“Okay, thanks Jay. Let me know if there’s anything new from this group that’s blowing up Tokyo.”
An hour after meeting with Garvida, Dillard personally opened the door of the Diplomatic Reception Room for his next appointment. He smiled and extended his hand to Chinese Ambassador Wu Shin-tao, who had come on urgent business. After an exchange of pleasantries, they took seats on either side of the fireplace.
“Thank you very much for seeing me today, President Dillard. I am sure that you understand the gravity of the situation in Japan and North Korea.”
“Of course, Mister Ambassador, I’ve been briefed about the recent attacks in Tokyo and the crisis on the peninsula.”
Wu nodded. “From what I can gather, a number of North Koreans from the Chosun Restoration insurgency somehow gained possession of weapons of mass destruction and are aiming to…well, I was going to say ‘disrupt the Olympics,’ but perhaps ‘destroy the Olympics’ would be more accurate. Which leads me to my next point.”
He paused to let the gravity of the situation sink in. “The situation in the former DPRK is becoming more and more untenable, Mister President, which is without a doubt providing fuel for these attacks. More and more people are calling for the return of the Kim family, and I know that is not something that your country would accept. People are openly saying that at least under Kim there was political stability, but now there are widespread fears of civil war. On top of that, our reports indicate that large sections of the country are on the brink of famine. And now these attacks by Chosun Restoration on Tokyo. Something simply must be done before there is civil war and a refugee crisis. May I remind you, Mister President, of the ‘caravans’ at your border in recent years? We don’t like that kind of thing any more than you do. Thus, my government would like to make a proposal.” Wu searched Dillard’s eyes for any indication of openness or hostility. He would then tailor his remarks accordingly. But Dillard was playing his cards close to his vest and kept his face blank. Wu’s jaw tightened as he continued.
“Since North Korea has, since its inception, been especially close to my country both ideologically and culturally—what we call ‘lips and teeth close’—I’ve been authorized to offer what my premier is calling ‘the China Solution.’” Wu again waited for any sign from Dillard, but Dillard had been coached to keep his famously uninhibited mouth shut. Wu plunged ahead.
“The China Solution would be the establishment of a temporary one-year protectorate over North Korea under the wing of China until the unrest there subsides. Now, as you know, President Nahm of North Korea has been nothing but hostile toward China since he assumed power four years ago. But if you can persuade him to work with us, we would be willing to fully restore aid in the form of food and fuel, which would help alleviate the suffering that is behind the threat of civil war and the success of this Chosun Restoration group. As you also know, a civil war would mean millions of refugees flooding across the border into my country. The world has seen what happened in Iraq after Saddam Hussein was deposed.”
Ambassador Wu lifted one eyebrow and paused to let that sink in. He had just reminded Dillard of one of the worst American-made political disasters in history. But as Dillard listened to Wu’s pitch, he recalled China’s 2012 incorporation of 80 percent of the South China Sea as internal Chinese water simply by redrawing the map. And now they were being ever so generous and offering to create a ‘temporary’ one-year protectorate in North Korea while working with President Nahm? What’s the catch? he thought.
Wu continued to outline the details of the China Solution for several more minutes. After he had finished, Dillard stood.
“Thank you so much for your kind offer, Mister Ambassador,” he said smiling. He was going to continue to hold his cards close to the vest. His shoot-from-the-lip style had gotten him into too much trouble in past years, and with the 2021 election coming up, he needed to weigh all options carefully. “I will certainly discuss it with my cabinet.” He then ushered Ambassador Wu out of the Reception Room.
___________________
As was their practice every week, President Dillard met with his longtime friend and vice president, Paul Coppinger, for lunch in the Oval Office. Dillard had chosen Coppinger to replace Jared Lymon as veep after Lymon collapsed and died of a heart attack a year into their first term. Just as well, thought Dillard at the time. Lymon had been foisted on him by the party establishment who insisted that it was Lymon’s turn to position himself for 2024. But Dillard never liked him and shed only crocodile tears at his funeral.
Dillard and Coppinger’s meal today consisted of baked pork chops and fried Friel. Speaker of the House Jon Friel was Dillard’s just-nominated opponent in the upcoming election, and the president and Coppinger relished the chance to take on this middle-aged flower child. For one thing, Friel was an all-but-avowed socialist who promised an end to everyone’s financial woes thanks to the largesse of the federal government, thus assuring himself of the college snowflake vote. For another, he had ascended into the speakership as a compromise between the less liberal and more liberal factions of his party as opposed to anything close to a distinguished record.
Friel was also an unabashed opponent of Dillard’s actions in the Middle East, and one of his main campaign slogans was “A Time for Peace,” a line from Pete Seeger’s “Turn! Turn! Turn!” Dillard’s party promptly redubbed it “Peace in Our Time,” Neville Chamberlain’s infamous words of capitulation to Hitler. Dillard and Coppinger both dismissed reports that Friel’s message was resonating beyond college campuses, especially since Dillard’s last campaign had been about job creation, not handouts. His faithful base couldn’t get enough of him, now that the economy was motoring along again like a Ferrari after the Covid-19 crisis. Still, that morning’s Washington Post poll had the two presidential candidates only five points apart in Dillard’s favor.
“Not to worry, Evan,” said Coppinger as he picked up his silverware.
“I am worried, Paul, especially with these Olympic attacks and North Korea going all to shit. I met with Ambassador Wu this morning,” he said.
“And?”
“And he sounded like the tooth fairy. He says that Zhongnanhai is offering what they’re calling the ‘China Solution’ to this business with North Korea. They’re afraid, rightly so, I guess, that if there’s civil war in North Korea, China will have twenty million starving refugees on their doorstep. So they want me to talk President Nahm of North Korea into playing nice with China in return for restoring aid. The Chinese want to establish a temporary one-year protectorate to help Nahm manage the country, which Wu says would take the gas out of the Chosun Restoration movement in North Korea. Voila, no more threat of civil war. They also think it’ll stop the Chosun Restoration terror attacks in Japan, since the North Koreans back home will stop supporting the group if their bellies are full.”
“Temporary, huh?”
“That was my reaction too. But when you think about it, the only thing North Korea really has is a starving population, and Nahm doesn’t appear to know jack about doing anything about it. If China can prevent a civil war by helping him out, it’ll stave off a refugee crisis, and we’re talking millions of refugees, Paul. Still, with China you always have to wonder if there’s a catch.”
“Amen to that. For starters, what if they just want to bring back the Kims and turn the country back into a client state?”
“You’re right. I’d never even considered that. At any rate, there’s no way we can look like we’re knuckling under to the demands of the terrorists in Tokyo. I’m going to call Prime Minister Adegawa after lunch.”
CHAPTER 20
July 27
As chief consultant for security at the Olympics, Patrick didn’t enjoy the luxury of a regular workday, since security issues of all degrees of magnitude can arise at a moment’s notice. Still, no human can work around the clock, and at eight o’clock every evenin
g, he felt his energy flagging, having been up since 4 a.m. inspecting the venues in the Tokyo area, fielding calls from the media wanting updates on the terror attacks, and wondering when, not if, the next attack would occur. He returned to his room in the JIA, called Yumi to make sure she and Dae-ho were okay, took a shower, and sat down on his bed to enjoy a bento meal while watching the news. Days of nonstop thinking about the attacks had left Patrick’s head spinning. After his light dinner, he lay his head back on his pillow to rest his eyes, deep sleep being out of the question just yet due to mental overstimulation. He reached over to turn off the reading light on the night table and touched his hand to the photo of Yumi he kept there. But when he closed his eyes with the light out, the first thing that came into his mind was Kirsten Beck. He turned the light back on again and took Yumi’s photo in his hands. Then he got out of bed and took down his framed reproduction of Miyamoto Musashi’s Shrike on a Dead Tree, one of the artist/warrior’s most famous ink-brush paintings. He sat back down on the bed as he examined it. He had given it to himself as a present when he graduated from Tokyo University of Fine Arts, and some of the quotes he had used in his thesis came tumbling down through the years:
When you cannot be deceived by men, you will have realized the wisdom of strategy…
Distinguish between good and evil…
The carpenter uses a master plan of the building, and the Way of strategy is similar in that there is a plan of campaign…
He bolted upright in the narrow bed. A plan of campaign—of course. Something about the nature of the attacks had been gnawing at him, but he hadn’t had the time to contemplate exactly what it was. Now, with Miyamoto Musashi’s words echoing in his ears, he realized that there had to be some underlying pattern to the attacks, and if he could fathom what that pattern was, he would be a lot closer to figuring out what might be coming next.
He got out of bed and sat down on his zafu meditation cushion and began the zazen practice of counting his breaths until his mind emptied out. Then he waited for what he called “the flash,” the burst of inspiration that comes when logical striving for answers ceases and intuition takes over. But before any intuition had a chance to burst forth, the next thing he knew, his alarm clock was ringing at 4 a.m. Somehow, he had lain down on the rug and fallen into a dreamless sleep. Although he hadn’t gotten any insights into the pattern the attacks were following, he consoled himself with the fact that he had just had one of the best sleeps of the past two weeks. He was ready for the day, this time with his senses attuned to any flashes of insight that might suddenly take center stage of his mind. Instead of insight into the attacks, though, the first thing that came into his head was Kirsten Beck’s eyes.
___________________
The next morning, Patrick was on his way to the American embassy for a meeting with the combined security command when he noticed Kirsten walking quickly ahead of him with a cup of Starbuck’s coffee. She was wearing a tan suit with a yellow blouse that matched her coloring perfectly. She hadn’t seen him. He called out to her, and she turned.
“Oh, hello,” she said, smiling.
“Walk with you?” he said.
“Sure. I just needed to get some real coffee. The stuff Hooper keeps in that urn of his is like sheep dip.”
“Don’t I know it. Maybe that’s why my sleep patterns have been so off lately.”
“Uh-huh, and it has nothing to do with the attacks,” she said, lifting her eyebrows with a grin.
“Oh yeah, that too, I’d almost forgotten,” Patrick said, smiling back. “By the way, this is supposed to be a quick meeting at the embassy, and I’m going to have some lunch afterwards. Since we’ll be working together on this Chosun Restoration thing, I was thinking it might be a good idea to share our thoughts on how to approach it. Any plans for lunch?”
“Actually, no. That would be a great idea. Know any good places?”
After the embassy meeting, Kirsten excused herself briefly to check her messages with the secretary she’d been assigned. She came back to the vestibule of the building five minutes later.
“Thanks, sorry for the quick detour.”
“No problem at all.”
“That girl they assigned me is superefficient and easy to work with, but she drives me nuts with that ‘uptalk’ business. Every declarative sentence is suddenly a question. It’s like she’s auditioning for Jeopardy! all the time.”
Patrick laughed out loud. “Oh, I know, it’s just so irritating. ‘So I went to the store? And bought a new sweater? But it was too small? So I guess I have to return it?’ Maddening.”
They laughed as they exited the embassy and talked as they walked, making better progress than Tokyo’s earnest little eco-cars that were stuck in the noontime rush. A short way from the embassy, they saw a young boy of at most thirteen sporting a T-shirt that read “I Love Every Bone in Your Body, Especially Mine.” The wholesome-looking, well-bred kid had no idea what the shirt said, only that it was in English and therefore somehow cool.
Patrick stifled a chuckle when he saw it. “You gotta love these T-shirts,” he said in a soft voice, lamely attempting to defuse any embarrassment that Kirsten might be feeling.
“Do I really?” Kirsten said in a sarcastic tone, but Patrick snuck a glance at her and saw that she was grinning. What a relief. A sense of humor, he thought.
As they walked, her head kept pivoting off in different directions as she took in the unfamiliar sights and sounds of central Tokyo. Once he had to slow her down when no fewer than four senior citizen security guards held their hands up for them to be careful as they went around a narrow ditch being dug on the side of the road, even though they had plenty of room.
“That’s how they keep their unemployment rate so low,” Patrick commented with an arch smile.
Kirsten shrugged. “Whatever works. I guess it beats having homeless people all over the place like downtown Honolulu. Sometimes you can hardly walk down the street.”
“Really? I had no idea it had gotten so bad.”
Kirsten nodded. “Homeless and urban hipsters with man buns. I don’t know which is worse.”
“I suddenly like downtown Tokyo a lot better,” Patrick said as they continued walking.
“So what exactly does an FBI analyst do in this day and age? And how did you decide on that career path?”
“Well, they were looking for people with a strong math background, and I majored in math in college. Mainly because numbers don’t lie.”
“Unless they’re statistics,” Patrick said with an impish smile.
“Touché on that,” Kirsten said with a smile of her own. “Anyway, we piece together information from different sources and assess threats. Kind of like what we’re doing now with these attacks. Pretty boring stuff usually, that’s why I’m in training to be a psych profiler.” She tilted her head to the left and side-eyed him appraisingly as they walked. “Italian, I’m guessing.”
“Pretty good profiling, but no, although a lot of people think that. Actually, I’m Black Irish on both sides, plus an eighth Japanese from my mother’s side.”
“Interesting. I’m blonde Viking Irish on my father’s side, but a quarter Lebanese from my mother’s side. Thanks to her, I learned Arabic, which is my official second language in the Bureau. No one can ever guess that I’m part Arab, although that side of the family is Maronite Christian, not Islamic.”
Patrick noted a hint of defensiveness in her last remark. She went on.
“I’ve never gotten any grief for my ethnicity, which I’ve never hidden, by the way, but when I hear my darker relatives on my father’s side talk about some of the names they’ve been called…
“On the other hand, some of them go around saying things like ‘Three thousand people died on 9/11. That’s how many are killed in the Middle East in a typical week,’ which is true, of course, but the people who died on 9/11 had no p
art in what happens in the Middle East, except to the wackadoodle fringe Left. Anyway, that was one of my main motivations for joining the FBI, to counter the stereotype. What drives me crazy is that part of me understands the animosity, although I hate the racism on the part of the wackadoodle fringe Right. Stereotypes have a kernel of truth. There’s a reason why car rental companies charge more if you’re under twenty-five. Kids get into more accidents. Is that ageism? I think it’s just actuarial common sense. So I live in two psychological worlds when it comes to the subject. Sorry, I’ve really gotten the conversation into an unpleasant area.”
“No, you haven’t,” said Patrick. He found something endearing in her use of the word “wackadoodle.” “I think you make a lot of sense.”
A few minutes later, Patrick led Kirsten to a tiny izakaya, a traditional Japanese pub, down a side street off the main drag. They took their seats at the far end of the bar. It didn’t offer them much privacy since there were only eight seats total, but Patrick explained to her that in Japan you make your own space where little exists. He smiled at the owner and held up two fingers. The owner, who seemed to know him, nodded and smiled back. In short order he brought over a tray with a small porcelain jug of sake and two tiny cups.
Patrick poured for both of them. “I like a bit of sake with lunch. This stuff is mild—don’t worry about getting lit.”
“I usually have a little wine with lunch myself,” she said, and they toasted each other. Kirsten took a sip. “Oh, this is good.” She said with surprise and took another sip. “I’d always heard that sake was a step above lighter fluid.”
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