A Rope and a Prayer (30 page)

What haunts me most is picturing Kristen as a widow at forty. She is dressed in black, a color she rarely wears, and her sunny countenance is dark. Her glow—the radiant smile that drew me to her at our first dinner together—is gone. I promised her a new life and a family. Instead, I have given her this.

 

 

Abu Tayyeb joins us that night for dinner. I ask him to promise that he will stay in Miran Shah until there is a resolution to our case. He does. For the next four days, we wait for him to call Kristen back. Our conversations leave me doubtful that he will ever compromise in a case involving an American.

He weeps at a radio news broadcast about civilian deaths in Afghanistan. A guard explains to me that Abu Tayyeb reviles the United States because of the civilian deaths he believes it causes. Abu Tayyeb says that Americans fixate on wealth, comfort, and fame and ignore the crimes the American government commits abroad. My captors see me—and seemingly all Westerners—as selfish, morally corrupt, and focused on pursuing the pleasures of this world. They believe Westerners will pay staggering sums to keep a kidnapped family member from being executed. They believe that Westerners’ fear of death is their fatal weakness. They are convinced the Taliban will prevail because they do not fear death.

Abu Tayyeb and our guards see the American-led reconstruction effort as a giant fraud scheme designed to enrich Westerners and shortchange average Afghans. They say the American-backed Karzai government is enormously corrupt. And Akbar, our friendliest guard, says he has heard stories that American companies intentionally build low-quality bridges in Afghanistan so they can be awarded lucrative repair contracts in the future. He says Americans came to Afghanistan to enrich themselves, not to help average Afghans.

For years, I have reported on the shortcomings and waste of the American-led reconstruction effort, but I also knew the Taliban caricature of the endeavor is exaggerated. Yes, Afghan expectations of a sweeping reconstruction of the entire country were raised and then not met. And yes, corruption in the Afghan government is a staggering problem.

Evidence of how flawed the American effort even lies on the floor of our bedroom every day. One of the machine guns our guards have was apparently given to the Afghan army or police force and then sold to the Taliban or captured by them. The gun has a tag on it with handwritten instructions in American English that tell users which settings to use when firing the weapon. Our guards ask me to translate the words for them.

At the same time, Abu Tayyeb and his men ignore the fact that the United States has built hundreds of miles of paved roads in Afghanistan and more than a thousand schools and health clinics. They deny widespread news reports that the Taliban have burned down scores of newly built schools to prevent girls from getting an education. And they ignore the Taliban’s killing and kidnapping of dozens of Afghan and foreign engineers and road workers.

He complains that foreigners have not kept their promise to rebuild the country. But the Taliban, in fact, have done more to thwart the reconstruction effort than any other group. In conversations with him, I argue that the United States is not the menacing, predatory caricature that he believes it to be. I also try to counter his belief that all Americans are astonishingly rich hedonists. Nothing I say, though, seems to change his view. He sees himself as the noble defender of a culture and faith that are under assault.

G
etting a Pashto translator is not as daunting a task as it might seem, at least not in New York. With the help of David’s colleagues at the newspaper, I am able to track down a translator who lives in Brooklyn and will come over to my apartment on Wednesday and Thursday night, when I’ll be waiting for the next phone call from the captors. By this point we have opted to conduct negotiations privately, but we continue to send tapes of phone calls to the FBI in case they are able to pinpoint a call location or provide voice recognition.

I recorded my phone call with David three nights ago. I play it back for Lee, David McCraw, Team Kabul, and our AISC consultants. I send a recording to Michael, in Pakistan, who instructs me to forward the upcoming call to the man he works with in the tribal areas, who asked to be identified in this book as John. John has worked with Michael on prior kidnappings. We will direct all calls with the Taliban to him. At Michael’s request, John has traveled to the region as our family’s representative to meet with a mullah at Swabi who has connections to the Haqqanis. Now he will serve as our primary negotiator. The security consultants agree. I should not be pressured with the responsibility of negotiating directly with the Taliban on my husband’s behalf. This is typical protocol—it’s far too easy for captors take advantage of direct contact with family to frighten or threaten them and thus extort even more money.

Lee comes back to the city to join me in waiting for the impending call, which we plan to relay to John in hopes of making him the primary negotiator. “I thought my days of sitting and waiting by the phone for a man to call would end with marriage,” I joke as I greet Lee.

Our translator arrives at 5 p.m. on Wednesday. He is a Pashtun from southern Afghanistan who has lived in the United States for several years. I serve an eclectic feast of tea, pizza, salad, and snacks—a far cry from the well-balanced cuisine Lee and I have become accustomed to during my mother’s visits. “When does Mary Jane return?” Lee asks with a hint of humor.

To pass time as we all wait, I turn on the television. A
Top Chef
marathon is on. Our translator is transfixed by the host, Padma Lakshmi. “Excuse me,” he asks. “Who is she? What show is this?” Then a revelation: “This is cable,” he says happily. “I have cable. I could watch this at home, too?” Lee looks up at me from his computer and rolls his eyes. “Yes,” I say, “in the privacy of your own home.”

We share our recent histories. Our translator is from Kandahar. “This is a very interesting case for me. I left Afghanistan because my family wanted me to join the kidnapping business,” he tells me. I don’t know if this is true, but it doesn’t seem far-fetched, given how dire the situation is abroad. He also explains that in Pakistan and Afghanistan, people with relatives in the United States are often kidnapping targets, as it is believed anyone lucky enough to be living in America has money or access to it.

We talk about photography, and he asks me about the famous photograph of the Afghan girl that appeared two decades ago, on the cover of
National Geographic.
The one with the terrorized, intense green eyes. “What was so compelling about it?” he asks. “She looks like every other Afghan girl.”

I tell him my husband has been held since November 10, just over three months. He says I am a brave woman and is amazed I am not a puddle of tears. I think brave is overstating it—I have no other option, I respond. And thanks to a hefty share of defense mechanisms—denial, distancing, humor—I’m still able to function.

For some reason—most likely stress—I am incredibly exhausted. I take a nap. One would think it would be difficult to sleep under the circumstances, but I have learned to sleep when I can. Rest is an essential part of staying sharp. I have been on an adrenaline rush since David’s call and am now experiencing the downswing. The hours tick by: 1 A.M., 2 A.M., then 3 A.M. We have well surpassed our midnight deadline. At 3:30 A.M. we tell the translator he can leave and that we will see him again tomorrow evening.

Lee settles in on the couch and I retire to the bedroom. At 4:30 A.M. the phone rings. I jolt out of bed and run into the living room. Lee is in his running shorts and a T-shirt, looking equally startled and disheveled. I pick up the phone. Lee reads and records the phone number off the caller ID. The area code indicates a Pakistani number. He texts it to the FBI.

“Hello,
salaam alaikum,
” I say. This is a Muslim greeting which means “Peace be upon you.” It never hurts to be polite.

“Alaikum asalaam,”
or “The same to you,” the caller responds. What a gentleman, I think.

“Call me back, this number,” the voice says before the line goes silent.

Several rings later, a small eternity, our call resumes.

“This is Kristen, can you understand?” I ask. I hope.

“No speak Eng-leeesh,” he exaggerates. “Only Pashto.”

Oh no. I am concerned they think I slacked off on finding a proper translator. Screw it, I say to myself, and proceed to speak in English, without making any apologies. They will either understand me or they won’t. I tell them to call John’s number in Afghanistan and that he will be representing the family in negotiations. This is Michael’s contact. The captors have long stopped calling the security experts that make up Team Kabul for fear that they are government agents. They have also shunned
The New York Times
bureau, because we have convinced them that this is a family matter.

Michael suggested I use specific wording in conveying information to the captors. I recite the phrases I have memorized: “My representative, my friend, John, is in Afghanistan and he is authorized to help you. He is the only one you should speak to.”

For the next five minutes, a somewhat comical exchange ensues as I relay numbers to Atiqullah and he repeats them back to me. He is oddly polite and somewhat cheeky. I laugh triumphantly when he gets all the digits correct and in proper sequence. Lee looks somewhat quizzical as he witnesses this exchange. Lee calls Michael on the other line to alert him that his contact should expect a call.

Luckily, Atiqullah knows his English numbers. Within minutes, Michael calls to alert us that Atiqullah has already made contact with John. I hope passing Atiqullah on to this negotiator is the right decision.

 

 

It’s now early March and my mother has returned to New York with my father, Jim, for a visit. My parents have been happily married for over forty-five years. Seeing them together gives me a sense of comfort, but also makes David’s absence more palpable.

Two weeks have passed since my call with Atiqullah. Our noon updates continue. Atiqullah had at first made repeated calls to our contact, John, then stopped abruptly. John informs me and Lee over Skype that during the initial calls, Atiqullah said he would kill David on the spot, a threat John found ludicrous. “I knew there was no way David was with him,” John tells us. “It would be too risky.” When John remained unfazed, the kidnapper’s tone once again shifted to “Let’s make a deal.” John says they have come down from $7 million to $5 million and that they are trying to arrange to meet face-to-face in a few days. To my knowledge, this never transpires.

A few days later, on a Sunday morning, my phone rings at 7:30 A.M. Unfortunately, I’ve left the cordless handset in the living room, where my parents are sleeping.

I wish this was not happening in front of them. My father has not yet been subjected to a call from the captors. I know he would do anything to protect me. Proactive and sensitive, seeing me go through this ordeal and feeling he cannot remedy the situation is a strain on him as well. I motion for them to leave the room to avoid distraction. I hit the record button attached to my answering machine.

“Hello,
salaam alaikum
,” I say.

“
Alaikum asalaam
,” he responds.

“This is Kristen. Who is this?” I ask, trying to buy some time to catch my breath.

“This is the translator for Atiqullah. So what is the progress?” he asks.

My heart is racing but I try to sound as calm and casual as possible and stick to the talking points outlined by our security team. I continue: “I gave Atiqullah the phone number of John, our representative in country. We are still working on raising money. It has been difficult to raise money because it is illegal to do so, so people have been, you know, a little hesitant.” I chastise myself for the stupidity of this statement, then add, “I have a friend in country now who could arrange to get it to David’s hosts.” The line goes dead.

I phone Michael to alert him that I have just received another call. I ask him why they are contacting me when John is still in Afghanistan. He tells me to stonewall them if they call again. “Keep referring them back to John,” he advises. “Also, tell them you are shocked they are speaking with you directly. You are a woman and it is dishonorable for them to be speaking to you. It goes against all they preach.”

I wait several minutes for Atiqullah’s translator to call me back, then take matters into my own hands, realizing once again they are going to stiff me for the cost of the phone call. I dial the number from caller ID. “Hello,” I say. “This is Kristen.”

“Hello, hi,” he says, seemingly surprised to hear from me. “Yes, go on. So you continue.” he adds casually.

I am struck by the conversational way the translator speaks English. I realize he’s fluent in “American.”

“My representative in country. Atiqullah has talked to him before,” I say. “He can tell you more specifically what we can do. Do you need his phone number?” I ask.

“Listen, listen. Master John is not good man, he is creating problems,” the translator responds.

I take this to mean John has stood firm and not agreed to give them $5 million. Lee and I have decided to stand firm on our offer. AISC has advised us to stand fast, too. Increasing the amount while our captors remain at an unmatchable level on both money and prisoners is futile, and they claim it will only further extend our ordeal. They are of the “give them an inch and they’ll ask for a mile” school of thought. Anyway, we don’t have this kind of money and have no intention of trying to raise it.

“And your husband has said that you speak directly to my wife,” the translator claims.

I try to thwart this idea. “I am very concerned, but I am a woman. I am surprised you are calling me direct,” I say.