A Rope and a Prayer (6 page)

When he takes me off speakerphone, I ask if I can tell him a secret. “This is going to sound so far-fetched,” I say. “I am sitting at Logan. David went into an interview and never returned. We think he’s alive, but do not know where he is.” My brother is a rock. I know he feels terrible for me, but I also know he will not share this information with anyone.

I meet Lee and his wife, Christie. Their two-year-old is asleep in her stroller. We drive to their home in coastal New Hampshire. The last time I was here was five months ago, during a visit with David. It’s about eleven o’clock, an exhausting seven hours after I first heard the news. Tonight, none of us will get any sleep.

 

 

At eight the next morning, Lee and I go over to the local FBI office, which is nestled discreetly in a bland suburban 1980s-style office park. We are greeted by several agents. This, I will learn, is typical. They travel in packs. They sport clean haircuts and monosyllabic names: Jim, Tom, John, Joe. One would be hard-pressed to pick any of them out of a police lineup. They are nondescript and practically identical in their uniformity.

The FBI is the lead agency in all kidnappings of American citizens, whether at home or abroad. We are a bit baffled, though, as to why we were instructed to meet them in New Hampshire, given that David and I live in New York. It turns out to be agency protocol, which was set in motion when the newspaper’s Kabul bureau notified the U.S. Embassy that David did not return from the interview. The case was immediately reported to the FBI, then to David’s employer. The newspaper then called Lee, who is still listed as David’s emergency contact. I make a note to update this information when David returns. Because Lee’s phone number bears a New Hampshire area code, local field agents there were assigned to get in touch with our family. If I was the contact, we’d be having this meeting in New York City.

The local case agent informs us that David was abducted along with his driver and translator as they headed to interview a Taliban commander outside Kabul. I proceed to reel off the name of everyone David has mentioned to me in the past two and a half years who is affiliated with Afghanistan, Pakistan, and the United States government. It’s a long list. The interview is largely a one-way flow of information. As we talk about the situation, I begin to feel like I am better versed in the tribal areas of Pakistan and the nuances of Afghan culture than the local agents. This is a little disturbing, since most of what I know is limited to what I have absorbed from David—and from visiting his colleagues, briefly traveling with him to Pakistan, and reading popular books like
Three Cups of Tea
and
The Kite Runner
.

Lee is asked to provide a DNA sample, a cheek swab. This is to help identify David in a worst case scenario, or if any evidence is found in Afghanistan that could indicate the location where he is being held captive.

The agents ask whether David is a friend of the Taliban, and whether the book is about them. I explain that he is writing about the struggling American effort in the region. I edit my words carefully before speaking, fearful of saying anything that could mislead them into thinking that David is somehow in cahoots with the Taliban.

Lee and I leave the interview several hours later with the understanding that another set of agents will be assigned to our case in New York City. We are to update the agents if we receive any new information about David from his colleagues. In turn, the agents will keep us posted on any new developments on their end.

Calls begin to flood in: David’s literary agent, the editor of
The New York Times
. The newspaper alerted David’s book publisher about the kidnapping. David’s agent, in turn, was contacted by his publisher. Despite the fact that Lee and I have made no public announcement of David’s predicament, word has traveled like wildfire among the journalism community.

I am relieved to hear from a colleague of David’s in Kabul. Upset but calm, this reporter informs me that David left behind a note addressed to me. I ask the reporter to read it over the phone. I sense a hesitation. “He has rather unfortunate handwriting,” the reporter jokes between tears. “I will scan and e-mail it to you and send the original in the mail.”

A few hours later, the infamous note appears in my BlackBerry inbox. I smile: David’s colleague is right about the handwriting. The letter has been scribbled on a page from a notebook. The whole thing feels rushed, like an afterthought. Knowing David, though, he probably agonized over its content.

Scribbled in the margin is a phrase that makes my heart sink:
This is my passion and I must do what I love.

The letter continues:

Afghanistan has been David’s preoccupation for the past seven years, since 9/11. For me, it has been a source of intrigue, sadness, and anxiety—a needy child or mistress that requires his attention, often with the cost of long separations. The events on the ground in Afghanistan have a direct impact on David’s moods and motivations. It has been a challenge for me to support such an all-consuming interest.

I was introduced to David by a mutual friend two and a half years ago. We were both in our late thirties at the time and ready to move on to a new phase of life, one that we each hoped would include family and children. Our relationship progressed steadily, despite several month-long periods of separation to accommodate David’s overseas reporting trips. These separations were often a strain on my nerves as we both struggled with the tensions inherent in straddling two very different worlds together.

The note does not comfort me. Part of me immediately recognizes that he’s thrown us under the bus at month two of marriage. I know that David is writing the book in part to distance himself from his dangerous work as a war correspondent. But pursuing an interview with a Taliban commander was a bachelor’s decision. I have just committed the rest of my life to David. I haven’t even unpacked from our honeymoon. But if I—we—are going to get through this, I’m going to have to forgive him and set aside my anger. At some point, I am also going to have to deal with the fact that I
am
angry. I realize he took a risk imagining a positive outcome. David does not think that lightning can strike twice. But it has. This is his second detainment. He was jailed in Bosnia for ten days in 1995 while reporting on the mass execution of Muslims in Srebrenica.

I feel like I’ve been hit by a thunderbolt. I recall our engagement. David proposed to me on a sailboat in the middle of New York Harbor. “Let’s lead a big life,” he said. I agreed. This is not exactly what I had in mind. I glance at my engagement ring, a pear-shape diamond set on its side. I remember thinking it looked like a teardrop on first viewing. I somehow worried this was a premonition of things to come, but later convinced myself it was a raindrop, which was a more refreshing and fitting thought. Rain is a recurrent theme for us. There was a torrential downpour just before we set sail in New York that day. Hurricane Hannah struck on our wedding day. I often liken the extreme, unpredictable shifts in our circumstances to weather patterns.

Lee offers to drive me to my parents’ home in Maine for the night. I will meet up with him tomorrow before I leave for New York. I call my mother from the road. Unaware of what has been going on, she is excited to hear from me. I tell her I have brought a guest along. I know she immediately assumes it’s David—perhaps he’s come to his senses and returned from Afghanistan early.

I haven’t been to the house since we were married in September. David and I decided to marry there, as we each have fond memories of summer childhoods spent in Maine. We wanted to celebrate with our families at a place that had special meaning for us.

The house sits on a sandy tidal beach. The scenery and light shift as the water advances and recedes twice each day. I have always loved the sense of motion, possibility, and renewal these natural changes provoke daily.

I walk into a perfectly preserved moment. The room is still full of an almost palpable sense of love and hope from our celebration. We are greeted by my mother, Mary Jane, a petite, upbeat brunette with a welcoming smile. Despite her five-foot frame, my mother is a powerhouse of strength, tenacity, and positivity. She is a healthy dose of Sally Field, tempered with a shot of Anne Bancroft. She has been drying the wedding flowers. Full bridal bouquets sit in their original places, vibrant, slightly shrunken, preserved. Two months ago we were rolling up the carpets, dancing in the living room, mingling with friends and family. It’s odd to be in this space alone, an observer. As I glance out the sliding doors, the ocean is calm, glasslike. I am comforted by memory and surroundings, yet pained to be here without David.

I remember that David looked nervous as we exchanged our vows. To lighten his mood, when I declared “For better or worse,” I winked at him on “worse.” This definitely qualifies as worse. I now regret my well-intentioned and whimsical act. Perhaps I should not have tempted fate. I promise myself that when David returns, I will restate this promise sans blink.

My mother has prepared a lobster dinner in anticipation of my arrival. I tell her there is no cause for celebration and bring her up to speed while Lee phones his wife from the other room. Mom is quiet, recognizing that this was always within the realm of possibility, given the nature of David’s work. When I tell her I am shocked and upset by David’s letter—that he was willing to risk everything for the sake of the story, without consulting me—she does not finger point.

“Okay, he made a mistake,” she says. “But you need to move forward from there and think positive if you are going to get through this. Don’t let your mind be clouded by anger. It’s not going to do you any good now. Focus on bringing him home.”

“We just took a wedding vow,” I say.

“And now it’s your chance to live up to it,” she responds.

This is a calm but tough pep talk. Confronted by my worst fear, Mom figures the last thing I need is for someone else to stir the pot. She tells me to remain open-minded and offers to accompany me back to New York. I am slightly surprised but thankful for her reaction. Her outward composure keeps me centered. I recognize that while David took a risk in going to the interview, the kidnapping is not his fault. Blaming him for it provides a momentary sense that he has some control over his circumstances. Our reality is much worse—David and the rest of us are helpless in this situation.

I begin to receive calls from friends offering condolences. Each of them has learned about David’s situation from a “friend at the
Times
.” I have my first brush with what will be an ongoing battle: keeping David’s case quiet. Throughout the first days of David’s kidnapping, we are able to draw on the camaraderie of the press and the gravitas of
The New York Times
to keep his story out of the public eye. But any bit of information I relay to David’s colleagues is quickly common knowledge inside the media bubble. I have to fight repeatedly during these early days to protect our privacy as a couple. I begin my battle at the top, with a heated call to Bill Keller, the paper’s executive editor, from my parents’ living room. I tell him that his reporters are spreading the word and ask him to put a lid on it. As the wife of a kidnap victim, I have tremendous leeway. Bill is extremely gracious and apologetic. He promises to limit communications within the office.

A call arrives from the FBI on behalf of the Department of Defense. David’s brother Lee and I face our first big decision: will we give advance approval for a military raid if it could secure David’s release? We are both stunned. “Do you know where he is?” we ask. They cannot say. “How much time do we have to decide?” A few hours.

The Department of Defense ensures us they will not undertake a raid unless they are very confident they will be able to get David and his colleagues out alive. But they give no indication as to how they will assess this risk.

This is the first of many decisions we will agonize over—and revisit during the subsequent months. For now, Lee and I decide against a military raid, unless David or one of his co-captives is severely sick or injured, or if their lives are in immediate danger. We still do not have any information on who is holding him and what it is they are after.

We decide to wait a few days to make a final decision, until we have more information and a sense of David’s physical location. We also want to run this by David’s parents and other siblings. We do not want to make this decision alone. It is shocking to be confronted with this reality and the grim nature of our choices. We want David to return as quickly as possible. But Lee and I agree that David would never forgive himself if anyone was killed or injured during an attempt to free him by force. Still, we wonder whether our delayed response will work against us, whether this lapse in decision making will mean the difference between his returning home or not.

A short time later, we hear back from the FBI. There is no rush on deciding whether to use military intervention. We are advised that while the kidnappers may move David, there is no imminent threat of harm. In the frustrating days and months to come, we will discover that most of the information and advice we are given is pure speculation.