A Rope and a Prayer (44 page)

“There is a militia base over there,” Tahir says, gesturing to his left. “I don’t trust them.”

Neither do I. Earlier, Tahir had told me the Pakistani government tribal militia maintained a small checkpoint near the house. Turning ourselves in there would be a gamble. I still believe that our best chance is to surrender to a military officer on the main Pakistani military base in Miran Shah. I do not know where the base is, though. I am completely dependent on Tahir’s knowledge of the town’s layout.

“We have to go to the main base,” I say.

“Impossible,” Tahir says, continuing down the riverbed. “The guards said that Arabs and Chechens watch the main gate twenty-four hours a day.”

I start to panic. We have made it over the wall but do not know where we are going. Despite his ankle, Tahir seems determined to hike fifteen miles to the Afghan border. As we walk, we argue over which way to go.

“We have to go to the Pakistani base,” I tell Tahir.

Striding ahead, he doesn’t respond. Dogs begin barking from one of the walled compounds to our right. “We can’t make it to the border,” I say. “We have to go to the base.”

Tahir continues walking, but after a few minutes he complains about his ankle. “There is too much pain,” he says.

We stop and I pull up his pant leg. His calf has not been cut. The dark stain on his pants is from the sewage ditch we both landed in outside our house. “There is another gate,” Tahir says, changing his mind. “Come.”

As we continue walking, I expect Taliban fighters to rush out of the darkness, but none do. Tahir tells me to put the scarf I am carrying over my head. “If anyone stops us, your name is Akbar and my name is Timor Shah,” he says. “Act like a Muslim.”

My sense of time is distorted, but it seems as though we have been walking in the darkness for five to ten minutes. I do not feel free. If anything, I am more frightened. I worry that a more brutal militant group will capture us.

We leave the riverbed and walk down an alleyway between two compounds for about fifty yards. We arrive at a two-lane paved street.

“This is the main road in Miran Shah,” Tahir whispers. We turn right and begin walking down the street. To our left is a vacant stretch. To our right stands a gas station with four pumps and several shops. Dim light-bulbs outside the shops illuminate the area. As we walk down the street, I silently question why Tahir is leading us down the center of a paved road where we can be easily spotted. I have no idea if he knows where we are going.

Suddenly, shouts erupt to our left and I hear the sound of a Kalashnikov being loaded. Tahir raises his hands and says something in Pashto. A man shouts commands back in Pashto. I raise my hands as my heart sinks. The Taliban have recaptured us.

In the faint light, I see a figure with a rifle standing on the roof of a dilapidated one-story building. Beside the building is a mosque with freshly painted white walls. The building and mosque have concertina wire and earthen berms in front of them.

“If you move,” Tahir says, “they will shoot us.” Then he says words I can scarcely believe. “This is the base.”

We have made it to the Pakistanis. Tahir has guided us brilliantly.

I hold my hands high in the air and dare not move an inch. With my long beard, scarf, and salwar kameez I look like an Uzbek suicide bomber, not an American journalist. Another voice comes from inside the building. It sounds as if the guard is waking up his comrades. One or two more figures appear on the roof and aim more gun barrels at us.

The Pakistani guard on the roof intermittently speaks in Pashto with Tahir. I hear Tahir say the words for “journalist,” “Afghan,” and “American.” I struggle to slow my breathing. My arms begin to burn, I desperately try not to move my hands. “Tell them we will take off our shirts,” I tell Tahir, thinking that will show we are not suicide bombers wearing explosive vests.

Tahir says something in Pashto, and the man responds.

“Lift up your shirt,” Tahir says. I immediately oblige.

The guard speaks again. “He is asking if you are American,” Tahir says.

“I am an American journalist,” I say in English, surprised at the sound of my own voice in the open air. “Please help us. Please help us.”

I keep speaking English, hoping they will recognize that I am a native speaker. “We were kidnapped by the Taliban seven months ago,” I say, in the darkness. “We were kidnapped outside Kabul and brought here.”

“Do you speak English?” I say, hoping one of the Pakistani guards on the roof understands. “Do you speak English?”

The guard says something to Tahir in Pashto. “They are radioing their commander,” Tahir says. “They are asking for permission to bring us inside.”

Tahir has asked the guards—who are also Pashtuns—to protect us under the tenet of Pashtunwali that requires a Pashtun to shelter a stranger in need, even at the cost of the host’s fortune and life. He urges them to take us inside the base before the Taliban come looking for us. About two or three minutes pass. The Pakistani guards stand behind sandbags on the roof. Above us, stars glitter in a sparkling, crystal clear sky.

For the first time that night, it occurs to me that we might actually succeed. Escape—an ending I never conceived of—might be our salvation.

I hold my hands still and wait. Several more minutes pass, and Tahir and I grow nervous. “Please allow us in the mosque,” Tahir says. “Please let us inside.”

The Pakistani guard on the roof says they are waiting for a senior officer to arrive. Tahir asks what we should do if the Taliban drive down the road. The guard says that we should dive behind the dirt embankment, and that they will open fire on anyone who approaches. But they still will not let us inside. Tahir complains to me about the pain in his arms as he holds them in the air. His ankle hurts as well.

“Please wait, Tahir,” I say, encouraging him. “Please wait. We’re so close.”

Tahir asks for permission to sit on the ground. The Pakistani guard grants it. Tahir groans and seems exhausted. I sense less nervousness from the guards. Soon after, the Pakistani guard says we can take a few steps toward the mosque. With our hands in the air, we walk over the surrounding earthen berm unsteadily. As the loose soil gives way, we both nearly lose our balance. I worry that we will be shot if we slip and fall.

“Lie down on the ground,” Tahir says. “If you move, they will shoot us.” I do so and stare at the stars above us.

Several minutes later, a Pakistani officer arrives, and Tahir tells me to stand up. The officer stands a few feet from us on the other side of the concertina wire. He speaks with Tahir in what sounds like a reassuring tone. “He is a very polite person,” Tahir says. “We are under their protection. We are safe.”

The frustration I have felt for months begins to fade. We are achingly close to going home. I thank the officer in Pashto, Urdu, and English, desperate to win his trust. Then in one moment, the humiliating narrative of our captivity reverses itself.

“How are you?” the senior officer says in English.

“How are you?” I reply loudly in English, trying again to demonstrate that I am a foreign journalist, not a suicide bomber.

At this point, Tahir and I have been standing outside the base for fifteen or twenty minutes. We still need to get inside. We again offer to take off our shirts, and the officer tells us to do so. Then we are officially instructed to come inside.

I watch Tahir step unsteadily over the concertina wire and into the base. “Come,” Tahir says. “Come.”

I follow Tahir inside, and the senior officer and several Pakistani guards shake my hand. “Thank you,” I say to them in English, over and over. “Thank you.”

The politeness of the Pakistani guards amazes me. I know we could still be handed over to the Taliban, but I savor the compassion we are receiving from strangers. For the first time in months, I do not feel hostility.

We are blindfolded and walked farther into the base. The officer politely apologizes and says this is temporary. He is following their standard protocol. A pickup truck arrives and they let us put our shirts on. We climb into the back of the truck and it drives us toward the center of the base. I stare at Tahir and slap him on the back. We are both in shock.

“Thank you,” I say to Tahir. “Thank you.”

I ask Tahir to tell the officer that I want to call Kristen. I need to somehow communicate to the outside world where we are—on a Pakistani base in North Waziristan. If we can get word to American officials, it will be extraordinarily difficult for the Pakistanis to hand us back to the Haqqanis. Tahir tells me to be patient and wait. I stop talking. Since we were kidnapped, Tahir has skillfully kept us alive and given me sound advice. He has never shown fear and navigated a cultural and religious labyrinth I do not understand. He has not abandoned me and remained true to his ideals, beliefs, and traditions. I know I will be eternally grateful to him for this night.

We arrive in the center of the base, and I get out of the back of the truck. A row of well-lighted, white one-story, colonial era offices sits fifty feet away on the other side of a neatly manicured lawn. It is the first green grass I have seen in seven months. I walk across it and relish the smell, sense of openness, and safety. The Pakistani officer brings us to a clean, modern office with a large desk and couches along the walls.

After several minutes, a young Pakistani captain who speaks perfect English introduces himself as Captain Nadeem, the duty officer. He looks as if he had just gotten out of bed. He says he had no idea that any American and Afghanistan hostages were being held in Miran Shah. No one had informed him of our case.

After explaining our kidnapping, I ask him if I can please call my wife. He hesitates at first and then says he will try to find a phone card to make a long distance call. As we wait, Tahir speaks in Pashto to the various militia members in the office. A doctor cleans and bandages cuts on Tahir’s foot and on my hand. Tahir laughs and his face beams as he speaks. I have never seen him so happy. But after several minutes, his face darkens.

“David, I feel terrible about Asad,” Tahir says of our driver. “What have we done?”

I look out the window in the direction of Miran Shah and wonder whether our former guards have awakened yet. When they do, they will be furious. “We had no choice,” I say, trying to rationalize abandoning Asad. I know our escape could prompt our captors to kill him. I pray that they will spare him.

My stomach churns and I make small talk with Captain Nadeem. I remain eager to call Kristen. After what seems like an hour, a soldier arrives with a phone card, and I write my home number on a white slip of paper. The captain dials the phone on his desk and hands me the receiver. The phone in our apartment back in New York rings repeatedly. No one answers.

Finally, the answering machine picks up and I listen to Kristen’s cheerful voice ask callers to leave us a message. Our escape still seems like a fantasy. The machine beeps, and I speak in an unsteady voice.

“Kristen, it’s David,” I say. “It’s David. Please pick up.”

I repeat the words several times. Fearing that the tape on the answering machine will run out, I finally blurt out, “We’ve escaped.”

Moments later, someone picks up the receiver in New York.

“David,” a woman’s voice says. “It’s Mary Jane.”

My mother-in-law has answered.

“We’ve escaped and are on a Pakistani military base,” I tell her.

I ask her to call the
Times
immediately and tell them to evacuate Tahir’s and Asad’s families from their homes in Kabul, as well as the people in the newspaper’s bureau there. I remember Abu Tayyeb’s threat in December that he could trigger a suicide attack on the bureau at any time.

I spend the next several minutes describing our exact location. I give my mother-in-law the names of the tribal area, town, base, and commanding officer. I tell her she needs to contact American officials and ask them to help evacuate us. I want Captain Nadeem to hear that the American government will soon know we are on his base. At the end of the conversation, I apologize to her for all the pain and worry I have caused.

“Just come home safe,” she says.

I
t’s a warm summer Friday evening. I am sitting at an outdoor café along the Hudson River in Battery Park. I have tried to fill my spare time in the hopes that it will make waiting easier. I am catching up with an old friend from college who has been working abroad in Africa on a public health project. It’s a calm, still evening, and the sun begins to set. There is the faint churning of river ferries and sailboat masts in the distance. Just as dinner arrives, my cell phone rings. It’s my mother.

“Hello,” I say. She is frantic.

“Kristen—come home right away. David called. He’s with Tahir. They escaped. They need help getting out of there. Asad chose not to join them. He joined the Taliban.

“He asked me to call
The New York Times
,” she adds breathlessly, “and tell them to evacuate the Kabul bureau and inform them that the families of Tahir and Asad should evacuate their homes. He’s on the scout base in Miran Shah. But he needs help getting out of there.”

My first reaction is one of terror. Then disbelief. It’s one thing to escape captivity, quite another to get out of Miran Shah. I know they are in danger of being picked up by another militant group, shot by the Taliban, handed back to the Haqqanis, or detained by the Pakistani military for questioning. All these are harrowing options, and they’re overshadowing the exciting fact of David’s escape. I hurriedly say good-bye to my friend and head home. I glance at my cell phone. It is 7:15 P.M. The date is June 19. It must be early morning Saturday in Pakistan.

As I rush home I call David McCraw, our invaluable ally throughout. He will meet my mother and me at the apartment, along with the paper’s foreign editor, Susan Chira, who has contacts in the region.