heartlvrs
09-22-2003, 06:12 PM
Again courtesy of msn/newsweek magazine:
Excerpt: ‘Look, Danny’s Talking to You’
In a new memoir, Mariane Pearl recalls the kidnapping and murder of her husband, in part so her child and others will ‘know the truth’
Newsweek Sept. 29 issue — Mariane Pearl knew something was wrong when her husband, Danny, failed to attend a dinner party hosted by the couple’s friend, journalist Asra Nomani. They were in Karachi, Pakistan, where Danny was reporting on shadowy connections between a radical Muslim cleric and Richard C. Reid, also known as “the shoe bomber.” It quickly became clear that Danny, The Wall Street Journal’s South Asia bureau chief, had been kidnapped by militant Islamists; roughly a week later, Danny’s captors beheaded him. Pakistan has since arrested, tried and convicted Ahmad Omar Sheikh, the British-born terrorist who organized the kidnapping, and three other co-conspirators. But the case is still tied up in appeals, and details of the conspiracy remain very murky.
IN HER new memoir, “A Mighty Heart: The Brave Life and Death of My Husband, Danny Pearl,” Mariane tells the horrifying story as she saw it unfold. This excerpt picks up when Mariane and Asra first hear about messages from the kidnappers.
A Conversation with Mariane Pearl: 'Going Back to Hell'
There’s hope. The phone rings. It is Wall Street Journal deputy foreign editor Bill Spindle calling to say that Jonathan Friedland is sending me an email. It may be from Danny’s kidnappers. Friedland is the Journal’s bureau chief in Los Angeles. The email had made several stops before it was forwarded to us. It had originally been sent at one a.m. from someone calling himself “kidnapperguy@hotmail.com” to thirty-one assorted people at the Urdu newspaper Jang, The Washington Post, The New York Times, and other international publications. Interestingly, no copies were sent to The Wall Street Journal.
With Asra and Captain [Mariane’s nickname for the Pakistani in charge of antiterror investigations] and Dost [another investigator] clustered around me, I click on the attachment. I see the photos first, four of them. Danny is in front of a blue curtain, wearing something he would never wear—a strange jogging suit, shiny hot pink and baby blue. His wrists are in chains and his glasses are gone. In the initial image, a man in a white salwar kameez is gripping the back of Danny’s head, shoving it forward, and, with the other hand, leveling a revolver an inch from my husband’s head.
Tears spring to my eyes, but I have been preparing for this. I feel like a boxer who knows he is about to be hit, each muscle tightening so as not to crumble when the actual blow lands; ready to hit back, not to think but act. I force myself to study the next image, in which Danny holds a January 26 edition of the English-language newspaper Dawn.
“They put the picture with the gun first for a reason,” Dost says softly. “They do it to shock you and get your attention.”
I can feel everyone study me with alarm. Ah, I think, they expect me to go into labor right here and now. Instead, I start to smile, because in one of the next photos, Danny is smiling too. It is obvious, even though his head is down. And then I see it—in one photo, his fingers form a V for victory; in another, he’s giving his captors the finger. You can sense his quiet triumph, the kind you feel when someone tries to silence you but your message gets through anyway. I was right: Danny has been fighting his fear. He’s telling me he’s not defeated and that I shouldn’t be, either.
I study the accompanying text. It is bizarre.
Subject: American CIA officer in our custody The National movement for the restoration of Pakistani sovereignty has captured CIA officer Daniel Pearl who has posing as a journalist of the Wall Street Journal.
I look behind me at Captain, who stares at the screen over my shoulder. “What is this group? Who are these people?” I ask.
Captain shakes his head. “It’s a group especially made up for this.”
I look back at the screen.
Unfortunately, he is at present being kept in very inhuman circumstances quite similar in fact to the way that Pakistanis and nationals of other sovereign countries are being kept in Cuba by the American Army. If the Americans keep our countrymen in better conditions we will better the conditions of Mr. Pearl and all the other Americans that we capture.
If the America wants the release of Mr. Pearl, all Pakistanis being illegally detained by the FBI in side America merely on suspicion must be given access to lawyers and allowed seeing their family members.
The Pakistani prisoners in Cuba must be returned to Pakistan and they will be tried in a Pakistani court. After all Pakistan was a full member of the international coalition against terror and it deserves the right to try its own citizens. And Send Afghanistan’s Embassador Mulla Zaeef back to Pakistan and if there is any accusition Pakistani Government should handle it.
Mullah Abdul Salam Zaeef is the former Taliban ambassador to Pakistan and one of the highest-ranking Taliban officials in U.S. custody.
Another message is attached. It is in Urdu, and it is much the same as the English version, except for one additional demand: the release of a shipment of F-16 fighter jets that Pakistan bought from the United States in the 1980s, which was stopped after Congress cut off military sales to Pakistan in 1990. “These planes should be provided to Pakistan or money should be refunded with a 15% interest rate.”
“These demands are impossible, they make no sense,” I say. “These people don’t want to negotiate with us. They’re just trying to apply pressure on Washington and Islamabad.”
“Yes,” says Captain.
With our new printer, we make copies for everyone and pass them out. “I don’t think it’s Danny,” adds Captain, studying his.
“Neither do I,” says Asra.
I barely listen to them.
Randall Bennett, the regional security officer at the U.S. embassy, has rushed over to the house with several Americans we haven’t met before. Two FBI agents sit down and immediately get to work poring over the computer, looking for clues. They study the email addresses and search for the IP (International Protocol) address, the unique identifying number for the computer that sent the email. Every computer on the internet has one. Randall studies our printouts. “That’s a doctored photo,” he says flatly. “It’s not Danny. Check out the angle of the shoulder—that doesn’t look right with the head. And the legs are too big. Look at the shoulders on this one. Now measure that against the other one here.”
Every little detail—the type of camera used, the make of the weapon threatening Danny, the way words are used—is analyzed, and everyone has a theory. I let everybody play out his or her line because I want to get hooked by one. But through it all, I know this is my husband.
In the chatter, I hear Randall ask, “Do you recognize the wedding ring?”
“Yes,” I say. “It’s loose on his finger. It’s always been loose.”
The room falls silent.
FBI agent Maureen Platt gets down to business. “Well, let’s send the images off to the forensics lab in Honolulu and see what they say.” The Honolulu division is the FBI field office responsible for investigations in this part of the world.
“Yes,” says Randall, “and to Washington, and ...”
But that’s silly. This is Danny. We don’t have time to wait for “experts” in other time zones to authenticate what we can plainly see.
Captain tries to distract me. “Look, Danny’s talking to you. He is smiling. With a gun to his head, Danny is smiling.”
Yes, I see.
“He doesn’t appear to be under too much stress or in agony.”
I see that, too.
The printouts of the email are spread across the dining table, offered up to anyone’s perusal. It’s somewhat obscene. People slide the images around the tabletop, as if reorganizing them will reveal something more. They stroke their chins, murmur among themselves, mutter the usual cliches.
Danny’s sister Michelle calls from California. “It’s good news!” she says.
“What is?” I ask, startled by the happy lilt to her voice.
“Mariane, this means Danny’s alive,” she says, and she’s exactly right. Because I’ve never allowed myself to admit he might be dead, the revelation hasn’t sunk in that this is indeed positive confirmation that my husband is alive.
We have interrogated mr.D.Parl and we have come to the conclusion that contrary to what we thought earlier he is not working for the cia. in fact he is working for Mossaad. Therefore we will execute him within 24 hours unless Amreeka flfils our demands.
It is the morning of January 30. Another email. This one with two photos attached, uncomfortably similar to those we received two days ago. Asra prints them out. In the first, a gun is pointed at Danny’s head, but he looks as if he is laughing; in the second, he looks like he got caught midblink. The photo is supposed to seem depressing—and he does look more tired, more worn—but still, it just looks like a bad shot.
January 31, another email arrives. This one has been sent to CNN, the BBC, Fox News, and three Pakistani newspapers. These destinations break the earlier pattern; still, we believe it is from the same group. It declares:
U CANNOT FOOL US AND FIND US. WE ARE INSIDE SEAS, OCEANS, HILLS, GRAVE YARDS EVERY WHERE. WE GIVE U 1 MORE DAY IF AMERICA WILL NOT MEET OUR DEMANDS WE WILL KILL DANIEL ... DON’T THINK THIS WILL BE THE END. IT IS THE BEGINNING AND IT IS A REAL WAR ON AMRIKANS. AMRIKANS WILL GET THE TASTE OF DATH AND DESTRUCTIONS WHAT WE HAD GOT IN AFG AND PAK. INSHALLAH.
Excerpt: ‘Look, Danny’s Talking to You’
In a new memoir, Mariane Pearl recalls the kidnapping and murder of her husband, in part so her child and others will ‘know the truth’
Newsweek Sept. 29 issue — Mariane Pearl knew something was wrong when her husband, Danny, failed to attend a dinner party hosted by the couple’s friend, journalist Asra Nomani. They were in Karachi, Pakistan, where Danny was reporting on shadowy connections between a radical Muslim cleric and Richard C. Reid, also known as “the shoe bomber.” It quickly became clear that Danny, The Wall Street Journal’s South Asia bureau chief, had been kidnapped by militant Islamists; roughly a week later, Danny’s captors beheaded him. Pakistan has since arrested, tried and convicted Ahmad Omar Sheikh, the British-born terrorist who organized the kidnapping, and three other co-conspirators. But the case is still tied up in appeals, and details of the conspiracy remain very murky.
IN HER new memoir, “A Mighty Heart: The Brave Life and Death of My Husband, Danny Pearl,” Mariane tells the horrifying story as she saw it unfold. This excerpt picks up when Mariane and Asra first hear about messages from the kidnappers.
A Conversation with Mariane Pearl: 'Going Back to Hell'
There’s hope. The phone rings. It is Wall Street Journal deputy foreign editor Bill Spindle calling to say that Jonathan Friedland is sending me an email. It may be from Danny’s kidnappers. Friedland is the Journal’s bureau chief in Los Angeles. The email had made several stops before it was forwarded to us. It had originally been sent at one a.m. from someone calling himself “kidnapperguy@hotmail.com” to thirty-one assorted people at the Urdu newspaper Jang, The Washington Post, The New York Times, and other international publications. Interestingly, no copies were sent to The Wall Street Journal.
With Asra and Captain [Mariane’s nickname for the Pakistani in charge of antiterror investigations] and Dost [another investigator] clustered around me, I click on the attachment. I see the photos first, four of them. Danny is in front of a blue curtain, wearing something he would never wear—a strange jogging suit, shiny hot pink and baby blue. His wrists are in chains and his glasses are gone. In the initial image, a man in a white salwar kameez is gripping the back of Danny’s head, shoving it forward, and, with the other hand, leveling a revolver an inch from my husband’s head.
Tears spring to my eyes, but I have been preparing for this. I feel like a boxer who knows he is about to be hit, each muscle tightening so as not to crumble when the actual blow lands; ready to hit back, not to think but act. I force myself to study the next image, in which Danny holds a January 26 edition of the English-language newspaper Dawn.
“They put the picture with the gun first for a reason,” Dost says softly. “They do it to shock you and get your attention.”
I can feel everyone study me with alarm. Ah, I think, they expect me to go into labor right here and now. Instead, I start to smile, because in one of the next photos, Danny is smiling too. It is obvious, even though his head is down. And then I see it—in one photo, his fingers form a V for victory; in another, he’s giving his captors the finger. You can sense his quiet triumph, the kind you feel when someone tries to silence you but your message gets through anyway. I was right: Danny has been fighting his fear. He’s telling me he’s not defeated and that I shouldn’t be, either.
I study the accompanying text. It is bizarre.
Subject: American CIA officer in our custody The National movement for the restoration of Pakistani sovereignty has captured CIA officer Daniel Pearl who has posing as a journalist of the Wall Street Journal.
I look behind me at Captain, who stares at the screen over my shoulder. “What is this group? Who are these people?” I ask.
Captain shakes his head. “It’s a group especially made up for this.”
I look back at the screen.
Unfortunately, he is at present being kept in very inhuman circumstances quite similar in fact to the way that Pakistanis and nationals of other sovereign countries are being kept in Cuba by the American Army. If the Americans keep our countrymen in better conditions we will better the conditions of Mr. Pearl and all the other Americans that we capture.
If the America wants the release of Mr. Pearl, all Pakistanis being illegally detained by the FBI in side America merely on suspicion must be given access to lawyers and allowed seeing their family members.
The Pakistani prisoners in Cuba must be returned to Pakistan and they will be tried in a Pakistani court. After all Pakistan was a full member of the international coalition against terror and it deserves the right to try its own citizens. And Send Afghanistan’s Embassador Mulla Zaeef back to Pakistan and if there is any accusition Pakistani Government should handle it.
Mullah Abdul Salam Zaeef is the former Taliban ambassador to Pakistan and one of the highest-ranking Taliban officials in U.S. custody.
Another message is attached. It is in Urdu, and it is much the same as the English version, except for one additional demand: the release of a shipment of F-16 fighter jets that Pakistan bought from the United States in the 1980s, which was stopped after Congress cut off military sales to Pakistan in 1990. “These planes should be provided to Pakistan or money should be refunded with a 15% interest rate.”
“These demands are impossible, they make no sense,” I say. “These people don’t want to negotiate with us. They’re just trying to apply pressure on Washington and Islamabad.”
“Yes,” says Captain.
With our new printer, we make copies for everyone and pass them out. “I don’t think it’s Danny,” adds Captain, studying his.
“Neither do I,” says Asra.
I barely listen to them.
Randall Bennett, the regional security officer at the U.S. embassy, has rushed over to the house with several Americans we haven’t met before. Two FBI agents sit down and immediately get to work poring over the computer, looking for clues. They study the email addresses and search for the IP (International Protocol) address, the unique identifying number for the computer that sent the email. Every computer on the internet has one. Randall studies our printouts. “That’s a doctored photo,” he says flatly. “It’s not Danny. Check out the angle of the shoulder—that doesn’t look right with the head. And the legs are too big. Look at the shoulders on this one. Now measure that against the other one here.”
Every little detail—the type of camera used, the make of the weapon threatening Danny, the way words are used—is analyzed, and everyone has a theory. I let everybody play out his or her line because I want to get hooked by one. But through it all, I know this is my husband.
In the chatter, I hear Randall ask, “Do you recognize the wedding ring?”
“Yes,” I say. “It’s loose on his finger. It’s always been loose.”
The room falls silent.
FBI agent Maureen Platt gets down to business. “Well, let’s send the images off to the forensics lab in Honolulu and see what they say.” The Honolulu division is the FBI field office responsible for investigations in this part of the world.
“Yes,” says Randall, “and to Washington, and ...”
But that’s silly. This is Danny. We don’t have time to wait for “experts” in other time zones to authenticate what we can plainly see.
Captain tries to distract me. “Look, Danny’s talking to you. He is smiling. With a gun to his head, Danny is smiling.”
Yes, I see.
“He doesn’t appear to be under too much stress or in agony.”
I see that, too.
The printouts of the email are spread across the dining table, offered up to anyone’s perusal. It’s somewhat obscene. People slide the images around the tabletop, as if reorganizing them will reveal something more. They stroke their chins, murmur among themselves, mutter the usual cliches.
Danny’s sister Michelle calls from California. “It’s good news!” she says.
“What is?” I ask, startled by the happy lilt to her voice.
“Mariane, this means Danny’s alive,” she says, and she’s exactly right. Because I’ve never allowed myself to admit he might be dead, the revelation hasn’t sunk in that this is indeed positive confirmation that my husband is alive.
We have interrogated mr.D.Parl and we have come to the conclusion that contrary to what we thought earlier he is not working for the cia. in fact he is working for Mossaad. Therefore we will execute him within 24 hours unless Amreeka flfils our demands.
It is the morning of January 30. Another email. This one with two photos attached, uncomfortably similar to those we received two days ago. Asra prints them out. In the first, a gun is pointed at Danny’s head, but he looks as if he is laughing; in the second, he looks like he got caught midblink. The photo is supposed to seem depressing—and he does look more tired, more worn—but still, it just looks like a bad shot.
January 31, another email arrives. This one has been sent to CNN, the BBC, Fox News, and three Pakistani newspapers. These destinations break the earlier pattern; still, we believe it is from the same group. It declares:
U CANNOT FOOL US AND FIND US. WE ARE INSIDE SEAS, OCEANS, HILLS, GRAVE YARDS EVERY WHERE. WE GIVE U 1 MORE DAY IF AMERICA WILL NOT MEET OUR DEMANDS WE WILL KILL DANIEL ... DON’T THINK THIS WILL BE THE END. IT IS THE BEGINNING AND IT IS A REAL WAR ON AMRIKANS. AMRIKANS WILL GET THE TASTE OF DATH AND DESTRUCTIONS WHAT WE HAD GOT IN AFG AND PAK. INSHALLAH.