The Peacemaker's Code

by Deepak Malhotra

  A few minutes later, he saw headlights outside. He had just grabbed his keys and opened the front door when his cell phone rang. Zack Nielsen.

  “Hello?”

  “Professor?”

  “Yeah. I just walked out the door. The car’s here. What’s up?”

  “Sorry, I forgot to tell you something.”

  “What’s that?

  “President Whitman wanted you to know that she read your book. And that she loved it.”

  Well… that’s something.

  “Wow. That’s nice to hear. Please tell her I’m glad she liked it,” Kilmer said as he got into the car.

  “You can tell her yourself when you meet her. She just told me that she’ll swing by at some point while you and I are chatting tonight.”

  The car pulled out of the driveway.

  Damn it.

  I should have worn the tie.

  ~ 17 ~

  As the car raced to the airport, Kilmer decided to get some rest. He closed his eyes and let his mind wander—and was unsurprised by where it chose to go. He was going to meet the president of the United States—so, naturally, he thought about the two people he would most want to tell.

  Kilmer thought about his parents—the ones who had raised him since he was six years old and formally adopted him at the age of seven. They had no children of their own and were already in their forties when they took him in. He had very few memories of the life he’d lived before he met the Kilmers—and none of them were pleasant. He came to them broken—no ability to read or write, no capacity to trust, no desire to ask questions, no sense of identity, and no understanding of his own history. Patiently and painstakingly, they changed all of that. They gave to him—a complete stranger, to whom they owed nothing—everything that was theirs. A name. An identity. A home. And the chance to make something out of his life.

  His father was a public-school teacher whose first love was mathematics. He taught Kilmer to play chess and cultivated his love of puzzles. Every problem wants to be solved, son. Just remember that. They created secret codes and passed notes to one another at the dinner table, annoying Mom to no end. As a boy, Kilmer was an average student—more B’s than A’s—but he always made sure to do well in math. It was the closest thing to solving puzzles that school had to offer, and he knew that his father cared more about that grade than any other.

  His mother was a nurse at a local hospital, but she donated much of her time to an NGO that delivered medical care to conflict zones around the world. As early as third grade, he was following her adventures. He would read about the countries she visited and try to understand why the people in those places were fighting. By the time he was eleven, he could identify over a hundred countries on the globe. By the time he was sixteen, he was devouring two history books per month.

  When he was seventeen, everything fell apart. His mother, along with three of her colleagues, was captured and killed in Sudan. The insurgents who took responsibility for the attack showed neither mercy nor remorse. Kilmer was devastated—and filled with even more rage than grief. He made plans to join the military after graduation, hoping to exact some measure of revenge against the kinds of people who had carried out the attack. It took his father five months to convince him that he needed a better reason than anger to go down that path—and he waited until his son graduated from high school to show him the letter that his mother had left for him.

  “She would write you a letter every time she left—just in case—and then throw it away when she came back. This is the one she didn’t get to throw away. I’m sorry I kept it from you, but I didn’t want you to read it until you were ready.”

  Kilmer cried even before opening the letter, and for many hours after reading it. One passage, in particular, he went back to repeatedly—and by dawn of the following morning, he had committed it to memory.

  Don’t let your sadness turn into anger, or your loneliness into hate. Channel what you feel into something good. Find ways to help people. Cultivate your gifts and use them to make the world a little bit better.

  I know, I know… I’m lecturing, as usual. And I’m making it sound so easy. I know it’s not. I know you’re hurting, baby boy. And it will take a while to figure things out. So, don’t be too hard on yourself. It’s okay. Just keep trying. That’s all that matters. That you do your best. That you keep moving forward, even if you stumble along the way. You’re a good boy. You always were. And you’re strong in ways that only your dad and I will ever know. You’ll get through this, my love. I promise you.

  Kilmer had planned to major in mathematics when he went to college, but he switched to history during his first month at school. After two years, he was ready to drop out. For all his hopes of making his parents proud, he had nothing to show for his efforts except bad grades and disillusionment. It was his father who helped solve the mystery. “You’re frustrated because you think you’re on the wrong path. But that’s not it. The problem is you expect the road you’re on to take you someplace it can never reach. You want your education to help you make sense of what happened to Mom, to put it in some larger context that gives it meaning. That’s never going to happen, son. All you can hope to do with what you learn is make it a little less likely that others will have to suffer like we did. If that’s worth trying to do, then stick with it. If not, let it go. But Mom’s life will have had meaning no matter what you decide. No book is ever going to tell you how wonderful she was.”

  Kilmer decided to stick with it, and he revived his grade point average just enough to give him a shot at getting into grad school. He would go on to earn a master’s degree from Rutgers, and then a PhD from Columbia.

  Kilmer lost his father to pancreatic cancer during his first year in grad school. If there was a saving grace, it was that he was able to say goodbye. They held hands as his father took his last breaths, and for a long time after. Kilmer’s grief would diminish over the years, but what never faded was the sense of indebtedness—the kind that only someone who owes everything to the kindness of strangers can possibly understand. He knew it was an impossible debt to repay—but just as impossible an obligation to ignore.

  At the age of twenty-two, he was an orphan again. But this time was different. He wasn’t broken anymore. They had fixed him up. They had given him a name. And, along the way, they had taught him a few lessons that he would not soon forget.

  ~ 18 ~

  Heirs of Herodotus by D. Kilmer.

  Excerpt from Chapter 2.

  For at least the last 2,500 years of human history, kings, generals, statesmen, and presidents have made use of analogies to guide them in such moments. But which analogy to use? If the appropriate analogy is ‘war against Germany’ in the years leading up to World War II, then the lesson of history might be that aggressive actions, taken early, can help to avert war. But, if instead, the correct analogy is ‘war against Germany’ in the years leading up to World War I, perhaps the lesson of history is different: aggressive actions, taken early, can lead to war. Which is it? How do you decide? And what are the consequences of getting it wrong?

  If you see Khrushchev as Hitler, you are tempted to take very different actions against him than if you see him as Kaiser Wilhelm II. If you are enamored by how well things worked out after the American occupation of Japan, or the Allied occupation of Germany, you are much more likely to endorse regime change and occupation in Iraq. But if you look at Iraq and see Vietnam, not Japan, you will want to steer clear of such commitments.

  This raises four fundamental questions: How do you know if you are using the right analogy? Will decisions improve or degrade when you attempt to combine multiple analogies? Should we even inform policy decisions—especially in the context of war and peace—with the use of analogies? And, if not, how else might we learn from and apply the lessons of history?

  ~ 19 ~

  Day 14. 11:50pm. Joint Base Andrews.

  The black Chevy Suburban was idling forty yards from Runway 19L at Joint Base Andrew
s. The call had come in at 11:20 p.m., and the two agents were dispatched immediately—before they could even be briefed. But this wasn’t the night shift. The entire idea of shifts had become obsolete two weeks ago, at least among Triad agents.

  Triad had been informed about the alien spacecraft on Day 3—or, as Art Capella would describe it, “before the Chinese but after the French.” Within hours, Art had activated eleven agents. They were tasked with gathering intel from space, intel on what other countries might know, and intel on existing threats to national security that might get exacerbated in the days ahead. By the time the aliens had attacked the Moon, the number of agents working on behalf of Triad was nineteen. Hours later, the number had ballooned to thirty-five. But only four of these agents, apart from Art, were in the loop. The others were provided just enough information to do their jobs.

  All manner of work had to be done—but some tasks were more urgent, more important, and more exciting than others. Sitting in an SUV, waiting for a plane to land, was decidedly not urgent, not important, and not exciting. It was also not the kind of task to which you would normally assign two of the four Triad agents who were important enough to be in the loop. But there was a rationale.

  The first order of business was to escort Professor Kilmer to a 12:30 a.m. meeting with Vice President Nielsen. After that, unless the professor decided to return to Boston, the agents were to stay with him until 7:00 am—or, if he wanted to get some rest, they would take him to a hotel. At seven o’clock, they were to hand Kilmer over to another Triad agent who would accompany him to an 8:00 a.m. meeting.

  VP Nielsen was going to brief the professor on the events of the last two weeks, which meant that the Triad agents assigned to him had to be in the loop as well. Kilmer might have questions after his meeting with Nielsen. He might want to talk about it. He might want to run and hide. He might freak out. Anything was possible—so they had to be prepared for everything. Their orders reflected the entire spectrum of exigencies, from “be respectful” to “have your firearms accessible at all times.”

  The aircraft touched down in the distance.

  “Well, Ren, this should be interesting.”

  “I know you’re joking, but I don’t think it will be that bad.”

  “Playing babysitter? Give me a break.”

  “He’s hardly a baby, Mark. He’s what they call a ‘distinguished professor.’ You know what that means?”

  “Just that he’s old. Maybe he laid the cornerstone for the university when it was being built.”

  “It means he’s influenced multiple fields, and not just his own. It’s considered a pretty big achievement. And yeah, it probably means he’s as old as the university itself. But his work is interesting.”

  Mark laughed. “You actually know his work?”

  “I’ve read a few of his books—or heard them, to be more precise. I go through a lot of audiobooks.”

  “And?”

  “And… I think it’s among the best stuff I’ve read in quite a while. Maybe a bit dry for some people, but I was a history major, so it’s the kind of thing I like. You should check it out sometime. It may even change the way you think about things. Not just about history, or about war and peace. Even about the work we do.”

  “Maybe if we survive this encounter, I’ll take a look at it. I mean the encounter with the aliens—not with the professor. But who knows, maybe this will be even worse.” Mark gave a chuckle. “Anyway, right now, I’m a little more concerned about the future than about the past.”

  Ren didn’t respond, and Mark started to wonder if he had been complaining a bit too much. Ren was his boss.

  Mark tried to dial it back a notch. “I suppose if the president thinks this guy is important enough to bring into the loop, he can’t be a complete loser. Then again, Agent Calloway is in the loop, so maybe that’s not a reasonable inference to draw.”

  Ren laughed at that. Agent Calloway ran the Directorate of Operations at the CIA. He was categorically disliked, and not for any one reason. Everyone found something different to hate about Calloway.

  The aircraft they had been waiting for, a modified Gulfstream, came to a stop about one hundred yards from the Suburban. Mark put the vehicle into gear and started driving. He pulled to a stop approximately fifteen yards from the jet, and both agents stepped outside to welcome their guest. The airplane’s door opened and quickly converted into a 10-step staircase. The pilot waved from inside, and both agents waved back.

  The first person to exit the plane was a younger man. He was carrying the professor’s luggage, which consisted of a carry-on suitcase and a laptop bag. He reached the ground and brought the bags over to the SUV.

  “Hello.”

  “Hi,” said Mark. He took the bags from the man and went around to put them in the trunk. When he returned, the scene was unchanged. Ren was still looking toward the plane. The man was just standing around, like he was waiting for a tip.

  “That will be all, sir. Thank you,” Mark said professionally.

  “Well, that was much less work than I expected.”

  Ren glanced at him. “Do you accompany the professor on all of his travels?”

  “Pretty much.”

  Ren looked back at the plane. “The staircase is a bit steep. Does he need any help coming down the steps?”

  “I don’t know. Did it look like I was about to fall on my face when I came down? All this time I thought I’d handled them like a champ.”

  One, two, thr—

  It took just under three seconds for Ren’s and Mark’s faces to register enlightenment.

  Ren turned toward Kilmer, looking thoroughly embarrassed. “I’m very sorry, Professor. I didn’t realize—”

  “It’s okay. It happens every so often.”

  “I’m sure it does, but in our line of work, we’re not supposed to make such mistakes. Not a good first impression I’m sure. Although, in our defense, you don’t really look like a professor.” Ren paused. “And I don’t mean that in a bad way.”

  “How could you mean it in a bad way? I spend a lot of time with professors. I know what they look like.”

  The agents laughed.

  The professor held out his hand. “I’m Kilmer.”

  Mark shook his hand. “It’s very nice to meet you, Professor Kilmer. I’ve heard a lot about you—although mostly in the last five minutes or so. My colleague here is a big fan of your work.”

  Ren flashed a no-point-in-denying-it smile, then shook Kilmer’s hand as well.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Professor. Welcome to Washington. I’m Agent Renata Silla. This is Agent Mark Lane.”

  “Agent Silla. Agent Lane. It’s a pleasure to meet you both.”

  ~ 20 ~

  Lane drove while Silla, sitting in the front passenger seat, responded to some text messages. Kilmer sat in the back, directly behind Lane.

  “Do you come to Washington often, Professor?” Lane asked.

  “I spend about eight weeks here every year. Other than that, maybe one trip every two months.”

  “How do you like it?”

  “I like it a lot. But I don’t think I could live here.”

  “Boston sports are a lot better,” Lane conceded.

  “People keep telling me that. I’ve decided that it must be true.”

  Silla looked up from her phone and smiled. “So, what is it that you don’t like about DC? Why couldn’t you live here?” she asked.

  “Good question. I’m not sure. Haven’t given it too much thought.”

  “I thought professors went around giving too much thought to everything.”

  “Only the good ones do that. I try to get by with as little thinking as I can without people finding out.”

  “Not true, Professor. I’ve read your work. And if you’re going to tell me that you wrote those books without too much thought, I’ll have to conclude that you’re either a genius or you’re not very honest. Is that a risk you want to take?”

  “No, Agent
Silla, it is not. I’d rather you think of me as neither. I’ll confess—the books took a lot of work. But you must read a whole lot if something I wrote made it onto your list. What made you pick it up?”

  “Good question. Haven’t given it too much thought.” She smiled again.

  Kilmer grinned, but then got down to business. “So, as I understand it, the plan is for you to drop me off at the White House. Do you know what my meeting is about?”

  “Yes, sir, we do,” said Lane. “But we’re not authorized to discuss it. Our orders are to accompany you to the vice president’s office and to stay there until you’re done.”

  “And then what? Back to the airport?”

  “I’m not sure, sir. That will be up to you and the vice president.”

  “Is the situation as bad as I’ve been led to believe?”

  Silla responded. “We can’t discuss the details. And I don’t know what you’ve been led to believe. But in all likelihood… yes. Things are probably even worse than you imagine.”

  “I study war, Agent Silla. I’m capable of imagining all sorts of terrible things. How much worse can it be?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t answer that. But you’ll find out soon enough.”

  Kilmer leaned back and closed his eyes. “Let’s just fast-forward to the end then. Is there anything either of you can tell me that I don’t already know?”

  “Actually, yes,” said Silla.

  Kilmer opened his eyes.

  She shot him a quick glance. “DC isn’t really a bad place to live.”

  He smiled, and then closed his eyes again.

  Kilmer’s mind drifted back to a memory. He was twenty-nine years old, and he was visiting Washington to participate in a small, invitation-only symposium to discuss US policy in the South China Sea. The event was organized by the DoD, and included professors, members of Congress, senior military officers, and some high-ranking officials from the State Department. Kilmer was the youngest person in the room, and no one seemed to pay much attention to his comments—nor did anyone have a problem speaking over him when he tried to share his thoughts. But at the reception that evening, he was approached by one of the attendees, Vice-Admiral Finley, Commander of the Office of Naval Intelligence. For the next hour, Finley peppered Kilmer with questions on just about everything that had been debated during the conference. Kilmer had made a decent impression after all—on one person, at least.