Kidnapped by the Taliban (9 page)

I shuddered in the crisp morning chill and looked around. There was no cover, nothing but dirt and air.
How am I going to find a little privacy?
I wondered.
Ah, what privacy? There’s no such thing out here.

I picked out a spot about fifty yards from the shack. The night before, I had seen Hopeless squat somewhere near there to urinate. I didn’t want to offend my captors, so I tried to do the same. I have to admit, though, that between my long trousers and my unfamiliarity with the practice, I had more than a little trouble.

Despite the seriousness of my predicament, I had to stifle a chuckle.
If I do this wrong, I’m going to get shot while peeing. That would be the worst way to go!
At least it would be quick. I’d already made
up my mind that I preferred to face death straight on, with no delay, rather than endure a lengthy torture.

When I returned to the shack, I learned that it was time to walk again. Soon we were back on the trail, moving deeper into the mountains on the crisp, hazy morning. Was this going to be another marathon hike? I hoped not. But I had greater concerns than the nagging ache in my legs.

As we again followed the rises and dips of a trail that only my captors understood, I found the silence unnerving. Since they were supposedly moving closer to achieving their goal, I expected them to clarify plans among themselves, perhaps even to show a smile or two. But there was no interaction at all, just a grim stillness.

I couldn’t erase the threatening images of both Haqqani and Ahmed looking at me and cutting a hand across their throats. They seemed almost eager to put an end to me. On the other hand, they’d already had ample time and opportunity to kill me, and I was still here. Would this be my last day on earth? I had no answer. There was nothing else to do but keep walking and hoping.

About an hour after we’d started up again, what looked like a two-story, mud-walled building appeared on the horizon. Smoke rose from the chimney. It was easily the largest structure I’d seen since the abduction. As we got closer, I noticed it had no windows. I wondered if it was a warehouse though I couldn’t imagine what might be stored there. Next to it I saw a cement rectangle about fifteen feet wide and thirty-five feet long, its walls three feet high. Inside it was a pool of water.

We did not stop there, however. As we passed, I tried to memorize the scene in case I had the chance to describe it later. Any landmark in this desolate territory was rare indeed.

We turned a corner on the trail. About fifty yards to our left was what looked like a home, or at least a sturdy shelter. To my surprise, we turned off our path and walked toward it.

We were about halfway there when our view opened up to a flat, barren valley. More than a hundred yards ahead were three more structures. The largest of these was about fifty feet long and closed up—I saw no doorway or windows. The other two had clearly been abandoned for some time. Neither had a roof, and the crumbling walls of one appeared to top out at about four feet high.

We approached the shelter on our left. This house of stone, brick, and mud had three rooms, though only the largest of the rooms had a roof over it. I stooped as we entered this room through the low, open doorway, which was the only entrance or exit. The space was about twenty by twenty-five feet and, unlike our previous stop, had been used recently. Several mats and blankets lay scattered on the dirt floor. To our left in an indent in the wall was a fire pit. A kettle with burn marks sat on a pair of stones next to a pile of blackened wood. A few embers still glowed.

Near the middle of the room, a single wood pole stretched to the ceiling to support the thatched roof. There were two openings in the wall for ventilation, too small to be called windows. In the far corner a shelf had been built into the wall. On the shelf were a candle, a notebook, and an item wrapped in silk. I later learned this was a Koran.

The room appeared to me to be a well-maintained space for meetings or guests. I eventually found out that despite its modest exterior, Rafiq and Farzad had immediately recognized this place as something else: a mosque. Though they said nothing, they were irate. Both had a similar thought:
How can these people call themselves Muslims and hold us as prisoners in a holy place?

Our captors quickly began constructing a new fire and preparing for a round of green tea. Suddenly a young man wearing a black-and-white-checkered headscarf and carrying a plastic tub of sugar walked through the doorway. The Taliban paid little attention to this supply man. I gave him a smile, hoping to make some kind of connection, but he turned away, apparently indifferent, before leaving the room.

I took little comfort in the improvement in our surroundings. It appeared this was all part of a well-planned operation. I had the definite impression that these guys had done this before.

We were in the middle of our tea when a fourth Talib entered the room. I recognized him as one of our original abductors, one of the two younger ones. He wore a gray vest over his
salwar kameez
. His face and slightly wavy brown hair were caked in dust. He had a short, uneven beard. His teeth were crooked; part of a front tooth was missing.

What I noticed most about him was that he seemed a natural leader—and that he immediately made a point of looking intently at me and smiling.

The new arrival entered into an animated conversation with the other three Taliban. From their gestures, facial expressions, and use of the word
Wallakah
—the same word that had been repeatedly shouted the night before—I decided that this was the new guy’s name and that they were discussing his failure to show up. It wasn’t an argument. I sensed that the others accepted his explanation.

There was something different about Wallakah. He was quite engaging and did most of the talking. He also continued to glance my way to make eye contact. For some reason it didn’t feel threatening.
Sometimes he even smiled and put his hand over his heart as if to say, “It’s going to be all right.”

After more discussion between Wallakah and the older captors, we all sat down to finish our tea. One of the Taliban produced naan that had been left over from the previous night. This seemed to be a welcome sight, not only to Rafiq, Farzad, and me but also to our abductors. I knew I was hungry. Although the bread was now hard, it was almost tasty, especially after dipping it in the hot tea.

Once tea was over, Wallakah waved the rest of us toward the door. Rafiq explained: “We’re going to make that phone call.”

I tried to swallow the apprehension that rose like bile in my throat.
If they ask me to talk, what will I say? I need to choose my words carefully. I want to share as much as I can, but I don’t want to say anything that will upset these guys.
Then I remembered that none of our captors spoke English. Other than words that were common to our multiple languages, they wouldn’t understand anything I said.

All of us but Ahmed walked toward a neighboring mountain, where I suspected the cell reception was better. I felt tense but had also noticed a change in the atmosphere since Wallakah’s arrival. Haqqani had given up his threats and gestures, at least for now. Clearly a new man was in charge.

It took only a minute to reach the base of the hill. The Taliban called this place Black Mountain, no doubt because it was covered with bushes as tall as a man, each filled with greenish-black, almond-shaped nuts. As we neared the top, Rafiq whispered to me, “When we get connected, say everything. I will keep these guys occupied.”

Obviously Rafiq was still thinking strategically. It was a measure of comfort. Though I certainly wouldn’t wish this experience on anyone, I was so glad I had my two friends with me.

When we reached a plateau, Wallakah turned to me. There were no smiles now. It was time for business.

He handed a cell phone to me and another to Rafiq. “We want the phone number to your colleagues in Kabul,” Wallakah said.

I had Roy’s number on a sheet of paper that I usually carried in my backpack. Anticipating this request, I’d removed the paper just before we left the mosque and put it in my pocket. Before I could take it out, however, Rafiq started paging through the contact list on the phone he’d been given until he found Roy’s number. They had apparently inserted our SIM cards into their phones. I checked the contact list in the phone in my hand. Sure enough, I recognized the names.

Wallakah addressed me via Rafiq’s translation: “Talk to them. Tell them we want twenty million dollars. Or we turn you over to Pakistan Taliban. Or we kill you.”

“Wait. What do you mean, ‘twenty million dollars’?” I asked.

Haqqani jumped in with a correction. “No, it’s two million dollars.” They talked for a few moments as if trying to make up their minds.

This didn’t make any sense. My frustration made me bold. “Look, if you guys want me to negotiate for our release,” I said, “you have to agree on a dollar amount.”

It was insane, really. I was telling
them
how to conduct a hostage negotiation. But after further back and forth, I figured out that part of the problem was they were talking in Pakistani rupees while I was thinking U.S. dollars.

The other part of the problem was that they hadn’t yet decided how much they were asking. Maybe they weren’t as experienced as I thought.

Once we got the issue of currency straightened out, they bounced between a demand ranging from three hundred thousand to five
hundred thousand U.S. dollars. I got them to settle on the three hundred thousand figure—at least that’s what I thought we agreed on. Not that it mattered much. It might as well have been three hundred million. No one I knew had that kind of money.

Wallakah finally gestured to the phone in my hand. “Okay,” he said, “make the call.”

At that point I could have called anyone in the world—I didn’t think these guys would know the difference. I briefly considered calling Cilicia or someone else in my family, but what would I say? Although I realized Morning Star would be wondering what had happened to me, I assumed no one yet knew we’d been kidnapped. How could I call Cilicia and say, “I’ve been abducted. I don’t know if I’m going to survive this”? I didn’t want to give her that burden.

I also didn’t know if I could handle the conversation emotionally. What if I broke down when I heard Cilicia’s voice and couldn’t speak? That wouldn’t help either one of us.

I decided it was better to call Roy and let my colleagues know what was happening. They would know what to do.

I punched the preset number for Roy and waited.

“Hello?”

“Roy, it’s Dilip. I hope you have an idea of what happened to us.” My words came out fast but mostly steady.

“Yes, Dilip, we have an idea.”

“Well, let me explain a bit more so you have a better understanding of what’s been happening.” I related some of the details of how we’d been abducted, that we were being fed, and that for now we were all right.

“Are they treating you okay?” Roy asked. “Have they given any indication they’re about to harm you?”

“No, not yet,” I said. “Other than threats and gestures of throat-cutting.”

Then I relayed our kidnappers’ demands—as well as the three-day timeline.

It was about this time that the phone in Rafiq’s hand rang. When I heard the sound of a woman crying, I realized that the caller was his wife. While I continued to talk with Roy, I watched Wallakah take Rafiq’s phone and start to talk. He seemed to be reassuring her that everything was going to be fine.

A few minutes later Rafiq’s phone rang again. This time it was Farzad’s son. Though Farzad kept his own voice calm, I could hear the distress and desperation in the voice on the other end of the call. They spoke for less than a minute.

Now that phones with our SIM cards were in service, family members who’d been frantically calling without success were finally getting through. Though I tried to stay focused on my conversation with Roy, it was heartbreaking to hear Rafiq and Farzad describe our plight amid the tears and strained voices of their loved ones. I thought again about calling Cilicia. Once again, I decided it was better if I didn’t.

“Dilip, do you know which direction you traveled during that long hike: east, west, north, south?” Roy asked.

I had to admit I had no idea.

At one point I handed the phone to Rafiq. He got right to the point. “This is really serious, Roy,” he said. “They are demanding this. Our lives are at risk. We need the dollars transferred now.”

Rafiq handed the phone back to me.

“Dilip, I need to tell you that this process is probably not going to happen on the timetable they want,” Roy said in a calm voice. “These
things tend to move slowly. I know that’s not what you want to hear, brother. But it’s better for you if it’s not rushed.”

“I know,” I said. “But these guys
are
serious. If we don’t respond quickly, they might harm us.”

“Well, believe me, we are going to be doing everything we possibly can to bring you guys back safely,” Roy said. We all agreed that we would make another phone call at five that evening and then said our good-byes.

We’d done it. We had made contact with the outside world. To my surprise, we’d been allowed to talk with Roy for about twenty minutes.

I was reassured by the sincerity and steadiness in Roy’s voice. I knew that my colleagues, friends, and family would indeed make every effort to secure our safe release. I still didn’t know what fate awaited me, but just having that connection with a coworker and friend had left me feeling encouraged.

On the walk back down Black Mountain, I noticed a couple pieces of brown cloth half buried in the dirt. Without breaking stride, I bent down, scooped them up, and put them in my jacket pocket. No one seemed to notice. Part of me wanted to save them as a souvenir. The other part thought that if necessary, they would come in handy as a substitute for toilet paper.

I was becoming more optimistic again and, perhaps, more resourceful. In other words, I was learning how to survive as a hostage.