A Rope and a Prayer (20 page)

I head back to my office to complete the day, a difficult proposition given that I am now thoroughly distracted. Composing shoot budgets, editing film, and sketching storyboards provide me with a momentary, tangible sense of control, order, and escape. But my solace is fleeting as my mind wanders back to the dubious messages in the video. A few days before Christmas, this was not the holiday greeting I was hoping for.

Back at home, from our apartment window I can see the Christmas trees lined up on the corner for sale, a singular ritual of city life. Cheerful white lights illuminate an overpriced selection of firs and pine trees from Vermont, Maine, and upstate New York. An enormous plastic snowman flashes a red candy cane and green top hat.

I’ve been trying to come up with positive ways to reinforce my connection with David during his absence. I decide to go ahead and buy our first Christmas tree as a married couple. A close friend comes over and we drown our holiday sorrows in cheese fondue. Just what the doctor ordered. Then we proceed to the tree stand on the corner. I ask the vendor what I can buy for $40. He produces a sparse sapling, barely a foot high.

“That’s one sad-looking Charlie Brown tree,” I say.

“Not even!” he admits.

I point to another tree that is a few feet taller, fuller, and more hopeful. Then he tries to sell me a nine-foot tree. “Just sold one of these to Mrs. Gandolfini,” he says proudly, referring to the wife of the
Sopranos
star. It’s $300. We settle on the smaller but hopeful-looking tree and some stringy tinsel.

At home, we set it up in David’s office alcove. We add lights and miniature ornaments, including one David and I bought on a recent trip to Paris. I also pull out every religious relic I can find. There is the “longevity” charm we picked up at the Takstang Monastery in Bhutan, a scared heart from Sacré-Coeur in Paris, and a Buddhist prayer bracelet from Varanasi in India.

Along the window ledge of the living room, I set up all the cards we’ve received from relatives still unaware of our situation, wishing us a happy first Christmas together. I want to inject as much positive energy into this space as possible in hopes that it will somehow reach David. For the first time in weeks I feel more connected to my husband and hopeful that he will return. I notice a sense of peace I have not felt in quite some time.

Ruhullah, David’s former translator in Afghanistan, who is now a college student in the United States, stops by for a visit. After years of working together in tense situations, David and Ruhullah are very close. David treats him like a younger brother. He helped bring Ruhullah to the United States after the work he was doing for David and
The New York Times
bureau made him a target of the Taliban. Ruhullah is headed back to Kabul for the holidays and has offered to remain there to work on David’s case.

I tell him David would be very upset if he knew Ruhullah was missing school because of him. Maybe he can think of something more I should be doing, or some type of message I should be trying to send as David’s wife. What would a Pashtun woman do?

Ruhullah begins to write a plea for me in Pashto to send to David’s captors. “It is a popular saying in my culture: My husband is my veil. Please return him to me.” Ruhullah underscores the significance of this phrase: “It means my husband is my honor and you are denying me my honor by keeping him away from me. It is shameful for Afghans to do such a thing. I think this will help.”

I scan and e-mail the note to our consultants who are in the process of setting up a base in Kabul, suggesting that they keep it on file for a time when it is possible to send it.

On New Year’s Eve I get a call from Jill Abramson, Bill Schmidt, and Craig Whitney—senior employees at the
Times
—all of whom are working late. They have been following David’s case and are calling to wish me a happier New Year. While their New Year’s Eve has been less than stellar, they all agree mine is probably worse.

 

 

We have assembled our consultants in Kabul: Team Kabul.

The team consists of two patient individuals who are tasked with fielding phone calls from the captors, a job that is mostly a waiting game. One of them is a Clayton kidnap expert; the other is an AISC consultant. After much deliberation, the newspaper, Lee, and I have decided to move the operation out of the
Times
’ bureau there. The newspaper does not want to endanger its staffers. We also want to shift the kidnappers’ perception that
The New York Times
is handling this case. The security team also feels the bureau is not a secure location. They prefer to work from an anonymous compound.

We want to encourage direct contact with our family. And because some people at the Kabul bureau are opposed to the payment of ransom, we do not want them to be the ones to negotiate on David, Tahir, and Asad’s behalf. We also do not want the FBI to oversee our negotiations, because the terms they could discuss are very limited, but we do update them periodically on the status of our communications. We have stuck with David’s request to negotiate for all three together. We want the kidnappers to realize that our family, Lee and me, is the correct point of contact for negotiations. We hope the change in venue will achieve this. The phone number the captors have been calling is forwarded to this location.

The downside of moving the call center is that the personnel from AISC and Clayton who will man it rotate out every month. The other disadvantage is that once we move, we won’t have nearly the same access to David’s colleagues at the Kabul bureau and their enormous expertise in the culture and politics of this region. They have completely dedicated themselves to working for the release of our three, desperately trying to gain on-the-ground intelligence from their local network of sources. They have contacted local tribal elders, the Quetta Shura, and Afghan officials in hope of coming to a resolution that will not involve ransom. One of David’s colleagues e-mails daily updates on their progress. This journalist has also researched Abu Tayyeb’s background in hopes of gaining insight into his motives, and provides updates to the families of Tahir and Asad. David’s colleagues are hesitant to move the call center, but are under pressure from superiors. And they are exhausted, having also to continue to provide daily news coverage of events in the region for the
Times
.

The security team is skeptical of the Kabul bureau’s actions. They want to limit outreach done on David’s behalf, as they feel it creates confusion about who is running the negotiations and raises his value as a hostage.

Chris Chivers, another reporter in the Kabul bureau and a friend of David’s, has returned to the States. He has graciously brought me the laptop and notebook David left behind at the bureau when he set out for the interview on November 10. It is chilling to flip through David’s notes. Written on the last page of a small Moleskine are the words
Abu Tayyeb
. This was the Taliban commander David was due to meet that fateful day. The computer, too, is unaltered since David last used it. The November 9 front page of
The New York Times
Web site pops up, an eerie reminder of all the time that has passed while our life together remains on hold.

I have one new friend and confidant, the enigmatic Irishman Michael Semple. He and I have developed a rapport over Skype. He is gracious enough to provide his assessment of how the case is going from time to time on an informal basis. I trust Michael. He knows an enormous amount about what is happening on the ground in Afghanistan and Pakistan and has been brought up to speed on our case by a reporter in the Kabul bureau. He is fluent in several local dialects and understands the complexities of the tribal structures in the region. And he is familiar with members of the Haqqani network, which most people involved in our case now think is responsible for David’s kidnapping.

Michael has worked on other kidnapping cases on an unofficial basis, so I hope he has some sense of how this might play out. I value his insight and appreciate his eloquence, which is always tempered with a healthy dose of Irish humor.

I have forwarded the scan of the plea to the captors that Ruhullah wrote in Pashto. Michael promises to pass it along to a mullah who is known to have contact with the Haqqani family. Michael feels that even though the man who has been identifying himself as Atiqullah has been the point person on the phone, it is unlikely he has much authority in striking a deal for the release of David, Tahir, and Asad. Michael, along with our security team, think that Sirajuddin Haqqani is the person ultimately in charge of David’s fate.

I have heard of Siraj—the elusive second son of Jalaluddin Haqqani, the mujahideen warrior who helped the United States drive the Soviets out of Afghanistan but then later aligned with the Taliban after 9/11. Siraj rarely grants interviews, eschews photography, and is often referred to as bipolar or schizophrenic. I do not know if this is a clinical term or merely hyperbole. At any rate, he is viewed as erratic and unpredictable. I Google him and learn that he is “so elusive that only a sketch exists of him.” The FBI has informed us that one of the captors’ voices on the phone—perhaps Atiqullah himself—is Badruddin Haqqani, Siraj’s younger brother. Badruddin is believed to be in charge of orchestrating kidnappings for the Haqqani network. We now think “Atiqullah” is the alias that both Abu Tayyeb and Badruddin use when they call us. They are working in tandem.

 

 

Every day at noon, we conduct a conference call during which we receive updates on David’s case from Team Kabul and discuss the way forward. My day is scheduled to allow for this. As I duck into my office at
Cosmopolitan
and shut the door, I secretly hope my assistant thinks I am talking to my husband or negotiating photography contracts. I phone into an assigned number on a private call box.

A beep precedes the announcement of each participant. We have a lot of cooks in the kitchen. Our noon calls include me, Lee, McCraw, Team Kabul, and an AISC employee in the United States. Michael continues to advise me privately, but does not participate in the daily group calls. Lately, personalities have begun to clash. A kind of turf war, perhaps inevitable, is starting to break out. The security consultants feel all other inquiries and activities, namely the Kabul bureau’s outreach to local government officials and elders, should stop. I am hesitant about this, but Lee, McCraw, and I support the suggestion because we feel it will give the new team a chance to establish one clear, direct channel to our family.

Team Kabul has received word, via rumor, that the Taliban want $25 million and ten prisoners in exchange for David. We also hear that David is not well. He is sick from the food and other conditions of captivity. Michael Semple assures me not to be alarmed. “Every hostage is, quote, ‘gravely ill’ or ‘suicidal.’ This is merely a way to assert pressure on you.” In the meantime, a reporter in the Kabul bureau has gotten in touch with the International Committee of the Red Cross to see if they can make contact with the people holding David in order to send medicine or assistance. The Red Cross informs us that it may be able to act as an intermediary if we want to write letters to our three. Everyone agrees this is a good idea.

At home, I once again Skype with Michael. He assures me that many of his contacts are continuing to inquire about David and are working for his release. Ever the poetic Irishman, he tries to buoy me up. The Afghans have a saying, he tells me: “The fruit of patience is sweet.” He encourages me to keep this in mind. Then adds, “Think of yourself as Helen of Troy. Many ships have been launched for your cause.” This is rather intriguing, and sustains me for a moment. But when I log off, my mood drops. All illusions aside, my hope is stranded: Afghanistan is a landlocked country.

T
he day after Christmas, Abu Tayyeb announces that his negotiator in Kabul—a man they call the engineer—has reached an agreement to exchange us for female prisoners from the Afghan national prison in Pul-i-Charkhi.

“Don’t you think it’s wrong to hold women prisoner?” he asks me.

“Yes,” I say, playing along.

I pace in the yard, telling myself not to believe him. He has lied to us from the beginning, inviting us to an interview, kidnapping us, and then masquerading as someone named “Atiqullah.” Yet he continues to treat us well physically, and I find myself unable to stop daydreaming about our release. Again, my mind seems to be instinctively drawn to a narrative of survival, not death.

Our living conditions have improved again. On Christmas night, Abu Tayyeb moved us to a larger, more modern house in Miran Shah. The next morning I was allowed to lie on a cot outside and soak up direct sunlight. The owner of the house, a tall Afghan Taliban commander named Sharif, is friendly and encourages me to walk in the yard. The house’s eight-foot walls allow the courtyard to be flooded with sunlight. It is the most modern house we have inhabited since being abducted. It is a one-story, five-room structure built in 2005, according to a date scrawled in one corner of the concrete floor. It has metal doors and window frames, two bathrooms, and an electric pump that fills a rooftop water tank on the intermittent days when Miran Shah has electricity.

Bedspreads manufactured by a Pakistani textile company for export to the United States cover the floor of the room where we sleep. They are emblazoned with characters from the American television shows
Hannah Montana
and
Littlest Pet Shop,
and the movies
Spider-Man
and
Cars
. My blanket is a pink Barbie comforter. Our guards have never heard of any of the characters. Each night, all of us curl up beneath icons of American pop culture.

Abu Tayyeb spends a few days with us in the new house. He says I am confined for my own safety. If word spreads that an American is being held prisoner in Miran Shah, he says, Arab or Pakistani militants could demand that I be executed in revenge for a drone strike. One night, he returns home and announces that there is an agreement to release us in exchange for seven male prisoners from the Afghan national prison. The exchange will happen in “days,” he says.