Somewhere Inside Part 18

We shared what we had learned from our letters about the out-pouring of support from around the United States and all over the world and how the thoughts and prayers of so many people gave us the strength to endure.

For lunch, the guards brought out an elaborate meal of cold noodles, fresh fruit, and pastries. My stomach was still weak, so they served me a bowl of gruel, which had become my staple over the last few days. But having not had much fresh fruit in months, I slowly nibbled on some pieces of melon, savoring the sweet flavor.

Paris came over to give me my medication, which I'd been taking with each meal. "This is my friend Euna," I said to Paris, who smiled.

"So now that you're finally with your friend, you've already forgotten about me," she said jokingly.

"Of course not!" I replied. I was touched that Paris felt a certain closeness to me.

"I'm just joking," she said. "I'm glad you can be together." She said we would be leaving soon to meet with the U.S. envoy.

My stomach was churning from being ill and also from nervousness. I continued to contemplate who it could be that was coming to our aid. I knew that Bill Clinton was the person the North Koreans wanted most, but maybe they had decided to accept Jimmy Carter after Secretary Clinton's harsh remarks. On top of that, none of the recent letters I'd received indicated that any progress was being made on the Clinton front, but those letters were at least a week old.

"I have a feeling it's either President Carter or Clinton," I said to Euna, "but I'm not sure which one."

After lunch, Euna and I were taken in separate cars to the Koryo Hotel, a twin-towered building built in the 1980s. When we arrived, our interrogators escorted us up an escalator to the second floor. They left us in a small conference room with the guarantor and Paris. I was so jittery and my stomach was so full of unease that I had to request to use the toilet every few minutes. The guarantor seemed worried that my condition might prevent me from being able to meet with the envoy. He offered me some stomach medication, but I declined, fearing it might make my stomach even worse. I closed my eyes and began to meditate. Just be calm, Just be calm, I thought. I thought. It's all going to work out. You'll be home soon. It's all going to work out. You'll be home soon.

"Euna, I think it's happening. I think we're going to be going home," I said. "But let's not jinx anything."

We held hands, waiting to meet our savior.

LISA.

WHEN THE NEWS ABOUT the Clinton mission hit the air-waves, our phones started ringing like crazy. Press from all over the world was calling to get a comment about what was happening. Still under strict orders to not speak, none of us answered calls from numbers we didn't recognize. the Clinton mission hit the air-waves, our phones started ringing like crazy. Press from all over the world was calling to get a comment about what was happening. Still under strict orders to not speak, none of us answered calls from numbers we didn't recognize.

With TVs blaring, we were practically dancing around my mom's house. I looked at Iain, who had lost a significant amount of weight during the ordeal, and smiled at the thought of him and Laura finally having meals together in their new home. In one day, years had been lifted from my mom's face. Dad was helping her prepare Laura's favorite soup: Chinese watercress. They were like an old married couple snapping at each other to pa.s.s the salt, but it was a joyful bickering-their little girl was coming home.

A blocked number kept appearing on my cell phone over and over again. Then an e-mail appeared on my BlackBerry that read "POTUS [President of the United States] is trying to call you from the Situation Room. Pick up the phone."

It was August 4, President Obama's birthday. My mom, dad, Iain, and I picked up four different phones in the house so we could all be on the line.

"Mich.e.l.le and I are so happy that this day has come," President Obama said in his iconic voice.

"Thank you so much, Mr. President," I said. "We know that this was a very complicated situation for all involved, and we're so grateful for your blessing."

"Listen, I've been on this for a while," he answered, "and this was before I got the e-mail from my sister."

We all graciously thanked the president for taking our matter seriously despite everything that he had going on in the first months of his presidency. At the very end of the call my mom blurted out, "Happy Birthday, Mr. President!"

"Thank you," President Obama replied. "This has been a great gift."

Bill Clinton's chief, Doug Band, and I were e-mailing news reports back and forth. I told him that President Obama had called us to tell us how happy he was that this mission was happening. The plane was so wired that everyone on board was getting real-time news reports of the Clinton trip, so Doug knew everything. And then all of a sudden, communication stopped. I knew at once that meant President Clinton and his team had landed in Pyongyang. I recalled my trip to North Korea, when my cell phone was seized immediately upon arrival. I imagined that while on the ground in North Korea, the Americans might not be able to communicate freely until they were back in the air.

Approximately two hours after I lost contact with Doug, photos started to emerge from broadcasts on North Korean television of President Clinton's arrival inside the Communist country. He was shown coming down the stairs and onto the tarmac, but as he reached out to shake the hands of the North Korean officials, he was wearing the most expressionless face the world had ever seen on him. I would later learn that persons in the White House and State Department suggested that he not appear too affable under the circ.u.mstances, and that he had practiced maintaining that look of total stoicism. On the ground to greet President Clinton was North Korea's chief nuclear negotiator Kim Kye-Gwan. For months we had been urging all parties to keep our issue separate from the nuclear one, but on this day it seemed as if the North Korean leaders.h.i.+p was trying to make some kind of statement by having Kim Kye-Gwan there to meet with the former United States president. We wondered if this meant there might be an opening for discussions about nuclear disarmament in the future.

We were glued to the television; it was the biggest story of the day. We had been able to keep the mission secret for days, but now it was everywhere. We wondered if President Clinton had seen Laura and Euna yet-or if they even knew he was there. What was going on inside North Korea?

LAURA.

ABOUT AN HOUR LATER, we were told that the envoy had arrived. We were ushered out of the room and led down a long corridor. The path was lined with at least twenty North Korean security agents dressed in black. Their expressions were stone cold and intimidating. As I made my way down the hall, all of a sudden, at the end of the line of North Korean officers, I spotted a single bald-headed American, wearing an earpiece. It was a U.S. Secret Service agent. Seeing him there gave me goose b.u.mps. I could feel the presence of my country standing before me. we were told that the envoy had arrived. We were ushered out of the room and led down a long corridor. The path was lined with at least twenty North Korean security agents dressed in black. Their expressions were stone cold and intimidating. As I made my way down the hall, all of a sudden, at the end of the line of North Korean officers, I spotted a single bald-headed American, wearing an earpiece. It was a U.S. Secret Service agent. Seeing him there gave me goose b.u.mps. I could feel the presence of my country standing before me.

When we reached the end of the corridor, two doors swung open, and standing ten feet in front of us was President Bill Clinton. Perhaps it was the way the room was lit, or my overwhelmed state of mind, but I felt like the former president was shrouded in a bright, beaming light. In my eyes, he looked like an angel who had come to our aid. I was awestruck. Every single moment of my captivity had felt utterly surreal, and this was no different. President Clinton had traveled halfway around the world to Pyongyang to rescue us. It should have been a scene out of a movie, not out of my life.

Unable to control our emotions, Euna and I burst into tears as we stepped toward the former U.S. president. He looked at us with fatherly concern and embraced us tightly.

"Bless you, bless you," he said in his smooth southern drawl. He spoke in a hushed tone, out of earshot of the half a dozen or so people in the room. North Korean photographers and videographers seemed to be recording his every move.

"President Clinton, thank you so much for coming. You were the only person who could save us. We are so grateful," I said. I then reiterated what Mr. Yee had instructed me to say.

"Well, that part has been done," the president responded, referring to making an apology on our behalf.

He told us that he had just come from a good meeting, though he didn't specify with whom. He also said there was still a little more work that needed to be done, but he felt confident that we would be leaving on a plane with him and his team the next morning.

"I'd like you to speak with my physician about your health and whether you can fly," he said and motioned us to his doctor, Roger Band.

I knew from Iain's letters that the swine flu virus was spreading in the United States and other countries. Iain joked in one of his letters that the one thing he didn't have to worry about was my catching swine flu, because North Korea was so isolated. Even so, I didn't want to take a chance by telling Dr. Band that I had just gotten over a serious fever. Nothing was going to keep me from getting on that plane.

"We've been treated fairly," I told Dr. Band. "We might have a few ailments here and there, but it's nothing that being on U.S. soil can't cure."

As we were talking, Doug Band, Clinton's top adviser, John Podesta, his former chief of staff, and Justin Cooper, his top aide, introduced themselves. Also part of President Clinton's team were Stanford professor and expert on North Korea David Straub, Min Ji Kwon, an interpreter from the U.S. Emba.s.sy in Seoul, and a contingent of seven U.S. Secret Service agents. The former president then came over to us again and said that he and his team were going to have to leave.

"Bless you," he said again compa.s.sionately. "We'll see you tomorrow."

After the room emptied out, our interrogators rushed toward us and asked us what Clinton had said. I explained that he still had some more work to do, but he hoped we'd be going home with him.

"Is that it?" Mr. Yee asked.

"Yes, that's it," I replied. "I hope it's true."

We went back to the compound, and I was told that I would be able to spend the night in Euna's room. There seemed to be a lot of buzz going on. Though we were confined to Euna's quarters, I could hear people moving about all over the building. There was a kind of frenzied energy in the air.

Euna and I contemplated the likelihood of our being released the next morning. Though we felt close to certain that things would work out, there was still a chance that something could go wrong. We were in North Korea, after all, a country notorious for being duplicitous. We tried to temper our expectations, not wanting to get our hopes up only to find out that we would not be going home. I tried to imagine what sorts of conversations the former president and his team were having with the highest levels of North Korea's government. Would President Clinton be meeting with Kim Jong Il? By nightfall, we still hadn't heard anything from our interrogators.

Since I was going to sleep in Euna's room, I asked the guard if I could go back to my room to collect my toothbrush and other belongings. We had to walk outside in order to get to the other side of the building, and I noted that this was the first time I'd been allowed outdoors at night. I looked up at the moon and the glimmering stars, sights I hadn't seen in months. I thought of my family and how anxious they must be feeling, knowing that our big chance to be released had finally come. The next time I look at the moon, I thought, I might be seeing it from home.

LISA.

SOON MORE PHOTOS STARTED to surface. This time they included images of a man thought by the world to be on his deathbed, the infamous leader of North Korea: Kim Jong Il. to surface. This time they included images of a man thought by the world to be on his deathbed, the infamous leader of North Korea: Kim Jong Il.

The Dear Leader was smiling and jubilant as he greeted America's forty-second president, who held on to his inscrutable expression throughout the trip. From an intelligence perspective, it was tremendously valuable for an American to see the notoriously despotic ruler. Every one of my advisers had been convinced that Kim was not well. He had not been seen publicly in a very long time, and whatever photos existed were said to have been taken years ago and doctored to make them look more current. Some bloggers even speculated that the reason Clinton had been requested was that the North Korean regime was going to perform a succession ceremony that would usher in a new era of leaders.h.i.+p, and Kim Jong Il would hand over power to his son.

But judging from the pictures, there was no denying that Kim Jong Il was alive and well. President Clinton later told me that North Korea's leader not only was alert but was firmly calling the shots inside his country. He added that the younger Kim was not even present in any of the meetings during this visit.

LAURA.

THAT NIGHT E EUNA AND I lay in bed still unsure of our fate. The guard in the adjoining room was watching the evening newscast. Suddenly we heard a female North Korean newscaster say, "Clin-ton!" with the booming formal cadence I'd become so familiar with. Euna and I popped out of bed and rushed into the guards' room. I lay in bed still unsure of our fate. The guard in the adjoining room was watching the evening newscast. Suddenly we heard a female North Korean newscaster say, "Clin-ton!" with the booming formal cadence I'd become so familiar with. Euna and I popped out of bed and rushed into the guards' room.

The news anchor was describing a meeting between Kim Jong Il and President Clinton. Then photos from the visit were displayed on the screen. The first photo was a group shot with Kim Jong Il and Clinton's team, all of whom, including Kim, had on serious expressions. It was hard to gauge the mood in the room. But the instant I saw the picture of Kim Jong Il with his wide, toothy grin, standing proudly next to the solemn-looking Clinton, I knew we were going home.

"The reporter said it was a warm meeting," Euna explained.

"We're going home," I said, no longer worried about jinxing anything. "We're going home!" We spent the rest of the night sharing in our excitement.

At 4:00 A.M. A.M., a guard came into the room and told us to get ready, that our interrogators were coming to see us. The guarantor brought in several boxes of books and things sent from our families that we had not been allowed to have. He gave us some duffel bags and told us to pack what we wanted. The boxes contained protein bars, dried fruit, shampoos, lotions, beef jerky, tissues, toothpaste, deodorant, and other basic items. I recalled how much I had craved and begged for the protein bars and toothpaste but was not allowed to have them because the guards were worried I might be poisoned. I left the items in their boxes. I thought they would be put to better use by the people there.

I threw a few articles of clothing and other small items into the bags, including the black lined boots I was wearing on the day of our apprehension along the border. I remembered that morning and wondered if circ.u.mstances might have been different had those boots not been so heavy.

The things I wanted to take home most, my prized possessions, were the letters I had received. I don't think I would have gotten through that terrifying time without the knowledge and wisdom contained in them. There were thirty manila envelopes in all from the Swedish Emba.s.sy, each containing several letters. I carefully packed the envelopes and all the memories they held into a bag.

Mr. Yee and Mr. Baek arrived and brought me outside to talk. Mr. Yee explained that a very high-ranking general would be arriving at the compound in an hour to issue Euna and me a special pardon on behalf of the chairman himself, Kim Jong Il.

"Are you happy now?" he asked, with the half grin I'd become so used to seeing.

"I can't believe it's really happening!" I beamed. "I'm finally going to see my family!"

He told me I must get ready quickly and urged me to look as presentable as possible. "Wear something bright and colorful if you have it," he said. "He's a very important general."

I looked through the clothes my family had sent me over the months. They were comfortable, casual things like sweats.h.i.+rts, T-s.h.i.+rts, and cargo pants in muted colors. I thought back on the times when I'd receive a package and the guards would peek at the clothes curiously. They were hoping to see some pretty outfits sent from America, but they were always disappointed when they saw yet another cotton T-s.h.i.+rt.

"I'm a prisoner," I explained. "There's no need for me to wear anything fancy."

I chuckled to myself, thinking that my drab clothes probably helped reinforce their image of America as a poor, desolate place. I spotted a bright green collared s.h.i.+rt in the pile. I'd never worn it because it was too bright, the opposite of my mood during my captivity. This would have to do for the general. It was the only option.

Euna and I were brought into a small room in the compound. John Podesta and Doug Band from Clinton's team were seated along with several North Korean officials. President Clinton was not present. Two empty seats were reserved in the corner for the two of us. As the general entered the room, we all rose to our feet. He was a tall, full-framed man with a large, round face. He motioned for everyone to be seated. Through the open doorway, I saw Mr. Yee looking into the room. In all the time I'd spent with him, I never knew him to be a very expressive person. But there was something I saw in him at that moment that struck me. As the door closed, leaving him out in the hallway, I could tell he was genuinely happy for me.

It was a brief ceremony. The general spoke and Mr. Baek translated. As at the trial, I could tell that Mr. Baek was nervous. This was perhaps the biggest, most important translating a.s.signment he'd ever had. He was literally interpreting orders that had been handed down by the Dear Leader himself. I could see that his hands were shaking as he frantically scribbled down the general's words. He didn't want to make any mistakes.

I remembered just how crucial a role Mr. Baek had played for me during my captivity. In a country where I was handicapped by not knowing the language, he became my voice. When he translated for Mr. Yee or other officials, he never missed a beat. He was always friendly and sanguine. Just seeing him at times cheered me up.

The general announced that Chairman Kim Jong Il was pardoning us for our crimes. Hearing that statement coming from this high-ranking official was like being resuscitated from a deep coma. I breathed in deeply and looked over at John Podesta and Doug Band and wanted to embrace them and thank them for coming to our rescue.

At the end of the ceremony, Euna and I were led back to our rooms. Mr. Yee told me to sit as if I were being investigated once again, a reminder that I was not yet free. He a.s.sumed his normal position at the desk and Mr. Baek took his usual seat beside me. I was given a sheet of paper and a pen and told that I must write a letter to Kim Jong Il thanking him for his compa.s.sion.

"Dear Chairman Kim," the letter began.

If this was the final thing I had to do in order to go home, I was happy to do it. I scribbled down a couple of sentences, apologizing for my actions and thanking Kim for pardoning Euna and me.

After writing the letter, I went through some of my belongings and gathered a few items I wanted to leave with some of the people I had met. To Mr. Baek, I presented the book The Forever War The Forever War by the by the New York Times New York Times correspondent Dexter Filkins. Iain had sent me the hardcover book, which I had started reading back in Los Angeles before my detainment. When it arrived in Pyongyang, I saw the dog-eared page where I had left off, and it made me think of my life before I was a prisoner. I imagined reading it at home just before dozing off to sleep. The book was about the rise of and battle against Islamic fundamentalism in Afghanistan and Iraq. Mr. Baek loved learning about foreign policy, so I thought it was an appropriate gift to leave him. correspondent Dexter Filkins. Iain had sent me the hardcover book, which I had started reading back in Los Angeles before my detainment. When it arrived in Pyongyang, I saw the dog-eared page where I had left off, and it made me think of my life before I was a prisoner. I imagined reading it at home just before dozing off to sleep. The book was about the rise of and battle against Islamic fundamentalism in Afghanistan and Iraq. Mr. Baek loved learning about foreign policy, so I thought it was an appropriate gift to leave him.

"This book is about the forever wars taking place in Iraq and Afghanistan," I explained. "I give it to you because I hope that this war, the war between the United States and North Korea, is one that doesn't last forever. I do hope our countries can find common ground, and that I will one day see you again."

He accepted the book graciously with his kind, warm smile.

I told Paris to distribute my toiletries and clothes among the guards and caretakers. But I wanted to leave her with something special. I took out the cashmere sweater Iain had given me for my birthday several years ago. I never wore it in captivity because by the time it reached me, the weather was already scorching hot. I also gave her the sweet-smelling shampoos Iain had sent to remind me of our vacation together in Napa Valley.

"I can't accept these things," she said earnestly. "These are special gifts from your husband."

"I want you to have them," I said. "That way you will have something to remember me by."

She accepted the items and said, "Thank you, Laura. I won't ever forget you."

To one of the female caretakers who had been trying to learn English, I left a Korean-English dictionary. She thanked me and said to me in Korean, "Now that you will see your husband, you can try to have a baby."

At one point during my captivity, while she was looking at one of my wedding photos, I had told her that I felt remorse about not trying to start a family sooner.

"I hope so!" I said to her.

Finally it was time to say good-bye to Mr. Yee. I reflected on the hours and hours each day when he would berate me for not answering his questions to his satisfaction. At first I dreaded his visits and the grilling sessions he put me through. A single look from him could make me s.h.i.+ver. But over time, as we opened up to each other, I began to see that he was trying to help me, that he was trying to provide me with the knowledge and information I needed to convey to my family. He was my captor and my protector.

There was a sketchbook that Iain had sent to me about a month earlier. I specifically refrained from writing in it because I was hoping I might be able to give it to Mr. Yee as a parting gift when the trial was over, but he had left so unexpectedly. It resembled the red notebook he used during the investigation. I recalled the countless times he would enter the room with the notebook and pen in hand. I'd become queasy just watching him open the red cover and flip through the pages to a blank sheet before beginning to interrogate me.

I handed him the black sketchbook. "This is a new notebook for your next investigation," I said. "Though I hope you never have to use it for those purposes. In fact, I hope you get to use it for other reasons entirely." I went on to tell him that perhaps he might even write a story about a North Korean investigator and an American prisoner whose unlikely bond becomes a metaphor for possible warming of relations between their countries. He laughed.

I could tell he was touched by this gesture. I knew I might be crossing the line when I stood up and embraced him, but I didn't care. He, more than anyone else I met, had been the most vocal with his anti-American sentiments. I wanted him to feel a connection with someone from the enemy nation. He held his body stiffly as I hugged him and thanked him for keeping his promise to get me home.

There were several cars waiting outside the compound to take us to the airport. John Podesta asked one of the North Korean officials who had been at the ceremony if he and Doug Band could ride together with us, but it wasn't allowed. I later learned that this worried Band, who couldn't rest until Euna and I were safely on the plane. Euna and I were placed in a separate car behind the others. As we drove out of the compound gates, I heard the shrieking yelps of the guard dog for the last time.

On the way to the airport, I could see Doug Band in the car in front of us looking back to make sure our vehicle was following theirs. We arrived at the airport and waited in the car while a giant motorcade of several black Mercedeses and a limousine carrying President Clinton pulled close to the private plane. The car we were in did not join the motorcade but stopped a way back from the activity taking place ahead. A group of North Korean photographers was gathered on bleachers next to the plane and snapped shots as the former president exited the limo and strode to the steps leading up to the plane. It seemed that the North Koreans, who had been orchestrating Clinton's visit from start to end, did not want to show Euna and me warmly greeting the former president on their soil. Instead, they waited until Clinton was on the aircraft before instructing us to get out of the car.

I later learned from Justin Cooper, who was in the limousine with President Clinton, that when they got to the airport, they looked around for Podesta, Band, Euna, and me but could not see us because our cars were made to wait quite a distance away from their motorcade. President Clinton and Justin Cooper were rushed onto the aircraft, where they figured we might already be, but we had still not been allowed out of our vehicles. North Korean officials then motioned for Straub, Kwon, and the U.S. Secret Service agents to board the aircraft. A moment of worry and confusion washed over the team, as they still did not know where the four of us were. It was only when they spied us getting out of the cars and headed in their direction that they felt relief.

The driver opened the trunk of the vehicle and an official motioned for us to collect our bags and go. We quickly grabbed our belongings and rushed toward the plane. Doug Band came toward us and kindly offered to help with our bags. He had stayed behind rather than entering the plane with President Clinton so that he could make sure nothing happened to Euna and me. I thanked him but declined the help, not wanting to pause for even a second. All I could think about was getting on that jet.

With each step I took up the stairs to the plane, I felt closer and closer to home. President Clinton was waiting for us at the entrance to the aircraft. He greeted us with his warm smile. I was overwhelmed with emotion when I entered the plane. No longer was someone monitoring my every move; no longer did I have to watch my words. I was no longer scared.

Everyone on the plane, including President Clinton, his staff, the pilots, and the secret service agents, was jubilant.

"I feel freedom!" I exclaimed exuberantly.

"Just wait until we're out of Pyongyang airs.p.a.ce," said someone on the plane, and we all laughed.

But he was right. As the plane took off, the feeling of being in the air, with Pyongyang becoming a distant speck below us, was magical. My isolation in the most isolated country in the world had finally come to an end.

LISA.

AT AROUND 3:30 P.M P.M. Pacific standard time, CNN began showing video of Laura and Euna walking on the tarmac toward President Clinton's plane. These were the first images that had been seen of the girls in nearly five months. We ran to the TV and replayed the video over and over again. We tried to scrutinize how my sister looked after so many months in captivity. She was wearing a green polo s.h.i.+rt, probably one Iain had sent, and her hair was in a ponytail. Though she looked pale, she looked healthy. Iain was the only one of us who had ever met Euna. He said she looked much thinner than she was when he met her. But no matter what, they were coming home. We all began crying tears of joy. The girls were finally free.

At 8:20 A.M A.M. Pyongyang time on August 5, President Clinton's plane took off from North Korea, with Laura and Euna Lee inside. It was 4:20 P.M P.M. on August 4 in Los Angeles. Laura would be home in a matter of hours. Shortly after the news reported that the plane had left Pyongyang, I received an e-mail from Doug.

"We have them," he wrote. "We're on our way to j.a.pan. They're both doing well."

Minutes later another e-mail said, "They're in good stead; relaxing and having juice. We're all trying to be Jewish mothers."

I ran into my mother's arms, then into my father's. Mom and Dad then embraced each other, and I gave Iain a huge hug.

"She's coming home," I whispered to my sister's eager husband. "It's finally over."

LAURA.