A Rope and a Prayer

by David Rohde

  The following morning, Abu Tayyeb vanishes again. Timor Shah, his younger brother, is now our chief guard. He seems amiable and respectful. To my relief, Qari departs and Mansoor stays. Sharif and one of his gunmen live with us as well.

  The next night, Badruddin arrives and shatters my hopes of release. No agreement has been reached for the exchange of seven prisoners from the Afghan national prison, Badruddin says. And the Taliban are continuing to demand a $15 million ransom in addition to prisoners. His description of how our captors are conducting negotiations, though, demoralizes me most of all.

  Their negotiator in Kabul—“the engineer” mentioned by Abu Tayyeb—is an Afghan man whom the Haqqanis kidnapped along with his son several months ago, according to Badruddin. At some point, the Haqqanis decided to keep the engineer’s son in captivity, release the engineer, and tell him that if he obtained the desired prisoners and ransom in our case, his son would be released. If not, the engineer’s son would remain in captivity.

  I tell Badruddin their demands will never be met and that blackmailing a man into serving as a negotiator will never succeed. Badruddin says he has no choice. The Afghan government arrested the negotiator the Haqqanis used in their last kidnapping. Badruddin departs and I am livid. I am desperate to speak with Tahir about what to do, but the guards insist we go to bed. Unable to sleep, I grow increasingly angry. I want to punish Badruddin for his obstinacy. I want to show our captors that we will not wait forever for an agreement.

  I decide to fake a suicide attempt the following morning. Before dawn, I hear Sharif and one of his gunmen walking around outside. They are performing ablutions before waking the others for predawn prayers. I get up, grab the Afghan scarf my captors gave me to cover my face, and walk out of the room where we sleep with our guards. The gunman greets me and I motion to him that I am waiting for the bathroom, which Sharif occupies. The gunman walks into the yard to perform ablutions at a spigot around the corner.

  I push the cot the gunman sleeps on up against a wall, step onto it, and tie one end of the scarf to a metal bar I have seen during the day. I tie the other end of the scarf around my neck. When I hear the gunman walking back toward the house from the yard, I step off the cot, hang in the air, and start kicking my feet.

  “Sharif!” the guard shouts. “Sharif!”

  Seconds later, someone places me in a bear hug and lifts me up. The scarf is loosened from around my neck. Tahir rushes out of the bedroom and starts shouting.

  “David! David!” he thunders. “Can you hear me? What are you doing?”

  His voice is filled with anger, not sympathy. All the guards rush out of the bedroom and glare at me. Tahir leads me back into the bedroom, tells me to lie down, and asks me why I did this.

  “I have no hope because of Badruddin,” I say, and break into false tears. I do my best to look depressed and desperate to Sharif and the guards. Tahir and the guards speak in Pashto. I am left alone for several minutes with Asad and one of the guards watching me. Asad walks over to me, tugs my beard, and embraces me. I tell him that I’m sorry.

  Tahir returns to the room and is irate. “Are you a child?” he shouts. “Why did you not speak to me before doing this?”

  He explains that attempting to commit suicide confirms that I am guilty in the eyes of our captors. The Taliban believe that if a human being is truly innocent, they will patiently wait for God to save them. If they try to kill themselves, they are guilty. My head spins. Another rash decision by me has endangered us. I ask Tahir to forgive me. He says he no longer trusts me.

  Badruddin arrives an hour later. As he walks through the door, I stare down at the floor. He slaps me on the shoulder and shouts, “Sit up straight!” Incensed, he turns to Tahir and accuses him of telling me to attempt suicide. Tahir denies it but Badruddin does not believe him. Everything I do is blamed on Tahir. I apologize to Badruddin, tell him I have made a terrible mistake, and promise not to do it again. Seething with anger, he leaves.

  Timor Shah takes away my scarf and issues new orders. I am not allowed to leave the bedroom at night without the permission of the guards. I must ask them before walking from room to room and going to the bathroom. And when I am in the bathroom, I must leave the door open at all times so the guards can watch for a suicide attempt.

  Abu Tayyeb arrives several days later. He tells me that if I do this again my life will end.

  “If you want to die,” he says, “this is a very easy place to die.”

  I apologize to him and again promise nothing will happen. Abu Tayyeb says we will now be guarded by three of his men at all times. Chunky will be joining us as well. The following morning, he departs again.

  Tahir tells me the attempt has exponentially increased our captors’ suspicions of me. Sharif does not think it was real. If I was serious, I would have tried in the middle of the night when no one would find me. Tahir’s disappointment devastates me. I have let him down in a way I never intended.

  Trying to regain the trust of the guards, as well as Tahir’s and Asad’s, I comply with all the new rules and sheepishly ask for permission to do the smallest of acts. I do more chores to show my loyalty. Along with washing the breakfast dishes, I sweep the floors, and look for stones in the rice before Asad cooks it.

  Trying to stay patient, I multiply the amount of praying I do. Three times a day, I silently pray for Kristen, my family, Asad, and Tahir, confess my sins, and ask for forgiveness and for our freedom. I repeat each one-line prayer forty-one times, the number of years I have lived. I count the prayers on my fingertips while I’m walking in the yard, varying the order depending on what seems most dire that day. If I have made a mistake with the guards, I pray for forgiveness first. If there is a recent threat of Asad’s or Tahir’s being executed, I pray for them first. If it is a holiday or family birthday, I begin with Kristen and family. I sense that I am becoming compulsive about praying, but it continues to give me a sense of control when I have none.

  I know the guards would find it blasphemous that I dare formulate my own prayers. The hard-line Wahhabi Islam they follow focuses on exacting ritual. Sharif and the guards wear their hair, beards, and clothes precisely as they have been told the prophet did. Mustaches are neatly trimmed to prevent food from gathering in facial hair. Beards are not allowed to grow longer than the width of a man’s fist. Pants hang three to four inches above the ankle. As the prophet did, they brush their teeth with a miswak, a twig from an arak, or peelu, tree that contains natural disinfectants.

  The guards’ five daily prayers themselves are soothing. As they rhythmically confess sins and appeal for mercy in Arabic, they press their foreheads to the ground and supplicate to God. The tremendous discipline they show is impressive, but the rigidity of their interpretation of Islam rings false to me. If there is a higher being, I believe it will hear a sincere and humble prayer no matter how it is delivered.

  In early January, Asad tells Tahir that he is going to try to escape on his own. I am elated by the news. By dutifully cooking our meals and essentially serving as slave labor, Asad has gradually gained the trust of the guards.

  Tahir, by comparison, is defiant. He refuses to do any chores. His attitude toward the guards is a lesson in Pashtunwali. He refuses to show weakness.

  “They can’t touch me,” he says.

  Tahir’s powerful tribe—the Luddin—will take revenge on anyone who harms him, he believes. The man who kills him will die along with ten members of his family. I admire his bravery. I know Afghanistan’s tribal structure has weakened over the years. The Taliban do not fear Afghanistan’s tribes as they once did.

  Asad believes that Tahir is being reckless and his escape plan is simple. The guards have started taking Asad with them on regular trips to Miran Shah’s busy central market to buy food. On a recent trip, Asad slipped away and met a taxi driver who said he would drive Asad to the Afghan border. Asad returned to the guards and apologized for getting separated. He now plans to slip away again from the guards on his
next trip to the market, jump in the taxi, and head for the Afghan border. Tahir, who brought several hundred dollars in cash to our ill-fated interview, gives Asad extra money to pay the driver.

  The following morning, Asad departs with the guards. The thought of his being reunited with his wife and two sons is thrilling to me. I pray he will succeed. Several hours later, there is a knock on our compound door. Asad enters ashen faced. The guards are nowhere to be seen. Asad whispers to Tahir that he evaded the guards in the crowded market and reached the taxi. But when the driver tried to leave Miran Shah, Taliban fighters stopped the taxi at a checkpoint. When the Taliban grew suspicious, Asad had the taxi return him to Miran Shah and walked back to our house.

  The guards return from the local market and berate Asad for getting separated from them. Asad tells them he got lost. We return to our bleak daily routine. All of our attempts to fight back have proven futile

  MULTITASKING

  Kristen, Early to Mid-January 2009

  “Nothing to report” has become the standard daily update from Team Kabul as we endure the quiet winter months.

  Today’s noon call is a surprising exception. Team Kabul informs us that they have been contacted by Atiqullah and that they have made an offer to counter his demands for $25 million and ten prisoners. We are all a bit stunned, because our family has not preapproved any amount. “What did you offer?” we ask. They tell us.

  You can hear a pin drop. While it is nowhere in the range of what the kidnappers are demanding, it is much more than we ever intended to offer up front. We have been told to offer low, in hopes of lowering expectations. For weeks we have been debating with Team Kabul what this might mean. We were forewarned about offering too little—we need enough on the table to keep David and his colleagues alive. But this number seems way too high.

  We have no intention of paying any amount, at this time, but we hope the offer will keep the conversation going. It does not.

  Word comes back from the kidnappers that our offer is offensively low. They turn their phones off. We do not hear from them for several weeks. The Clayton consultant who made the offer did so with the best intentions. He valued all three lives equally. We think he was going for a slam-dunk. But, clearly, this has backfired. He rotates out of Kabul and does not return for a second rotation.

  It’s been several weeks since we’ve heard from David’s captors. Despite the fact that phone communication has come to a halt, the two-man Team Kabul remains in place. Each day they try the mobile phone numbers that Atiqullah had previously given to us. No answer.

  One day, a person who identifies himself as “the engineer” shows up at Team Kabul’s compound with a bold claim. The Haqqanis have sent him to negotiate a deal for the release of our three, he says. The engineer is a former Afghan military official who once worked with Americans. He himself was kidnapped several months ago by the Haqqanis. He was released in exchange for his son, who is now in captivity. He announces that the Haqqanis want prisoners and money in exchange for David, Tahir, and Asad—as well as several prisoners to gain his son’s release.

  We are skeptical as to why he would help us. Does he have a side agenda? Can we trust him? Team Kabul meets with him on numerous occasions and reports that the engineer appears to be well educated and genuine. He does not ask for money for any of his efforts.

  Team Kabul decides to take him up on his offer. He begins to contact representatives for the Haqqanis and relays messages back that our family is working to resolve this issue, but will never have the amount of money they are asking for.

  Back in New York, our noon updates continue with The New York Times, Team Kabul, and AISC, the private security contractors. Weekends are no exception. This particular weekend I am checking in on a Cosmo cover shoot a few blocks from my home. We are photographing one of the Gossip Girls at a loft studio in Tribeca. Everything—the floor, the ceiling, the furniture—is stark white. The space is a mix of modern and vintage architectural details. We have also put up a backdrop of colorful seamless paper.

  All morning the actress has been getting Cosmo-ready: full hair, makeup. Racks of designer dresses and platform shoes line the dressing area. Pop music blares in the background. Push-up bras, pins, and cleavage enhancers are on hand.

  I’m hoping we will start shooting before my noon call so I can duck out to listen to the latest update from Kabul. No such luck. Instead, I phone in to our call box from the set and look for a quiet corner.

  The update is horrific. A messenger was sent in to obtain recent proof of life from David’s captors. He has not resurfaced. We receive news that he never returned and might have been shot en route. It is not clear whether the incident was due to his attempt to help us or random fire. The border area is a war zone, after all. We are not quite sure which route he took or his intended final destination, only that he claimed to be able to make contact with people in proximity to David. A death might have occurred as a result of our case. I feel nauseated.

  The call continues. Mike, the head of AISC, weighs in on the latest speculation on David’s whereabouts. Another individual who AISC brought onto the case has recently begun to frequent our noon calls. Until now he has been working behind the scenes. We hear from him next. A gruff voice proceeds to tell us what he has learned from an American government official with contacts in the region. I have not met the owner of the voice on the other end of the line, so I have yet to match a face with the speaker. But his voice is distinct and he seems to be quite the mastermind, able to think of long-term connections and associations of the Haqqanis. The gravelly older voice on the end of the line, with a hint of a New England accent, is Dewey Clarridge. Over the course of the next few months, his colorful personality emerges. We quickly learn that Dewey has two modes: grumpy and “grandfatherly.” He shifts between the two periodically, occasionally offering me heartfelt encouragement: “We’re gonna win this thing, kiddo!” And at other times, he is disgruntled and tells me to take up needlepoint. He often punctuates his point by hanging up on the noon calls or telling us all to shut up. McCraw refers to the softer side of Dewey as “Grandpa Dewey.”

  Dewey seems to be a sharp strategist and savvy operator. I consider his opinions, though I do not always appreciate the delivery. Today he informs us as to how he thinks David’s case might play out. If David or his captors are still in Afghanistan, the winter storms will be kicking in, followed by the spring offensive—this is a period of time during which the Taliban fighters regroup and redouble their efforts—typically in April. On the basis of this pattern, he estimates David will not be released before May.

  May! I am outraged—inconveniently so, as the photo shoot is beginning to take shape in the background. The actress is finished with hair and makeup and is getting ready for her close-up.

  “May is thoroughly unacceptable,” I respond, my imperious fashion editor voice creeping in. “How can you tell me this? David has been gone for two months. Every day he sits there takes a toll on his sanity.”

  I realize this is a business on both sides and wonder what the incentive is to get him out quickly if our security team is paid by the day. I say as much, which thoroughly offends and pisses off half the team. The rest of the group is silent, understanding it’s my prerogative as the hostage’s wife to lose my cool now and then. I am disgusted at the prospect of facing more months of uncertainty. I am also tired of dealing with a virtual roomful of men. Not the eager-to-please pinups we exhibit in Cosmo, but the macho former-intel and military types who comprise our team. As Dewey interrupts to tell me to calm down—and shut up—I hang up. I do not want to incur more damage. And my tolerance for speculation coupled with chauvinism is exhausted.

  The shoot gets under way and seems on track, so I head home. It has begun to snow. The cool air is a calming relief. No sooner do I round the corner than I get a call from someone at the shoot. Lunch has arrived. Shrimp. And the publicist has neglected to tell us that the actress is allergic to shellfish. What should the cr
ew do? I suggest ordering extra sandwiches. They inform me the water for tea is cold. You’ve got to be kidding me, I think. Yet it’s my job to manage every detail of a shoot, large and small, from budgeting and location down to gastronomic minutiae. The big picture and the smallest detail. But given the fact that I have been told that someone surrounding David’s case may have been shot and that I should expect to face the cold winter months without my husband, I find it impossible to care.

  Trudging back to the apartment I hit an all-time low. I am exhausted to the point of tears. I don’t see how I can juggle my work life and the demands of the kidnapping. Pleasing a celebrity and chewing out a security team are incongruous and perhaps irreconcilable activities.

  At home, my mother encourages me to get some rest, but my mind is on overload. I find no peace in sitting still. I glance at the avocado plant my mother has been growing in the apartment since Thanksgiving. It is now a hearty sapling and has sprouted several leaves.

  “I should leave work,” I say. She encourages me to hang on. Work, she says, while stressful, provides a sense of stability and routine. And, oddly, a respite from being completely consumed by crisis. I am frustrated because I am unable to give 100 percent to work. I have to resign myself to the fact that my energy is finite. If working at half speed is all I can do right now, I need to accept it. The magazine has recently offered to let me hire a freelancer to fill in for me a few days a week. My mother encourages me to take advantage of this and rest when I can.

  My mother and I have made very different choices in life. She married young and had three children. Motherhood was a priority for her in her twenties and thirties.