Peace

by Jeff Nesbit

  SOMEWHERE OVER THE NORTH PACIFIC OCEAN

  Even now, as they were beginning their slow descent toward Sunan International Airport north of Pyongyang, every national security advisor even remotely involved with the White House continued to urge the president to reconsider.

  But Camara had made up his mind. He would land in North Korea and ask to meet with whatever North Korean president they presented to him. Only a few were aware of the message Pak Jong Un had forwarded to his boyhood friend.

  Adom Camara had taken risks his entire political career. Friends and colleagues had urged him not to run for the presidency. He was too young, too inexperienced, they’d told him. Camara had ignored that advice then, and he was ignoring the national security advisors now.

  This was not a time to worry about personal security, Camara said. Too much was at stake. Without some sort of leadership, the world would tip very soon toward the abyss. Someone had to act first, before it was too late.

  Camara had spoken to as many leaders as he could manage on the flight across the Pacific. He’d reached Andrei Rowan, and then Li Chan in China. Rowan had encouraged him to press forward on both fronts in North Korea and then Iran. Neither man had spoken of Russia’s actions in Georgia and Azerbaijan.

  The Chinese premier, though, was more circumspect. He wouldn’t discuss China’s plans if events got out of hand in North Korea. He also refused to discuss China’s views on the confrontation between Iran and Israel that was threatening to engulf the region and, perhaps, the world. Camara chose not to press the issue, for now.

  When he reached Judah Navon, Anshel joined him for the call. Navon, as usual, was blunt and also insistent that Israel reserved the right to do what was necessary to protect itself. Camara did not argue the point but asked Anshel to walk Navon through the peace plan that had been circulating now for several weeks.

  Navon knew of the plan and had seen early drafts. Quite frankly, he told Camara, it was far too radical to be taken seriously in the Knesset.

  At the end of the call, though, Anshel and President Camara both asked Navon an equally blunt question. What price was Israel willing to pay for a permanent peace with their sworn enemies? How many more would die until both Iran and Israel met and settled their differences?

  Navon hedged. Bring back a willingness from Shahidi and the radical elements in Iran that they would recognize Israel’s right to exist, stop building nuclear weapons, submit to permanent inspection of their military and nuclear facilities, and pledge to stop funding proxies at Israel’s border in Lebanon, Syria, and Gaza, and Navon would make sure the Knesset took Anshel’s peace plan seriously. But he doubted that Shahidi would agree to any one of those elements, much less all four.

  Sitting in the back of Air Force One, DJ was nervous. Camara had asked him to stay close by with the White House press pool throughout the trip. Less than a dozen reporters were now traveling with the president, but the network feed to the satellite when they landed would be carried to a worldwide audience. Whatever happened, it would happen with billions of people watching at the same time.

  DJ half expected to see tanks assembled on the tarmac at Sunan. But as Air Force One touched down, the airport seemed more deserted than anything else. North Korea had seemingly ordered a halt to all commercial air traffic in and out, so the place seemed calm and almost peaceful.

  DJ knew that virtually every fighter and available air force asset operating in the Korean Peninsula had scrambled and was close by, if need be. But he seriously doubted that the North Korean military would attempt anything foolish.

  What seemed infinitely more likely, to DJ and the press pool, was that the president would walk off the plane, only to be met by a phalanx of KPA generals. They, in turn, would tell Camara, politely, that Pak Jong Il was indisposed and unable to meet with him. They would offer to carry whatever message Camara offered back to Pak. And that would be that.

  At least, that was the conventional wisdom. The American media was already reporting that it was an extraordinary gamble by the president—though likely doomed to failure before it had even begun—and not dissimilar to personal efforts he’d made in the past on the world stage.

  Nevertheless, the pool network crew went live as the plane landed. They began to broadcast video to a waiting, global audience from the moment the doors to Air Force One opened.

  DJ stood by the network crew, keeping a careful eye on the small knot of military officials who’d gathered under an awning near the spot where the plane had been directed to taxi. DJ strained to see whether anyone who looked remotely like Pak Jong Un was among them. All he could see were military uniforms.

  And then, clearly unplanned, a black town car pulled into view from one side of the Sunan airport. A solitary North Korean flag flew at one corner of the car, convincing DJ that it was an official government vehicle of some sort. It came to a stop fifty yards off to one side of the plane and the North Korean military group that had assembled under the awning.

  DJ watched, in some fascination, as the North Korean military group that had planned to meet Camara grew highly agitated. They were clearly not prepared for this, whatever it was.

  The Secret Service team surrounding Camara stopped the president, urging him to wait and see what was happening in front of them. The network pool crew kept broadcasting.

  One of the rear doors on the town car opened. A lone occupant emerged. He was dressed so casually that virtually no one on the American side could imagine who it might be. DJ, though, recognized the replica Chicago Bulls jersey and tugged on the network producer’s sleeve.

  “I think that’s Pak Jong Un,” he whispered. “Tell your guy to stay on him—not the North Korean military.”

  The producer nodded and kept his crew tightly focused on the town car and the young man now striding purposefully across the tarmac.

  The North Korean group under the awning could only watch in horror, frozen as their young charge disobeyed them. He was clearly going to meet with the American president, and none of them knew what he was going to say. Their new Dear Leader had clearly decided to color outside the lines.

  In the space of a millisecond from the unblinking eye of live television—with billions of people watching as he gladly and freely strode across the tarmac in his distinctive replica Chicago Bulls jersey to meet the president of the United States—Pak Jong Un had gone from the most mysterious, least photographed young leader imaginable to one of the most recognized faces in the world.

  DJ was impressed.

  67

  PYONGYANG, NORTH KOREA

  With the world literally watching over his shoulder, Adom Camara had negotiated a tentative peace with the young, new leader of North Korea. The American president had come to the meeting prepared to take bold, new steps, provided he saw movement on the other side. He had.

  Camara had offered that the United States would permanently and formally end the state of war between the United States and North Korea that had continued to exist since the truce at the end of the Korean War in the 1950s. The United States would sign a peace treaty with North Korea, and remove all American troops from South Korea and the Korean Peninsula.

  In addition, Camara pledged, America would immediately provide massive amounts of food aid to the starved people of North Korea, normalized trade relations, defined security guarantees, and an immediate infusion of American-trained engineers to help with North Korea’s substantial energy needs.

  In return, Camara asked Pak Jong Un for his assurance that Russian, Chinese, and American inspectors could immediately work with the North Koreans to dismantle the cesium device in the northern reaches of the country, and that North Korea would agree to end its nuclear weapons program and a finite timetable to make the Korean Peninsula nuclear-free.

  With his own North Korean military advisors standing by, watching helplessly—and the world watching the talks in real time—Pak Jong Un had agreed.

  He, too, recognized that this was a chance—perhaps
the only one he would have in his life—to make decisions to assure the safety and well-being of the North Korean people. If he let this opportunity pass by, Pak Jong Un knew, he would inevitably be crushed by the military that had so recently poisoned his father. The choice seemed obvious.

  “Sometimes showing up is half the battle,” the president said privately to DJ and Anshel as they left Pyongyang and Air Force One was back in the air, headed to Tehran.

  “I’ll say,” DJ said. “That was intense. Who’d have guessed that Pak Jong Un would just appear like that?”

  “Actually,” Camara said, “I thought it might be a possibility. That friend of Pak’s—the one who’s in Camp 16—got back to Su Kim. He’d communicated with Pak, who then said that he’d meet with us. I think the knowledge that the military had poisoned his father—and that it could quite possibly be his own fate—is what pushed him over the edge.”

  “But you’d still think that the military would have stopped him,” DJ said.

  “Not if they didn’t know about it in advance,” Anshel said. “It looks like Pak made the decision himself, without consulting any of his advisors.”

  “Do you blame him?” the president said. “I’m not sure I’d trust anyone if my closest advisors had just murdered my father in a bloodless coup.”

  “Good thing they don’t allow that sort of thing in America,” DJ said, laughing.

  “Yeah, good thing,” the president said. “That wouldn’t be much fun, would it?”

  Camara had made only one minor request at the end of the meeting. It had nothing whatsoever to do with the national security agreement, but it was something that had been on Camara’s mind nevertheless. He’d asked Pak to consider freeing the political prisoners at Camp 16—including both You Moon and Kim Grace.

  Now that they knew about them, American intelligence sources had confirmed from satellite imagery that both You Moon and Kim Grace were still alive at Camp 16.

  Whether Pak would honor the request was impossible to know. Most likely the North Korean military officials who would now have to deal with their impetuous young leader would allow the peace process to proceed for a time, free a few prisoners, and then execute both You Moon and Kim Grace once the public scrutiny had lapsed. But Camara, for his part, wasn’t about to forget about them.

  68

  THE NATIONAL GARDEN

  TEHRAN, IRAN

  Despite nearly two days of continuous flying, the few White House aides who’d accompanied the president on Air Force One were still going at light speed.

  It reminded DJ and other veterans of the presidential campaign of the barnstorming days where they’d tackled a dozen events a day. Everything seemed possible when you were in the middle of a campaign. You made big decisions on the fly, and prayed they were right and wouldn’t later explode in your face.

  The difference now, of course, was that this was no presidential campaign. You could recover from mistakes on the campaign trail with quick apologies or lightning fast counterattacks. A mistake here and this would be their last look at a recognizable Tehran. Israel’s entire complement of nuclear weapons was armed and ready, waiting for the outcome of today’s talks.

  The president had been able to catch four hours of sleep during the flight before moving headlong into a series of briefings with every conceivable Iran expert they could muster. At the top of his list was a brief on perhaps the most classified program in the United States—a covert effort to deliberately sabotage the electronic and computer systems underpinning Iran’s nuclear program.

  But beyond what the intelligence agencies knew about Iran and its programs, Camara wanted to know everything they had on Shahidi.

  He was focused like a laser beam on the mind of the man who’d risen through the ranks of the military, the Revolutionary Guards, and then the presidency before taking over as Iran’s supreme ruler.

  By the time they’d landed in Iran, Camara felt like he was ready. The president had been prepared to take bold, though long overdue, steps with North Korea. With Shahidi and Iran, he was prepared to go even further to preserve peace.

  Unlike Pyongyang, where the world had literally watched events unfold, Shahidi and several clerics from the 12-member Guardian Council had demanded that the talks take place in private, away from the press and the public.

  They’d chosen to meet in central Tehran, in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs at Bagh-e Melli. Known outside Iran as the “National Garden,” much of the architecture throughout Bagh-e Melli was pre-Islamic. The main gates to the compound were built during the Qajar dynasty.

  Both the privacy and the location were perfectly acceptable to Camara and the White House aides. The Ministry of Foreign Affairs was old, but it was a fairly neutral site. Members of the Guardian Council would join the meeting at some point, depending on signals given them from Shahidi. Or, at least that’s what Camara and the White House aides had been led to believe.

  To the Secret Service and military leaders assigned to protect America’s commander in chief, though, the location could not have been more problematic. There was virtually no opportunity to call in additional military support in central Tehran, should something go wrong.

  Camara, though, was not worried—at least not for his personal safety. He could not imagine that Iran would be so foolish as to attack an American president while the world watched. Iran had learned much in the years since they’d held American hostages at the embassy in Tehran.

  No, what worried Camara was that he would not be able to make enough progress with Shahidi before leaving Tehran, and that Israel would begin its campaign almost from the moment Air Force One left the ground in Iran. He knew that he had this one chance to make significant inroads.

  The network and press pool did their best to stay with the American president. They were broadcasting live as a small military escort led them from the airport to Bagh-e Melli and into the halls of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. But they were forced to cool their heels in the old, ornate hallways as Camara, his aides, and his Secret Service detail disappeared into the bowels of the building.

  DJ promised to shuttle back and forth, bringing updates. The American press wasn’t happy about the arrangement, but there wasn’t much they could do about it. This meeting was being run under rules established by Shahidi and the Guardian Council.

  As Camara entered a final, inner council room set up for the visit, DJ was surprised to see that all twelve members of the Guardian Council were present.

  Shahidi, for whatever reason, must have decided to have the council present for the entire discussion. Half were clerics, dressed in full religious garb. Their heads were covered. Their bodies were cloaked in flowing white robes that gathered where they sat and billowed as they walked. The other half, all lawyers or legal scholars expert in Sharia law, were dressed in suits and ties out of respect for their American visitors.

  As they entered the room, Camara approached every member of the council and greeted them. Then he approached Rev. Shahidi. The two men shook hands briefly, said their polite introductions, and then took their seats. It all seemed incredibly formal to DJ.

  For the next three hours, President Camara sat patiently as first one member of the Guardian Council and then another—speaking through interpreters—presented what could only be described as a very long list of grievances against the West, laced with fiery rhetoric more suited for the mosque, church, or temple.

  Rev. Shahidi did nothing to stop the Guardian Council members from speaking their collective mind to the American president. Camara, for his part, remained respectful and attentive throughout.

  DJ was amazed at Camara’s willpower and stamina. It was like a bad Kabuki dance as far as he was concerned. They took no break during the three hours. Shahidi chose to wait until everyone had delivered their speeches to the American president, then called a break.

  The press, of course, didn’t believe DJ when he reported back during the break. They couldn’t believe that nothing beyond
rhetoric had been offered in three hours. DJ just shrugged and made his way back to the council room.

  After the break, though, it was apparent even to DJ that the preamble was over. The Guardian Council was gone, replaced now at the table by General Zhubin, Hussein Bahadur, and other IRGC leaders. The entire tone of the meeting shifted immediately.

  DJ wondered, vaguely, where Iran’s president was hiding. It didn’t matter. They were now meeting with the only leaders who mattered in Iran, those who truly controlled the theocracy. Still, it was curious.

  Camara wasted no time once he’d been given a chance to speak. In a somber, measured tone, the American president told Shahidi and the IRGC leadership that they had badly miscalculated by attacking the United States and Israel. The IRGC leaders said nothing.

  The United States was not prepared to retaliate immediately—either for the bombs in the three American cities or the recent actions against the 5th Fleet in the Persian Gulf, Camara said.

  “We are at war,” General Zhubin interjected. “You have no basis for retaliations. You initiated the conflict when Israel attacked our facilities unprovoked. War knows no rules.”

  Fair enough, Camara agreed. Israel, though, was another matter entirely. Without something tangible in hand, he told them, Iran could expect to see a first-strike against Tehran and other population centers in Iran almost immediately. Shahidi and his IRGC advisors were unmoved by this as well.

  “And is that what you traveled all this way to tell us?” Shahidi asked finally. “That your puppet, Israel, is about to attack us with their illegal nuclear weapons?”

  “No, Reverend Shahidi,” Camara responded as firmly as the circumstance allowed. “I am here to propose something we should have done a generation ago, after the Second World War. I am here to give you my word that Israel will consider giving up their southern district—including a real capital—so that a free, Arab state can be established there.