Allure of Deceit Read online

  ALSO BY

  SUSAN FROETSCHEL

  Fear of Beauty

  Published 2015 by Seventh Street Books®, an imprint of Prometheus Books

  Allure of Deceit. Copyright © 2015 by Susan Froetschel. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopy­ing, re­cord­ing, or otherwise, or conveyed via the Internet or a website without prior written permission of the publisher, ex­cept in the case of brief quotations em­bodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, organizations, products, locales, and events portrayed in this novel either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Cover image © Emilio Morenatti / AP / Corbis

  Cover design by Jacqueline Nasso Cooke

  Inquiries should be addressed to

  Seventh Street Books

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  The Library of Congress has cataloged the printed edition as follows:

  Froetschel, Susan.

  Allure of deceit / Susan Froetschel.

  pages ; cm

  ISBN 978-1-61614-017-5 (softcover) — ISBN 978-1-61614-037-3 (ebook)

  1. Americans—Afghanistan—Fiction. 2. Culture conflict—Afghanistan— Fiction. 3. Charities—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3556.R59353A82 2015

  813’.54—dc23

  2014032081

  Printed in the United States of America

  For my sisters—Terri, Laurie, and Joyce

  CONTENTS

  PART 1

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  PART 2

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  PART 3

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  PART 4

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PART 1

  This is the hell which the guilty called a lie.

  —Koran 55:43

  CHAPTER 1

  Lime, peacock, moss, sea mist, forest, and fern—gowns in every shade of green swirled about the ballroom floor. Aromas of mint and rosemary drifted from all-green centerpieces. Leading policymakers, academics, corporate executives, journalists, and celebrities gathered in small groups, their voices low and earnest, discussing extremists massacring students in Africa, indiscriminate dumping of toxins into waterways and cancer spikes for Asia, the lack of schools and work for refugees scattered throughout the Middle East, and the countless cruelties exacted on impoverished children everywhere.

  Everyone in the ballroom had a worthy cause and hoped to attract the attention of the evening’s hostess, Lydia Sendry, the woman who controlled GlobalConnect, the world’s largest charitable foundation.

  Pearl Hanson was nervous, still in disbelief that her tiny organization, based in rural Texas, had received a cherished invitation to the spring event. Conservatives from Texas were not the typical guests of such events hosted by major foundations, designed to match the nation’s leading opinion makers with new applicants like Pearl. She pinched her arm once more.

  Her group had a track record for training women in rigorous natural family planning. For women with willing partners, the program was about 80 percent effective in providing birth control. For the inevitable mishaps, the group provided a year or two of support for families that could not afford to feed and clothe a newborn. Or adoptions could be arranged.

  Pearl Hanson wanted to go global and submitted her proposal to GlobalConnect. The plan—head to Afghanistan and provide training in natural family planning while organizing orphanages as backup.

  In the end, GlobalConnect would choose only a fraction of the applicants. The invitation alone marked applicants as global players.

  “Be yourself,” Annie Johnson, GlobalConnect’s executive director, had advised. “Lydia is warm and easy to talk with. You don’t need to say a lot, and she will have loads of questions. Be candid and be prepared.” Annie also confided that Pearl’s group was a frontrunner for the first phase of funding, including travel grants for finding local partners.

  Pearl waited her turn. Taller than most of the other guests, she observed the woman who controlled the world’s most powerful foundation. Lydia Sendry was reserved, sitting in the corner and studying the ballroom. Her soft silvery hair was swept to one side, and a walker was tucked out of the way. From all appearances, Lydia was the gentle grandmother type beloved by family and friends.

  But the woman’s eyes were neither old nor distracted. Her gaze was intense as applicants and their escorts filed by her table for brief chats. She did not delegate responsibility in distributing hundreds of millions of dollars each year. Only a fraction of the proposals could be funded, and all were approved by the small board led by Lydia.

  And when Lydia sat alone, waiting for the next applicant to step forward, her dark eyes darted about, studying the room’s occupants in a keen, even wrathful way.

  Lydia Sendry wanted to leave behind a better world.

  Paul Reichart wandered the ballroom, thinking about the foundation’s ridiculous rules. Board members and executive staff had to attend at least one event annually, cheering on the desperate requests for money. Like others, he was uncomfortable, and not because of the formality. Paul was unusual among foundation staff, constantly reminded that he lacked big foundation experience. Snide murmurs followed that the global development director had obtained the job only because of his long ties with the Sendry family.

  The grumbling was unfair. Every employee lacked experience because GlobalConnect was so massive, with more assets than any other private foundation in the world. Annie Johnson and the other executives insisted the work of making connections was crucial, that elaborate displays demonstrated powerful connections.

  Yet they envied Paul’s connections with Lydia.

  He couldn’t wait for the evening to end and to get on a plane back to Asia. The board approved Paul’s working from offices in India and Afghanistan, target nations for the foundation. As development director, he constantly traveled, training new staff and overseeing GlobalConnect programs.

  Paul liked to think that Lydia trusted him. He felt lucky to work far from the bureaucracy in New York.

  The New York events were phony and conceited. Staff planned every detail, always on the lookout for symbols that reflected high-minded ideals and Lydia’s preferences. For example, the staff knew how much Lydia abhorred waste. The meal was vegetarian, with ridiculously delicate portion sizes for the salads, fruit, and grilled vegetables. Top-shelf brands of alcohol flowed freely, one of Lydia’s little tests. Decisions about money were constantly being made, despite the celebratory atmosphere, and the smart guests avoided alcoholic beverages. Donors and recipients had to stay sharp, assessing attitudes and the nuances of need, excess, and hurt feelings.

  Such attention to detail did not prevent the wrong people from making decisions or t
he wrong groups from receiving awards.

  Paul kept his criticism to himself. Best he stayed far from the States. The executive staff quickly marginalized employees who posed too many questions or suggestions. Paul owed Lydia and her only son everything, and he had no other plans but to dedicate his life to a foundation that almost failed to materialize. More than once, Annie reminded staff that plans for the foundation had not been finalized before the premature death of Michael Sendry, the founder of Photizonet, who was Lydia’s son and Paul’s best friend. A select few understood Michael’s vision, or so she intimated.

  If she only knew . . . For Annie, the foundation was wealthy, influential, and adored, and she was a stubborn bulldozer against all criticism.

  The evening’s speeches had ended, and guests maneuvered about the room. A young man, college-aged and blond, trim in an expensive tuxedo made to fit an athletic build, zigzagged through the crowd, affable as he approached Lydia’s table, where a security perimeter protected her from unwanted, unreasonable pleas. The man was too young, too unknown. A member of Lydia’s security team, also in tuxedo, leaped forward, issuing a reminder that guests needed an appointment and designated escort to approach Lydia’s table.

  Like a magician, the intruder waved his hand and released what appeared to be a yellow scarf flowing from his sleeve. A petite woman in a turquoise silk sheath stepped forward and stretched the banner wide, the words in blood red: Family Planning Saves Lives; Do More at Home, GlobalConnect.

  Security ripped the banner away and escorted the young couple from the ballroom, but not before photographers captured the image—Lydia with her head turned, reading the message.

  Hiding her fury, Annie excused herself from a small group of executives and headed back to the podium. First, a brisk apology for the interruption from what she described as “the foundation’s young and enthusiastic supporters” and then the well-practiced summary of statistics on the millions donated by GlobalConnect to worthy causes over the past year.

  Then she paused, ensuring that she had the crowd’s attention. “We represent civil society, but our organization is not a democracy,” she said. “Our role has been approved by voters in our democratic society time and time again. They have placed their trust in visionaries of our society to set priorities on needs and provide funding. The late Michael Sendry was among the greatest of these visionaries. His life, cut short, was so full. He innovated tirelessly without complaint and set goals for us. It’s his vision we honor every day.”

  The audience cheered wildly.

  Annie moved close to the microphone and spoke over the applause, her voice strong and firm, to point out how the protests were self-defeating. “As many of you know, GlobalConnect has a unique set of governing policies. Michael emphasized tolerance, compromise. He believed that opponents can work together, and many paths can lead to the same goal. Unseemly demands for funding in one area only prompt GlobalConnect to locate and fund organizations with opposite goals.”

  Leaving the podium, Annie cast a sheepish look in Lydia’s direction. The board’s chair would not want to hear excuses. The security team would be disciplined the next day. Some members would lose their jobs.

  Paul was nauseated and could not hide his disgust. He left the ballroom, ready to return to Asia. He could not bear to hear others talking about Michael, especially Annie. She had never even met the tech wizard.

  GlobalConnect was not a democracy. Rather than define, identify, and emphasize global problems and leading solutions, the board relied on a scattershot approach, spreading resources too far and forcing programs to compete. Grant applicants and policymakers played games, and staff wasted Michael’s money, all weakening GlobalConnect’s sense of purpose. Paul didn’t blame Lydia. She cared, but she wasn’t tough enough to see how people manipulated the grant process. He hated to admit it, but Michael’s wife might have been right. The executive staff was too controlling, yet too timid to make decisive, radical plans to overhaul all of society.

  Lydia had lost her way.

  The hostess of the charitable ball, Lydia Sendry, observed the crowd with a mix of pleasure, calculation, and regret. Mostly regret. Ever lurking in the back of her mind was escape, the desire to return home to Michigan and her memories of Michael. She kept a low profile at such public events. Her simple dress in forest green was indistinguishable among the black tuxedos. Near seventy years of age, she pretended to be feeble, using a walker in public, even though it was shoved into a closet at home. She encouraged vague rumors about ill health.

  Her table was positioned so she could survey the entire room and guest exchanges. In turn, guests constantly glanced Lydia’s way, checking for reactions from the woman who controlled the board, the policies, and the huge and unending flow of funding.

  Annie’s blunt reminders about democracy were true but troubling.

  The foundation honoring her son was vast. Although relatively new, it operated in more than thirty developing nations and could be counted on to distribute at least $400 million annually for a mix of organizations. GlobalConnect was influential, yet it limited support to some fifty groups per year. Competition was intense.

  Lydia’s thoughts could not help but drift to Michael. He would have enjoyed the party, but not judging the passions of others. She certainly did not relish the role. She despised controlling the money inherited after the death of her only son.

  Such an inheritance was unnatural. The young man had started his own tech company in his early twenties, piggybacking on German research and developing an affordable system that allowed Internet data to travel with light waves. The system, low-cost and fast, required no elaborate infrastructure. For the first time, communities could set up their own intranet around a chain of solar-powered lighting.

  As with any revolutionary innovation, the system destroyed entire industries, upending the world’s most powerful cable, satellite, and telecommunications companies. The traditionalists resisted the new technology. So, Michael had bypassed American and European markets, sending startup teams to the least developed countries in the world. His firm, Photizonet, went public six years later, and he became the richest man in the world.

  Michael married his college sweetheart. No one had known that Rose, his young wife, was pregnant as the couple set off for a honeymoon in India, a brief stay at the Oberoi Amarvilas in Agra before heading off to hike in Nagarkot. A prep meeting was organized for Rose to discuss preferences on hiking routes and guides. At the last minute, Michael decided to skip a company conference call and accompany his wife to the luncheon meeting.

  As the couple headed into the restaurant, a young man in neat Western attire shouted a greeting before he tossed a small package their way. Michael stepped in front of his wife and caught the explosive device.

  Indian news media had quickly identified the victims, and Lydia learned about the deaths from news shows the next morning. The corporation contacted her, explaining how they had already dispatched her son’s longtime friend, employee, and best man to Agra. Paul Reichart was not a tech wizard. Instead, he had worked for Photizonet’s cultural development department, organizing teams that profiled and prepared communities throughout Asia before arranging installations. Lydia would never forget the distraught call from Paul—his voice broken, as he prepared to accompany the remains home. Representing the family, Paul had acted as an intermediary with the Indian police.

  Police quickly tracked the attacker, who had distinctive scars from burns on one side of his face. A large, ornate dagger was tucked inside the man’s belt, and police killed him on the spot. Later, the officers determined that the troubled man was from northern Helmand Province, Afghanistan, and had been living in India illegally. The drifter had little education and no work experience. All that was known was that he had described himself as an orphan, the son of house servants who had died years earlier in a horrific fire.

  The thirty-year-old inventor, his wife, and their unborn child had died less than a week after t
he marriage. Only their attorney knew about the inkling plan for a foundation.

  The day after the couple’s funeral, Michael’s attorney had met with Lydia. Her son had reached out to Henry Strohn while in graduate school. The gruff man had advised Michael throughout the tech startup and then served as his personal attorney. Reading from neat notes, Henry quickly described his last meeting with the couple and the numerous documents signed, including the couple’s wills and a living trust. Toward the end of the meeting, Michael mentioned an intention to start a charitable trust or foundation. He asked Henry to investigate several key areas—family planning, education, environmental protection, human rights, and citizenship as related to curtailing poverty.

  “The discussion was brief,” Henry had admitted. He turned to a pile of folders and extracted a piece of notebook paper. “This was the last instruction I received from your son.”

  Lydia had held the paper, dazed, as Henry continued. As far as he knew, no one else had known about the couple’s plans. The primary beneficiaries of their living trust, Michael and Rose, were dead. “Children, yet unnamed, of Michael and Rose Sendry” were listed as a secondary beneficiary along with Lydia.

  She was sole heir to her son’s majority share in the corporation and his wealth, as well as the notion of a foundation—with little guidance other than a handwritten mission statement scrawled on what looked like a piece of scrap paper.

  “As far as we can determine, that paper is all that exists regarding the foundation,” Henry had explained. No board of directors had been appointed, no funds designated or distributed. Official forms had not been signed or filed. “We began research and were waiting for a final review from your son. From the company’s point of view, the statement and plans are vague.” Henry paused. He asked if Lydia had known anything about Michael’s plans to start a foundation with his share of Photizonet profits.

  She shook her head. “Not a clue. Though I’m not surprised. He was so generous.”

  “And frugal,” Henry added. He didn’t have to tell Lydia. Michael had adored Rose for sharing his enthusiasm to live far below their means. The two had shopped at thrift stores and farmers’ markets. He took pride at the high mileage on his 2005 Corolla, and she enjoyed growing vegetables and cooking for friends at home. “Too frugal. Their bungalow in Redwood City? No security. Three bedrooms, one and half baths.”