The women had nothing to do with Michael, and other colleagues had already suggested the two could have easily been sidetracked. Weary, Lydia asked Paul to check if Parsaa’s son wanted to say hello. Paul spoke with Parsaa, and the two men waved the boy over. The boy squeezed next to Paul, directly in front of the computer, and the father frowned while eying the tangled hair and filthy clothes. The child looked as if he had not bathed in days.
Paul made the introductions, and Lydia gave Saddiq a small wave. “Be sure to show him where I live on a map.”
Saddiq smiled and said a few sentences. “He’s seen a television before and wanted to know how the computer was different,” Paul translated. “His father says he has not seen a computer before.”
Lydia asked if Saddiq attended school and listened as the boy said he would miss home too much if he left for school. He wanted to work in the village’s fields. His father added that school could be helpful for that work, too.
Just as Lydia was about to ask another question, the door swung open. A man in dark glasses, wearing an embroidered vest, burst into the clinic. Waving a rifle, he tossed a black bundle onto the counter, screaming furiously.
From what Lydia could tell, he did not aim the weapon at any particular person. There was shouting, and the man fired, shattering a metal cabinet and stunning others in the clinic. They froze just a moment before scrambling for cover. At first, no one spoke. Lydia only heard the pounding of feet and slamming chairs. Paul shoved the boy to the floor, underneath the desk and out of sight from Lydia. The violent scene played out on the small laptop screen like a low-budget television show. Except the actors did not seem surprised at all.
The old man by the door tried reaching for the rifle barrel. The shooter twisted and thrust the stock, knocking him to the ground. Lydia screamed, but no one in the clinic noticed.
“Arhaan!” Zahira issued what sounded like an annoyed order.
The man aimed the weapon in her direction and fired, hitting her in the arm. Zahira screamed, and Paul moved his chair to provide more cover for the boy, also blocking Lydia’s view of the clinic. She heard ranting and gunfire but only saw Paul’s gray shirt.
Seconds later, Paul slumped to the side, exposing the clinic. Parsaa had crossed the room, wrapping one arm around the shooter’s neck.
The gunman protested and fought as Parsaa wrestled him to the floor with the help of his son. Angry, disgusted, Parsaa seized the rifle and handed it over to the stunned old man on the floor.
Parsaa and the others in the clinic were silent.
“No, no, no.” Lydia repeated the word, but she was the only one who spoke. Kashif tried to rush to her side, but Cara stopped him. Lydia stepped away from the computer and joined them near the doorway. Cara gave her an embrace, and Lydia turned to Kashif. “What can we do?” she asked.
The translator shook his head. “It’s over now, and the shooting had nothing to do with your conversation,” he whispered. “The man had entered the clinic, furious about an attack on his Kalila by a cat.”
“Another child?” Lydia asked. But Kashif shook his head.
A bird. The translator thought Kalila was a bird.
CHAPTER 28
Arhaan stormed into the clinic and screamed, wildly swinging Blacker’s old .303 British Enfield. “Who is in here? Parsaa? The foreign man? Who?” The blind man blocked the doorway and tossed a dead bird onto the nearest counter while railing about the death of Kalila, his favorite myna. Paul’s online meeting turned into bedlam.
With derision, Zahira told the others in the room not to worry. “That rifle is not loaded.”
Arhaan fired blindly at the cabinet, puncturing the steel. Mohan tried reaching for the gun, but Arhaan was ready and strong, easily knocking the old man to the ground. Then he slowly turned, aiming the weapon, a blind man in search of a target.
Zahira called his name, ordering her husband to leave. Arhaan fired in her direction and hit her arm. She screamed and reached for the wound in disbelief as Paul shoved Saddiq to the floor.
“Stop!” Parsaa shouted, before lunging and dropping low, edging along the wall toward the shooter.
Arhaan immediately fired in the direction of the voice and missed. Leaning against the door, he dared anyone in the room to reveal a position. “I asked one favor. To keep the cat away from Kalila. But my work doesn’t matter!”
“We did listen,” Zahira moaned. He fired a shot that hit her in the neck, and she fell to the floor.
Paul cried out her name, while a choking sound came from Mohan, and Aza frantically signaled her husband to keep quiet. Arhaan took a step forward.
Closing in, Parsaa held his breath, lunging for Arhaan’s neck and the weapon. But not before Arhaan fired four more shots into the tight space.
The two men struggled, and Parsaa was surprised by the blind man’s strength. Kicking, screaming, punching the air, Arhaan demanded to know who took his weapon away, who dared to restrain the master of the compound.
No one answered.
Parsaa managed to hold on, and Saddiq pushed his way from underneath the desk, rushing across the room to grasp the shooter’s arm. Father and son shoved Arhaan to the floor, his head hitting hard against the tiles. Mohan grabbed a desk lamp, using the electric cord to bind Arhaan’s hands.
Arhaan howled in protest, berating Zahira. “Only your work matters. You care nothing about mine.” He fell apart, mourning a favorite bird. “Kalila . . . Kalila is dead. My beautiful Kalila is dead.”
Across the room, Paul Reichart managed to sit up and survey the damage, while clutching his stomach, blood dripping through his fingers. And the only one who could possibly save his life, Zahira, lay nearby, blood streaming from the wound in her neck. Arhaan, still screaming at her, had no idea his wife was dead.
Najwa slipped into the room and sat near Mohan and Saddiq as they restrained Arhaan. She asked no questions but held Arhaan’s hand and tried to calm him.
Parsaa closed his eyes, praying for forgiveness. He had promised Blacker to protect his only child. The challenge came in protecting a woman from her husband, and for that there was no sure method. He opened cabinets until he found clean linens. Kneeling next to Paul, Parsaa pressed a folded cloth to the man’s wound.
“Friend,” Parsaa whispered.
“Good friend.” Paul gasped with pain. He moved his hand to the cloth but lacked the strength to press the layers down. The wound was in a bad place. Parsaa could use a knife to remove the bullet, but the man did not deserve more pain. Men did not survive such wounds in the isolated area around Laashekoh.
Paul was less concerned about the wound. Leaning against the desk and grunting, he pointed to the laptop and gestured for Parsaa to move it closer. Paul wanted to continue his conversation.
The old woman from another country was distressed, and Parsaa wondered how much she had seen. Countless times he had wondered how Zahira could tolerate such a machine, exposing her personal space even as she explored other places. But he shook his head. The violence had occurred on his side of the world regardless of whether a computer was in the room or not. The woman had reason to judge Arhaan and the rest of them.
The woman frantically asked questions, and Parsaa heard the word “Paul” several times. Parsaa started to explain that an accident had taken place, but then realized that she did not speak Dari. Only Paul could translate.
Parsaa wanted to urge her to stop the questions and simply offer prayers that might soothe the dying man. But Paul did not seem to mind and was comforted by the woman’s image and voice. The questions stopped as Paul struggled to speak.
Parsaa was quiet. One should not interfere until one understands.
In severe pain, Paul’s voice rasped in between quick and shallow breaths, and the old woman listened closely. Shivering, Paul was losing blood. His face was pale, but at one point, he turned to Parsaa, assuring his friend with a wan smile. “She is worried that you are not rushing me to a doctor. I explained the trip would be too
hard. This is it.”
Parsaa gave a reluctant nod.
As the two continued their conversation, Parsaa found more towels and a blanket that he wrapped around the man’s shoulders. But he could find no tool to remove the bullet. Toward the end, Paul shook hard and wept. The man could hardly speak and clutched onto the machine as if it meant everything to him.
Parsaa felt sorry for his friend, the man who had pushed his son to safety. The woman was stern, as if she expressed disappointment in Paul even as he was dying. Paul muttered what sounded like prayers in another language.
Turning, Parsaa asked Saddiq to find scissors, pincers, a knife, medicines, anything to remove the bullet or stop the pain.
But it was too late. Paul closed his eyes and died.
Cara placed the laptop on the table, directly in front of Lydia’s chair, to narrow Paul’s view of the room. He still did not know that another translator was listening nearby. Lydia pleaded with Paul to ask the Afghans to seek help, but Paul shook his head and explained that the compound was too far away from such care. Zahira, the only caregiver in the region, was dead.
Nothing could be done for him.
He wanted to confess. Thousands of miles away, Paul told his story, desperate for Lydia to understand and forgive.
“It was Rose,” Paul gasped. “All Rose.” Michael had refused to listen to advice not just from Paul but from other friends about convincing Rose to sign a prenuptial agreement. “Probably, you too, Lydia,” Paul said slowly. Lydia would not interrupt to argue or agree. Better to let him speak freely.
Michael was stubborn, insisting that the request indicated a lack of trust. He had chosen love over money and refused to let work, wealth, any wedge, come between him and Rose.
Yes, Paul had arranged for the bombing in India. The resentful can easily detect resentment in others. While working in Afghanistan, helping tech teams on cultural issues, he had talked with many marginalized young men bitter about the unending changes in their country. The mentally ill, abandoned by their families, with no prospects for jobs or marriage, could be easily manipulated. All Paul had to do was point out that Rose was an atheist who had once desecrated a copy of the Koran—and yet the Western woman continued to enjoy the rewards of travel and vast wealth. Paul casually passed along cash and copies of a newspaper photograph of Rose to three young men. The most desperate of the three, a young man by the name of Qasim, managed to travel to India.
The bomb had been intended for Rose alone. Qasim was advised on the time and place. But Michael had skipped a scheduled conference call from the company that day and died by his wife’s side.
The foundation had been proposed a week before the wedding. The three friends sat on the porch, talking late into the night, staring at the stars, and finishing a bottle of sparkling wine. Michael had mentioned that he wanted to do something useful with his share of money from Photizonet, and Paul pointed out that his friend could start a foundation and that he would donate a good portion of his stock, too.
But Rose had immediately scoffed at the idea, suggesting that Michael could be a good citizen in other ways. Private foundations were ostentatious, arrogant displays of wealth, designed for tax avoidance. Corporate executives pillaged communities, constraining government spending, wresting control over social spending, while insinuating that governments could not do good work. For her, organized charity undermined democracy and reduced a community’s power over deciding wants and needs. She was so opinionated, yet Michael adored her, listening to her and treating her as his only equal. Other employees had already expressed concern, wondering if Rose might try to take an active role in Photizonet. But not Paul. Never loyal Paul.
Until that night. He had been grateful for the late hour and cover of darkness on the bungalow’s tiny porch. Otherwise, Michael would not have missed the hatred in his friend’s eyes. Paul wept as he explained his regret to Lydia about what he called an accident and asked if she had known about the foundation.
She just shook her head, and Paul moaned. “Why did he keep that a secret? If only he had told me his plans . . .”
Paul was fading fast. At last, Lydia knew the reason for her son’s death, though it didn’t help. The murders were pointless.
She remembered how much the aid workers from the orphanage had aggravated him, and she reminded him that the two women had planned to apply for GlobalConnect funding. Paul insisted the crash was an accident.
His explanation seemed simple enough. The helicopter was overloaded. The pilot did not check and double-check the straps around the load. It didn’t take much shifting for the helicopter with an uneven load to lose control. Paul’s breathing was rapid and shallow, his eyes bright. “They . . . took . . . shortcuts.”
How did Paul know? Because the helicopter had taken off not far from the compound. As Paul spoke, his skin turned pale, shiny, and damp. His voice was rough and robotic.
She wondered why he knew so much more than the authorities about the women and why he didn’t report the crash.
But she let him talk on. He begged her forgiveness and talked about wanting to protect the villages from intruders who wanted to boost their own reputations rather than abide by the wishes of ordinary Afghans. His voice faded to a whisper, and Parsaa moved close, trying to comfort Paul while holding more towels to the wound.
In the background, the clinic was in shambles. Paul groaned, but he had more to say to Lydia.
“You loved me like a mother. Michael loved me like a brother. I don’t know why I did what I did.” His voice broke as he slumped in the chair.
“Please.” His voice broke. “For . . . give me.”
Lydia could not speak. She had nothing more to say to Paul Reichart.
Lydia called out for Kashif to join her on the porch. She no longer had reason to hide the translator. Kashif surprised Parsaa with a respectful greeting in perfect Dari.
The Afghans spoke back and forth, with quick translations for Lydia about how the blind husband had killed his wife in anger over a dead myna bird. Paul was unfortunate to be caught by stray bullets. Parsaa assured Lydia that others in the room were shaken but otherwise fine.
Lydia talked about reporting the crime. She was a witness, and wondered if Parsaa needed her to file a report. She did not mention Paul’s confession to hiring a young Afghan who had killed Michael and Rose.
“It is over,” Parsaa said. Afghan judges would not punish a man over an honor killing, and outside authorities would add complications. Parsaa offered to bury Paul near Laashekoh, and she thanked him.
She also asked Kashif to advise Parsaa that a downed helicopter could be somewhere near the canyon. “You can notify the authorities before searchers arrive. Paul thought it was an accident, but there will be an investigation.”
Lydia then thanked Parsaa for helping Paul and offering candid thoughts on foreign charities. She asked him to contact her if the village had questions about other groups approaching the area.
He agreed, but was formal. The man would support a relationship that was reciprocal. She went on to ask if he would be willing to chat occasionally over Skype—advising GlobalConnect about how to approach other villages on needs for schools, healthcare, education, even computers.
Parsaa thought a moment, and looked at his son. The boy’s face brightened when he heard the translator mention the word “computer.”
“There is interest here,” Parsaa admitted with a smile. “And my wife would be pleased if a computer convinced my son that reading and education are necessities.”
Lydia agreed that the boy would need to read in the fast-changing country.
The group said their farewells. The hour was late in Afghanistan, and Lydia was still shaken. But she also understood why Paul yearned to help such villagers, trying to separate and understand the strands of culture that could produce such hospitality and warmth even as worries about honor and change led to awful violence.
And the same could be said about Paul. An earnest des
ire to inspire good had led to envy, obsession, and control.
Parsaa mourned Paul’s death and offered his condolences to Lydia. “The man was selfless. He saved my son’s life, and I’ll be forever grateful.”
And despite grief about her son, Lydia was grateful, too.
The call ended. Mohan and Aza told Arhaan about his wife’s death, and the man wept, insisting that he had not meant to kill Zahira. Najwa comforted him, and he wrapped his arms around her.
Parsaa turned to the business at hand that required work throughout the night. He ordered his son to leave with Aza and follow her directions on where to dig two graves. Then Parsaa turned to Mohan. With Zahira dead, the caretaker no longer had reason to stay at the compound. The old man would listen to his wife and son and move to the city.
Parsaa was silent, ashamed that he had failed to protect Blacker’s daughter, and Mohan read his mind. “It’s not your fault. Zahira loved Arhaan in her own way. They fought. They slept with others.” The older man looked toward the ground, and Parsaa knew that both Mohan and his son wondered about his own relationship with Zahira.
Parsaa’s feelings for the woman were complicated, and he wasn’t sure he would ever understand. He had loved her like a sister, yet she had wanted something more. Trying to explain was useless, but he looked at Mohan and firmly shook his head.
Arhaan interrupted, suddenly lashing out in anger, blaming Parsaa and the foreigner for Zahira’s death. He swore that Parsaa was no longer welcome to work his land. “And you can tell the village that there will be new lease terms!”
Parsaa sighed and glanced at Mohan. But Mohan was ready to leave, no longer willing to settle compound disputes. It was left to Parsaa to explain that Zahira had never owned the vast holdings surrounding the compound and Laashekoh.
“A debt was settled and the land was transferred before your marriage,” Parsaa noted quietly.
“That’s nonsense,” Arhaan scoffed. “There were annual payments.”
Allure of Deceit Page 26
