A Rope and a Prayer (17 page)

“Snatch and grab,” he says, referring to a rescue. “Or an exchange of another sort,” he says, adding that we may be able to barter with other goods—medical supplies, vehicles.

Lee and I step out for a moment to share our impressions while the Clayton and AISC representatives talk privately.

I’m a little hesitant because it seems to me that AISC might take a bit of a bold approach. Lee has the same concern but asks me, “If you knew this could be solved quicker, would you be opposed to a more aggressive approach?” We both feel we are in a race against time. I worry that each moment that ticks by is taking a chunk of David’s sanity along with it.

When we return, the head of Clayton is very confident that AISC is a good choice. “They bring a different set of assets and skills to the table,” he says archly. “We’ve checked out their bona fides,” he adds. “They are the real deal. We feel comfortable working with them.”

On the basis of this recommendation, we set aside our fears and decide to hire AISC. They will send a negotiator to Kabul to represent our family and to work alongside a kidnap expert from Clayton. We will come to refer to this duo as Team Kabul. We will be in regular contact with them, along with McCraw, on a daily noon conference call.

Both teams advise us to keep “the bureau,” or the FBI, out of it. They are useful for some things, but cannot deliver funds, release prisoners, or provide direct negotiations when discussions involve ransom. They are strictly an information-gathering agency.

 

 

I’ve confided in several of David’s closest friends at this point. Each of them offers unwavering emotional support. A few also provide invaluable practical advice. One longtime friend, Samantha Power, suggests that I reach out to Richard Holbrooke, a former official in the Clinton administration who knows my husband and is aware of our situation. Rumor is he will be assuming a diplomatic position in the incoming Obama administration, with a focus on Afghanistan and Pakistan. While our friend admits that Holbrooke is often referred to as the diplomatic equivalent of a “bull in a china shop,” he is also smart, passionate about causes, well respected, and personally moved by our situation.

As fate would have it, David had introduced me to Holbrooke and his wife, Kati Marton, several months ago at Samantha’s wedding. We sat next to each other at the church service. David respects him, but is a bit embarrassed in his presence because of their history.

Thirteen years ago, Holbrooke played a key role in negotiating for David’s release from Serbian authorities. During the Dayton peace talks in 1995, which Holbrooke had convened to help end the bitter civil war in Bosnia, ten members of David’s family showed up and threatened to protest on the street outside if the Clinton administration did not pressure the Serbs to free David.

I call Holbrooke in the evening to ask his advice about what more I can be doing to get assistance from the United States government and to hear his thoughts on our decision to keep David’s case out of the public eye. He responds with a reference to the wedding.

He reminds me that he orchestrated David’s release in Bosnia. “I put our peace talks on hold for three days to work for the release of your husband, simply because it was the right thing to do,” he says. “What were my parting words to David this past summer—do you remember?” Holbrooke reminds me that when he learned David would be going back to Afghanistan soon after our own wedding, he half jokingly told him, “Don’t get captured again.”

Holbrooke ruminates as he speaks. You can hear the wheels turning. His speech is deliberate, thoughtful, and slightly muffled. I have to strain to hear him. As a result, he has my undivided attention. He tells me he has been turning this over for quite some time—especially the thought of whether to go public or remain quiet. “Given that we are not dealing with a legitimate government, I think you are right to keep this private. You are dealing with a set of unpredictable, ruthless individuals.

“I am sure you have Googled the Haqqani family, and if you’ve done your research, you know of the connection to the ISI. So, you might want to think about reaching out to them. Rumor is I may be working with the new administration, but I won’t assume my post until January. I promise to work on this, to make this a priority when I assume my post. Until then, I suggest you stay in close contact with Condi Rice. Have you contacted her? It would be good to check in with the State Department on a regular basis in case anything can be done, any pressure applied on the diplomatic front to keep this on the radar of the Pakistanis.”

Before we say good-bye, Holbrooke emphasizes that it is a good sign that David has survived the first few weeks. He reassures me David will come home.

 

 

Atiqullah continues to call the Kabul bureau of
The New York Times
regularly, reiterating his possession of “our three,” as we have come to refer to them. Since the beginning of the case, the FBI has been sending negotiations experts to the Kabul bureau to assist in communications and record these phone calls.

On November 21, Atiqullah calls with a grim message for Chris Chivers, the reporter who has been fielding the calls: If the demands are not met, they will go public with the case and set a three-day deadline. They will kill Asad first and then Tahir. We know there is no way we can meet their demands but we must keep them talking. Coached by the FBI, Chris pleads with Atiqullah to keep our three alive until we can reach an agreement. We realize that if the kidnappers publicly announce a deadline, they will have to carry it out. In Afghanistan, never losing face is paramount. We anxiously await the next phone call.

 

 

On Thanksgiving eve there has been no word from David’s captors in five days. Heightened security in the wake of a car bomb prevents the FBI from getting to the Kabul bureau in time to take a call from Atiqullah. The FBI experts advise Chris to delay speaking with Atiqullah until they are present. In truth, Chris is poised by the phone.

By the end of the day, Atiqullah has not called back the Kabul bureau. Apparently the delay has upset him and made him skittish. We have no new information about our three. This reaffirms our decision to hire a private security firm.

I am completely exhausted, on edge, and angry at the FBI agents in Kabul for scuttling our communications with David’s kidnappers. I pace back and forth in our small galley kitchen, then collapse on the living room sofa. I turn on the television, hoping to take my mind off our situation.

CNN presents an emergency newscast of an unfolding tragedy. I watch in horror as our honeymoon spots from a weekend in Mumbai—the Taj Hotel, the Oberoi, the harbor—are in chaos and smoke. Mumbai is burning. It is sad to see our recent history in flames and disturbing to see that India has been hit by terrorists.

Lee and I immediately personalize this horrifying event: How will it affect David? Does the recent silence in his case relate to the bombing? Once again, we question whether to make the kidnapping public. I check in with our various advisers. The FBI votes yes, but cannot provide specifics as to why they take this stance. I disagree. Our private security team advises us to keep it private. Bill Keller, the
Times
’ executive editor, sends me an e-mail suggesting that we revisit the situation.

This is the first of many long periods of silence.

It is also our first holiday as a married couple, and we will spend it apart. My family has rallied to my side in New York. I am thankful for their presence but feel a mix of emotions. I was single for thirty-nine years, and now, confronted with my first married Thanksgiving, I am disappointed that I am still the odd girl out—the only one without a date.

I have been restless of late. The stress of the situation is starting to have a physical impact. My arms are often numb. It’s disturbing not to be able to reach out to David and help him in a tangible, immediate way. I have gained weight around my middle, which I attribute to the buildup of the stress hormone cortisol, a natural by-product of sustained tension. My chest is wound up. I liken my mental experience to the moment when a jetliner touches down and the engines are at full force but the brakes are engaged. Everything has come to a screeching halt momentarily. Suspended animation. Fear. No sense of what will come next. Not knowing whether we will move forward or spontaneously combust. My entire mode of being is stuck in the moment of not knowing, waiting, having no control over the next moment. Life is simultaneously in intense overdrive and stalled. The only thing to do is to surrender and trust that some greater benevolent force is at work. Many people have told me that this journey will be a marathon, not a sprint.

My mother, Mary Jane, is still living with me and brings some levity to the situation. One of her volunteer projects in her community back home in Maine is to make “dishware gardens” for shut-ins—patients, the elderly, and the disabled. As I look around the room, I see she has applied this practice in my own apartment. I notice that several of our spider plants have new companions. She has been cooking up a storm of late and placing the seeds and pits remaining from our meals in planters around the apartment. I am somewhat amused to find an avocado pit beginning to sprout among the leaves of a spider plant. I point this out to her.

“I thought it would be a positive way to mark time,” she tells me. “It’s good to bring new life into the situation. Let’s see if he’s home before it bears new fruit.”

“Thanks,” I tell her, and then admit to myself: I officially feel like a shut-in, albeit an emotional one. Thank you very much. Still, I have to smile.

This is one of the reasons I love my mother—she always maintains a positive outlook and an offbeat sense of humor, and she never lets anything go to waste. Once when I was home from college, after a breakup with a serious boyfriend, I found her on the back step with a carton of expired eggs. “They are wonderful for the soil,” she said, launching one at nearby tree. “It’s good exercise. And, it’s very satisfying when you are feeling frustrated and want to channel your energy in a positive way.”

She was right—hurling a few eggs through space at a nearby target was incredibly satisfying, especially when faced with the reality that romance had gone rotten.

There is always a certain wisdom hidden in her somewhat quirky behavior. I have no doubt there is a koan or parable embedded in these actions somehow. She can nurture anything, including my now improving mood. On the windowsill above the would-be avocado plant, she has created a miniature “zen garden” that consists of a glass vase, pebbles, and a plant. It sounds completely tacky, but it is actually quite beautiful to behold. Several friends inquire about it during their visits. They think it is exquisite. I derive great joy in revealing the punch line to these Manhattan sophisticates: That beautiful piece of zen art is the remains of a sweet potato.

I receive a call from Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice. As Holbrooke suggested, I have been trying to reach out to her in an attempt to have regular contact with the State Department. She is aware of David’s case and has agreed to speak with me. I’ve spent most of the morning preparing a list of questions. She is warm and forthcoming. I ask if the captors or anyone else connected with David’s case is making political demands that perhaps we are not aware of. She denies this. No demands have been made to our government, she says. She advises us to keep the situation quiet. She reiterates what others have said: that we are not dealing with a legitimate government, and that the group holding David is immune to moral pressure.

I pray that David, Tahir, and Asad will have the strength to endure this uncertain period and find peace of mind. I make the same request for me and all our families. I was raised Catholic, so my go-to device for all situations beyond my control is prayer. I try to view this through a larger lens: Why is this happening? What am I meant to learn from this situation? Patience. Surrender. These things spring to mind. Patience is my least favorite virtue, but I am certain this is the lesson I am meant to master through this harrowing test. And I am torn between feeling completely responsible for our three and realizing I may ultimately have no control over the outcome of this situation. I pray for the strength to not give up and, simultaneously, the ability to surrender. My prayer does not take a traditional or eloquent form of incantation. I do not have the strength for this. I merely express the words, “Help me, help us.” These seem the most fitting and easiest to access.

Yet at the same time, I am having great difficulty acknowledging my own vulnerability. It must be a trick of the mind, a survival tactic. My thoughts wander to David. Is he being held with other people, or are they keeping him in a hole somewhere, underground? Does he know what day it is, how much time has passed? Has he found his own way to cope? I know it is futile to try to imagine his circumstances. Speculation only leads to a downward spiral. I am confident he will know what to say and do to keep himself and the others alive as long as possible. I worry more about his peace of mind. What is he doing to ease his own boredom and lack of control?

David’s religion is the pursuit of the truth. An agnostic with a Unitarian-Episcopalian upbringing, he does not hold to one religious ideal or path. His reporting experience covering atrocities related to religious bigotry have made him skeptical of organized religion. With this in mind, I hope he is able to find some sort of comfort during this time—some personal expression of faith and a belief that some higher force will look out for him.

A
tiqullah promised to return in seven to ten days. Yet ten days pass and he does not appear. Instead, in a worrying sign, Badruddin Haqqani now seems to be in charge. A dozen members of his family have been killed by American drone strikes. He himself is a primary American target.