We rode slowly through the desolate and dimly lit streets, devoid of much vehicular or pedestrian traffic, to downtown Pyongyang. The RGB chief had clearly been ordered to host me and made it clear he was only enduring the experience. His whole demeanor was accusatory and pejorative, and anti-American sentiment rolled off his tongue as North Korean hate translated and filtered through a British accent. When he paused his diatribe, I tried to lighten up the conversation by describing my first trip to the DPRK in the errant Huey, some twenty-nine years earlier. Looking constitutionally incapable of amusement, General Kim continued to berate my country and everything it stood for. I decided I could, in return, grit my own teeth and suffer this “turret head,” as I used to call Soviet interlocutors, for a few hours if it meant Bae and Miller got to come home.
The limo turned a corner, and I saw an enormous neon sign shaped like a bowling pin—the only bright light I’d seen since the floodlight at the airport. I asked General Kim through the translator if bowling was a popular pastime in the DPRK. General Kim paused for the first time to give me a strange look. I was surprised when the limo came to a stop in front of the storefront bowling alley. We all debarked, and I could see through the windows that there were bowling lanes inside, but no one was bowling.
We went through a side entrance, took an elevator to the second floor, and were ushered into a private dining room dominated by a semicircular table with elaborate place settings and a beautiful spray of flowers as a centerpiece. It was a reasonable facsimile of an upscale restaurant in South Korea.
General Kim and I took our seats at the center, with the translator to his left, followed by silent functionaries and note-takers. Seated to my right were Allison, Neil, and a few other US staff officers. Over the next several hours we were treated to a thirteen-course meal—one of the best Korean dinners I’ve ever experienced. Each dish was prepared and served to the highest standards of Korean cuisine and hospitality. The conversation, in contrast, remained tense. As the first course was being served, General Kim made it clear to me that Americans generally were criminals, warmongers, and posed a threat to the very existence of the DPRK. Our joint exercises with the South Korean military were aggressive, threatening, and provocative. Our B-52 missions were particularly menacing and threatened the “peace-loving people” of the DPRK. General Kim seemed especially consumed with B-52s, implying that my visit should somehow mark an end to these missions, and if I wasn’t there to discuss terminating these dangerous, provocative flights, he questioned why I had come to the DPRK at all.
I explained that the expectation of my government, and specifically our president, was that the first priority was the prompt release of our two citizens. If they were freed, other steps could follow to move toward relaxing tensions on the peninsula. I then reiterated US talking point number one: Before we could begin any sequence leading to better relations, the DPRK had to agree to a path to denuclearization.
General Kim replied that nuclear weapons were central to the DPRK’s survival because the United States was so threatening, particularly (again) with its B-52s. The United States must, he continued, recognize the DPRK as a nuclear power and treat it with the same respect it accorded other such powers, like Russia and China. As the evening wore on, he grew even more strident, asserting that North Korea was under siege from the South, aided and abetted by the United States. Somewhere around the seventh or eighth course, he began pointing at me, charging that the annual joint US and ROK military exercises were a provocation to war. Not being a diplomat, I pointed my finger back at him—a gesture that was not acceptable in polite Korean circles—and pointed out that shelling islands off the west coast of South Korea and sinking an ROK Navy ship weren’t conducive to reducing tensions either. It was, perhaps, not my finest moment. It did, however, establish that the overworked translator was giving faithful renditions of my words, as General Kim visibly bristled.
When General Kim and I shifted in our seats to face each other, Neil piped up and suggested, “Hey, boss, I bet you need to make a head call.” Neil had earned his keep as my executive assistant many times over, but never as deftly as when he suggested that I take the best-timed restroom break of my intelligence career.
When I returned to my seat, I tried another approach. “The United States has no permanent enemies,” I said, citing Germany and Japan as prime examples of how bitter adversaries can become close, stalwart allies. I recounted my 2013 trip to Vietnam and told him how the United States had developed productive diplomatic, economic, and even military relations with a nation we’d gone to war against, and suggested the same could happen with North Korea. We didn’t need to be enemies in perpetuity, and the relationship could be quite different if we could find common ground. This was the only exchange we had all evening that did not evoke reflexive pushback from General Kim. We ate in silence for a few minutes before he remarked that I could foster that transformation by negotiating the normalization of relations. I returned to US talking point number one, and we resumed talking past each other.
At the end of the dinner, we still had no specific commitment for the return of Bae and Miller. General Kim soon prepared to leave, giving no indication we’d meet the next day. The only leverage I had was the letter from Obama to Kim Jong-un. Allison and I quickly caucused and agreed that this might be our last opportunity to give the letter to someone in authority who could present it to the North Korean leader. It was a risk, but one we had to take.
Catching General Kim as he was heading to his car, I told him, “This letter is from President Barack Obama to your Supreme Leader Kim Jong-un,” making certain I used the appropriate honorific. Without saying a word, General Kim took the letter, got in his car, and rode away.
Back at the guesthouse, I tried unsuccessfully to sleep on the thin mattress. I turned on the TV, hoping to at least see some of the propaganda for which North Korea is famous, but there was no signal on any station. I glanced at the bookcase of Kim Il-sung writings and decided I’d rather be alone with my apprehensions than leave a volume out of place that would let them know I’d picked it up. Outside the window, the dark, distant city skyline was silhouetted against the stars.
The next day, Saturday, was nerve-racking. We were alone in the state guesthouse, except for a cooking staff who didn’t speak a word of English, but who I suspected understood English just fine. At one point, I mused to Neil that at least we’d gotten a great Korean dinner free of charge. He shrugged and said that, to pay for the dinner the North Koreans had “hosted,” he had in fact handed over a great deal of American currency out of the bag of cash he was carrying around.
At some point during the morning, the physician who had accompanied us was summoned to examine Bae and Miller. He returned a few hours later and reported they were both in good physical condition. The North Koreans had given him strict orders only to tell the prisoners that he was checking on their health and welfare, and not to mention there was an American delegation in the country or that there was a possibility they could be freed. We took it as a good sign that he had been allowed to see them at all, although I felt as though we were trying to read tea leaves.
At around 11:00 A.M., a midlevel staff officer from the Ministry of State Security arrived with a message from the DPRK government. He announced that the Great Leader Kim Jong-un had effectively demoted me, as the government no longer considered me a presidential envoy. The citizens of Pyongyang were aware, he continued, that my purpose was not to work toward peace between our two nations, but merely to free the two “criminals.” Accordingly, they could no longer guarantee my safety and security in the city of Pyongyang, nor the safety and security of my delegation, since its citizens were “agitated.” He left the guesthouse without further comment.
As Neil noted in our debrief, “waiting around” isn’t my strong suit, but because we were under control of the North Koreans, we weren’t free to just hail a cab and tour Pyongyang. So we sat, paced,
and shot the breeze, recognizing, of course, that we were undoubtedly being surveilled. The cooking staff prepared lunch, which we ate more to kill time than out of hunger. Periodically, two or three of us would take short walks in the park surrounding the guesthouse. If we went near the river, a couple of stone-faced minders would appear, seemingly out of nowhere, staying just within hearing range. They didn’t object to our taking pictures of one another with the Taedong River as backdrop.
At about 3:30 that afternoon, the staff officer returned. With no explanation, he told us to gather our luggage and check out. We had all traveled light and were already packed, so after more cash changed hands, we quickly piled into a small convoy and were driven downtown to the Koryo, a first-line hotel appointed in traditional North Korean style. We were ushered up to a conference room on the second floor and shown to seats at a large oval table. Five North Koreans, who we learned were prosecutors, sat across from us, four of them in suits and one in uniform. They barely acknowledged our arrival. Behind them, Kenneth Bae and Matthew Miller stood in their prison garb, each flanked by two guards. At the far end of the room was a smaller table with one empty chair. I suspected that whoever sat in judgment would have a bias. No one said a word, and the silence reminded me, oddly enough, of a church just before the service starts.
This was the first time I laid eyes on the two American citizens. Miller looked tired and gaunt, while Bae, who had been in hard labor confinement for two years, appeared rested, even robust. They were both standing unsupported, which was a good sign and comported with our doctor’s report, but were impassive and didn’t acknowledge our entrance. I wondered whether they understood that we were there for them, or if they thought this was a North Korean trick or a trap to see if they would react inappropriately. We sat, still and silent, for fifteen or twenty minutes, although at the time it seemed a lot longer. Finally the door opened, and the first General Kim, the political four-star who’d met us at the airport, strode into the room. The prosecutors rose; we rose. General Kim sat; we sat. General Kim took a moment to get settled, and then looked up and nodded to the prosecutors.
One of them stood and began reading a lengthy proclamation, recounting the crimes of Miller and Bae against the peace-loving people of the DPRK. He paused after each section to allow a translator to render the proclamation in tortured English. Then he extolled the benevolence of Kim Jong-un, and said that as a gesture of kindness, the Great Leader forgave the crimes and freed the criminals to my custody. General Kim stood; we all stood. Through the translator he told me, “I hope the next time we talk, it will be about something other than your criminals.” He crossed the room and left, followed by the prosecutors, guards, and every other DPRK official.
Our physician and a few members of the protective detail took Miller and Bae into a nearby room to help them change clothes and began to acclimatize them to the reality that they were free and about to head home. The rest of my detail hustled me out and downstairs to the limo, where I sat and waited for about ten tense minutes, wondering if this could still go wrong. When Bae and Miller emerged from the hotel, I relaxed for the first time in days. When everyone was accounted for, the mini convoy started toward the airport, wending its way through the city streets.
This was my only real opportunity to see the streets of Pyongyang. Even during daytime on a Saturday, there weren’t many cars or people out. The streets had no stoplights, but at the center of several intersections, women dressed in immaculate white tunics with white gloves stood on small raised platforms. They faced us with their arms held out to each side, keeping nonexistent cars from crossing in front of us. I wondered if it was all a show for my benefit, or if they stood and gesticulated on those platforms every day.
We drove past the famous square where the DPRK Army had, over the years, marched in their characteristic unnerving goose step for stage-produced parades in salute of three generations of Kim family leaders. The square seemed much smaller in person than in film footage of those events. I watched out the window as the peace-loving people of Pyongyang swept the streets and sidewalks and walked slowly, almost zombielike, to . . . I don’t know where. The experience was even more surreal than I’d imagined. I had expected the drab clothes and their lack of possessions, and certainly no cell phones, but I was also struck by how no one seemed to show any emotion. They didn’t stop to greet one another, didn’t nod hello, and no one was conversing or laughing.
As we rode, the staff officer from the Ministry of State Security spoke through the translator with the British accent, whom I was almost glad to see and hear again. The atmosphere and tone were more temperate; even the translations were less formal, more conversational. The MSS officer asked what I thought of the DPRK, and I told him I’d had little opportunity to see much of it. He asked me whether I would be willing to come back. I responded that if I were invited, I would be pleased to return.
During the rest of the drive, he talked about what a shame it was that the Korean people had been divided for so long, tragically separating so many families. He noted that even their language was growing apart, as the dialect of the South changed with the Western influences there. As we approached the airport, he remarked—and I’ll never forget this: “I have been to Seoul. I have seen what’s there. I would hope that someday we can unify.” I suspect this conversation was just as staged as every interaction I’d had since we’d arrived, but I found his comments, demeanor, and tone compelling. I think the intent was to conclude my visit on a more positive note.
Finally, Sunan airport came into view. No aircraft with “United States of America” emblazoned across it ever looked more beautiful. I boarded first and moved to the back of the plane as our two newly freed citizens took seats up front. We’d made the conscious choice to minimize my involvement in securing their freedom, to avoid the appearance that this had been a US intelligence operation, and so I left the direct interactions with them to others in the party.
We flew from North Korea to Guam, Hawaii, and then on to Joint Base Lewis–McChord in Washington State. As Miller and Bae debarked, I walked to the cockpit to watch their emotional reunions with their families. Leaving North Korea with them had given me a sense of relief. Witnessing their embraces and seeing them express the emotion they had been forbidden from showing during their release ceremony in Pyongyang was something much more powerful. When the cameras stopped rolling, a truck towed our plane away to refuel for our last leg to Andrews Air Force Base. As I watched Bae and Miller walk away with their families, I thought how the view from that cockpit sure beat the view from under the bus.
Shortly after we took off, President Obama called to thank and congratulate the entire team on our success, and I passed along his message. Everyone cheered, and we shared some high fives and fist bumps. We landed at Andrews sometime after 2:00 A.M. Monday, and when I finally arrived home about forty-five minutes later, I was tired but still keyed up enough to stay awake into the wee hours to share my adventure with Sue.
Typically, on Monday I conduct an “expanded” staff meeting for senior ODNI leaders. When I walked into the conference room that morning, it was packed. The group stood and applauded, beaming at me with pride, which took me off guard. When we all sat down, I tried to lighten things up by asking, “Anyone go anywhere special this weekend?” I gave them a debrief of the events of the past week, which served as a dry run for a similar account I gave the president a week later, when he returned from China.
The president was in his habitual spot when I entered the Oval Office, in the chair just in front of and on the right side of the fireplace. Susan and the national security team were there, and White House photographer Pete Souza was on the periphery, snapping pictures, as was his official practice. I took my then-customary place on the couch to the president’s right and spent the next fifteen minutes describing the trip. When I mentioned the New York Times theory of why he’d picked me for the mission, he laughed and agreed with their
take. At some point, Pete stopped taking photos and just listened. As I wrapped up, the president said he was grateful to everyone involved and asked me again to pass that on to the team, and not only those who had accompanied me, but to everyone who had supported the trip. Even though we’d had a few rough spots over the past year, I knew that President Obama never took for granted all the “invisible” people who work behind the scenes to make sure missions succeed and intelligence makes it to military commanders in the field and to the Oval Office each morning.
Looking back, perhaps the most impressive aspect of the North Korean mission was that in our post-WikiLeaks world, no one involved had leaked anything to the media. Our success demonstrated that not only is the IC populated by people who can keep secrets, but our profession is filled with creative and dedicated individuals across the globe who can operate in unfamiliar and dangerous places and take on tasks they could never really have trained for. I couldn’t have been prouder.
CHAPTER TEN
Unpredictable Instability
While my North Korea trip officially ended November 9, one interaction I’d had in the Hermit Kingdom took on added significance two weeks later. On November 24, a hacker group calling itself the Guardians of Peace published a tranche of personal emails and embarrassing information about the executives at Sony Pictures. Over the next couple of days, the hackers continued to post emails and documents and even yet-to-be-released Sony movies, and they then tried to sabotage Sony Pictures’ IT operating systems. They threatened to do more damage if Sony didn’t cancel the release of The Interview, billed as a comedy about a reporter and a producer (played by James Franco and Seth Rogen) who, before going to North Korea to interview Kim Jong-un, are recruited by the CIA to assassinate him—by the way, not something the CIA does in real life anymore, and hasn’t for decades. The IC got involved with the cyber breach, used forensics I can’t write about, and at a classified level demonstrated—without a shadow of a doubt in my mind and those of our top cyber specialists—that the Sony hacks had originated in North Korea and that, to do what they’d accomplished, the North Koreans had been on Sony Pictures’ systems for weeks, even months.
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