The Shredder

 The Shredder—A Memory

 Given the first two alternatives, a room in the Mustapha Hotel almost made sense. The room I had booked at the Intercontinental had been hit by a missile. The second room or, rather, compound, formerly occupied by Osama Bin Laden, turned out to be an inside joke hatched up between my translator and my driver.

 Frequented by serious journalists, UN staffers, NGO employees, and clandestine types, the Mustapha seemed perfect. Among its assets was a rooftop dining area overlooking the city and an illegal bar serving cold German beer on tap. We were assured that the Taliban, government officials, and some religious leaders were sufficiently bribed. The liabilities included no continuous security and the institution’s questionable walls.

 Understanding the need for office space to accommodate the influx of Westerners, the owners had installed floor to ceiling glass partitions. Later, when priorities changed, the partitions were painted over and converted into hotel room walls. What could possibly go wrong?

 Days after I had checked in, the hotel management braced itself after being threatened by a would-be suicide bomber. Armored vehicles patrolled outside. Black humor proliferated. If an explosion happened, the physics suggested the shredding of all unsuspecting (and some suspecting) guests within these glass-walled rooms.

 As soon as practicable, we left, driving north into the relative safety of the towering and now less forbidding Hindu Kush mountains.