The Peacemaker's Code Read online

  The Peacemaker’s Code

  A Novel

  by

  Deepak Malhotra

  Copyright © 2021 by Deepak Malhotra

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without the prior written permission of the copyright owner, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  To request permissions, or to inquire about foreign and translation rights, contact the author: [email protected]

  Publisher: DeepakMalhotra

  Paperback: ISBN 978-1-7365485-0-9

  e-Book: ISBN 978-1-7365485-1-6 / ASIN B08TLR3HCT

  Audiobook: ISBN 978-1-7365485-2-3

  Cover art by Adam Hall.

  Formatting by Polgarus Studio.

  Book Website: www.ThePeacemakersCode.com

  To my parents. To my teachers. To my wife.

  For making it possible.

  To my friends and family.

  For making it better.

  To my students and my children.

  For making it worthwhile.

  And to all who deserve a more peaceful world.

  For inspiring it all.

  Code / ‘kōd /

  Noun

  1. a system of words, letters, figures, or symbols that are employed for the purposes of secrecy.

  2. a set of rules, principles, and standards adhered to by an individual, group, or society.

  Contents

  Part I

  the observer

  Part II

  the adviser

  Part III

  the strategist

  Part IV

  the ambassador

  Part V

  the negotiator

  Part VI

  the historian

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Message from the author

  Part I

  the observer

  ~ 1 ~

  They walked him down a dimly lit corridor—the kind you encounter after the employees have all left for the evening and the building has shifted to energy-conservation mode.

  But this was no ordinary office building. Access to the lobby had required a retinal scan. Security cameras were everywhere. And the buttons in the elevator were unmarked. One of his guides had punched in a rather lengthy passcode to get them up to the appropriate floor.

  Every door they walked past was shut, and presumably locked. Only one of them had a window—a rectangular bit of glass that you might find on a door that leads to the stairwell. A way out.

  After almost thirty yards, they came upon a conference room on their right. Its large glass wall was frosted over, except for eighteen inches at the top and bottom. On the other side of the wall was a long table that might seat a dozen people, but the frost made it hard to say much else about the contents of the room.

  He noticed that they slowed down, just a tad, as they approached the conference room. As if his guides had considered going inside, only to realize that it was not the right room. Affixed to the door was a small nameplate that told him they had just chosen not to enter Dolos 3. He decided that was worth keeping in mind.

  After another fifteen yards, on the other side of the hallway, they arrived at their destination—a room that looked identical to Dolos 3, but which was assigned a different moniker: Apate 3.

  As they approached the door to Apate 3, Agent Lane, who had been leading the way, stepped aside to allow Agent Silla to take the initiative. Agent Lane was just shy of six feet tall and probably in his mid-thirties. He had light brown hair, a clean-shaven face, and appeared to put his gym membership to good use. Silla was five-foot-seven, with an athletic build and dark shoulder-length hair that framed a captivating face. She could have passed for thirty, but Agent Lane’s deference toward her suggested she might be the older of the two.

  Silla put four fingers on a scanner above the door’s handle. Three seconds later, he heard a click. Lane held the door open for them, and the lights in the room turned brighter the moment they stepped inside.

  The long mahogany table in the center of the room was surrounded by twelve black leather chairs. On the wall to the far left of where they had entered, only a few feet past the head of the table, hung a large flatscreen TV. It was a standard conference room setup, but with some perceptible differences. The table held a keyboard, a touchscreen panel, and a speakerphone, but without the mess of wires that typically accompanied such an arrangement. There were no whiteboards, flipcharts, or recycling bins, but a large paper shredder sat adjacent to the door. Wedged into one corner of the room was a small table with a few pencils, some sheets of paper, and a metallic receptacle about the size of a shoebox. There were at least two security cameras in the room.

  The secret of the metal shoebox was laid bare when Agent Lane asked him to hand over his cell phone. Lane and Silla placed their own phones—they each had two—inside the container as well.

  “That really isn’t necessary,” he pointed out. “My phone has been dead all afternoon.”

  “Sorry,” Agent Lane responded. “We still have to follow protocol.”

  Those were the first words any of them had spoken since they arrived at the building, apart from the almost inaudible “After you” that Lane had uttered when they walked into the elevator.

  Agent Silla offered him the seat at the head of the table, closest to the TV screen. Lane and Silla skipped the chairs next to his before sitting down across from one another. He had been told that they would be observing an important, hour-long meeting. The meeting was taking place elsewhere, but it would be streamed for them into the conference room. For that long of a viewing, he was seated uncomfortably close to the screen. For whatever reason, Lane and Silla had ignored his convenience in favor of an arrangement that allowed them to keep an eye on him during the meeting. What kind of reaction are they looking for? How could it possibly matter?

  Silla gave a nod and Lane grabbed the keyboard. A moment later, the bright light reflecting off the table revealed that the TV behind him had come to life.

  Silla took a deep breath and then kicked things off.

  “I know you have a lot of questions, Professor Kilmer. Soon enough you will understand why we couldn’t answer most of them. But let me start by thanking you for joining us today.”

  It suddenly occurred to him that he had come to this place, if not eagerly, then at least willingly. But something in the way she thanked him—it was a slight pause before she found the word—left him wondering whether they would have let him reject the invitation. Silla and Lane had met Kilmer at his home that afternoon, shortly after he had returned from a visit to the hospital. They displayed their credentials and asked him to call the Central Intelligence Agency, using a publicly available phone number, to confirm that two agents had been sent to his house. He told them that his phone was dead, and Lane let him borrow one of his. After the call, the agents told him that his “unique expertise” was needed on a national security matter of vital importance. He needed only to accompany them to their office, where he would watch and listen in on a meeting, and then answer some questions about what he had seen and heard. That was it—he would be back by midnight.

  No, he did not have time to think about it. No, they could not tell him what this was about. No, he could not call anyone else to find out whether this was legitimate.

  Putting together what little information they had provided, the best that Kilmer could come up with was still a bit of a stretch—had the CIA managed to get eyes and ears on a terrorist group that was planning an imminent attack? Not sure how my expertise helps with that. He had asked a dozen questions, none of which were answered, before he decided that the only way to learn anything would b
e to go along with them. He might even be able to do some good. Two hours later, they had arrived at this building.

  “Let me answer some of the questions you asked earlier, and a few others that you probably wanted to ask,” Silla continued. “Agent Lane and I belong to a department of the CIA that is not officially on the org chart. It exists and functions like a standing committee comprised of select employees from three different CIA directorates: Analysis, Operations, and Science & Technology. Informally, our department is referred to as Triad. It’s a name that most of us hate—and yes, I know it sounds like a comic-book crime syndicate.

  “The meeting we are here to observe will begin soon. When it does, you will be able to see and hear the participants, but they will not be addressing you—nor will you be able to talk to them. You will see a dozen people seated around a large table, and you will recognize a few of them. Familiar faces might include Vice President Nielsen, Defense Secretary Strauss, National Security Advisor Garcia, and CIA Director Druckman. Others, whom you are less likely to know, include the energy secretary, the chief scientist at NASA, and General Allen, who is the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. You will also see two people sitting farther away from the table, against the back wall, just taking notes.”

  Silla paused and looked at Kilmer. It was not a look that invited questions. She was gauging his reaction. If she was even moderately well trained, she must have noticed his surprise. He had leaned back, and his eyes had widened, ever so slightly, the moment she mentioned Vice President Zack Nielsen. She might have also noticed that Kilmer had been holding his breath, and that he exhaled only after she finished listing the attendees.

  This was not what he had imagined.

  The Vice President. CIA. DoD. NASA. The secretary of energy. Are we on the brink of nuclear war? Have the Russians or Chinese developed or deployed some new weapon? Is it Iran or North Korea? Nuclear terrorism?

  And then he remembered what Silla had said, almost in passing: They will not be addressing you. The list of attendees, combined with the setup that she had described, was extremely troubling.

  Are we spying on a meeting in which the VP is participating? Are the attendees unaware that we—or I—will be watching? Kilmer decided that even this question would have to wait. He did not want to redirect the conversation, or to have Agent Silla become more guarded, just when she was starting to share information.

  “Please continue,” he said to her.

  She nodded, slowly, and for a moment he thought she was still trying to gauge his reaction. But no, that wasn’t it. She wasn’t evaluating him at all. She looked… disappointed. As if she had wanted him to react differently. To be more impressed, or more curious, or more… something.

  Silla continued. “To put it simply, Professor Kilmer, we are in a crisis. Once we give you the details, and once you overcome your initial shock, you will agree that the stakes have never been higher in the history of our country. Very few people are aware of the situation we are in, and we need to keep it that way.

  “So, why are we telling you about it? It’s because what we’re about to observe is a strategy meeting, and it has a lot to do with your area of expertise. You have taught your students about President Kennedy’s deliberations with the ExComm during the Cuban Missile Crisis. You’ve analyzed Chamberlain’s cabinet meetings during the Sudeten crisis. You’ve studied Churchill’s debates with Halifax over whether to fight or make peace with Hitler. You have reinterpreted Pope Gregory VII’s humiliation of Henry IV during their meeting at Canossa. And you have offered a unique and compelling explanation for why the Spartans voted for war against Athens.

  “If you ever wanted to be a fly on the wall in any of those meetings… well, then this is your lucky day. But I need you to keep in mind that you’re not just a fly on the wall. You will shape what happens here. For reasons that will become clear to you before this night is over, your voice will not be ignored. If we survive this, and if books are written about this moment in human history, you will not be a mere footnote.”

  If we survive this. Kilmer did not react. He was no longer thinking of questions to ask. He was only listening.

  “As to the attendees. Most of the people participating in this meeting had never heard of you. But there are also a few who believe that your advice could prove invaluable.”

  Her choice of words managed to ease one of his concerns. Most participants had never heard of him. In other words, they knew of him now. They must know he would be observing—or, at least, that he was involved. Kilmer was not keen on spying on the US government, no matter the reason.

  “All we are asking of you, Professor, is that you share your frank, unfiltered assessment of the discussion you are about to see. What stands out to you? Which arguments do you find compelling? What’s missing in the analysis? In short, are we likely to make the right call here?”

  There was a knock on the door. Agent Lane checked to see that his tie was in place as he rose to his feet. Agent Silla stood as well.

  Lane opened the door, and in walked a distinguished-looking man with more gray hairs than you would expect given how few wrinkles he had on his face. He looked like he had ironed his suit in the hallway just before entering. He stood ramrod straight with his shoulders back, exhibiting the kind of posture that an ergonomist might insist upon, but which most people find unnatural. He shook hands with Lane and patted him on the shoulder.

  “Good to see you, sir,” Lane said. The older man gave a friendly nod. He walked over to Silla and repeated the same ritual with her. He then turned to Kilmer, who was also standing by now, and offered his hand. It was, as expected, a perfectly curated handshake: firm but comfortable grip, friendly eye contact, and a smile that looked so natural you had to believe it was genuine.

  “It’s nice to see you, Professor. Thank you for coming. You don’t know me, but I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  Kilmer flashed back to his time as a graduate student. His adviser was the only other person he’d ever known who would use “nice to see you” instead of “nice to meet you” when meeting someone for the first time. After spending decades in and around campus, the adviser couldn’t remember all the people he was expected to know. He gave up on “nice to meet you” after one too many awkward conversations with people who had to remind him that they’d met previously. It was nice to see you from that point on—for everyone.

  The man with the well-ironed suit continued. “You can think of me as the director of Triad—although, technically, Triad has no director, because Triad does not exist. Less complicated is the fact that my name is Arthur Capella. Please call me Art—not Arthur or Agent Capella. My younger colleagues here insist on calling me ‘sir,’ and I am tired of telling them to cut it out.”

  Lane and Silla smiled.

  Art turned toward Silla. “Have you already told him who will be in the meeting?”

  “Yes, sir. That’s about as far as we’ve gotten.”

  “Okay. Let’s have a seat then,” Art suggested.

  Art took the unclaimed spot between Silla and Kilmer, but he pulled the chair back a little to get a wider lens—he could see them both without having to turn his head. Lane picked up his pencil and waited, as if he were the designated note-taker.

  “You are wondering, Professor Kilmer, what exactly is going on—and why you are so relevant. You’ve probably made some educated guesses by now, and they’re not totally off the mark, because one way to think about this is quite simple: we are trying to avert a devastating war. Beyond that, I’m afraid, you’re probably way off track.”

  Kilmer acknowledged his limited understanding of the situation with a simple nod.

  Art remained silent, but Kilmer could see it was not for dramatic effect. He’s struggling to find the right words. Finally, Art leaned back and took a deep breath, as if he had decided to go ahead with the best he had come up with so far.

  “Professor. Do you know what room we’re in?”

  “Yes. It was labe
led Apate 3.”

  “Right. And there is another conference room on this floor. Care to guess what it’s called?”

  “Dolos 3. I read the nameplate.”

  “Right again. Do you know where those names come from?”

  “I do. They’re named after the Greek god and goddess of trickery and deception. Should I be concerned?”

  “Well, in my line of work, one always has to worry about Dolos and Apate,” Art conceded. “But, to your question, the answer is no. In fact, I only bring it up to clear the air. If you’re like most people, you have certain assumptions about the CIA and the work we do. Most of those assumptions, and especially the less flattering ones, are incorrect—at least, those things are no longer true. But I’m aware of the reputational baggage the CIA carries. I want to assure you that we do a lot of very important work, and we do it properly. Am I sounding a bit defensive? Yes. All the same, it’s important that I say this up front.

  “As for Dolos and Apate—they’re just a bit of fun. The agents on each floor get to select the names for their conference rooms. The rooms on seven are called Possible and Impossible. The rooms on four are Chess and Checkers. Some of the other names I prefer not to say in polite company. The point is, they don’t mean anything.”

  “You said you wanted to clear the air,” Kilmer reminded him. “Are you about to tell me something about your work that I’m not likely to support? Or to believe?”

  Art looked at Silla and Lane. They responded with expressions that would typically accompany the shrugging of shoulders. Art turned back to Kilmer and leaned closer, resting his elbows on his legs.

  “More so the latter. You won’t believe much of what I’m about to tell you. But that’s not really a problem, because soon enough, you will see that I’m telling you the truth.”