A Rope and a Prayer (46 page)

Tahir and I remain alone in the room. Two hours pass. No helicopter arrives. Captain Nadeem says the flight has been delayed by the weather. The two ISI officials sit outside in the courtyard. I am concerned about what is happening. There is still a chance we could be handed back. I ask Captain Nadeem if I can call Islamabad or New York. He says he has no more phone cards left.

At around 1 P.M., we hear two helicopters land, and the head of the ISI office in Peshawar walks into our room ten minutes later. He is urbane, educated, and intelligent. He orders tea and in five minutes of polite conversation gets more information out of me than the low-level ISI officers. After roughly twenty minutes, we are driven to the helipad, where two Vietnam-era Huey helicopters await us.

We get into one of the helicopters with the ISI chief, and the military pilot informs us that we are in the wrong helicopter. This one is loaded down with cargo. He asks us if we can switch to the other helicopter.

The ISI chief stares icily at the pilot.

“Move the gear,” he says, refusing to budge. I have long heard of the arrogance of some ISI officers. Now I see it.

While we wait, I ask the ISI chief to help other hostages in the area. He is polite but sounds disdainful of them. He explains that he has just spent several months bargaining with the Taliban to buy back the body of Piotr Stanczak, the executed Polish geologist. He is courteous but clearly sees me and other foreign hostages as reckless people who are a burden to him. I know that in some respects he is right.

The helicopter starts its engine and I try to grab Tahir’s hand but can’t reach it. Instead, I place my hand on his shoulder. For months, we have heard airplanes and helicopters take off from an airstrip somewhere in Miran Shah. We have stood in yards and watched Pakistani helicopters lumber across the sky. Now we are finally in one of them.

As we take off, I wait for a rocket to be fired at the helicopter. Instead, we levitate smoothly through the air. I look down at Miran Shah and see a sprawling, dusty town like so many I have visited across Afghanistan and Pakistan. I look for the house where we were held captive but have no idea of its precise location. I think of Asad and pray he is alive.

We gain altitude and fly toward a nearby mountain ridge. Once we pass over it, we will be out of Taliban rocket range. As we approach the crest, I stare intently at the hilltops and scour them for gunmen. They are deserted. I squeeze Tahir’s shoulder as we clear the ridge.

We are free.

A
t 6 A.M. New York time, David McCraw calls to confirm that a helicopter is en route to Islamabad, the capital of Pakistan. From there, David and Tahir will be escorted to a plane for transport to the American military base at Bagram and then on to Dubai.

It is now Saturday morning. I continue to prepare for my trip as I await further word from David that he is safe. Bill Keller phones to tell me matter-of-factly that the paper will run a short piece on David.

The
Times
has kept David’s case quiet until now, but it is a news institution, and this is big news. They will need to report it. Calm and straightforward, he asks if I will give them a quote. I tell him I am grateful for all that he and the newspaper have done, but do not want to give any information until David is safely out of Pakistan and has left the region.

“I don’t think I should talk to you now,” I caution, knowing my emotions are a little raw. “You’ll get a really sassy quote. Let’s wait until David is safe.” I do say that I am comfortable conveying my gratitude to government officials, the newspaper, and David’s colleagues, but that is all I can provide at this time.

He understands, but says he wants to talk to David when I hear from him again. After keeping this story silent for so long, they’d like to “feed the beast.”

While I respect Bill—and do not want to pick a fight with my husband’s boss—I feel an intense need to hold my ground and protect David’s privacy.

“Bill, I think David would ask that you starve the beast and let it die,” I respond. (I’m going to be amazed if my husband still has a job when he returns home, given that I have spoken so bluntly. But I do not care.)

“Okay, but do you have any updates?” he asks casually.

“I don’t know, Bill,” I say exasperated. “They just walked over the wall of the compound.”

The sass comes back to bite me. In a story about David’s escape on the paper’s Web site that afternoon, a quote appears from me: “They just walked over the wall of the compound.”

Moments later, someone from a local news outlet shows up at the front desk of my apartment building. I alert the doorman to say that I am out. I also answer one or two calls on my home phone from reporters. I pretend to be a relative.

“Kristen? I’m sorry, she’s out of town. Can I take a message or be of assistance? She does not plan to grant any personal interviews.”

Being married to a reporter, I shouldn’t be surprised at how aggressive and persistent television reporters are in their requests. Word has spread rapidly in the news community. A certain morning talk show calls the apartment three times, then moves on to contacting Lee, then my parents, David’s mom, and even David’s teenage nephew. The evening news has a story about David’s escape. They use old photos because we have refused to provide current images of David, knowing that he would not want to be the story. It’s somewhat comical to see him looking thirteen years younger, holding the four-year-old nephew who is now a young man.

Another quote from me in the
Times
is used as an innocuous sound bite on television news. “‘We’ve been married nine months,’ his wife said, ‘and David’s been in captivity for seven of them.’”

A
t first, the sensation of hurtling through the air in a Pakistani military helicopter is delightful. I stare at the controls of this refurbished American-built Huey helicopter. For years, Pakistani military officials have seen this kind of secondhand matériel as a slight by the U.S. government. After my seven months in Waziristan, to me the helicopter is an astounding feat of engineering.

As the flight drags on, I find myself growing nervous for no logical reason. We are headed to the Pakistani capital of Islamabad, according to the ISI official, but the flight continues for more than thirty minutes. As I study the landscape outside, my thoughts are irrational. Part of me fears the helicopter will crash.

The terrain flattens beneath us and I realize we are moving from the mountains of northwestern Pakistan toward the plains of central Pakistan. The flight drags on for forty-five minutes. Finally, the four towering white minarets of the Faisal Mosque—an enormous house of worship funded by King Faisal of Saudi Arabia in the 1980s—emerge in the distance. It is one of Islamabad’s landmarks. With a purported capacity of 100,000 worshipers, it was constructed in the 1980s when Saudi Arabia and the United States spread hard-line Wahhabi Islam to Pakistan. Today, it is a beacon of hope to me.

We fly over the city and approach Islamabad International Airport. As passenger jets land, I long for us to do the same. We circle for a few more minutes. Finally, our two helicopters fly low over the runway and touch down near the main passenger terminal. Our helicopter’s landing gear gently touches the ground and relief washes over me. The surreal twelve-hour period that began when I first got up and crept to the bathroom as our guards slept is ending.

I step out of the helicopter, get down on my knees, and kiss the tarmac.

Brought inside a VIP lounge by the ISI officials, we are told to wait as the Pakistanis coordinate our handover to American officials. I speak with Tahir and urge him to remain in Islamabad and travel with me directly to the United States. If he returns to his house in Kabul, I believe Abu Tayyeb’s men will kill him.

For months, Abu Tayyeb and the guards have repeatedly told Tahir and Asad that I would abandon them and leave them at the mercy of American, Afghan, or Pakistani intelligence officials when our captivity ended. As we wait, I am absolutely determined to protect Tahir and prove Abu Tayyeb wrong.

I ask the ISI station chief from Peshawar to allow Tahir to call his family, and he agrees. Tahir’s father tells him to travel where he pleases. After fifteen more minutes, we are driven to the military side of the airfield by the ISI in brand-new sport utility vehicles. I have visited the area before. In 2005, I boarded helicopters here that ferried supplies to victims of a massive earthquake in northern Pakistan.

We enter the main terminal and several minutes later, the ISI walks us out onto the tarmac. I see a group of Americans staring at us. Anne Patterson, the American ambassador to Pakistan, steps forward and shakes my hand.

“I’m sorry for the problems I’ve caused you,” I shout over the din of nearby aircraft engines.

“Welcome,” she says.

Patterson is polite but icy. I realize that many people are probably furious with me for foolishly pursuing a Taliban interview. I turn and thank the ISI officials again for flying us to safety. I worry they will suddenly try to detain Tahir. Instead, they wave good-bye and quickly walk away.

Patterson motions for us to walk farther onto the tarmac and I grow confused. I assumed we would be driven to the U.S. Embassy, where I planned to profusely thank Keith, the security officer who had spoken with me by phone from the Pakistani base in Miran Shah.

Instead, we walk toward a C-130 military cargo plane with its engines running. As we approach the aircraft, I see that the plane’s crewmen are Americans. After seven months in Waziristan, the clean-shaven Americans with their buglike flight helmets look like alien creatures. I shake Patterson’s hand and she quickly says good-bye. Tahir and I follow an American woman onto the back of the plane. She tells me that we are flying to the U.S. military base in Bagram, Afghanistan, just north of Kabul. This flight, like the last, seems to drag on. Over the din of the engines, I shout to Tahir that he should not go to Kabul to see his family. He agrees that it is too dangerous. I make small talk with the woman escorting us but we can barely hear each other. I want the flight to end.

Our landing is flawless. I thank the crew and we step onto Bagram Air Base. In 2001, I visited the base when it was the front line between Taliban and Northern Alliance forces. Today, it hums with American attack helicopters, transport planes, and troops.

We are brought to the base hospital and examined by American military doctors. Band-Aids are placed on the cuts on my hands from the rope. An X-ray shows that Tahir’s ankle is sprained but not broken. Still wearing a six-inch-long beard and my baggy local clothes, I notice that the soldiers are staring at me.

Karl Eikenberry, the American ambassador to Afghanistan, and his wife, Ching, greet me warmly. Three months before the kidnapping I spent a weekend at their home in Brussels interviewing Eikenberry for my book. They hug me excitedly and tell me they met Kristen before arriving in Afghanistan. They rave about her strength and composure. I feel enormous pride.

Tahir calls his family and they now demand to see him. Saying they don’t believe he is free, his family tells him to come to Kabul immediately. The sun is beginning to set and there is no easy way to transport him there. I beg him to wait and at least spend the night on the base.

An embassy official tells me that Kristen is trying to reach me and hands me a mobile phone. I step outside the hospital and speak to her alone for the first time in seven months. I tell her I love her, apologize again, and begin saying things I have thought about for months. “Your god saved me,” I say, and explain how praying each day helped me.

She laughs and says she hoped that I might find some type of spiritual connection during captivity. As she describes her efforts, I am more and more touched. She has been hurled into a chaotic morass and handled it skillfully. She urges me to fly out of Afghanistan immediately. The sun is setting and a flight the newspaper has arranged must depart during daylight under military rules.

Determined not to abandon Tahir as Abu Tayyeb predicted, I tell her that I want to spend the night in Bagram. I want to try to convince Tahir to leave with me for Dubai. Showing immense patience, she agrees.

I walk back into the hospital and I’m told that Richard Holbrooke wants to speak with me. A sense of shame washes over me as I dial his number. “I apologize” are the first words I say to him.

Holbrooke is gracious. “God, it is so good to hear your voice,” he says. He too praises Kristen and tells me I am an extraordinarily lucky man. I agree wholeheartedly.

 

 

Tahir agrees to stay on the base that night and we are given adjoining bedrooms in a prefabricated living container. We turn on the desktop computer that is for guests and Tahir checks his e-mail. I check for a story about our escape that Kristen said is on the
Times s
ite. We have returned to the outside world with astonishing speed.

“Times Reporter Escapes Taliban After Seven Months” reads the headline. At first, I find it hard to believe that the story is referring to me, both in terms of the captivity and the escape. As I read the piece, I am alarmed to see it states that Asad is still in captivity. It also mistakenly says that Tahir and I climbed over the wall and ran into a Pakistani militia member who led us to the base. My exaggerated praise of Captain Nadeem and his men during my first phone calls to New York was misunderstood.

Fearing that too much publicity will endanger Asad, I e-mail the foreign editor, Susan Chira, and ask her to withhold his name. I also ask her to cut the incorrect reference to a militia member guiding us to the base. After welcoming me home, she happily agrees.

 

 

Tahir goes to sleep, and I venture outside to call members of my family. I tell my mother how sorry I am to have put her through this. She cries, tells me how elated she is to hear my voice, and says she is revoking my passport. My father is calm and tells me to look forward in life. I thank my stepparents, Andrea and George, for helping my parents survive this.