. Only two buildings showed light, and the rest seemed empty. In Laashekoh, babies were demanding, crying for food or changes. Even while working, adults cooed and played with children. His parents would not want Ali’s daughter to grow up in such a desolate place. He closed his eyes, willing his niece to cry out, but there was no sign of an infant.
The compound’s occupants would be accustomed to silence, and any unusual noise would put them on alert. Saddiq needed a diversion, small enough to prompt the adults to check the baby, but not so unusual as to make them wary for the rest of the night. A brief disruption would allow him to search the interiors and locate the baby. He could return later to retrieve her. It wouldn’t be easy. The child probably slept in the same room as her caregiver. An alarm would go up once the baby went missing, and he would not have much of a head start.
Saddiq dreaded the thought of holding a crying child while being chased.
Keeping his eyes on the compound, he hid his pack off trail and wrapped Thara’s half of the old blanket around his neck.
A tapping noise began in the building where Saddiq had last seen the man and the bird. Perhaps a hammer driving a small nail into wood, as if someone was determined to work throughout the night. Yet the building remained dark.
Suddenly, footsteps came crunching along the path that wound through the canyon. A shadowy figure of a man passed close and headed toward the largest building with the light. The man tried the door, but an older woman covered in a shawl appeared and berated him about the late hour.
A visitor could work as a diversion. Bending low, Saddiq crept toward the other building with light. He glanced back to check on the woman. She opened the door to the largest building and held it open but did not follow him inside. Instead, she lingered near the doorway. Loud voices soon followed.
An argument. A better diversion. Saddiq opened the heavy door to the house and paused, waiting for a shout or question. An old yellow cat appeared from nowhere, purring and clinging to his ankles. Taking a deep breath, Saddiq slipped through the doorway, with the cat following, into the grandest home he had ever seen.
CHAPTER 25
Zahira waited behind the desk, writing in a journal. After sunset, darkness descended over the canyon. Only the desk lamp was lit, and the clinic had a warm glow. Articles, order forms, correspondence, and other papers covered the desk. From all appearances, the clinic was a busy place, and the meeting with Paul Reichart was a business meeting of sorts.
There was a soft knock, but before Zahira could stand, Aza unlocked the door and escorted Paul inside. He formally thanked the older woman and waited for an invitation to sit. Aza, still regarding Zahira as a young charge, was displeased about meetings alone with the man, but she no longer argued. There were too many reminders that a blind husband could not manage compound affairs and that Parsaa had lost interest. No one was better suited than Zahira to pay bills, collect revenue, consult on business projects, and run the place.
Zahira thanked the older woman and promised to call if help was needed, and Aza shut the door hard. “She doesn’t like me,” Paul commented, as he slowly drew the bolt.
“She does not like that I am alone with a foreigner.” Zahira wrapped her arms around him, resting her head against his shoulder. “I told her not to interfere.”
But Paul was troubled. “We must talk. About what you are storing in the huts nearby.”
She tried to back away, but too late. He latched a finger on a long, dark curl and twirled. She felt the tension against her scalp.
“Why are so many supplies kept here?” He pointed out that some boxes had expiration dates more than a decade old, and he demanded to see her records.
She did not want to discuss her activities with him and, wincing, she tilted her head toward him. “I do not control what is sent here. Why does it matter? No one has ever stopped by to check.”
“I received a call today. The people I work for want to give an award to an Afghan who is doing good work with the help of GlobalConnect. I had suggested you.” Then the organizers mentioned background checks, and Paul tried to withdraw her name. But his employers pressed him to remain in the competition. “My future there depends on that award. On you. There will be an audit. Tell me why you have so much in storage!”
She pleaded with him to lower his voice. “No one comes here.”
He yanked hard, lowering his hand and forcing her to bend sideways.
Pain seared her scalp, forcing her to move closer. “Stop!” she screeched. “You don’t understand. It’s complicated here.”
“It’s complicated everywhere, and I have time to listen.” Staring, he slowly let her hair unwind.
Zahira took a deep breath. The international organizations had sent money and supplies to a woman with no patients. She had not asked for the supplies, the medications, the funding. Instead, organizers of a European NGO hunted her down soon after her father’s death. The activists were intent on providing reproductive healthcare during the chaotic period of Taliban rule. The Taliban ruffians may have been few in number, not even 1 percent of the overall population, but their rules were harsh, enforcement brutal. Men carrying assault rifles closed schools, businesses, hospitals. Authorities forced farmers to grow opium and refused to distribute food donations from the international agencies. Women who tried shopping at the marketplace were pulled off the streets for beatings, rape, or even murder. Gangs visited households to collect late tax payments and had no compunction about taking their wrath out on the weakest members o
f the family, whether that meant stoning women and children, heaving infants to the ground, or beheading a father and ruining the lives of those who depended on his work.
The atrocities alarmed European activists who identified willing health workers of any level and organized smuggling routes for Afghanistan. Contraception supplies, pamphlets translated into Dari and Pashtun, computers, and other supplies were hidden in crates of trash with no labels or addresses, and the vile-smelling contents passed quickly through chains of underground operatives and smugglers in China, India, Tajikistan, and Pakistan.
Zahira and Arhaan were grateful for the compound’s remote location. They heard the horror stories from Lashkar Gah, and lived as hermits. Mohan camouflaged and guarded the canyon against the Taliban, who would have regarded the compound’s furnishings along with the music, books, wine, and birds as frivolous and sinful. The couple would have been beaten senseless, tied behind vehicles, and dragged through the nearby villages as a warning about the consequences of defying the Taliban.
Zahira agreed to serve as a willing provider, and the European group deposited funds into an overseas account for wages and bribes. Money flowed into the account, and Zahira made regular withdrawals as if she were running a clinic and counseling on the benefits of family planning. Expecting patients to arrive any day, she stored years of supplies and equipment in the compound’s unused space.
She was ready, but the patients did not show up. To practice, she studied texts and prepared reports on imaginary patients, listed by imaginary initials. She kept meticulous records on imaginary expenditures. The files described the medical career to which she had once aspired—counseling patients, answering questions, tending births, passing out medication that allowed women to space pregnancies. She also reported administering the mifepristone-misoprostol regimen for terminating unwanted pregnancies, first giving the woman a dose of mifepristone, a synthetic steroid compound, followed two days later by misoprostol, a drug also used to prevent gastric ulcers.
Allure of Deceit Page 22
