I nodded at the youth and stepped past him to wash my hands and face. Compassion and sadness mixed with my anger. This young man was not so much older than my own children, but his life was headed in a very different direction.
When I entered the shelter, I sensed another shift in our captors’ attitude—more businesslike, more urgent. The casual conversations had ceased. No one was smiling. People were moving quickly and gathering up belongings.
I remembered Haqqani’s early Thursday announcement that we had three days to meet their demands. This was the third day.
I noticed Rafiq and Farzad huddled in the corner, having a serious conversation. Before I could ask what they were discussing, we were all herded out the door.
The Butcher prodded me with his AK-47. We started walking to the left, toward the same mountain where we’d made calls the day before. Rafiq was next to me. The Commander also walked with us.
The rest of the group, however—including Farzad—moved to the right, toward the same area where we’d hiked the previous night.
My concern hit a new level.
We’re separating. We’re getting weaker as a unit. There are so many more Taliban than before. What’s going to happen to Farzad? Will we ever see him again? What’s going to happen to us? The captors we’re with now are guys I haven’t connected with—the Commander and the Butcher who’s so threatening I can’t even look at him.
This was truly grim.
As if to confirm my fears, Rafiq moved closer as we hiked and whispered, “Do you see what they’re doing? They’re separating Farzad from us. I don’t like this at all.”
Unlike the day before, this time we climbed all the way to the top of the mountain, which had a flat peak. It was warmer than previous mornings, probably in the forties. A smattering of clouds marred an otherwise blue sky. From here we could see for miles into the valley below.
The Commander gave me a phone. “Call your guys,” he said.
Roy answered the phone immediately. “Let me give you a quick summary on what’s happened since yesterday afternoon,” I said to him. I explained about the growing Taliban numbers, about the feast, and how Farzad was no longer with us.
Suddenly the connection went dead.
Here we go again, I thought. I tried repeatedly to reconnect, without success. Finally I got through again. Roy turned the call over to Dean.
“Dilip, can you describe their attitude toward you?” Dean asked.
“It’s been okay. So far.”
“All right,” he said. “I have a request for you. If possible, we’d like you to take a picture with your phone and send it to us.”
“A picture?” I said.
“Yes. If you can show some of the mountain, the valley, and the angle of the sun, that would be extremely helpful.”
I pondered this. I had my doubts that I could successfully pull this off. On the other hand, if I was discreet, it might work. I decided I had to try.
I disconnected the call but kept talking, pretending that my conversation was continuing. I also told Rafiq what I planned to do so he could focus even more than usual on keeping the Commander and the Butcher occupied.
Now I frowned at the phone and walked in a circle, acting as if I was having trouble with the reception. I ended up in a spot about thirty feet away from the rest of the group.
I found the camera application on the phone. When I thought no one was looking, I quickly lined up a shot and pressed the “take picture” button.
On my phone the picture process is a silent one. That was what I expected on the Commander’s phone. When I pressed the button, however, I was horrified to hear the sound that an old-fashioned camera makes—a loud click.
The Butcher noticed it immediately.
“Did you just take a picture?”
My heart started pumping double-time. “No,” I said. “Not that I know of.”
I quickly switched the phone from camera to call mode. The Butcher rushed over and snatched the phone from my hand. He pressed buttons until he found the images stored on the phone, including the one I’d just shot.
“You did take a picture.”
I fought off a feeling of rising panic and forced my voice to remain steady.
“Ah, I’m sorry,” I said. “I think I might have pressed a button by mistake. I’m not used to this phone.”
The Butcher deleted the image and glared at me but said nothing else.
That was that. I wasn’t going to try any more photos. I wondered if I’d just pushed the Butcher’s suspicions to a dangerous level.
A few minutes later, however, both of us forgot all about the phone call. We were sitting about twenty-five feet from the edge of the plateau. At the sound of an engine, all four of us turned our heads toward the valley.
Some five miles away, a dust cloud rose from the plains floor. It was created by a black Hilux and a motorcycle that followed behind it. They were crossing the lowland, moving from our left to our right.
We watched in silence for the next minute. Then the vehicles stopped. Human figures poured out of the doors and bed of the truck, perhaps fifteen of them. Many held long objects that certainly looked like weapons.
“Those are representatives from the Pakistani Taliban commission in Waziristan,” the Commander said, standing quickly. “They’re coming to take you.”
Haqqani had predicted this would happen. I couldn’t believe his words were coming true.
The Butcher had also leapt to his feet. He beckoned sharply to Rafiq and me with his arm. “Move!” he said. “Run!”
Our captors ducked their heads as we ran, apparently worried about being seen. It didn’t make sense to me. If the men in the valley were Taliban, why were these guys running away? But I wasn’t going to argue. I didn’t want to end up with them either.
Suddenly I stopped. “My bag!” I said, pointing to where it sat next to a rock some sixty feet away. “I’ve left it behind.”
That backpack meant a lot to me. If nothing else, I wanted to save it as a keepsake if I survived. I didn’t want to lose it now.
Rafiq translated my words. The Butcher’s agitated expression showed he had no desire to fetch this foreigner’s luggage. But when the Commander uttered a few words, the Butcher scrambled back to our plateau and grabbed my backpack.
We ran, stooping, out of sight of the Hilux and its passengers until we reached the back side of the mountain. Then we slowed to a fast walk, moving down and away from the mountain. I couldn’t help thinking of Farzad. Weren’t we now going in the opposite direction of where he’d been headed?
For better or worse, it felt as if we were reaching the end of the line.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE TALIBAN DRY MY TEARS
11:00 A.M., SATURDAY
OVER THE NEXT HALF HOUR, FEW WORDS WERE EXCHANGED. All of us were winded. We passed hills and sand dunes. Sweat formed on my brow and back. The temperature rose into the sixties, the sun’s heat magnified by our exertions. My lips were parched. I was ready to drink anything, parasites or not.
I found relief in a different form, however, when we came around yet another hill. About a hundred feet ahead, moving in the same direction as the four of us, were the rest of our original group—including Farzad.
We hurried to catch up. The lack of surprise on the faces of the Taliban, and even on Farzad’s face, told me that these guys had planned all along to link up again. But neither Rafiq nor I had known it. We were too out of breath to speak, but Rafiq’s grin let me know he was as overjoyed as I was to be with our friend again.
Not for the first time, I was thankful that the three of us were going through this ordeal together. Rafiq had done much to relieve tension by talking frequently with our captors and keeping the conversation light. Farzad’s steady demeanor also helped everyone stay calm emotionally. It meant everything to me. I couldn’t imagine doing this on my own.
A few minutes later, as our narrow trail wound around another mountain, we came across
a puddle of water. It was perhaps five feet long and three feet wide. Along with several of the others, I knelt down and dipped my hand to take a single sip. The cool water was so refreshing that I quickly dipped my hand in for more.
My “old friend” Hopeless was watching. After four sips, he’d seen enough. He motioned for me to get up and start hiking again. As I stood, he took a long look behind us, apparently to make sure no one was following. Though I didn’t know why, we were still hurrying to get away from the other Taliban.
Our path grew steeper and became a climb as much as a hike. We drifted apart into groups of three or four, but I saw we were all aiming for the peak of the brown, barren mountain ahead. When the lead group was less than a hundred feet from the top, it stopped and waited for the others, including ours, to catch up. When we reached them, I rested in the shade provided by a twenty-foot-tall desert tree with small, dark green leaves. I had been breathing hard and was thankful for the respite.
From the position of the sun directly overhead, I guessed that it was noon when we reached the top of the mountain. The climb had been exhausting, but the view was impressive. For the first time in days, my eyes took in more than dusty hills and rocks. A long, wide valley opened up before us for perhaps ten miles. Dotted here and there were signs of life—plowed fields, homes, even villages. Three or four miles away, a road ran parallel to the horizon, adjoined by a river. On the far side of the valley, another mountain range stretched into the sky.
Rafiq, standing next to me, kept his head still but pointed with his eyes. “Do you now see where we are?” he whispered.
“Is that the Kabul-Jalalabad Highway?” I whispered back. “And the Kabul River?”
“Yes.”
It was a relief to have at least some idea of our location.
The leaders of our group—including the Commander, the Butcher, Wallakah, and Haqqani—stood in a circle near the precipice and spent the next few minutes engaged in intense conversation. Senior Mullah claimed a spot on a large rock right at the edge and also chimed in at times. I didn’t know what any of them were saying, of course, but my guess was they were deciding what to do next. The Commander also received a series of calls on his phone.
Once this conversation ended, the Commander walked over to me and handed me his phone. “Call your guys,” he said.
I definitely felt the expectations of our captors in that moment. It was deadline day. If something didn’t happen soon, we were in trouble.
It took me three tries to get through to Roy. When I did, he said, “Dilip, we’re ready to negotiate. We also have a translator here.”
I let out a long breath. This was a moment I’d hoped for and feared would never come. Somehow my colleagues, family, and friends must have scraped together enough funds to get this process moving.
“Great!” I said. “I’ll hand over the phone.”
I watched intently as the translator on Roy’s end spoke to the Commander. The Commander relayed the message to Rafiq, who passed it on to me: “They are offering a ransom of nine thousand dollars.”
What? Did I hear that right?
Rafiq confirmed it—nine thousand.
My first response wasn’t exactly filled with grace or gratitude: I can’t believe I’m worth only nine thousand dollars! Then I realized that the offer wasn’t for me alone, but all three of us.
We’re going to die. They’re going to shoot us right now.
To my surprise, however, the Commander and the others didn’t react to the offer with anger. “We are not backing down one penny from three hundred thousand,” the Commander said. His tone was even, not confrontational. The phone conversation continued.
Hmm, I thought. I guess this is how the game is played. No one expects a first offer to be accepted.
As the negotiation went back and forth, it occurred to me that maybe a low offer was best after all. The less money that went into the hands of these insurgents, the better. I knew all too well how the funds might be used.
The Commander ended the call with Roy’s team and launched into another long discussion with the rest of our captors. Beyond them was a steep decline into the wide valley below.
Wallakah caught my eye and placed his hand over his heart. A few minutes later, to my surprise, Ahmed did the same. I appreciated their reassuring gestures.
Then the Talib in black approached me. “Do you speak Urdu?” he asked in that language.
“Very little,” I replied in Hindi, which is similar to Urdu. I comprehend Hindi pretty well and probably understood about 20 percent of spoken Urdu. It wasn’t enough to carry on much conversation, but the fact that this Urdu guy had tried to communicate with me at all was encouraging.
The rest of the group, meanwhile, was ignoring me. The voices around the Commander grew louder. The Commander received more calls. Then Rafiq joined these talks, adding a considerable flow of words of his own. Every face was serious and tense.
They were discussing matters of life and death—probably mine. I desperately wished I knew what was being discussed.
Suddenly the Commander turned to me. “You need to speak to your organization, tell them we’re serious about the three hundred thousand,” he said. “This is exactly what we want.”
The Commander’s instructions were interrupted by another call. He frowned as he concentrated on the voice on the other end of the phone. When he finished the call, the Commander eyed me and made an announcement that Rafiq translated for me: “The Pakistani Taliban are offering us fifty thousand to hand you over to them. This is way more than your organization is offering us.”
“Many NGOs, including ours, are small,” I said. “They don’t have extra money available to pay for emergencies like these.”
The Commander waved his hand, cutting off Rafiq’s translation, and went back to talking with the others.
I realized I was again fighting the common belief among Afghans that all foreigners and their NGOs are loaded with money. I remembered some of my past conversations with village elders. I’d explained that although we were there to help, they had to look at existing community assets to meet their needs rather than expect international donations to solve all their problems. I’d always tried to help the villagers understand the distinction between our role as a coach or guide and their responsibility to take ownership of the development process. The context was frighteningly different now, but the mind-set was similar—a group of rural Afghans was hoping to improve its lot with the aid of foreign money.
I wished I could befriend these guys and help them see a better way to live. That, after all, was one of the reasons why I came here—to help people view their situation through a fresh lens. If only they could see their potential. Don’t they realize they’re leading a dead-end lifestyle?
I watched the Commander from about fifteen feet away. The calm demeanor he’d demonstrated the last two days was slowly eroding as his phone continued to ring and discussions with the other Taliban heated up. He frowned more often and occasionally raised his arm to make a point. Some of the others also seemed more agitated as they raised their voices and paced back and forth. Not surprisingly, the two who appeared most frustrated were Hopeless and the Butcher.
The Commander waved me over. “We need to resolve this in the next few hours,” he said via Rafiq, “or your situation is going to get much worse. The Pakistani Taliban are telling me to hand you over to them.”
The tension and frustration were getting to me. How was any of this going to turn out well? I sat down in the dirt and covered my head with the hood of my jacket. The sun’s heat reminded me of how tired and thirsty I was.
Lord, I prayed silently, head down, there’s no sign of any of this taking a turn for the good. Please, somehow, mend their hearts and move them toward a better idea.
Suddenly something hard slammed into my right side just below my rib cage. Pain shot through me.
I twisted to look behind me. The Butcher stood there, pointing the butt of his AK-47 as if r
eady to strike again.
“Why did you do that?” I almost yelled. “What have I done to you?” He may not have understood my words, but I was sure he caught my meaning.
At the same time as my protest, a chorus of objections rose from the Taliban around us. I didn’t need a translation to capture the gist of it: “Don’t do that again!”
Shocked and angry as I was, I was also grateful that the others seemed to be on my side, at least at the moment.
The Butcher stepped away from me and calmed down, saying something back to the group. “He’s really frustrated,” Rafiq said to me, quietly. “He wants this to move along.”
The Commander took charge. “Let’s talk this through,” he said while waving Rafiq over. The young man I thought of as his assistant also joined him, along with Haqqani and the Urdu guy.
They sat down on the large, flat rock at the edge of the precipice where Senior Mullah still sat. It must have been four feet tall and ten feet long. I thought about how easily that big rock could dislodge, sending them all tumbling down the mountain. But none seemed the least bit concerned. These men were used to living on the edge, in more ways than one.
From a distance of about ten feet, I watched the conversation for the next half hour and wondered what they were saying. I had no doubt that something was going to happen soon. In a sense, all of us were like a boulder that was rolling down the mountain, faster and faster. Before much longer our boulder had to either roll to a stop or hit something and blow apart.
As I sat and pondered this, I heard the now-familiar sound of a small airplane. I looked up and for the first time actually spotted it against a brilliant blue backdrop as it made one pass in the distance. I thought it might have been a Piper Cherokee. Whatever it was, I was thankful to see it and hoped someone friendly was watching us.
Unfortunately I wasn’t the only one to notice the plane. Its appearance seemed to raise the intensity level among the Taliban. As they talked, their voices grew louder and their gestures more emphatic. Even Hopeless, who rarely said anything, joined in with an outburst.
Kidnapped by the Taliban: A Story of Terror, Hope, and Rescue by SEAL Team Six Page 12
