(Christian Science Monitor)  I realized he thought I was somehow telling the U.S. military where I was. For my own safety, I needed to make him see I was very upset by that idea.

"I don't know! I don't know!" I said, my voice rising.

"You don't have a mobile phone?" he said. "Maybe in your hair?"

I ripped off my head scarf and shook my hair loose. This was completely inappropriate behavior that would normally have deeply offended a Muslim man as apparently devout as he, but I was desperate.

His hands went through my hair, checking my scalp for whatever he imagined I might have hidden there. Finally, he was satisfied. He left the room.
I collapsed into the plastic chair and started to cry, silently, afraid he would be angry if he heard me.

But suddenly he returned. He rushed over, grabbed my hand, and knelt next to me.

"I'm so sorry. No, Jill, don't cry. I'm so, so, so sorry," he said, emphatically. "No, no, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I'm your brother."

He was overwrought. Why should he care if I was upset? He'd kidnapped me, after all.

I knew I had just learned something important, something that might help me get through whatever was to come.

The next day I was told that US and Iraqi soldiers had raided the Um al-Qura Mosque - just a mile from Adnan al-Dulaimi's office.

Much later, I learned that the raid was prompted by a tip from an Iraqi civilian about my location. It was the closest U.S. forces would come to rescuing me over the next three months.

* * *

In the first minutes of my kidnapping the insurgents, who had seized me and killed Alan, seemed shocked at their success. They didn't appear to have a plan for what to do next.

But in the days that followed, a pattern developed that held throughout my captivity.

I was moved often. They provided me meals that Iraqis would think fit for guests, as well as small luxuries, such as expensive toiletries.

Yet I was a prisoner. My captors would unexpectedly explode with bitter accusations that I was a spy, or Jewish, or hiding a homing device. They'd boast about their exploits fighting - and once sharing a meal - with American soldiers while I was in captivity.

In response, my mood would veer wildly. One moment I'd be sure they were going to kill me. The next I'd think they were going to let me go, that it was only a matter of time.

Overall, I just wanted it to be over with, whatever "it" was going to be. I remember being in a hurry to get done with it from the moment it began.

* * *

That first day, they were spooked by how close the soldiers had come to finding me. Abu Rasha said they had to move to the house of Abu Ali, his "brother." I thought he meant his real brother. Later, I realized this was just a reference to a fellow mujahideen.

Abu Rasha packed my stuff for me, but forgot to put in the toothpaste and shampoo they'd given me the night before. I thought, maybe there's a reason he didn't put them in - desperately overanalyzing everything. I asked about them, and he put them in the bag.

Abu Rasha removed my glasses (I'd found the missing lens in the car) and put two black scarves over my head and face so I wouldn't be able to see where they were taking me. Hanging onto his arm, I stumbled blindly out of the house and into a car, trying to suck fresh air through the suffocating layers of black polyester.

After a short drive we switched cars, and I cowered, motionless in the strange, new back seat. Soon I realized that there were children next to me, and men in the front seat.

A cassette blared a recitation of the Koran and every few minutes the nervous men would mutter "Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar," as we drove through the darkness.

Then one of them said in Arabic, "What are you? What are you?"

A tiny voice next to me replied, "I'm a mujahid," a holy warrior.

It was a boy - I'd learn that his name was Ismael, and he was 5 years old.

Just a child, already indoctrinated.

After some 20 minutes, the car stopped and a woman's gloved hand grasped mine, guiding me out of the car and into a house. My heart was racing; the adrenaline hadn't stopped in 24 hours. Barely a day had passed and I was a broken, quivering, fearful shell.

She lifted the scarves. In a rush of air and light I saw her face, smiling and welcoming in a sitting room lined with cushions. Abu Rasha entered, and the woman flipped down a black scarf on her head, covering all but her eyes.

"This is Um Ali and this is Abu Ali," Abu Rasha told me, smiling. Um is Arabic for mother, Abu is father. But all my captors' names were fake, as each adopted a nom de guerre in my presence.

I looked to the left to a rotund man with a stubbly salt-and-pepper beard and grandfatherly eyes. He was smiling, too, and looked friendly.

"Do you know Abu Ali?" said Abu Rasha. "Do you know him from yesterday?"

"No," I said.

I looked at him again - and then I did know who he was. He was the man that held the gun on Adnan, my driver, during my abduction - the fat guy with the beard.

"Oh no," I thought to myself. This was not okay.

* * *

Click here to read Part I of Jill Carroll's story. Part III, to be published on Wednesday, will tell about the first time Carroll had to appear in a video made by her captors.

© 2006 The Christian Science Monitor. All rights reserved.