A Rope and a Prayer (38 page)

Pakistan seems to be rapidly deteriorating. The Taliban are closing girls’ schools by force in Swat Valley. I have read that drone strikes are targeting the Haqqani network in North and South Waziristan. The rumor from ground intelligence is that our three may have been moved to this area. We fear they may have been handed over to Baitullah Mehsud, the Taliban commander responsible for the murders of Benazir Bhutto and, most recently, the killing of the Polish hostage Piotr Stanczak. The latest strike occurred in a place called Makeen. I have been checking David’s e-mail each day and reading the automatic updates he still gets from the American military spokesmen in Afghanistan that detail targets and casualties—a far cry from
Women’s Wear Daily
.

I’ve acquired some unusual new habits and routines. The most out of character: I’ve taken to watching C-SPAN religiously from my couch in the evenings. I actually find it enjoyable, as I now recognize many of the players related to Afghanistan and Pakistan. I marvel at how familiar it’s all become to me: Pakistan’s Federally Administered Tribal Areas, or FATA, the area where the Taliban took David after kidnapping him in Afghanistan; Miran Shah, the capital of the North Waziristan tribal area and the town where David is most likely being held hostage; and the ISI, which has done so little to help our three. This is a sharp contrast to the tabloid reports I’m required to follow for my day job: the latest celebrity hookups, the newest reality show starlets, and recent fashion dos and don’ts from Hollywood awards ceremonies. I’m being pulled into a deeper direction, a broader world.

The confirmation hearing of the new American ambassador to Afghanistan, General Karl Eikenberry, is televised. My mother, Mary Jane, and I spend several late evenings watching the proceedings. “He looks and sounds more like a college professor than a general,” Mom observes. Eikenberry seems to be an interesting man—with degrees from Harvard and Stanford and the ability to speak fluent Mandarin. The general was to have been a character in David’s book. David interviewed him several times before the kidnapping. I wrote to the general’s wife, Ching, when I first learned of David’s abduction, knowing she would recognize my name from David’s recent visit to their home. After seeing the confirmation hearing, I e-mail Eikenberry directly and explain the current situation.

He responds immediately, e-mailing to ask for my phone number and then calling to invite me to two upcoming events: his retirement from NATO and his swearing in as the new ambassador to Afghanistan. I receive his call while I’m at Whole Foods. It is distinctly strange to be talking to a soon-to-be-retired general, soon-to-be ambassador in the middle of the whole grain cereals and gluten-free desserts aisle. I am slightly embarrassed and amused by the background music—“Waiting for You” by Seal is playing. How appropriate.

Eikenberry informs me that he originally planned to invite David to these events, but requests that I attend in his place. He promises me, “Rest assured, not a day goes by without my thinking about your husband.”

I appreciate his reaching out to me in this personal way. Of all the government institutions we have consulted, the military seems to be the most understanding about what it means to be separated from a loved one who is in harm’s way. I accept his offers, thinking this will be a good chance to bump into other government officials, namely Secretary Clinton, and refocus their attention on David’s case. My hope is that they will apply pressure to Pakistan’s intelligence agencies as well as our own.

Eikenberry’s aide follows up with a call to explain protocol for a Pentagon event, and to forward information about the general’s swearing-in as ambassador, which will take place at the State Department. I have not completely lost touch with my once fashion-conscious self. What does one wear to a military service? I muse. This is quite an unusual fashion dilemma, and it provides a momentary escape to be able to focus on solving a mundane problem. I settle on a gray skirt suit, black pointy-toed pumps and a simple blouse with a slight ruffle—conservative business attire, softened by a touch of “damsel in distress” detailing.

Throughout this ordeal, I have been conscious of the fact that people look to me, to my moods, tone of voice, and even appearance, to gauge the status of our situation. If I appear pulled together, this gives other people confidence that I am hopeful and that David will return. This proves essential when catching up with friends and David’s colleagues. His mother, Carol, informs me that she also looks for cues in the sound of my voice when we speak by phone.

I am taking a week off from work. It’s becoming increasingly difficult to straddle both worlds. I go into the office often on weekends—only to end up taking calls on my cell phone from security consultants and others in the case. The kidnapping has invaded every space I inhabit. It has become an unwanted occupation. On my computer desktop are photographic files of the latest fashion trends: denim biker chic, minidresses. A click away are several files of letters to the kidnappers and others translated in Pashto, as well as Google Map images of David’s rumored locations.

I find myself jumping every time the phone rings past 9 P.M. or before 9 A.M., thinking it will be a call from Atiqullah. I’ve learned to recognize the numbers of various government agencies on my office and home caller ID: 646 is FBI, a lot of zeros usually indicates State Department, and a consecutive series of ones is the unmistakable calling card of
The New York Times
office. My mind has to shift between the kidnap strategies: pursuing a humanitarian release; negotiating a ransom; or bribing David’s guards. The security consultants’ claim that their local network bribed the guards and that David would be released “within days” is beginning to look false. I have no doubt they are well intentioned. But I have become skeptical of their sources on the ground. Interspersed among these moral dilemmas are the issues of how to illustrate the stories sitting in my desk inbox: “What a Guy’s Butt Says About Him.” “How to Be a Lucky Bitch.” And “The One-Hour Orgasm.” Haggling over the beach house location for the upcoming cover shoot in Los Angeles while contemplating the value of my husband’s life has proved to be quite jarring.

Exhaustion has set in. Sadness has become a permanent resident and has morphed into physical pain: backaches, sore arms, and the occasional migraine. The stress also weighs heavily on my mother, who has thrown her back out and returned to Maine to recuperate for a while.

At work, the circle of people who know about my situation has expanded. I am often asked about David. I feel stigmatized. In my own mind, I am rapidly becoming the girl with the sad story. I find it hard to relate to normal conversations: exchanges about weekends, home life, celebrity gossip—normal office banter. It all feels like a remote foreign language—one I studied as an adolescent but have now forgotten. My situation has also taken a toll on my co-workers’ schedules. I have missed two trips for our spring and summer issues, the first to Miami in February, the second to Los Angeles in early April. David’s release would be imminent, I was told. A generous art director filled in for me. Time, too, has lost its meaning. Months and events all blend into one endless season of uncertainty, waiting, and loneliness.

I miss the everyday moments most couples share: coffee in the morning, grocery shopping, sleeping intertwined. Occasionally, I hear couples arguing on street corners—this is a common occurrence in New York City, where much of one’s private life is lived in public. Sometimes I think,
What a waste of time
. In other moments I wish I had the luxury of being able to argue with David over some small detail. I try to escape by going to the movies, attending a yoga class. But I am averse to fabricated violence or intrigue and have no patience for a well-intentioned, three-part breath.

 

 

On April 27, I pack my carefully chosen outfit and catch a train to Washington for General Eikenberry’s swearing-in ceremony. On the way, I call my sister, Karen, for advice on my job. I do not think I can keep working, but I am hesitant to make David’s abduction my full-time occupation. I have briefly discussed the option of taking a leave of absence with the magazine’s managing editor. I was relieved and surprised that they were willing to accommodate a leave and would later welcome me back. Karen encourages me to take them up on the offer.

I meet up with my brother, Jason. His apartment will become home base for my numerous visits to Washington over the next four weeks. I will only be in town for two days on this trip, but will return with David’s brother Lee in another week to meet with Pakistani officials.

The next morning is overcast. I take the metro to the Pentagon stop for General Eikenberry’s reception. I am nervous as I ascend on the escalator and proceed to the security line, where I am to be met by a military escort. I chat with other attendees, many of whom have known Eikenberry for decades. I am vague when asked about my connection. I say that my husband is a journalist who is friendly with Karl and Ching and that he is currently overseas, so I am attending in his place.

We walk upstairs to a reception hall with blue carpeting, a small platform, and fold-up chairs. Seating is assigned by name tags. I have been given a prime view, an aisle seat in the third row. Eikenberry nods and smiles at me as he proceeds down the aisle to the stage. A military band plays “The Army Song.” Admiral Mullen, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, presides over the ceremony. There is a formality and sense of tradition to it all. Eikenberry is given a retirement plaque.

After the ceremony, we convene as a group in a small, modest reception room. Coffee, tea, cookies, and Middle Eastern appetizers are served buffet style. I thank Eikenberry for the invitation. He informs me that David e-mailed him just prior to his fateful interview. Eikenberry tells me David’s e-mail remains in his inbox and that he will not let David be forgotten. I chat with his wife, Ching. She asks a family member to take our photo. She will be joining her husband in Kabul. “This is in case I see David first,” she says, optimistically. “I will show him this photo.” I appreciate her kindness and hopefulness. I know she truly understands what it means to have a spouse in a high-risk job that demands time in dangerous places.

In the evening, I join a friend of David’s for dinner. Kay McGowan worked for the State Department in Afghanistan for several years. Two years ago, her fiancé, a microfinance expert working with the World Bank, was murdered at gunpoint in Kabul in an attempted kidnapping. She was eight months pregnant at the time and has since rebuilt her life. I admire her courage and appreciate her kindness. She has helped me make contact with government officials on numerous occasions.

Tonight, we meet at an outdoor café in downtown Washington, and she introduces me to her friends. Among them is a young man named Philippe Reines, a senior adviser and spokesman for Hillary Clinton. Philippe is well aware of our case, as are most government officials here. Washington, after all, is very much a rumor mill. Any bit of information spreads like wildfire in this one-industry town. In many ways, it has come to remind me of Los Angeles—a city I have spent a good deal of time in over the last few years on photography shoots. Philippe will be at Eikenberry’s swearing in tomorrow. He tells me to look for him when I arrive. He will do his best to give me the opportunity to speak with Clinton in person to update her on the progress, or lack of, on David’s case.

The next morning, I get up early, anxious about the upcoming ceremony. I arrive at the State Department. The midcentury-modern lobby gleams. Through the courtyard window I see the
Man and the Expanding Universe
fountain
.
A mythical figure sits astride the universe. I am ushered to the Benjamin Franklin reception room on an upper floor. Its colonial moldings and furnishings are in sharp contrast to the modern lobby below. The crowd is composed of foreign and American dignitaries, journalists, and friends of Eikenberry’s. A colleague of David’s from the newspaper recognizes me and keeps me company before the ceremony begins.

The Pakistani ambassador to the United States approaches me. “I am so sorry about David. We will do everything we can to help get him released. But you know, David is in Afghanistan,” he says, kissing me on each cheek before rushing off. I feel violated by this outpouring of superficial concern and casual dishonesty. We have known for the last five months that our three are in Pakistan. David’s colleague is speechless.

The swearing-in ceremony proceeds. Clinton is dressed in a bright red suit. A receiving line forms and Philippe, her senior adviser, waves to me from across the room. He brings the secretary over to say hello after the line disperses. Clinton is petite but charismatic. I am struck by her warmth. She immediately takes me by both hands and asks for an update. I inform her that David has been in captivity for six months. We have had no word from his captors in six weeks. “We need to get them to call you again,” she says, cutting to the heart of the matter. I tell her, with all due respect, that the move by the State Department to increase the bounty on Siraj Haqqani may have interfered with our ability to make a deal. She looks aghast and pulls me into a conversation between General Petraeus and Richard Holbrooke, the State Department representative. Tough and articulate, she does not mince words. “This has gone on long enough,” she says, seemingly feeling my frustration. “Her husband has been gone for six months. This needs to be a priority. I mean it.” She all but adds “boys” to the end of her remark. I am thankful to have her as an advocate. She is so focused and determined.