A Rope and a Prayer (27 page)

Militants in other parts of Pakistan were emboldened. Students in the Red Mosque, a hard-line mosque and madrassa in the center of Islamabad, demanded that local stores stop selling DVDs they considered indecent. Then they took a local woman hostage in July 2007 and accused her of operating a brothel. Security forces surrounded the mosque and after an initial gun battle stormed it, killing roughly 100 people. Pakistani militants claimed that 1,000 students—many of them women—were killed in the attack.

Enraged, they declared war on the Pakistani government. In the tribal areas, the Haqqanis played a central role in brokering the creation of a powerful and unprecedented alliance of Pakistani militant groups—the Tehrik-i-Taliban Pakistan, or Taliban Movement of Pakistan. Founded in December 2007, the alliance of previously disparate groups fielded an estimated 5,000 fighters. They unleashed attacks that killed former prime minister Benazir Bhutto in 2007 and killed or wounded 5,000 Pakistanis in 2008.

As I received newspapers from my captors in January 2009, more Pakistanis were dying in terror attacks than Afghans or Iraqis. The Pakistani Taliban had seized control of all seven agencies that made up the tribal areas and a famed tourist area sixty miles from Islamabad known as the Swat Valley. Declaring a complete ban on girls’ education, the Pakistani Taliban destroyed or damaged 175 girls’ schools in Swat.

I recalled a meeting I had with a retired senior official from the ISI four months after the storming of the Red Mosque. Asking that he not be named, he was the first senior ISI official to admit to me that some ISI officials had been playing a “double game.”

He said that while he and other ISI officials arrested Al Qaeda operatives and impressed American officials, other ISI officials turned a blind eye to the Afghan Taliban and Pakistani militants they thought could be useful proxies against India. With suicide bombings besetting Pakistan’s largest cities, the former ISI official admitted that his agency had lost control of the militants it had nurtured for the last thirty years.

“We indoctrinated them and told them, ‘You will go to heaven,’” he told me. “You cannot turn it around so suddenly.”

 

 

After a two-hour drive in Badruddin’s truck, we arrive in a snow-covered valley with towering pine trees. The hills and snow, he hopes, will convince the world we are being held in Afghanistan, not in a bustling town in Pakistan.

The drive has been a delight for me. After nearly three months of living in walled compounds, I relished looking out the window as we drove through towns, villages, and open spaces of North Waziristan. Much of the landscape is dry, desolate, and reminiscent of the American Southwest. Other areas have the rolling hills and soaring trees of the Rocky Mountains.

Badruddin orders Tahir, Asad, and me to put on new black Chinese-made high-top basketball sneakers he has purchased. I fold my pants into the tops of the sneakers and wrap the blanket Badruddin gave me months ago around my neck as a scarf. I hope both steps will make the video look more ridiculous than frightening. Badruddin tells his men to set up a tent he has purchased as a prop on the hillside. His men can’t figure out how to assemble it. I think about helping them but decide not to.

As a backup plan, Badruddin instructs us to walk up a snow-covered hillside with a half dozen guards. Scarves cover their faces and each carries a machine gun or Kalashnikov. Timor Shah leads the way. He peers through a tiny pair of binoculars Badruddin has given him. We follow him up the hill, and I exaggerate my movements to try to make the video appear staged.

We are led into a small cave where one of Badruddin’s men has lit a fire. Badruddin orders us to say we are sick and in the mountains of Afghanistan. I do so but try to show little emotion. As I speak, I place my left hand over my right, hoping my wife will see that I am flashing my wedding ring at her.

Outside the cave, we sit on the hillside and Badruddin orders me to again call for President Obama to meet the Taliban’s demands. I do so but add a new line. At Tahir and Asad’s request, I explicitly ask journalists to publicize our case.

“We ask journalists to please help us,” I say. “Please write stories about us. Please don’t let us be forgotten.”

I fail to cry. After the last video, I am less willing to placate our captors. Badruddin does not seem to care. After a few more minutes, he stops filming. Our location shoot has taken roughly thirty minutes.

As we walk down the hill, the guards get into a snowball fight with Tahir and Asad.

A
rumor has spread that an unidentified person has a video of our three and is shopping it around Kabul to American and foreign news organizations. The BBC and several others refuse to purchase it. Al Jazeera Arabic allegedly buys it for an undisclosed amount.

Michael Semple and I are now in daily contact. He tells me not to panic—this is most likely what he refers to as “a midterm fund-raising effort.” Most likely the captors have raised a few thousand dollars from the sale of the video footage, he says. Kidnapping is a group endeavor and the individuals guarding and feeding David, Tahir, and Asad need to be compensated for their time and effort. Michael has been the one consistent presence in this experience—in advice and in manner. For this reason, I have come to trust his opinion above the others.

A colleague of David’s in Kabul, Dexter Filkins, tracks down an Al Jazeera representative and asks to see a copy of the video. While he isn’t permitted to copy it, he and his translator are allowed a viewing and type up notes.

His transcript serves as a preview for Lee and me. We are struck by a few observations he makes, namely that David looks old and “his shoes are not his own.” This seems odd. How would Dexter know this? Soon enough, we understand.

Al Jazeera Arabic airs a snippet of the video a few days later. It is a twelve-second segment in which David, Tahir, and Asad appear outside, against a snowy backdrop. This is the promotional teaser to a full-length broadcast scheduled for that day.

The New York Times
comes to our rescue. Bill Keller, the executive editor, calls the head of Al Jazeera’s station in Doha and requests that it refrain from showing the video in its entirety because of our safety concerns. Al Jazeera agrees to pull it off the air. We are terrified the video will be leaked and end up on the Internet. Our main concern is that a public airing will give the captors the attention and acclaim they seek in holding an American.

We do not want David’s value to become that of a political spectacle. We do not want him to be used to test or challenge the new Obama administration.

With the video taking up my attention, I cancel my flight to Pakistan. I will stay put.

Keller’s office alerts me to expect a call from Secretary Clinton. She has heard about the Al Jazeera segment. I am told she wants to console me and provide reassurance.

I am at home when she calls. I am struck by her appealing combination of warmth and composure. Helpful and efficient, she assures me that David’s case is being worked on “at the highest level.”

“My heart goes out to you,” she adds. “I can only imagine—actually, I cannot imagine what you must be going through.”

I ask her if David’s captors have made additional demands—political demands—that perhaps we as a family are not aware of. She reassures me that no one in our government has received communication from the group holding David. Holbrooke will be making a trip to the region soon, she says, and I should stay in touch with him.

“I am a longtime admirer and supporter of yours,” I say, thanking her. “I feel very confident knowing you are at the helm and aware of this issue.” I can’t resist adding, “And, frankly, I am so thrilled and relieved to have another woman in the mix!”

She bursts into laughter. “Oh, dear,” she says, “I know
exactly
what you mean!”

The next day, February 7, I receive a call from a journalist in New York who has obtained a copy of the video. The sound is still spotty but the visuals are clear. The journalist offers to meet me at the United Nations building.

I have spent the last few days agonizing over my decision not to travel to Pakistan. Tonight I am thankful that my gut check was right: I am relieved to be in New York to view the only communication from my husband in six weeks.

Lee flies in to join me. He is able to do so on a moment’s notice because he runs a corporate aviation consulting company. He’s constantly flying somewhere for work and often makes last-minute pit stops in New York. This also serves as his cover with business associates and some family members who are not yet aware of David’s situation. Our immediate family knows, but the extended family—cousins, uncles, nieces—do not.

It is 5 P.M. on a snowy, cold Saturday. The journalist meets me at the security gate and assures me that while I cannot obtain a copy of the video, I can make arrangements for our security advisers to view it.

Apparently, our security advisers don’t want to wait that long. AISC has overnighted to me a pen that doubles as a camera. They suggest I use it to take covert footage of the video. I was expecting something worthy of James Bond—perhaps a chic, ultra slim version of a Bic pen. Instead, a large heavy fountain pen, the size of a small telescope—or an engorged Mont Blanc—arrived this morning. It looks like a sight gag from a Peter Sellers film.

It has a hole toward the top and a small blue light the size of a pinhead that lights up when it’s filming. I call the security team and tell them that while I appreciate their efforts, I do not feel comfortable with their plan. I do not want to be busted by UN security for packing a suspicious fountain pen.

I breeze through security. They do not X-ray me. I could have gotten the pen in no problem, I say to myself. Lee, however, is asked to submit to a full security screening. At six feet tall, with a buzz cut and military training, he looks like a contractor or government agent.

The journalist ushers us into an elevator, then through increasingly narrow corridors to a small, carpeted room at the end of a neglected, dimly lit hallway. The windows of the room overlook the East River. The three of us cram into the tiny room and gather around a small monitor.

The video is rather surprising, and long—twelve minutes in total. It begins with David. “I want to apologize, from the bottom of my soul, to my wife Kristen,” he says. I am moved by this genuine expression. Soon after, it is followed by an obligatory plea and what look clearly like fake tears. David makes it obvious he is reading from a script. He is dressed in a salwar kameez, prayer hat, and jacket. His hands are unbound. He is still wearing his wedding ring. A banner hanging behind his head bears the emblem of the Islamic Emirate of Afghanistan and an Arabic slogan that says “There is no God but Allah and Muhammad is his prophet.”

We note that Tahir is wearing a large gold watch. Dexter had made reference to “handcuffs” in his account of the video. It turns out he mistook the watch for a shackle. We are relieved and slightly perplexed. It is surprising that the money-grubbing Taliban would not confiscate valuable personal items like the wedding ring and watch.

Once again, gunmen flank the edges of the video frame, but they appear at ease. Tahir speaks next in Pashto. Asad makes a brief statement as well.

The video then cuts to a strange clip of our three walking up a hill in what looks like suburban Westchester County in New York. The incline is not steep, but the camera is tilted at an angle to make it appear more precipitous. They are surrounded by ten men in turbans, pajamatype pants, and camouflage jackets. Everyone sports oversize black basketball high-tops with thick white soles—Chinese knockoffs of Reebok. David has tucked his pants into his sneakers and the result is a somewhat comical fashion statement. They look more like a French street gang than a bunch of terrorists. The camera cuts to David and he explains that they are in the mountains of Afghanistan, where it is cold and difficult. In a matter-of-fact way, he adds that the food and water are making him sick.

“I thought he might convert to Islam, but I never dreamed he’d go hip-hop,” I tell Lee. He smiles and adds: “Clearly they are feeding him. There’s no way he has diarrhea.” David appears to have gained weight. Maybe it’s the full beard. He looks like a burly mountain man. Grizzly Adams springs to mind. His beard, although thick, is well groomed. His face is tan. We are relieved to see this, and our relief takes the form of humor. We actually have a laughing fit over the footwear and general attire, which is incongruous with David’s traditional New England style: khakis and an oxford cloth shirt.

In the next segment of the video Tahir laments, “It’s so cold, so cold.” Yet they all have their jackets unzipped and the tree branches are bare—the snow is clearly melting. One of the Taliban fighters sports opera glasses and pauses occasionally to survey the area.