06/10/2002

I awake at dawn and head to the airport for the homecoming of Afghanistan's exiled king.

Noor Ahamd, 20, my soft-spoken translator meets me at my hotel. He looks nervous.

The city is choked with security. Soldiers search cars at makeshift checkpoints. Armed trucks rumble through the streets. Helicopters whirl overhead.

Riding in a convoy of journalists, we race through one checkpoint, then another, then a third, until we reach the airport gates. The soldiers order me out of the car and start rummaging through my bag. They are yelling at Ahamd. "I can't go with you," he says.

A Toyota 4Runner in front of us clears security and starts to pull away. There is no one behind us, but soldiers.

I run toward the Toyota, which is already moving when I squeeze through the back window, my backpack nearly getting stuck as the car picks up speed. A Swedish radio reporter helps me aboard.

Looking back, I see that the soldiers are forcing Ahamd out of the car and into a jeep.

Ahamd is detained and questioned for more than two hours. The soldiers become suspicious when they find a card in his pocket containing an address in Peshawar, Pakistan. The soldiers are concerned that Ahamd is a Pakistani intent on harming the king. The card is from an Internet club.

Friday, April 19, 2002

The Mustafa Hotel is one of Kabul's finest, offering amenities that others cannot. There's running water, a restaurant that serves pizza, and a rooftop terrace where I can always find a signal on my satellite phone.

There's a man at the Mustafa who calls himself "Jack." He wears dark sunglasses, even at night, and likes to tell stories about his time in the Special Forces. He says he's been to Panama and parts of Southeast Asia. No one is quite sure what he's doing in Afghanistan.

Tonight, there's a going-away party for a reporter, ending his tour. The gin and pomegranate juice is flowing. A CD spins from a laptop computer. And Jack is holding court with a group of American reporters.

The conversation turns to the role of the press during wartime. Jack complains that reporters are too quick to criticize the military. The argument becomes heated.

Jack reaches behind his back and pulls out a gun.

He fires a shot into the sofa, about a foot from a reporter's shoulder.

The room falls silent. The hotel's owner, who is asleep on the couch, wakes up for a moment and then falls back asleep. My ears are ringing.

A freelance writer passes Jack a cigarette and tells me to keep smiling.

Jack grows unhappy with the music and threatens to shoot the computer. We switch to a new CD.

Later in the night, Jack uses his international cell phone to call his girlfriend. She's in Washington, D.C., having dinner with a friend. He passes the phone around the room so the others can talk to her.

Saturday, April 20, 2002

I check into a new hotel.

It's called the Sultan Guest House in Wazir Akbar Khan, a neighborhood in Kabul, which for some reason was spared serious destruction. It's run by a man named Shah Mahmood, the editor of the weekly Kabul Times.

There's a drained swimming pool in the front yard, tea and bread served with breakfast, and cockroaches the size of mice on the bathroom floor.

During the day, the staff plays chess and watches American spy movies translated into Farsi. The BBC is beamed into the house via satellite.

I decide to register with the American Embassy, alerting them to my whereabouts in Afghanistan. At the embassy gate, a marine, holding a large rifle and spitting tobacco juice, takes my passport and shoves a piece of paper through the bars.

I fill out my information and hand him back the paper. I thank him. The marine says nothing.

-- Michael Corkery