Three Cups Of Tea Part 10

That August of 1996, this mostly teenaged army, which called itself the Taliban, Taliban, or "students of Islam," launched a surprise offensive and overran Jalalabad, a large city on the Afghan side of the Khyber Pa.s.s. Frontier Corps guards stood aside as thousands of bearded boys who wore turbans and lined their eyes with dark or "students of Islam," launched a surprise offensive and overran Jalalabad, a large city on the Afghan side of the Khyber Pa.s.s. Frontier Corps guards stood aside as thousands of bearded boys who wore turbans and lined their eyes with dark surma surma poured over the pa.s.s in hundreds of double-cab pickups, carrying Kalashnikovs and Korans. poured over the pa.s.s in hundreds of double-cab pickups, carrying Kalashnikovs and Korans.

Exhausted refugees, fleeing the fighting, were flowing east in equal numbers, and straining the capacity of muddy camps on the margin of Peshawar. Mortenson had planned to leave two days earlier, on a trip to scout sites for possible new schools, but the electricity in the air held him in Peshawar. The tea shops were abuzz with talk of lightning-quick Taliban victories. And rumors flew faster than bullets aimed skyward from the automatic weapons men fired randomly, at all hours, in celebration: Taliban battalions were ma.s.sing on the outskirts of Kabul, the capital, or had already overrun it. President Najibullah, leader of Afghanistan's corrupt post-Soviet regime, had fled to France or been executed in a soccer stadium.

Into the storm, the seventeenth son of a wealthy Saudi family had flown in a privately chartered Ariana Airlines jet. When he touched down at a disused airbase outside Jalalabad, with attache cases crammed with untraceable hundred-dollar bills, and a retinue of fighters, seasoned, as he was, by prior campaigns in Afghanistan to fight the Soviets, Osama Bin Laden was reportedly in a foul mood. Pressure from the United States and Egypt had led to his expulsion from a comfortable compound in Sudan. On the run, stripped of his Saudi citizens.h.i.+p, he'd chosen Afghanistan: Its chaos suited him perfectly.

But its lack of creature comforts didn't. After complaining to his Tal-iban hosts about the standard of quarters they found for him, he aimed his gathering fury at the people he considered responsible for his exile-Americans.

The same week Greg Mortenson lingered nearby in Peshawar, Bin Laden issued his first call for armed struggle against Americans. In his "Declaration of Open Jihad on the Americans Occupying the Country of the Two Sacred Places," meaning Saudi Arabia, where five thousand U.S. troops were then based, he exhorted his followers to attack Americans wherever they found them, and to "cause them as much harm as can be possibly achieved."

Like most Americans, Mortenson hadn't yet heard of Bin Laden. He felt he had a seat in the c.o.c.kpit of history and was reluctant to leave town. There was also the problem of finding an appropriate escort. Before departing Korphe, Mortenson had discussed his plans with Haji Ali. "Promise me one thing," the old nurmadhar nurmadhar had said. "Don't go to any place alone. Find a host you trust, a village chief would be best, and wait until he invites you to his home to drink tea. Only in this way will you be safe." had said. "Don't go to any place alone. Find a host you trust, a village chief would be best, and wait until he invites you to his home to drink tea. Only in this way will you be safe."

Finding someone to trust in Peshawar was turning out to be harder than Mortenson had imagined. As a hub for Pakistan's black-market economy, the city was filled with unsavory characters. Opium, arms, and carpets were the town's lifeblood, and the men he'd met since arriving seemed as shabby and disreputable as his cheap hotel. The crumbling haveli haveli where he'd slept for the last five nights had once been the home of a wealthy merchant. Mortenson's room had served as an observation post for the family's women. As it was open to the street through a latticework of carved sandstone, women could watch the activity in the bazaar below, without appearing in public and violating where he'd slept for the last five nights had once been the home of a wealthy merchant. Mortenson's room had served as an observation post for the family's women. As it was open to the street through a latticework of carved sandstone, women could watch the activity in the bazaar below, without appearing in public and violating purdah purdah.

Mortenson appreciated his vantage point behind the screen. That morning the hotel's chokidar chokidar had warned him that it was best for a foreigner to stay out of sight. Today was had warned him that it was best for a foreigner to stay out of sight. Today was Juma, Juma, or Friday, the day mullahs unleashed their most fiery sermons to mosques packed with excitable young men. or Friday, the day mullahs unleashed their most fiery sermons to mosques packed with excitable young men. Juma Juma fervor combined with the explosive news from Afghanistan could be a volatile combination for a foreigner caught in the crossfire. fervor combined with the explosive news from Afghanistan could be a volatile combination for a foreigner caught in the crossfire.

From inside his room Mortenson heard a knock and answered the door. Badam Gul slipped past him with a cigarette dangling from his "A SMILE SHOULD BE MORE THAN A MEMORY"

lip, a bundle under his arm, and a pot of tea on a tray. Mortenson had met the man, a fellow hotel guest, the evening before, by a radio in the lobby, where they'd both been listening to a BBC account of Taliban rebels rocketing Kabul.

Gul told him he was from Waziristan and had a lucrative career collecting rare b.u.t.terflies all over Central Asia and supplying them to European museums. Mortenson presumed b.u.t.terflies weren't all he transported as he criss-crossed the region's borders, but didn't press for details. When Gul learned Mortenson wanted to visit his tribal area south of Peshawar he volunteered his services as a guide to Ladha, his home village. Haji Ali wouldn't have approved, but Tara was due in a month, the clean-shaven Gul had a veneer of respectability, and Mortenson didn't have time to be choosy.

Gul poured tea before opening his bundle, which was wrapped in a newspaper splashed with pictures of bearded boys posing on their way to war. Mortenson held up a large white shalwar kamiz, shalwar kamiz, collarless, and decorated with fine silver embroidery on the chest and a dull gray vest. "Same as the collarless, and decorated with fine silver embroidery on the chest and a dull gray vest. "Same as the Wazir Wazir man wear," Gul said, lighting a second cigarette off the stub of the first. "I get the bigger one in the whole bazaar. You can pay me now?" man wear," Gul said, lighting a second cigarette off the stub of the first. "I get the bigger one in the whole bazaar. You can pay me now?"

Gul counted the rupees carefully before pocketing them. They agreed to leave at first light. Mortenson booked a three-minute call with the hotel operator and told Tara he was heading where there were no phones for a few days. And he promised to be back in time to welcome their child into the world.

The gray Toyota sedan was waiting when Mortenson came carefully down the stairs at dawn, afraid of splitting the seams on his clothes. The top of his shalwar shalwar was stretched taut across his shoulders and the pants came down only to the middle of his calves. Gul, smiling rea.s.suringly, told him he'd been called suddenly to Afghanistan on business. The good news, however, was that the driver, a Mr. Khan, was a native of a small village near Ladha and had agreed to take him there. Mortenson briefly considered backing out, but climbed in gingerly. was stretched taut across his shoulders and the pants came down only to the middle of his calves. Gul, smiling rea.s.suringly, told him he'd been called suddenly to Afghanistan on business. The good news, however, was that the driver, a Mr. Khan, was a native of a small village near Ladha and had agreed to take him there. Mortenson briefly considered backing out, but climbed in gingerly.

Rolling south at sunrise, Mortenson pushed aside the white lace curtain that protected the rear seat from prying eyes. The great curving ramparts of the Bala Hisar Fort loomed over the receding town, glowing in the fiery light like a long-dormant volcano on the verge of awakening.

One hundred kilometers south of the city they pa.s.sed into Waziristan, the most untamed of Pakistan's Northwest Frontier Provinces, fierce tribal territories that formed a buffer zone between Pakistan and Afghanistan. The Wazir were a people apart, and as such, they had captured Mortenson's imagination. "Part of what drew me to the Balti, I guess, was they were such obvious underdogs," Mortenson says. "Their resources and talents were exploited by the Pakistani government, who gave them very little in return, and didn't even allow them to vote."

The Wazir were also underdogs, Mortenson felt. Since Jean h.o.e.rni had named him director of the new organization, Mortenson had vowed to become as expert as the unfamiliar t.i.tle sounded to his ears-director of the Central Asia Inst.i.tute. Over the winter, between trips to the midwife with Tara, and days of wallpapering and outfitting the upstairs bedroom where their child's life would be launched, he read every book he could find on Central Asia. He soon saw the region for what it was-bands of tribal powers, shunted into states created arbitrarily by Europeans, states that took little account of each tribe's primal alliance to its own people.

No tribe captured his imagination like the Wazir. Loyal to neither Pakistan nor Afghanistan, they were Pashtuns, and allied with their greater tribe above all else. Since the time of Alexander, foreigners had met fierce resistance every time they sent troops into the area. With each defeat of a larger, better equipped force that arrived in Waziristan, the region's infamy grew. After losing hundreds of his men to a small guerilla force, Alexander ordered that his troops thereafter skirt the lands of "these devils of the deserts." The British fared no better, losing two wars to the Wazir and the greater Pashtun tribe.

In 1893, bloodied British forces fell back from Waziristan to the Durand Line, the border they created between British India and Afghanistan. The Durand Line was drawn down the center of the Pashtun tribe, a British attempt to divide and conquer. But no one had ever conquered the Wazir. Though Waziristan has been nominally a part of Pakistan since 1947, the little influence Islamabad has ever had on the Wazir has been the product of bribes distributed to tribal leaders and fortresslike army garrisons with little control over anything out of sight of their gun slits.

Mortenson admired these people, who had so fiercely resisted the world's great powers. He'd read equally negative accounts of the Balti "A SMILE SHOULD BE MORE THAN A MEMORY"

before climbing K2 and wondered if the Wazir were similarly misunderstood. Mortenson remembered hearing how the Balti treated outsiders harshly and were unfriendly to a fault. Now he believed nothing was further from the truth. Here were more outcasts he might serve.

The Toyota pa.s.sed through six militia checkpoints before entering Waziristan proper. Mortenson felt sure he would be stopped and turned back. At each post, sentries pulled aside the sedan's curtains and studied the large, sweating foreigner in the ridiculous ill-fitting outfit, and each time, Khan reached into the pocket of the leather aviator jacket he wore despite the heat and counted out enough rupees to keep the car moving south.

Mortenson's first impression of Waziristan was admiration that people had managed to survive in such an environment. They drove down a gravel track, through a level, vegetationless valley carpeted with black pebbles. The stones gathered the desert sun and vibrated with it, lending the landscape the feeling of a fever dream.

Half of the brown, extinct-looking mountains ten miles to their west belonged, on paper, to Pakistan. Half were the property of Afghanistan. The British must have had a sense of humor to draw a border across such an indefensible wasteland, Mortenson thought. Five years later, American forces would learn the futility of trying to hunt down guerillas familiar with these hills. There were as many caves as there were mountains, each one known to the generations of smugglers who plied these pa.s.ses. The labyrinth of Tora Bora, just across the border, would baffle American Special Forces who tried unsuccessfully, according to locals who claim to have protected him, to prevent Osama Bin Laden and his Al Qaeda comrades from slipping into Waziristan.

Past the gauntlet of black pebbles, Mortenson felt he had entered a medieval society of warring city states. Former British forts, now occupied by Pakistani soldiers serving a one-year tour of hards.h.i.+p duty, were battened down tight. Wazir tribal compounds rose out of the stony highlands on both sides of the road. Each was all but invisible, surrounded by twenty-foot-high packed-earth walls, and topped with gun towers. Mortenson mistook the lone figures on top of many of the towers for scarecrows, until they pa.s.sed near enough to see one gunman tracking their progress along the valley floor through the scope of his rifle.

The Wazir practiced purdah, purdah, not just for their women, but from all outsiders. Since at least 600 b.c., Wazir have resisted the influence of the world outside their walls, preferring instead to keep all of Waziristan as pure and veiled as its women. not just for their women, but from all outsiders. Since at least 600 b.c., Wazir have resisted the influence of the world outside their walls, preferring instead to keep all of Waziristan as pure and veiled as its women.

They pa.s.sed squat gun factories, where Wazir craftsmen made skillful copies of many of the world's automatic weapons, and stopped for lunch in Bannu, Waziristan's biggest settlement, where they wove through dense traffic of donkey carts and double-cab pickups. At a tea shop, Mortenson stretched as much as his shalwar shalwar would allow, and tried to strike up a conversation with a table of men, the type of elders Haji Ali had advised him to seek out, while the driver went looking for a shop selling his brand of cigarettes. Mortenson's Urdu produced blank stares, and he promised himself he'd devote some of his time back in Bozeman to studying Pashto. would allow, and tried to strike up a conversation with a table of men, the type of elders Haji Ali had advised him to seek out, while the driver went looking for a shop selling his brand of cigarettes. Mortenson's Urdu produced blank stares, and he promised himself he'd devote some of his time back in Bozeman to studying Pashto.

Across the dusty street, behind high walls, was the Saudi-built Madra.s.sa-I-Arabia, Madra.s.sa-I-Arabia, where two years later, John Walker Lindh, the "American Taliban," would come to study a fundamentalist brand of Islam called "Wahhabism." Lindh, fresh from the crisp climate of Marin County, would reportedly wilt under the anvil of Waziristan's sun, and cross the pa.s.ses into Afghanistan, to continue his education at a where two years later, John Walker Lindh, the "American Taliban," would come to study a fundamentalist brand of Islam called "Wahhabism." Lindh, fresh from the crisp climate of Marin County, would reportedly wilt under the anvil of Waziristan's sun, and cross the pa.s.ses into Afghanistan, to continue his education at a madra.s.sa madra.s.sa in the mountains with a more temperate climate, a in the mountains with a more temperate climate, a madra.s.sa madra.s.sa financed by another Saudi, Osama Bin Laden. financed by another Saudi, Osama Bin Laden.

All afternoon, they drove deeper into Waziristan, while Mortenson practiced a few polite Pashto greetings the driver taught him. "It was the most stark area you could imagine, but also beautifully serene," Mortenson says. "We were really getting to the heartland of the tribal areas and I was excited to have made it so far." Just south of Ladha, as the sun dropped into Afghanistan, they arrived at Kot Langarkhel, Khan's ancestral home. The village was just two general stores flanking a sandstone mosque and had the flyblown feel of end places the world over. A dusty piebald goat relaxed across the center of the road, its legs splayed so flat it looked like roadkill. Khan called out a greeting to men in a warehouse behind the bigger of the two shops and told the driver to pull the car inside, where it would be safe overnight.

The scene inside the warehouse set Mortenson immediately on edge. Six Wazir men with bandoliers criss-crossed on their chests slumped on packing crates smoking has.h.i.+sh from a multinecked hookah. Piled against the walls, Mortenson saw stacks of bazookas, "A SMILE SHOULD BE MORE THAN A MEMORY"

rocket-propelled grenade launchers, and crates of oily new AK-47s. He noticed the whip antennas of military-grade field radios sticking up behind boxes of powdered fruit-punch-flavored Gatorade and Oil of Olay and realized he'd blundered into the stronghold of a large and well-organized smuggling operation.

Wazir, like all Pashtuns, live by the code of Pashtunwali. Badal, Pashtunwali. Badal, revenging blood feuds and defense of revenging blood feuds and defense of zan, zar, zan, zar, and and zameen, zameen, or family, treasure, and land, are central pillars of or family, treasure, and land, are central pillars of Pashtunwali Pashtunwali. As is nenawatay, nenawatay, hospitality and asylum for guests who arrive seeking help. The trick was to arrive as a guest, rather than an invader. Mortenson climbed out of the car in his ridiculous costume and set about trying to become the former, since it was too dangerous to search for another place to stay after dark. hospitality and asylum for guests who arrive seeking help. The trick was to arrive as a guest, rather than an invader. Mortenson climbed out of the car in his ridiculous costume and set about trying to become the former, since it was too dangerous to search for another place to stay after dark.

"I used everything I'd learned in Baltistan and greeted each of the men as respectfully as I knew how," Mortenson says. "With the few Pashto words Khan taught me on the drive down, I asked how were their families and if they were in good health." Many of the Wazir men had fought alongside American Special Forces in their crusade to drive the Soviets from Pashtun lands in Afghanistan. Five years before B52s would begin carpet-bombing these hills, they still greeted some Americans warmly.

The scruffiest of the smugglers, who smelled as if has.h.i.+sh oil was seeping from his pores, offered Mortenson a mouthpiece of the hookah, which he declined as politely as possible. "I probably should have smoked some just to make friends, but I didn't want to get any more paranoid than I already felt," Mortenson says.

Khan and the elder of the gang, a tall man with rose-colored aviator gla.s.ses and a thick black mustache that perched, batlike, on his upper lip, talked heatedly in Pashto about what to do with the outsider for the evening. After they'd finished, the driver took a long draw from the hookah and turned to Mortenson. "Haji Mirza please to invite you his house," he said, smoke dribbling through his teeth. The tension that had been holding Mortenson's shoulders bunched against his tight shalwar shalwar drained away. He'd be all right now. He was a guest. drained away. He'd be all right now. He was a guest.

They climbed uphill for half an hour in the dark, past ripening fig trees that smelled as sweet as the hash fumes wafting off the Wazir's clothes. The group walked silently except for the rhythmic clink of gunstock against ammunition belt. A blood-red line along the horizon was the last light fading over Afghanistan. At a hilltop compound, Haji Mirza called out, and ma.s.sive wooden doors set into a twenty-foot earthen wall were unbolted from inside and swung slowly open. A wide-eyed guard studied Mortenson in the light of a kerosene lantern and looked like he'd prefer to empty his AK-47 into the foreigner, just to be on the safe side. After a harsh grunt from Haji Mirza, he stepped aside and let the entire party pa.s.s.

"Only a day's drive from the modern world, I really felt we'd arrived in the Middle Ages," Mortenson says. "There was no moat to cross, but I felt that way when I walked inside." The walls were ma.s.sive, and the cavernous rooms were ineffectually lit by flickering lanterns. A gun tower rose fifty feet above the courtyard so snipers could pick off anyone approaching uninvited.

Mortenson and his driver were led to a room at the center of the compound piled with carpets. By the time the traditional s.h.i.+n chai, s.h.i.+n chai, green tea flavored with cardamom, arrived, the driver had slumped against a cus.h.i.+on, flung his leather coat over his head, and set Morten-son's nerves rattling by settling into a phlegmy bout of snoring. Haji Mirza left to supervise the preparation of a meal, and Mortenson sipped tea in uncomfortable silence for two hours with four of his henchmen until dinner was served. green tea flavored with cardamom, arrived, the driver had slumped against a cus.h.i.+on, flung his leather coat over his head, and set Morten-son's nerves rattling by settling into a phlegmy bout of snoring. Haji Mirza left to supervise the preparation of a meal, and Mortenson sipped tea in uncomfortable silence for two hours with four of his henchmen until dinner was served.

Mahnam do die, Haji Mirza announced, "dinner." The savory smell of lamb lured Khan out from under his coat. Urbanized as he appeared, the driver still drew a dagger at the sight of roasted meat with the dozen other Wazir at the feast. Haji Mirza's servant placed a steaming tray of Haji Mirza announced, "dinner." The savory smell of lamb lured Khan out from under his coat. Urbanized as he appeared, the driver still drew a dagger at the sight of roasted meat with the dozen other Wazir at the feast. Haji Mirza's servant placed a steaming tray of Kabuli pilau, Kabuli pilau, rice with carrots, cloves, and raisins, on the floor next to the lamb, but the men only had eyes for the animal. They attacked it with their long daggers, stripping tender meat from the bone and cramming it into their mouths with the blades of their knives. "I thought the Balti ate meat with gusto," Mortenson said, "but this was the most primal, barbaric meal I've ever been a part of. After ten minutes of tearing and grunting, the lamb was nothing but bones, and the men were burping and wiping the grease off their beards." rice with carrots, cloves, and raisins, on the floor next to the lamb, but the men only had eyes for the animal. They attacked it with their long daggers, stripping tender meat from the bone and cramming it into their mouths with the blades of their knives. "I thought the Balti ate meat with gusto," Mortenson said, "but this was the most primal, barbaric meal I've ever been a part of. After ten minutes of tearing and grunting, the lamb was nothing but bones, and the men were burping and wiping the grease off their beards."

The Wazir lay groaning against pillows and lit hash pipes and cigarettes. Mortenson accepted a lamb-scented cigarette from one of the Wazir's hands and dutifully smoked it to a stub, as an honored guest should. By midnight, Mortenson's eyelids were leaden, and one of the "A SMILE SHOULD BE MORE THAN A MEMORY"

men rolled out a mat for him to sleep on. He hadn't done so badly, he thought, as the tableau of turbaned men slipped in and out of focus. He'd made contact with at least one tribal elder, however hash-besotted, and tomorrow he'd press him for further introductions and begin to explore how the village felt about a school.

The shouting worked its way into Mortenson's dream. Just before abandoning sleep, he was back in Khane, listening to Janjungpa screaming at Akhmalu about why their village needed a climbing school instead of a school for children. Then he sat up and what he saw made no sense. A pressure lamp dangled in front of his face, sending shadows lurching grotesquely up the walls. Behind the lamp, Mortenson saw the barrel of an AK-47, aimed, he realized, his consciousness ratcheting up a notch with this information, at his chest.

Behind the gun, a wild man with a matted beard and gray turban was shouting in a language he didn't understand. It was 2:00 a.m. Mortenson had only slept for two hours, and as he struggled to understand what was happening to him, being deprived of the sleep he so badly needed bothered him more than the eight unfamiliar men pointing weapons at him and pulling him up by the arms.

They jerked him roughly to his feet and dragged him toward the door. Mortenson searched the dim room for Khan or Haji Mirza's men, but he was quite alone with the armed strangers. Calloused hands gripped his biceps on both sides and led him out the unbolted compound doors.

Someone slipped an unrolled turban over Mortenson's head from behind and tied it tight. "I remember thinking, 'It's so dark out here what could I possibly see?' " Mortenson says. They led him down a trail in the doubled darkness, pressing him to walk fast and propping him up when he stumbled over rocks in his heelless sandals. At the trailhead, a phalanx of arms guided him up into the bed of a pickup and piled in after him.

"We drove for about forty-five minutes," Mortenson says. "I was finally fully awake and I was s.h.i.+vering, partly because it was cold in an open truck in the desert. And also because now I was really afraid." The men pressing against him argued violently in Pashto, and Mortenson a.s.sumed they were debating what to do with him. But why had they taken him in the first place? And where had Haji Mirza's armed guards been when this lashkar, lashkar, or posse, had burst in without firing a shot? The thought that these men were Mirza's accomplices. .h.i.t Mortenson like a blow to the face. Pressing against him, his abductors smelled smoky and unwashed, and each minute the pickup drove deeper into the night felt, to Mortenson, like a mile further from ever seeing his wife again. or posse, had burst in without firing a shot? The thought that these men were Mirza's accomplices. .h.i.t Mortenson like a blow to the face. Pressing against him, his abductors smelled smoky and unwashed, and each minute the pickup drove deeper into the night felt, to Mortenson, like a mile further from ever seeing his wife again.

The truck pulled off the highway, then b.u.mped uphill along a rutted track. Mortenson felt the driver hit the brakes, and the truck turned sharply before stopping. Strong hands pulled him out onto the ground. He heard someone fumbling with a lock, then a large metal door swinging open. Mortenson stumbled over the doorframe, hands bruising his upper arms, down a hallway that echoed with their progress, and into a dark room. He heard the heavy outer door slamming shut. Then his blindfold was removed.

He was in spare, high-ceilinged room, ten feet wide and twenty long. A kerosene lantern burned on the sill of a single small window, shuttered from the outside. He turned toward the men who had brought him, telling himself not to panic, trying to marshal the presence of mind to produce some same small pleasantry, anything to start trying to win their sympathy, and saw a heavy door clicking closed behind them. Through the thick wood, he heard the dispiriting sound of a padlock snapping shut.

In a pool of darkness at the far end of the room, Mortenson saw a blanket and pad on the dirt floor. Something elemental told him sleep was a better option than pacing the room, worrying about what was to come. So he lay down on the thin pad, his feet dangling a foot over the edge, pulled a musty wool blanket over his chest, and dropped into dreamless, uninterrupted sleep.

When he opened his eyes he saw two of his abductors squatting on their heels beside his bed and daylight trickling through the slatted window. "Chai," "Chai," the nearest one said, pouring him a cup of tepid plain green tea. He sipped from a plastic mug with a show of enthusiasm, smiling at the men, while he studied them. They had the hard, winnowed look of men who've spent much of their life outdoors, suffering privation. Both were well into their fifties, he guessed, with beards as matted and dense as wolves' winter coats. A deep red welt ran the width of the forehead of the one who'd served him tea. And Mortenson took it for a shrapnel wound, or the crease that marked the transit of a nearly fatal bullet. They had been the nearest one said, pouring him a cup of tepid plain green tea. He sipped from a plastic mug with a show of enthusiasm, smiling at the men, while he studied them. They had the hard, winnowed look of men who've spent much of their life outdoors, suffering privation. Both were well into their fifties, he guessed, with beards as matted and dense as wolves' winter coats. A deep red welt ran the width of the forehead of the one who'd served him tea. And Mortenson took it for a shrapnel wound, or the crease that marked the transit of a nearly fatal bullet. They had been mujahadeen, mujahadeen, he decided, veterans he decided, veterans "A SMILE SHOULD BE MORE THAN A MEMORY"

of the Afghan guerilla war against the Soviets. But what were they now? And what were they planning to do with him?

Mortenson drained his mug of tea and mimed his desire to visit a toilet. The guards slung Kalashnikovs over their shoulders and led him out into a courtyard. The twenty-foot walls were too high for Mortenson to see any of the countryside, and he noted a guard manning the gun tower high above the far corner of the compound. The scarred man motioned toward a door with the barrel of his Kalashnikov, and Mortenson entered a stall with a squat toilet. He put his hand on the door to pull it shut, but the scarless guard held it open with his foot and walked inside with him while the other stared in from outside. "I use squat toilets with buckets of water all the time," Mortenson says. "But to do it with two men watching. To have to, you know, clean yourself afterward while they stare at you, was nerve-wracking."

After he'd finished, the guards jerked the barrels of their guns back the way they'd come and prodded Mortenson toward the room. He sat cross-legged on his sleeping mat and tried to make conversation. But the guards weren't interested in trying to decode his gestures and hand signals. They took up positions by the door, smoked bowl after bowl of has.h.i.+sh, and ignored him.

"I began to get really depressed," Mortenson says. "I thought, 'This could go on for a very long time.' And that seemed worse than just, you know, getting it over with." With the single small window shuttered, and the lamp guttering low, the room was night-dim. Mortenson's depression outweighed his fear and he dozed, slipping in and out of half sleep as the hours pa.s.sed.

Bobbing up into consciousness, he noticed something on the floor by the end of his mat. He picked it up. It was a tattered Time Time magazine dated November 1979, then seventeen years out of date. Under a coverline that read "The Test of Wills," a garish painting of a scowling Ayatollah Khomeini loomed like a banshee over an inset photograph of a defeated-looking Jimmy Carter. magazine dated November 1979, then seventeen years out of date. Under a coverline that read "The Test of Wills," a garish painting of a scowling Ayatollah Khomeini loomed like a banshee over an inset photograph of a defeated-looking Jimmy Carter.

Mortenson flipped through pages, limp with age, detailing the early days of the Iran Hostage Crisis. With a jolt that jarred his stomach, he confronted photos of helpless blindfolded Americans at the mercy of fanatical, taunting crowds. Had this particular Time Time magazine been put here as a message of some sort? Or was it a hospitable gesture, the only English reading material his hosts had on hand? He snuck a glance at the guards to see if their faces were ripe with any new meaning, but they continued talking quietly together over their has.h.i.+sh, still seemingly uninterested in him. magazine been put here as a message of some sort? Or was it a hospitable gesture, the only English reading material his hosts had on hand? He snuck a glance at the guards to see if their faces were ripe with any new meaning, but they continued talking quietly together over their has.h.i.+sh, still seemingly uninterested in him.

There was nothing else to do but read. Angling the pages toward the kerosene lantern, he studied a special report, in Time Time's stentorian style, on the ordeal of the American hostages in Teheran. Details were provided by five female emba.s.sy secretaries and by seven black Marine guards, who were released soon after the emba.s.sy was taken. Mortenson learned that the black hostages were released at a press conference under a banner that read "Oppressed Blacks, The U.S. Government is our Common Enemy."

Marine Sergeant Ladell Maples reported that he was forced to record statements praising the Iranian revolution and told he'd be shot if he misspoke.

Kathy Jean Gross, who spoke some Farsi, said she struck up a tenuous relations.h.i.+p with one of her female guards and wondered whether that led to her release.

Mortenson read how the hostages were forced to sleep on the floor with their hands and feet tied. They were untied for meals, to use the toilet, and for the smokers among them to indulge their habit. "Some of us were so desperate to be untied longer that the nonsmokers started to smoke," Time Time quoted one woman, named Elizabeth Montagne. quoted one woman, named Elizabeth Montagne.

The special report ended on what Time Time's team of writers considered a powerfully ominous note: "The White House was prepared for the chilling but very real possibility that the hostages would spend their Christmas with Khomeini's militants in the Teheran Emba.s.sy." With the benefit of seventeen years of hindsight, Mortenson knew what journalists never suspected in November 1979-that more than two Christmases would pa.s.s before the hostages' 444-day ordeal came to an end.

Mortenson put down the magazine. At least no one had tied him up or threatened to shoot him. Yet. Things could be worse, Mortenson thought. But 444 days in this dim room was too terrible to contemplate. He might not be able to speak Pashto, but he'd find a way to follow Kathy Jean Gross's lead, Mortenson decided. He'd manufacture some way to communicate with these men.

After picking at a meal of dal dal and and Kabuli pilau, Kabuli pilau, Mortenson lay awake much of the second night, test-driving and rejecting various Mortenson lay awake much of the second night, test-driving and rejecting various "A SMILE SHOULD BE MORE THAN A MEMORY"

strategies. His Time Time magazine talked about the Iranian captors' suspi magazine talked about the Iranian captors' suspicion that some of their hostages were employed by the CIA. Could that be why he was kidnapped? Did they suspect him of being an agent sent to spy on this relatively unknown new phenomenon, the Taliban? It was possible, but with his limited language skills there was no way he could explain the work he did for Pakistan's children, so he put persuasion aside.

Was he being held for ransom? Despite the fact that he still clung to the hope that the Wazir were simply well meaning and misunderstood, he had to admit that money might be a motive. But again, he hadn't the Pashto to convince them how comically little cash he had. Was he abducted because he was an infidel trespa.s.sing in a fundamentalist land? Turning this over as the guards enjoyed their chemically enhanced sleep, he thought it might be likely. And thanks to a tailor, he might be able to influence his captors without speaking their language.

His second morning in the room, when the guards roused him with tea, he was ready. "El Koran?" he said, miming a man of faith paging through a holy book. The guards understood at once, since Arabic is the language of wors.h.i.+p for Muslims the world over. The one with the forehead scar said something in Pashto that Mortenson couldn't decipher, but he chose to interpret that his request had been noted.

It wasn't until the afternoon of the third day that an older man, whom Mortenson took to be the village mullah, arrived holding a dusty Koran, covered in green velvet. Mortenson thanked him in Urdu, just in case, but nothing flickered in the old man's hooded eyes. Mortenson brought the book to his mat on the floor and performed wudu, wudu, the ritual was.h.i.+ng when water isn't available, before he opened it reverently. the ritual was.h.i.+ng when water isn't available, before he opened it reverently.

Mortenson bent over the sacred book, pretending he was reading, quietly speaking the Koranic verses he'd learned under the eyeless gaze of a dressmaker's dummy in Rawalpindi. The grizzled mullah nodded once, as if satisfied, and left Mortenson alone with the guards. Mortenson thought of Haji Ali, likewise illiterate in Arabic, but tenderly turning the pages of his Koran just the same, and smiled, warming himself over this ember of feeling.

He prayed five times a day when he heard the call from a nearby mosque, wors.h.i.+pping in the Sunni way in this Sunni land, and poring over the Koran. But if his plan was having any effect, he noted no change in the demeanor of his guards. When he wasn't pretending to read the Koran, Mortenson turned to his Time Time magazine for comfort. magazine for comfort.

He'd decided to avoid the stories about the hostage crisis, noting how his head spun with anxiety after each rereading. He blotted out his surroundings for thirty minutes at a time with a fawning profile of the famous candidate who'd just declared his desire to run for president- Ronald Reagan. "It is time to stop worrying about whether someone likes us and decide we are going to be respected again in the world," Reagan told Time Time's editors, "So no dictator would ever again seize our emba.s.sy and take our people." Under President Clinton, America's respect in the world had steadily climbed, Mortenson thought. But how, exactly, could that help him? Even if an American diplomat could trade on that prestige to try to free him, no one even knew where he was.

The fourth and fifth days trickled past, marked only by changes in the quality of light leaking in through the shutters. At night, short, fierce bursts of automatic weapons fire echoed outside the compound and were answered with stuttering retorts from the gun tower.

During daylight, Mortenson snuck glances through the window's slats. But the view-of the blank face of the compound's outer wall- provided no relief from the tedium of the room. Mortenson was desperate to distract himself. But there were only so many times he could read Time Time's withering critique of the cultural bias of the Stanford-Binet IQ Test, or the breathless account of how sunflowers were becoming North Dakota's newest cash crop.

The ads were the answer. They were windows home.

At what he judged to be the middle of the fifth night, Mortenson felt a wave of blackness lapping at his feet, surging up to his knees, threatening to drown him in despair. He missed Tara like a limb. He'd told her he'd be back in a day or two and it crushed him that there was no way to comfort her. He would give anything, he thought, to see the picture he'd taken with Tara on their wedding day. In the photo, he held her in his arms in front of the streetcar that had taken them on that enchanted ride. Tara beamed at the camera, looking as happy as he'd ever seen her. He cursed himself for leaving his wallet in his duffel bag at his Peshawar hotel.

Through force of will, Mortenson held the black water at bay, and "A SMILE SHOULD BE MORE THAN A MEMORY"

turned the pages of the magazine, searching for a foothold in the warm dry world he'd left behind. He lingered at an ad for the Chevrolet Cla.s.sic Estate Wagon, at the pretty suburban mother smiling, from the pa.s.senger seat, at something the two adorable children in the back of the safe, fuel-efficient, wood-paneled vehicle were saying to her.

For almost two hours, he pored over a spread selling Kodak Instamatic Cameras. On the branches of a Christmas tree, hung like ornaments, were photos of an indisputably contented family. A distinguished grandfather, warmly wrapped in a cozy red bathrobe, taught an idealized blond boy how to use his new gift-a fis.h.i.+ng pole. A beaming mom looked on while apple-cheeked children unwrapped football helmets and roughhoused with fledgling puppies. Despite the fact that Morten-son's own childhood Christmases had been spent in Africa, and the closest he had ever come to a traditional tree had been a small artificial pine they dusted off each year, he clung to this lifesaver flung from the world he knew, the world that wasn't this kerosene-smelling room and these malevolent men.

Dawn of his sixth morning in captivity found Mortenson's eyes tearing up over an ad for a WaterPik Oral Hygiene Appliance. The tagline read, "A smile should be more than a memory," and the text expressed unemotional information about a "bacteria called plaque that grows and thrives below the gumline," but Mortenson was far beyond language. The photo of three generations of a stable American family standing on the porch of a solid brick home was almost more than he could bear. The way they all flashed dazzling smiles and leaned into each other implied levels of love and concern, the feelings he had for his Tara, the feelings no one here had for him.

He sensed, before he saw, someone standing over his bundle of bedding. Mortenson looked up, into the eyes of a large man. His silvery beard was trimmed in a scholarly fas.h.i.+on, and he smiled kindly as he greeted Mortenson in Pashto, then said, "So you must be the American." In English.

Mortenson stood up to shake his hand and the room spun uncontrollably. For four days, as he'd become increasingly depressed, he'd refused everything but rice and tea. The man grabbed his shoulders, steadying him, and called for breakfast.

Between mouthfuls of warm chapatti, chapatti, Mortenson made up for six days without speaking. When he asked the kindly man's name he paused significantly before saying, "Just call me Khan," Waziristan's equivalent of "Smith." Mortenson made up for six days without speaking. When he asked the kindly man's name he paused significantly before saying, "Just call me Khan," Waziristan's equivalent of "Smith."

Though he was Wazir, "Khan" had been educated in a British school in Peshawar and spoke with the clipped cadences of his school days. He didn't explain why he had come, but it was understood he had been summoned to take stock of the American. Mortenson told him about his work in Baltistan, spinning the tale out over pots of green tea. He explained that he planned to build many more schools for Pakistan's most neglected children, and he'd come to Waziristan to see if his services were wanted here.

He waited anxiously for Khan's response, hoping his detention would be declared a misunderstanding and he'd soon be on his way back to Peshawar. But he got no such comfort from the bearlike man before him. Khan picked up the Time Time magazine and paged through it distractedly, his mind obviously elsewhere. He paused at an ad for the magazine and paged through it distractedly, his mind obviously elsewhere. He paused at an ad for the U.S. Army and Mortenson sensed danger. Pointing to a picture of a woman in camouflage operating a field radio, Khan asked, "Your American military sends women into battle nowadays, does it?"

"Not usually," Mortenson said, searching for diplomacy, "but women in our culture are free to choose any career." He felt even that response contained the kernel of an offense. His mind raced through subjects where they might find common ground.

"My wife is about to give birth to our first child, a zoi, zoi, a son," Mortenson said. "And I need to get home for his arrival." a son," Mortenson said. "And I need to get home for his arrival."

Several months earlier Tara had had an ultrasound done, and Mortenson had seen the fuzzy aquatic image of his new daughter. "But I knew that for a Muslim the birth of a son is a really big deal," Mortenson says. "I felt bad about lying, but I thought the birth of a son might make them let me go."

Khan continued frowning over the army ad as if he'd heard nothing. "I told my wife I'd be home already," Mortenson prodded. "And I'm sure she's really worried. Can I telephone her to tell her I'm all right?"

"There are no telephones here," the man who called himself Khan said. "What if you took me to one of the Pakistani army posts? I could call from there?" Khan sighed. "I'm afraid that's not possible," he said. Then he "A SMILE SHOULD BE MORE THAN A MEMORY"

looked Mortenson in the eye, a lingering look that hinted at sympathies he wasn't free to extend. "Don't worry," he said, gathering the tea things and taking his leave. "You'll be just fine."

On the afternoon of the eighth day, Khan called on Mortenson again. "Are you a fan of football?" he asked.

Mortenson probed the question for dangerous hidden depths and decided there were none. "Sure," he said. "I played football in col, uh, university," he said, and as he translated from American to British English he realized Khan meant soccer.

"Then we will entertain you with a match," Khan said, beckoning Mortenson toward the door. "Come."

He followed Khan's broad back out the unbolted front gate and, dizzy in the wide open s.p.a.ce, had his first glimpse of his surroundings in a week. At the bottom of a sloping gravel road, by the minarets of a crumbling mosque, he could see a highway bisecting the valley. And on the far side, not a mile distant, he saw the fortified towers of a Pakistani army post. Mortenson considered making a run for it, then remembered the sniper in his captors' gun tower. So he followed Khan uphill, to a wide stony field where two dozen young, bearded men he'd never seen were playing a surprisingly accomplished game of soccer, trying to thread a ball through goalposts of empty stacked ammunition crates.

Khan led him to a white plastic chair that had been set by the side of the field in his honor. And Mortenson dutifully watched the players kicking up clouds of dust that adhered to their sweaty shalwar kamiz, shalwar kamiz, before a cry came out from the gun tower. The sentry had spotted movement at the army post. "Terribly sorry," Khan said, herding Mortenson quickly back behind the compound's high earthen walls. before a cry came out from the gun tower. The sentry had spotted movement at the army post. "Terribly sorry," Khan said, herding Mortenson quickly back behind the compound's high earthen walls.

That night, Mortenson fought for sleep and lost. By his bearing and the respect others showed him, Mortenson realized, Khan was most likely an emerging Taliban commander. But what did that mean for him? Was the soccer match a sign that he'd soon be released? Or the equivalent of a last cigarette?

At 4:00 a.m., when they came for him, he had his answer. Khan put on the blindfold himself, draped a blanket over Mortenson's shoulders, and led him gently by the arm out to the bed of the pickup truck full of men. "Back then, before 9/11, beheading foreigners wasn't in fas.h.i.+on," Mortenson says. "And I didn't think being shot was such a bad way to die. But the idea that Tara would have to raise our child on her own and would probably never find out what happened to me made me crazy. I could picture her pain and uncertainty going on and on and that seemed like the most horrible thing of all." was such a bad way to die. But the idea that Tara would have to raise our child on her own and would probably never find out what happened to me made me crazy. I could picture her pain and uncertainty going on and on and that seemed like the most horrible thing of all."

In the windy bed of the pickup, someone offered Mortenson a cigarette, but he declined. He had no need to make a hospitable impression anymore, and a cigarette wasn't the last taste he wanted to have in his mouth. For the half hour that they drove, he pulled the blanket tightly around his shoulders, but couldn't stop s.h.i.+vering. But when the pickup turned down a dirt road, toward the sound of intense automatic weapons fire, Mortenson broke out in a sweat.

The driver locked up the brakes and the truck slid to a stop amid the deafening cacophony of dozens of AK-47s firing on full automatic. Khan unwrapped Mortenson's blindfold and squeezed him to his chest. "You see," he said. "I told you everything would work out for the best." Over Khan's shoulder Mortenson saw hundreds of big, bearded Wazir, dancing around bonfires, shooting their weapons in the air. On their firelit faces, Mortenson was amazed to see not bloodl.u.s.t, but rapture.

The lashkar lashkar he'd come with jumped out of the pickup whooping with glee and added fire from their weapons to the fusillade. It had to be almost dawn, but Mortenson saw pots boiling and goats roasting over the flames. he'd come with jumped out of the pickup whooping with glee and added fire from their weapons to the fusillade. It had to be almost dawn, but Mortenson saw pots boiling and goats roasting over the flames.

"What is this?" he yelled, following Khan into the frenzy of dancing men, not trusting that his eight days of danger had finally pa.s.sed. "Why am I here?"