A Rope and a Prayer

by David Rohde

  Eikenberry’s aide follows up with a call to explain protocol for a Pentagon event, and to forward information about the general’s swearing-in as ambassador, which will take place at the State Department. I have not completely lost touch with my once fashion-conscious self. What does one wear to a military service? I muse. This is quite an unusual fashion dilemma, and it provides a momentary escape to be able to focus on solving a mundane problem. I settle on a gray skirt suit, black pointy-toed pumps and a simple blouse with a slight ruffle—conservative business attire, softened by a touch of “damsel in distress” detailing.

  Throughout this ordeal, I have been conscious of the fact that people look to me, to my moods, tone of voice, and even appearance, to gauge the status of our situation. If I appear pulled together, this gives other people confidence that I am hopeful and that David will return. This proves essential when catching up with friends and David’s colleagues. His mother, Carol, informs me that she also looks for cues in the sound of my voice when we speak by phone.

  I am taking a week off from work. It’s becoming increasingly difficult to straddle both worlds. I go into the office often on weekends—only to end up taking calls on my cell phone from security consultants and others in the case. The kidnapping has invaded every space I inhabit. It has become an unwanted occupation. On my computer desktop are photographic files of the latest fashion trends: denim biker chic, minidresses. A click away are several files of letters to the kidnappers and others translated in Pashto, as well as Google Map images of David’s rumored locations.

  I find myself jumping every time the phone rings past 9 P.M. or before 9 A.M., thinking it will be a call from Atiqullah. I’ve learned to recognize the numbers of various government agencies on my office and home caller ID: 646 is FBI, a lot of zeros usually indicates State Department, and a consecutive series of ones is the unmistakable calling card of The New York Times office. My mind has to shift between the kidnap strategies: pursuing a humanitarian release; negotiating a ransom; or bribing David’s guards. The security consultants’ claim that their local network bribed the guards and that David would be released “within days” is beginning to look false. I have no doubt they are well intentioned. But I have become skeptical of their sources on the ground. Interspersed among these moral dilemmas are the issues of how to illustrate the stories sitting in my desk inbox: “What a Guy’s Butt Says About Him.” “How to Be a Lucky Bitch.” And “The One-Hour Orgasm.” Haggling over the beach house location for the upcoming cover shoot in Los Angeles while contemplating the value of my husband’s life has proved to be quite jarring.

  Exhaustion has set in. Sadness has become a permanent resident and has morphed into physical pain: backaches, sore arms, and the occasional migraine. The stress also weighs heavily on my mother, who has thrown her back out and returned to Maine to recuperate for a while.

  At work, the circle of people who know about my situation has expanded. I am often asked about David. I feel stigmatized. In my own mind, I am rapidly becoming the girl with the sad story. I find it hard to relate to normal conversations: exchanges about weekends, home life, celebrity gossip—normal office banter. It all feels like a remote foreign language—one I studied as an adolescent but have now forgotten. My situation has also taken a toll on my co-workers’ schedules. I have missed two trips for our spring and summer issues, the first to Miami in February, the second to Los Angeles in early April. David’s release would be imminent, I was told. A generous art director filled in for me. Time, too, has lost its meaning. Months and events all blend into one endless season of uncertainty, waiting, and loneliness.

  I miss the everyday moments most couples share: coffee in the morning, grocery shopping, sleeping intertwined. Occasionally, I hear couples arguing on street corners—this is a common occurrence in New York City, where much of one’s private life is lived in public. Sometimes I think, What a waste of time. In other moments I wish I had the luxury of being able to argue with David over some small detail. I try to escape by going to the movies, attending a yoga class. But I am averse to fabricated violence or intrigue and have no patience for a well-intentioned, three-part breath.

  On April 27, I pack my carefully chosen outfit and catch a train to Washington for General Eikenberry’s swearing-in ceremony. On the way, I call my sister, Karen, for advice on my job. I do not think I can keep working, but I am hesitant to make David’s abduction my full-time occupation. I have briefly discussed the option of taking a leave of absence with the magazine’s managing editor. I was relieved and surprised that they were willing to accommodate a leave and would later welcome me back. Karen encourages me to take them up on the offer.

  I meet up with my brother, Jason. His apartment will become home base for my numerous visits to Washington over the next four weeks. I will only be in town for two days on this trip, but will return with David’s brother Lee in another week to meet with Pakistani officials.

  The next morning is overcast. I take the metro to the Pentagon stop for General Eikenberry’s reception. I am nervous as I ascend on the escalator and proceed to the security line, where I am to be met by a military escort. I chat with other attendees, many of whom have known Eikenberry for decades. I am vague when asked about my connection. I say that my husband is a journalist who is friendly with Karl and Ching and that he is currently overseas, so I am attending in his place.

  We walk upstairs to a reception hall with blue carpeting, a small platform, and fold-up chairs. Seating is assigned by name tags. I have been given a prime view, an aisle seat in the third row. Eikenberry nods and smiles at me as he proceeds down the aisle to the stage. A military band plays “The Army Song.” Admiral Mullen, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, presides over the ceremony. There is a formality and sense of tradition to it all. Eikenberry is given a retirement plaque.

  After the ceremony, we convene as a group in a small, modest reception room. Coffee, tea, cookies, and Middle Eastern appetizers are served buffet style. I thank Eikenberry for the invitation. He informs me that David e-mailed him just prior to his fateful interview. Eikenberry tells me David’s e-mail remains in his inbox and that he will not let David be forgotten. I chat with his wife, Ching. She asks a family member to take our photo. She will be joining her husband in Kabul. “This is in case I see David first,” she says, optimistically. “I will show him this photo.” I appreciate her kindness and hopefulness. I know she truly understands what it means to have a spouse in a high-risk job that demands time in dangerous places.

  In the evening, I join a friend of David’s for dinner. Kay McGowan worked for the State Department in Afghanistan for several years. Two years ago, her fiancé, a microfinance expert working with the World Bank, was murdered at gunpoint in Kabul in an attempted kidnapping. She was eight months pregnant at the time and has since rebuilt her life. I admire her courage and appreciate her kindness. She has helped me make contact with government officials on numerous occasions.

  Tonight, we meet at an outdoor café in downtown Washington, and she introduces me to her friends. Among them is a young man named Philippe Reines, a senior adviser and spokesman for Hillary Clinton. Philippe is well aware of our case, as are most government officials here. Washington, after all, is very much a rumor mill. Any bit of information spreads like wildfire in this one-industry town. In many ways, it has come to remind me of Los Angeles—a city I have spent a good deal of time in over the last few years on photography shoots. Philippe will be at Eikenberry’s swearing in tomorrow. He tells me to look for him when I arrive. He will do his best to give me the opportunity to speak with Clinton in person to update her on the progress, or lack of, on David’s case.

  The next morning, I get up early, anxious about the upcoming ceremony. I arrive at the State Department. The midcentury-modern lobby gleams. Through the courtyard window I see the Man and the Expanding Universe fountain. A mythical figure sits astride the universe. I am ushered to the Benjamin Franklin reception room on an upper floor. Its c
olonial moldings and furnishings are in sharp contrast to the modern lobby below. The crowd is composed of foreign and American dignitaries, journalists, and friends of Eikenberry’s. A colleague of David’s from the newspaper recognizes me and keeps me company before the ceremony begins.

  The Pakistani ambassador to the United States approaches me. “I am so sorry about David. We will do everything we can to help get him released. But you know, David is in Afghanistan,” he says, kissing me on each cheek before rushing off. I feel violated by this outpouring of superficial concern and casual dishonesty. We have known for the last five months that our three are in Pakistan. David’s colleague is speechless.

  The swearing-in ceremony proceeds. Clinton is dressed in a bright red suit. A receiving line forms and Philippe, her senior adviser, waves to me from across the room. He brings the secretary over to say hello after the line disperses. Clinton is petite but charismatic. I am struck by her warmth. She immediately takes me by both hands and asks for an update. I inform her that David has been in captivity for six months. We have had no word from his captors in six weeks. “We need to get them to call you again,” she says, cutting to the heart of the matter. I tell her, with all due respect, that the move by the State Department to increase the bounty on Siraj Haqqani may have interfered with our ability to make a deal. She looks aghast and pulls me into a conversation between General Petraeus and Richard Holbrooke, the State Department representative. Tough and articulate, she does not mince words. “This has gone on long enough,” she says, seemingly feeling my frustration. “Her husband has been gone for six months. This needs to be a priority. I mean it.” She all but adds “boys” to the end of her remark. I am thankful to have her as an advocate. She is so focused and determined.

  I am told Holbrooke will once again be traveling to the region and will continue to raise David’s case. Later, he informs me that several Pakistani officials will be in D.C. in early May for the Afghanistan-Pakistan summit. He suggests that I make a return trip to Washington to meet with these officials on David’s behalf and offers to facilitate these introductions. This has been the best opportunity I’ve had so far to spotlight David’s case. I spot Eikenberry across the room and thank him for inviting me. He smiles knowingly.

  Back in New York a few days later, we deal with the threat of publicity once again in what normally would have been a jubilant occasion. David and several of his colleagues have won a team Pulitzer Prize for their reporting in Afghanistan and Pakistan. David’s stories focused on the failure of Pakistan to confront militancy inside its own borders.

  The newspaper has alerted us that another news organization may decide to write a story. The Times’ preference is to maintain silence. The paper will only issue a statement if prompted by another news organization. David McCraw, the paper’s lawyer, proposes that the public relations department at the Times prepare a low-key statement confirming the kidnapping and stating that we kept the matter quiet because of concerns for our three’s safety. Lee and I agree.

  I receive a copy of the press release, which contains the following statements: David Rohde, forty-one, a correspondent for The New York Times who is on leave to write a book about Afghanistan, was abducted south of Kabul on November 10, along with a local reporter, Tahir Luddin, and their driver, Asadullah Mangal. Rohde had been invited to an interview with a Taliban commander in Logar Province and never returned. Information indicates that Rohde and his Afghan colleagues are being held by the Taliban. The families of the three men are doing everything they can to secure their release and we are working closely with them.

  From the early days of this ordeal, the prevailing view among David’s family, experts in kidnapping cases, officials of several governments and others we consulted was that going public could increase the danger to David and the other hostages. The kidnappers said as much. We decided to respect that advice, as we have in other kidnapping cases, and a number of other news organizations that learned of David’s plight have done the same. But now that other news organizations have chosen to report on the case, we have little choice.

  The statement goes on to include a brief section on David and Tahir’s professional bios. It ends: “The families, wives and children, friends and colleagues of all the men await their safe return.” To our amazement and relief, no other news organization reports on David’s being part of the Pulitzer Prize-winning team. Once again, we are able to keep David’s case off the public radar.

  April is coming to a close, and this is my final photo shoot. Cosmopolitan has been quite gracious. They have agreed to let me take a three-month leave of absence, basically a maternity leave minus the baby. I spend my last few days tying up loose ends on an upcoming issue, which features stories entitled “Stalking Danger,” “How Yoga Can Help Your Sex Life,” and “Confronting Your Gyno Fears.”

  Our crew consists of a hairstylist, a makeup artist, their two assistants, a fashion stylist, a photographer, two photo assistants, a prop stylist, and five models. We base ourselves out of a photo studio in Tribeca. We shoot the dramatic stalking scene “cinema verite” style on the surrounding streets. We dress the models—a hunky male model and a svelte brunette—in black, white, and shades of gray. This is what we refer to stylistically as “colorless color.”

  For the yoga piece, the prop stylist arranges a mattress, pillows, and mosquito net in the center of the studio—everything in shades of purple. We photograph a couple in this setup using only available light to evoke the sense of twilight. The entire crew contributes suggestions for sexy and slightly suggestive yoga poses, though, looking around the room, it’s safe to estimate half of us have not been to the gym in quite some time, me included. The female model has never done yoga. Our male model saves the day, as he is über-fit and able to hold poses for a long time.

  The gyno setup is the most elaborate. We assemble a medical exam table and props in the corner of the all-white studio, using a modern paneled wall partition as a backdrop. It all looks rather convincing. The prop stylist stands in as the doctor, complete with lab coat and stethoscope. We dress our model in a pink exam robe and pull her long blonde hair into a loose ponytail. Her nails have been painted a tasteful buff. Her skin glows, thanks to a healthy application of shimmer lotion. She is the chicest gynecological patient I have ever seen. I am relieved she does not leave the room in a panic or call her agent to complain about the content of our story. We assure her we will crop out part of her face to protect her anonymity.

  Most of today’s crew does not know anything about my personal life. It has been difficult to live with this burden, but I’ve learned to artfully dodge questions about my new husband.

  By day’s end we have achieved our goal of capturing convincing moments in a digital frame. The work provides me with a sense of control, even if it is only for a brief moment. I am sad to be leaving this job, but know there is no other option. I have to ration my energy. I can no longer accept the fact that my husband is not yet home—not that I have ever accepted this. Next week will be six months since the abduction.

  My first week of full-time devotion to David’s case begins today with another trip to Washington. This time I am accompanied by Lee and a new addition to our small lobbying unit. We hope to meet with senior Pakistani and Afghan officials who are in town for a summit and who may be able to influence David’s case.

  I am nervous about this visit. I will be out of my element. Then again, after years of working at fashion magazines, I am used to smoke and mirrors and discerning illusion from reality. I reassure myself that this skill will serve me well. Lee and I are exhausted. I convince him we need extra support on this trip. We are both so good at staying calm—Lee in particular. I think we need someone who can make a fuss, create a scene, and be emotional without consequence. We need backup. We need Carol.

  David’s mother has been ready to spring into action since day one. She is smart, spirited, and attractive. She is also a social creature and very good at managing people. Lee, Ca
rol, and I meet up at 8 A.M. on May 4 at the Monaco Hotel in downtown Washington. Our morning begins with a visit from two New York Times reporters who are colleagues of David’s. Coffee is interrupted by an urgent e-mail from Nic Robertson, a senior international correspondent for CNN.

  We have exchanged e-mails a few times over the last few months. I contacted Nic after I found an e-mail from him in David’s inbox. It was simple and heartfelt. He repeated the words “you are not forgotten” several dozen times. He and his wife have offered their emotional and professional support. Nic agrees that it is wise to keep David’s case out of the public eye. He has been discreet in his inquiries, but keeps David in mind when meeting with sources in Pakistan and Afghanistan.

  Today Nic informs me that he has just interviewed a Taliban spokesman in Afghanistan who seems to know quite a bit about David’s case. I am skeptical, as many Afghans have come forward with information regarding David in the past, very little of which has proved accurate. The Taliban claim that David is a “friend of Obama’s,” Nic informs me, and that they are demanding prisoners for his release. If true, this is a massive setback. Our security consultants and the FBI have been saying for months that the case could only end with ransom, not a prisoner exchange.

  I e-mail back to Nic and tell him I think his source may not be reliable. I cannot believe I am criticizing Nic Robertson’s source. He is a seasoned journalist, but the demands don’t match our current understanding. I am suspicious that this is merely a false channel and also don’t want to believe that the demand for prisoners is real.