October 8
Lazed in the sun, trying not to notice the jackhammer noise of the generator, then hung around the Defense Ministry guest house, waiting one and a half hours for the chronically tardy Dr Abdullah the foreign minister. Then, after interviewing a cook — formerly with Dr Abdullah the warlord (I wonder if he knows. I don't think I'll mention it), we headed back to the hills for the bombing.
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Shadowy figures waited for us at regular intervals along the track leading up to the village — he had radioed ahead to make sure that we didn't fall victim to friendly fire. He was very cautious as we drove along the track. We drove without headlights — by far the most dangerous part of the operation, and Khademudin even covered the luminous clock with his scarf. Then a moonlit walk through the village along a narrow Tuscan hill-town lane, (many of the mud houses are three story) to a house with the best views. We clambered up the mud stairs, and just before we reached the top Khademudin ordered "lamps out."
Along the way to the house there had been a couple of massive flashes and ground shaking crumps, followed by lazy bursts of anti-aircraft guns. Also a more prosaic sight — the headlights of light trucks heading out of Kabul, on full beam. "Taliban," Khademudin said. "They head for the front whenever there is a bombing raid. They feel safer there. The cars were about a kilometer away."
The mood on the roof was languid. Our heavily armed escorts forgot about their weapons and engaged in the usual journalist-watching — it's sitting up, it's lying down, it's playing with a computer. Patrick Forestier of Paris-Match had a sudden, rare urge to do some work, became disoriented, and tried to interview Franchetti, mistaking him in the dark for a mujahideen. There really are Taliban all around, I had to keep reminding myself, but no one seems to care.
Khademudin called up the Taliban frequency on his radio, then various members of his squad amused themselves by listening to their conversation, or swapping insults. There was no sign of Taliban disarray. They sounded confident and aggressive. Some of their obscene banter, untranslated by the coy Asadullah ( I beat some of it out of him later) caused bursts of delighted laughter. Finally Khademudin went back on the air for a more dignified and wordy exchange of insults. Again this was largely untranslated, though the Taliban commander, a local, did ask Khademudin why he was a servant of the Americans, and Khademudin hit back by asking why worked for terrorists. Then the Taliban commander called off. "We have a jihad to fight," he said by way of explanation.
By midnight we had tired of the roof. Khademudin seemed relieved, and announced he would drive back with us. On the way back down, this time thank God with the headlights on, we caught a rabbit in our beams. Khdemudin moved unexpectedly fast, grabbing his AK 47 and bounding out of the minivan, gun cocked. I watched with interest, wondering how much would be left of a bunny shot at close range with an assault rifle. It escaped.
At the other vantage point of Tob Dara, we were told later, ITN's Julian Manion proclaimed loudly to his editors that he was in serious danger broadcasting from the roof of the mosque. The biggest danger was the roof collapsing. And a radio correspondent who slipped into a local house to file reported getting half stoned on second hand fumes from marijuana being consumed by the residents. On the way back from Sinjeddarah our hopes of a relatively full night's sleep were dashed when the car broke down. We dozed fitfully until something picked us up.
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