Allure of Deceit Page 5

  Blacker wanted to extend his control far into the future, preserving the land for his daughter and her children. The husband didn’t matter. Before approving a marriage, Blacker needed a better sense of where the country was headed. Many Afghans resented those who had cooperated with the Russians. The clerics prayed and griped, blaming arrogant and loose women for the fast-changing world beyond Afghanistan’s borders.

  It was no secret that Zahira had studied in Russia. Blacker dismissed criticism, noting that women had no interest in politics.

  But his daughter was intelligent, raised by a man who rejected religious superstition and laws based on such nonsense. Any man linked to Zahira would struggle to hold on to the land. Blacker kept such thoughts to himself even as he looked for loopholes in the sharia inheritance laws. Blacker did not want his land to pass to another man simply because he had married his daughter. An outsider would lack the will to fight for the land.

  Also, Blacker could not forget that his own wife had died giving birth to his only child and could not shake off fear of a similar fate for Zahira. The invisible, unyielding bonds of childhood were the best seal to such transactions.

  Blacker had laid out his fears and plans to Zahira. If something happened to him, the property could be confiscated in a matter of weeks. “Parsaa owes our family much,” her father advised. “He won’t forget. Besides, you will have more control over him as landowner than husband. Allah willing.”

  Months before Zahira’s marriage, Blacker had secretly arranged a debt with Parsaa’s father. A signed document suggested that Blacker owed the other man a large sum of money in exchange for unspecified services over the years—and Blacker’s land was transferred for payment. For Blacker, the imaginary debt was ideal. The deal eliminated criticisms about his daughter’s education and rural interpretations of inheritance laws that eventually directed all his holdings to his daughter’s spouse.

  Blacker had died shortly before the Taliban took control of the nearby cities, closed schools, and imposed restrictions for women from previous centuries. And while the Taliban leaders ignored many poor, remote villages, including Laashekoh, women could not study or work. Travel was difficult. Airline flights were disrupted. Men with weapons set up random checkpoints along the highways, charging tolls and taking what they wanted from passersby.

  When the Taliban were in control, Zahira relied on Mohan and other lieutenants loyal to Blacker to smuggle items to the compound. Weapons, books, electronics, tanks of fuel, and medical supplies were hidden in wagonloads brimming with produce, rags, scrap metal, birdseed, or copies of the Koran.

  The land transfer had taken place years earlier, and as Blacker expected, it protected the property. The men of Laashekoh were tough, devout, and widely respected. The greediest and most ignorant Taliban were not about to fight a man with an entire village who would back his claim. Blacker did not inform Zahira’s blind husband about the debt or property transfer. Arhaan did not question the brief marriage contract that specified wealth and “land surrounding the compound.”

  But rules around property ownership were as tenuous as the country’s politics. The Afghan government was deeply divided, and Americans who enforced many laws were withdrawing troops. Rules could be broken.

  Parsaa fumbled with the computer, and Zahira held off from offering assistance. It was the only way he would learn how much he needed her. “Did they ask specifically about ownership?” she asked.

  With a sigh, he noted the foreign women knew more about the land than he would have expected. She lowered her voice. “You must tell no one about their visit. Arhaan assumes that this land belongs to us—to him. It’s not a good time to let him or anyone else think otherwise. He despises you and would raise a fuss.” She asked if others knew about Blacker’s arrangement.

  “No one in the village knows,” he said.

  “Not even your sons?” Zahira questioned.

  Parsaa shook his head. “They are better off not knowing.”

  Zahira closed her eyes. “Do not talk about the foreign women,” she urged.

  Parsaa wasn’t sure that was enough. “These women are persistent. They could ask questions of others, here or at the property offices. They have more resources than we do.”

  She frowned. “They always have more resources. But the exchange was legal.” Parsaa did not argue, but he did not look relieved either.

  “They underestimate us,” she insisted. “You have no reason to worry.”

  “They are dangerous if they know more about our land than we do,” he replied. He stood, ready to leave.

  “We will fight this together,” she promised. “Say nothing about their visit or their questions. They will forget about Laashekoh.”

  He nodded but seemed distracted by promises made years ago.

  Or, he was upset by the secrecy. To keep peace and minimize questions among villagers, he couldn’t claim the land as his. Her father had predicted that the feelings for Parsaa would fade, yet he had not mentioned that the same could happen with loyalty.

  The signed and secret contract stated that Zahira, Arhaan, and their descendants could use the compound indefinitely. Blacker told her about another unwritten agreement: If Zahira had children, Parsaa would organize another debt and return at least half the land over to her family.

  There should be no hard feelings. The village used but a fraction of Blacker’s land.

  Parsaa did not know about the child living at the compound. His family would not view the child as Zahira’s daughter and would balk at transferring land rights to the child. Sharia law did not recognize adoption or inheritance rights for unrelated children. The infant was not Zahira’s daughter in Afghanistan and never would be. Parsaa might promise that his sons and other villagers would abide by the terms of the contract. But once in the grave, men could not ensure such commitments were kept. Parsaa’s sons could decide they wanted more. They would put the interests of their own children ahead of hers. They could leave Laashekoh and forget about protecting a woman they did not know. They could sell the land.

  Her life and the compound stood on unsteady ground. She did not want her daughter growing up amid uncertainty. Zahira no longer wanted to stay in Afghanistan, but relocating would be complicated and expensive. Most foreigners did not trust Afghans after the long war.

  After quietly examining a few websites, he commented that the search did not offer answers to his questions.

  “You must change how you search,” she said.

  He stood. “Do you really think every answer can be found?”

  “Maybe not,” she said.

  As Parsaa opened the door, a wail from the main house pierced the night and then was abruptly muffled.

  “One of Arhaan’s birds,” Zahira lied. “It’s ill.”

  Parsaa looked troubled.

  “You should pity me,” she said. “Arhaan loves his birds more than he loves me.”

  Parsaa didn’t understand her marriage or perhaps he did not care. His passion for the land around Laashekoh probably no longer included her and the childhood friendship they shared.

  Zahira wasn’t sure she understood the arrangement, so she refused to talk about her husband or admit that the marriage was a mistake. During Parsaa’s visits, she yearned to touch him and invite him to reciprocate. But that was too great a risk. She could not bear his rejection. So many years had passed, and he had made no move, its own rebuff. If she did reach for his arm, hint at intimacy, Parsaa would not return to the compound. Instead, he would send another villager to check on the lonely place.

  Weary of discussing problems, she wanted to check on the child.

  Parsaa started to walk away and then turned. “Life seemed so easy back then, didn’t it?”

  “Only because we were young,” she said.

  He hurried off into the night. Her father had taught Zahira to care for herself, and she intended to teach her child the same.

  CHAPTER 4

  Parsaa headed back to Laashek
oh later than he had intended. He could have taken the direct route out of the canyon, the one used by wagons and newcomers, but instead he stayed with the path along the canyon’s higher edge. Clouds obscured the stars and the expansive view of the valley beyond the river. He relied on his walking stick though the low clouds and damp night air almost felt like a protective shield against the rocks waiting below. One misstep in the deceptive shadows could send him tumbling to his death.

  He should have been relieved to exit the cliff walk, but he did not enjoy being alone with his thoughts after visits with Zahira. He suspected she sought more than friendship. A constant battle raged inside as he compared Zahira and his wife, Sofi. Parsaa had sworn to Blacker that he would protect the man’s daughter. Over time the sacred duty had transformed into a burden while a wife who had once seemed dull surprised him with her ideas and spirit.

  Such thoughts should not be spoken aloud.

  The path gently rolled alongside the river, and with every step, he shed guilt. Still far from Laashekoh, he rounded a sharp curve along the path. The smell of smoke put him on alert, though he could not see the source. Crouching low, he stepped away from the path, moving slowly to check the other side of the river.

  A gleam emerged from a cluster of boulders, a small fire across the river. Parsaa heard no noise other than the river racing over the rocks.

  A family or a group of refugees, traders, or bandits would make more noise. One person probably waited by the fire, and the person might not want to be seen from Laashekoh.

  The person who made the fire was either sleeping or kept his gaze focused on the flames. Parsaa studied the scene across the river, the placement of boulders, to determine the best approach to the campsite. He took a wide detour away from the river before returning to the path and walking until he found a wide section where the water spread and the current lost its strength. He no longer smelled smoke nor saw the firelight.

  Kneeling on the ground, Parsaa reached his hand into the icy water and felt the thick layer of gravel. He hid his pack and rolled his loose pant legs high, but kept his boots on, ready to run or fight in the frigid water.

  A few dry rocks led to the center stretch, where he stepped into water up to his knees. Parsaa gasped. The undercurrent pulled at his ankles. Leaning into the flow, with knees bent, he moved deliberately, pressing his boots into the gravel and using his walking stick to test the water’s depth with every step.

  Once on the other side, he was cautious. A guard could wait at the camp’s perimeter. Parsaa caught a whiff of smoke and decided against moving too close. His own feet ached from the cold water. The fire was dying. One person, nervously watching for an intruder, could be as dangerous as many.

  A long sigh broke the silence. A man stood, passing by the fire and walking away from the boulders and the river to relieve himself. The gait was familiar, and the light confirmed the identity. Paul Reichart, the aid worker who had helped with returning orphans to their homes in the north. Covered in dust, he moved sluggishly as if exhausted.

  Paul returned and stood over the fire to warm his hands before wrapping a sleeping bag around his shoulders and settling amid the boulders.

  Parsaa almost called out.

  Suddenly, Paul leaned forward. He dropped his head to his knees and groaned as if in pain. Parsaa slowly backed away. The aid worker presented no danger and was welcome in Laashekoh. Paul had his reasons for wanting to be alone.

  When Parsaa reached Laashekoh, the courtyard was empty. Even the men in no hurry to join their wives, those who stayed close to the fire pit and fed logs to the leaping flames, had retired. A breeze sweeping through the valley had been too much for the fire, and the last of its embers gave off a ghostly glow.

  Sleep should have come easy after the long day. The strange visitors, their news of Leila and eagerness to find orphans, troubled Parsaa, and he wondered if villages elsewhere in Afghanistan had to deal with such disruptions. Or was Laashekoh cursed because an American outpost had once been stationed nearby?

  The wet boots were tight, and he removed them outside. Standing in the darkness, beyond the entrance to his bedroom, he disrobed and waited for his breathing to slow. Only then, he slowly lifted the layers of covers and slipped beside Sofi.

  Parsaa resisted the temptation to curl his arm around her waist, to press his aching feet against her legs. Sofi was an unusual woman, one who did not ask many questions. Still, she was curious, vigilant with a sharp sense for her husband’s worries. Best not to wake her. By morning, the visit with Zahira would seem like a distant memory.

  Anxious, Parsaa forced himself to lie still and stare toward the ceiling, wishing for a few hours of relief from thinking about the strangers’ questions. He kept his breath even and imagined resting on a cloud. Only then he closed his eyes.

  An odd noise—a faint scuffing noise in the other room—pushed him awake. Alert, Parsaa was determined to keep surprise on his side. Night disturbances were rare, except for the occasional illness or nightmare among his children or others in neighboring homes. Children burst awake with tears or shouts, and the women hurried to their sides, offering comfort and quickly restoring quiet. Children did not move with stealth.

  Parsaa waited and studied familiar shapes in the darkness. His wife was still. The mound of blankets in the corner of the room was Baby Komal. The toddler was not their daughter and could not sleep with Parsaa’s other children, all boys. Instead, she had her own bundle of blankets in the corner of the bedroom within reach of Sofi’s arm.

  Both were sound sleepers and did not move. The noise seemed to come from the opposite direction—the common area or perhaps the room where his sons slept.

  Normally, the source of a random noise at night quickly became apparent—adults murmuring in nearby homes, a mouse stealing crumbs in the kitchen, trees creaking in protest against the wind. Parsaa could check the kitchen, ensuring that no embers had escaped the stove. But the very absence of noise alerted Parsaa that something was wrong. He sensed a presence—someone fighting to control every breath.

  The next footstep was light, followed by another long pause.

  Parsaa moved his hand slowly, slowly, to reach for a small, loaded Glock. Such pistols were once rare in Afghanistan, and Parsaa was surprised and grateful for the gift from one of the Afghan soldiers before the team vacated the nearby outpost. The man promised the weapon was sure. He also pointed out that the markets would soon offer more ammunition as the foreign troops returned home and more pistols were left behind.

  The pistol was convenient for the bedroom’s tight space. Parsaa wrapped his hand around the grip and pulled his hand back underneath the blanket, aiming the pistol toward a doorway he could not see.

  Parsaa thought about his options. He could storm the other room, but the person might get away. He could fire the pistol into the darkness, but miss, and the person could shoot back in return. Or, he could wait for the approach and then tackle the intruder.

  A black shape glided into the bedroom. The figure was small, but not one of the children. No, the boys would dash into the room and squirm between their parents. No one other than his sons had reason to enter the space. The figure was too cautious, with a long pause between every step, so long Parsaa wondered if his mind wasn’t playing tricks.

  The shadow moved again, edging along the wall on the other side of the room. Sofi’s side. Soon, Parsaa would have to shift position to see the intruder.

  Parsaa prepared to move and place his body squarely between the person and Sofi. Steeling himself, he took slow, deep breaths and hoped for a footstep, a clue to the intruder’s position.

  And then it came—a soft footfall near his wife’s head, the sound of a hand reaching about in the darkness.

  In a single move, Parsaa lunged over his wife, grasping at cloth and then a small leg. He pulled hard, but the leg swung his way, kicking him in the head. Hard. On one elbow and one knee, Parsaa lost his grip as the person pulled away.

  “Stop!�
�� he ordered and reached in the tangle of covers for the pistol. Without a word, Sofi crawled out from underneath him.

  Parsaa stood, shouting again and reaching for a wall to find the doorway as Sofi fumbled with a lantern.

  But he didn’t need the lantern. An orange glow beckoned him. The intruder knelt before the stove, shoving an object into the flames. Sparks flared and hit the floor. There was a whiff of burning flesh.

  Before Parsaa could cross the room, one of his sons emerged from the darkness, wrapping an arm around the intruder’s neck and pulling the person to the floor with a thud.

  A girl groaned and twisted to one side but did not resist.

  Saddiq, Parsaa’s oldest son, quickly removed his hands and stood, staring at the girl and then at the tongues of fire curling and swelling around the flat object in the stove.

  Sofi approached, holding the lantern high.

  Najwa. The girl had arrived in Laashekoh with other children, gathered by traffickers to be sold in Pakistan. Parsaa and American soldiers, with the help of Paul Reichart, had returned the children to their homes in a province just north of Helmand. But the men had never found Najwa’s home. The other children did not know her and could not remember when she had joined the group. “She may have been among the first,” offered one of the older boys before leaving to reunite with his family.

  The soldiers, the aid worker, and Laashekoh women had questioned the girl.

  Sofi placed the lantern on the floor. She poured what was left of the day’s water into a bowl, gathered clean rags, and began gently dabbing at the burns on the girl’s hands. Sofi urged Saddiq to go outside and collect extra water stored in a large cylinder.