Of course, Dunning speaks first. His voice is surprisingly big for someone his size. “This is General Jeffries, my chief of staff,” he says. “And this is Colonel Nielson, military intelligence. They’re here to answer your questions.” Yeah, he brought the guns with their stars, eagles, and medals, straight-as-a-board military posture, and hard-as-nails stares. Don’t get me wrong. I respect these guys and I sleep better with them on our side. But they’re not here to answer my questions. They think diplomats like me don’t even know the right questions to ask in a situation like this. They just might be right.
I nod a greeting to Jeffries and Nielson. They nod back without expression as if I’m a private in a reviewing line. I say, “Ambassador, I know Craig, but I haven’t met your other aide.”
“Oh, sorry,” Betty says from the head of the table. “This is Anna Carlson. She’s an international law attorney and one of our new aides.”
Sitting behind the ambassador and Craig, Anna Carlson wears a smart gray suit jacket and matching skirt. She has her long black hair neatly pulled back. She looks about thirty, young to be a player in a meeting with ambassadors and generals. But when she acknowledges me, I see something—something that Craig and Betty don’t have. It’s the look that Jin-ee had—still has. Intelligence. Depth. Conviction. As if she knows something no one else does.
The meeting begins. Betty sits in her chair fingering what’s probably a six-carat Harry Winston. Seeing her up close, she looks exhausted, like she hasn’t slept in a week. She lets Craig do the talking. He launches into his briefing. Thank God the coffee does its job and I’m able to concentrate. There are a dozen angles to this mess, and, according to Craig, it’s more serious than what they’re reporting in DC. The sanctions against North Korea are threatening to break the country apart. To stay in power, the “Dear Leader” is threatening war. He’s moved a half a million troops to the border. Craig says that the Chinese have moved troops to their border with North Korea on the Yalu River, prepared to give what they call “humanitarian relief.” Right. The US has warned the Chinese to stay out, and for the time being, they’re complying. Naturally, the Russians want to be part of the show, and they’re rushing troops and tanks to Khasan on their border with North Korea. Both direct and back-channel diplomacy between all parties has degraded into nothing more than threats and saber rattling.
And now, the Japanese—our dear friends, the Japanese—are taking advantage of China’s distraction in Korea to beef up their military presence in the disputed Senkaku Islands. Craig says the Land of the Rising Sun has their eyes on a few other islands, too. How nice.
After forty-five minutes, Craig finishes his report. I ask him about the mood in South Korea. He says the people are scared. The South Korean president has adopted a stiff upper lip and a business-as-usual policy. But the Korean stock market has tanked and businesses are laying off workers. There are anti-communist protests nearly every day. Anti-American ones, too. Some want war to end the tensions once and for all. Most, however, just want peace.
Next General Jeffries gives a briefing about our military response. The general opens a folder and reports that they’ve moved twenty-thousand troops into South Korea, upping our total to fifty thousand. Another fifty thousand are ready to deploy on a moment’s notice. We’ve relocated one carrier group to the Sea of Japan and another just outside the Yellow Sea. The brass has canceled R&R for troops in South Korea, and all bases are on high alert. After twenty minutes, Jeffries concludes that the US military is ready for any “exigency,” as he says, and closes his folder.
General Dunning leans forward. “There’s one more thing,” he says in his big voice. “The nuclear threat. Intel says the North has the ability to deliver nuclear ordinance to Seoul, Tokyo, and possibly the US West Coast. We have a deterrence plan, but frankly, Mr. Simon, we aren’t sure what we’re up against.” He gives me five seconds of his cold glare and then leans back.
I let out a sigh. Sure feels like World War III. Armies are marching, missiles are pointing, and people in charge are making threats. The superpowers are engaged in a stare-down across a divided nation about the same size as my home state of Michigan. And they have nuclear weapons. What a mess.
I look around the room. Betty has stopped fingering her diamond ring and looks like she needs to get back to her penthouse on Park Avenue for a long vacation. Craig is expressionless as usual. The army guys are stone-faced, and Anna Carlson hasn’t said a single word. When I look at her now, I get the sense she’s studying me as if she’s trying to decide if I’m up to handling this assignment. After listening to the briefing, I’m beginning to wonder that myself.
General Dunning hasn’t stopped staring at me. “Mr. Simon,” he finally says, “you’ve been sent here to assess the situation and help the president formulate a strategy. Which way is the president leaning—a military solution or a diplomatic one?”
I shake my head. “General, it’s not my duty to guess how the president will respond. It’s only my duty to report what I learn here.”
The general’s eyes narrow, telling me he isn’t at all happy that I didn’t answer his question as he ordered me to. “And what do you see, Mr. Simon? A situation that requires military action or more diplomacy?”
“Well, General,” I say finally, “there are seventy-five million Koreans depending on us to get this right. There are potentially millions more if this situation escalates beyond the peninsula. There are tens of thousands of US troops—”
“Don’t think you need to tell me about our troops!” Dunning booms. “They are my responsibility, and I know full well what’s at stake.”
Dunning pushes away from the table and stands. Somehow, he looks a lot taller than five nine. “Yes, Mr. Simon,” he says, “it is our job to get this right. But the fact is, at some point military action saves more lives than diplomacy. Just be sure that the secretary of state and the president know when that point is. Am I clear?”
Here, I could stand like the general and use my six foot three inches to tower over him. I could remind him that I’m in Korea at the behest of his commander in chief, and that I’m confident his superiors in Washington will get it right. But my head spins with everything Craig and General Jeffries have said. The coffee has worn off and I’m tired again. So I stay seated, and nod.
Dunning sits and crosses his arms over his medals. Betty nervously looks from the general to Matthews to me. Matthews looks straight ahead at nothing.
After a long pause, Colonel Nielson says, “Mr. Simon, we heard that you have a meeting with the CIA tomorrow about something that was sent to the White House. Can you fill us in?”
Everyone turns their eyes on me. “It’s classified,” I answer. “All I can tell you is that the White House received a message from someone we believe is a credible source in the North. We want to check it out.”
“A message?” Dunning snarls. “What does this message say?”
“I’m sorry, General,” I answer. “As I said, it’s classified.”
The general unfolds his arms and leans across the table. “You’re telling me that the president and the secretary of state do not feel they need to share with the head of US Forces Korea a message from our enemy?” He pushes his chair away and puts his hands flat on the table as if he’s going to leap over it. “Did you hear anything Mr. Matthews and General Jeffries said about our situation here? Maybe in DC they don’t feel the danger. But our enemy has five hundred thousand troops fifty klicks from this building’s front gate. If the White House expects me to protect Ambassador Morris here, fifty million South Koreans, and fifty thousand American troops, perhaps they better tell me what’s going on.”
I draw a breath. “I’m sorry, General,” I say trying to find the right tone between firmness and respect. “I can’t.”
The general looks like he wants to grab me by the throat. Jeffries reaches out and touches Dunning’s arm, but the general doesn’t seem to notice. Betty Morris looks like she doesn’t have th
e energy to mediate our little quarrel, and Matthews clearly doesn’t have a clue what to do.
Then Anna Carlson speaks for the first time. “Gentlemen,” she says in a surprisingly calm voice, as if the tension in the room is nothing more than a friendly disagreement about who will win the World Series, “perhaps we should take a break. Mr. Simon has had a long flight, and we’ve given him a lot to think about. Let’s give him some time. How about if we reconvene at eleven? That’s thirty-five minutes.”
“Good idea,” Betty says quickly.
After a few moments, General Dunning lifts his hands from the table and stands straight. He nods once. “Okay,” he says. “Eleven o’clock.” Then he marches out of the room with General Jeffries and Colonel Nielson in single file behind him.
Ambassador Morris does a weary shake of her head and leaves. Matthews sweeps up his briefing papers and follows her, leaving Anna and me alone.
Anna looks at me matter-of-factly. “You should take a walk, Mr. Simon,” she says. “It’s a beautiful morning in Seoul, and the persimmon trees are in bloom in Gyeongbok Palace. It’s lovely there now. The palace has stories to tell. It will clear your head and help you relax.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Maybe I will. Will I be safe there?”
“We’ll send someone with you,” she says as she opens the door for me.
THREE
After I leave the conference room, all I want to do is call Jin-ee and the kids to make sure they’re still there, then curl up on a couch to get some sleep. But it’s midmorning and I have only two days to find out what’s going on here before I have to fly back to DC. And Anna is right—I need to clear my head. I used to love to take walks in Gyeongbok Palace when I worked here, so I decide to follow her advice.
I go down the elevators to the lobby where the goon who escorted me through the airport greets me. He’s still wearing an earpiece, and I notice a bulge under the arm of his jacket. “I’m Mike,” he monotones. “I’m your security. Pay no attention to me. I’ll just follow behind you.”
Right. Pay no attention to big Mike with a pistol under his jacket. I consider staying at the embassy, but I really need some fresh air. I shrug and go outside to the street. Mike follows. I turn toward Gyeongbok Palace. The morning haze has lifted, and as Anna said, it’s a beautiful day. The May breeze sweeps away the airplane fumes that still cling to me. The sun is warm on my back, and soon I stop worrying about needing to have Mike escort me. I walk across the street to the wide plaza that leads to the palace’s Gwanghwamun Gate. The gate’s twin pagoda roofs spread their eaves over the three arched entrances. Within the eaves are intricate green, blue, and orange painted buttresses and brackets. I walk through the entrance into the palace grounds. Before me are several buildings whose green tiled roofs curve gracefully upward, like the wings of giant birds rising into the sky. At the other end of the courtyard is a pavilion with a long porch. Hundreds of tourists stroll across the stone-paved walkways. They take selfies or gaze in awe at the buildings.
I stroll toward the pavilion and suck in the heavy spring air. There’s the earthy smell of freshly mowed grass and the soft scent of persimmon blossoms. My legs stretch, and blood flows through my body. The kinks and cramps from the long flight are working their way out. The information overload from the meeting is beginning to ease.
I take a good look around. Gyeongbok Palace, Korea’s most sacred place. For over five hundred years, it was the center of the Chosŏn Dynasty. There are new buildings since I was here last. I remember that the Koreans vowed to rebuild hundreds of palace buildings torn down by the Japanese during their thirty-five-year occupation before World War II. Looks like they’re making progress. Good for them.
I look beyond the palace, north at Bukhansan Mountain, tall and proud in the cobalt-blue sky. I look south toward the heart of Seoul, the glistening, modern city among the hills overlooking the Han River. I let the sun wash over me and the spirit of Korea fill me. I can almost feel what it’s like to be one of them.
I’ve made it to the pavilion. Mike’s a few yards behind. In his navy sports coat and gray slacks, he’s doing a poor job of pretending to be just another tourist. I check my watch. Fifteen minutes until I have to be back at the embassy for more meetings. What have I learned so far? What do I think we should do? Come on, Nate, try to get an idea. The secretary and president want a report, and I can color it any way I want. Wish I could take an hour here at the palace. Or all day. It might help me find an answer or two and maybe even find the passion I had when I lived here. But people are waiting. They want to tell me what’s going on and what they think we should do. And I need to learn about the comb with the two-headed dragon and the message that came with it.
“One Korea,” I hear a woman say behind me. I quickly turn around and there above me on the pavilion porch is Anna Carlson. She looks down at me with the same look of confidence—or whatever it is—that I noticed when I first saw her.
“What’d you say?” I ask.
She comes off the porch and stands in front of me. The top of her head doesn’t even reach my nose. She looks out over the courtyard. “Aren’t the persimmon blossoms lovely?” she asks.
“No, no,” I say. “What did you say before, just now, when you were on the steps?”
She gives me a knowing smile and points me to walk with her along the pavilion. She says, “Did you know that in 1394, King Taejo—he was Chosŏn Dynasty’s first king, of course—planted persimmon trees here because he believed they would keep tigers away? Tigers are nearly extinct now in Korea, so apparently it worked.” She lets out a soft chuckle.
She is indeed a beautiful woman, and there is a deep intelligence in her face. There’s a serenity about her that’s out of place here, now, with everything that’s going on. I want to ask her again about what she said when she was on the pavilion porch, but I decide I must not have heard her right. I let it pass.
“Yeah, well,” I say. “I think Siberian tigers are endangered everywhere, not just where they planted persimmon trees.”
She points to an open space in the courtyard. “There, right there. That’s where the queen’s quarters were before the Japanese tore it down. Do you remember what happened?”
“Ah, no,” I answer.
“Queen Min?”
“She lived here?”
“And died here, on October 8, 1895. She faced many tigers during her reign, if you recall your Korean history.”
I remember only a few things about Korea’s last queen. “Yeah, she did,” I say, hoping the conversation about Korean history doesn’t go much deeper.
We continue to stroll. “The queen was a remarkable woman,” Anna says. “Hers is a story you can learn here. She had strength and courage and love for her people during a very difficult time in Korea. Of course, now, just like then, many tigers threaten this country. They come in all forms, speak different languages. They make promises and threats. I don’t think persimmon trees will keep these tigers away, do you?”
I’m not comfortable with where this conversation is heading. Anna is a junior aide and there’s a pecking order, a protocol to follow when discussing policy. People can take words out of context, say things they shouldn’t. Someone in my position needs to be careful. I stop walking and turn to her. “Look, Anna. I just met you and, uh, well . . . I don’t know you. You work for the ambassador. It isn’t appropriate for us to discuss US foreign policy without her. And we have to get back.”
She shakes her head. “It’s not just about US foreign policy, Mr. Simon. It’s not just about communists and capitalists and yet another conflict between the superpowers. It’s far deeper than that. It goes back hundreds of years. It’s primal to what this country is.”
I cock my head. “What are you talking about?”
She levels her eyes on me. Then she says, “One Korea.” She holds her eyes for a few seconds more, and turns and walks toward Gwanghwamun Gate.
One Korea. I heard her right the first time. She knows the
two-word message someone from the North sent to the president along with the comb with the two-headed dragon. How could a junior aide to the ambassador possibly have anything to do with it? How could she know?
I check my watch again. I have less than ten minutes to get back to the embassy. I’m going to be late. I turn for Gwanghwamun Gate. As I hurry through the gate’s center arch, I see Anna getting into the back of a car. The car speeds off, and I’m puzzled why she isn’t walking back to the embassy. I mean, it’s only a block away. Then I notice a crowd surrounds me. They are all ages, men and women, even children. They look like tourists, dressed in street clothes. There are dozens of them, maybe fifty in all. They’re all looking at me, grinning. I try to push through them, but they don’t give way. I look for big Mike. I can’t see him anywhere.
The crowd moves and forces me to move with it. We go to the street where a car idles. I remember what John had said about me being a target. I start to panic. “Hey!” I say as the crowd pushes me forward. “Mike, help!” I shout. The car’s back door opens and hands shove me inside. I fall onto the seat. The car door slams, and someone puts a sack over my head. I try to fight, but someone has a firm grip on me. I shout again for help, but inside the car, my calls go nowhere. I feel the car accelerate and turn a corner. I struggle, but whoever has a grip on me knows what they’re doing. Inside the sack, I’m breathing hard. My mind races. I start to panic.
“Who are you?” I demand. “What are you doing to me? I’m with the US Embassy. I have diplomatic status.” There’s no response, the car speeds on, turns a few more corners. I think of Jin-ee and the kids. I promise God that I’ll be a better husband and father if He lets me live.
After a few minutes, the car stops and they pull me out with the sack still on my head. Hands on my arm and back lead me down a set of stairs and into what feels like a long tunnel. The air is cool and it smells like we’re underground. In my mind, I picture a cell and a torture chamber. I yell and try to twist free, but the hands hold tight and drag me forward. Finally we stop. They let go of me and take the sack off. Slowly, my eyes adjust to a dimly lit room. I want to run, but I’m disoriented so I just stand in place. The air is slightly musty. There are shadows of people moving around. Some are lighting candles, others are starting a fire in a fireplace. Eventually the light comes up. When I see where I am, I think I’m in some bizarre nightmare.
The Dragon Queen Page 2
