Allure of Deceit (36 page)

After the attacks on Michael and Rose, she thought to herself. Lydia then asked how long Parsaa and Zahira knew one another.

Paul posed the question and seemed surprised by the answer. “Since they were children. He regards her as a sister.”

A hard knock startled her—not over Skype, but from the front door. Cara waited with a small package, and she mouthed one word: “Delivery.”

Hoping she appeared more confused than anxious about the interruption, Lydia apologized. “A delivery, Paul, I probably have to sign . . .” She hurried to the door, out of sight from the Skype camera, to join Cara and the student. “He's not translating your questions.” Cara whispered, and Kashif nodded.

“What is he saying?” Lydia whispered.

“It's strange.” Kashif was uncomfortable about his role in the middle of a disagreement. “The translations were fine until the Afghan man named Parsaa sat down. That man is very polite and wants to thank you for Paul's help in returning the orphans. The translator did not mention that. He talks about his village but insists that the place needs no help from a foreign charity—that they are in the position to provide charity to others and in fact do so. The translator repeated none of that. He also did not repeat the question about the aid workers.”

Lydia asked if the missing questions could be a misunderstanding, and Kashif shook his head. “The woman wanted to make points, and the man told her you would not care for details.”

Cara handed over the package, urging Lydia to get back to the Skype call. Kashif interjected. “Be careful. This man is devious, and it could be dangerous for the people in that room if he thinks you know the translations have errors.”

Lydia questioned Kashif if he thought the others in the room recognized the discrepancies, and the young man shook his head. “Zahira may know some English, but it's limited. The others do not.”

Lydia returned to her seat before the computer, placing the parcel on the desk without comment. She apologized to the group for keeping them waiting.

“No problem, Lydia,” Paul said. “We were just talking about some other ideas for programs that could be funded.” He added that the villages had responded well to family-planning and education programs.

Lydia made her move to test Paul. “Of course, it's tough to work with extremism in that area. Two aid workers and their pilot went missing.”

Paul dismissed the concern. “They're amateurs. They didn't have proper risk insurance, and that won't happen to GlobalConnect.”

Lydia mentioned that the board had approved sending a donation to assist with the search. “Training aid workers on proper security measures—it could be a new focus.”

Paul frowned. “I'm not sure that's a good idea, Lydia.”

“The training?”

“No,” he snapped. “Donating to that search effort. The women were pushy. They could be anywhere, off insulting other villages, championing a new cause. Parsaa can tell you himself. These are sensitive areas, and the Afghans do not like assertive approaches.”

She had touched a nerve. “Are you sure Zahira or Parsaa did not meet with them?”

His eyes locked on hers. “They did not.”

“And you know this.” She pressed on with patient interrogation. “Without asking them?”

“And GlobalConnect sent money off for a search in my region without consulting me?” He leaned forward, and she could no longer see the others in the room. He may have raised his voice in anger, but that also could have been the effect of his mouth taking up most of the screen. “It's such a waste! I know this area. Annie has never been to Afghanistan and doesn't have a clue about the cultural nuances. Yet she micromanages and pushes us around. Even you, Lydia.” He paused. “This interview. It's not about the board and giving me more responsibility. So, what is it about?”

She took a deep breath. She didn't need to defend her decisions. “We sent the donation to help colleagues on the ground. I didn't think we had to ask you of all people.” She spoke carefully, keeping Kashif's warning in mind. Paul could easily lash out at others nearby.

He sat back and closed his eyes. He asked Lydia to pardon him. “It's been a long day, a rough week. Of course, I feel terrible about the two women. But it was so preventable . . .”

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.