Peace Read online

  PEACE

  PEACE

  JEFF NESBIT

  Summerside Press™

  Minneapolis 55438

  www.summersidepress.com

  PEACE

  © 2010 by Jeff Nesbit

  ISBN 978-1-60936-043-6

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher.

  Scripture quotations are taken from the Revised Standard Version of the Bible, copyright © 1952, 1971 by the Division of Christian Education of the National Council of the Churches of Christ in the United States of America. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or publisher.

  Cover design by Studio Gearbox | www.studiogearbox.com

  Interior Design by Müllerhaus Publishing Group | www.mullerhaus.net

  Map of Israel © iStockphoto.com/sambrogio

  Map of the Middle East © iStockphoto.com/KeithBinns

  Edited by Ramona Cramer Tucker

  Summerside Press™ is an inspirational publisher offering fresh, irresistible books to uplift the heart and engage the mind.

  Printed in USA

  A FEW QUICK THANKS TO…

  Ramona Tucker, a brilliant editor and friend who was there at both the creation and development of PEACE and this series;

  Don Jacobson, a calm, shining light in the literary world, who saw the potential in this series;

  Carlton Garborg, a true visionary who takes big risks for all the right reasons, and Jason Rovenstine, the talented, creative center of one of the most exciting new publishing ventures in the U.S.;

  The poker group, now sixteen years strong, where some of the ideas for PEACE were first debated and formed; and

  The members of my “relentless, positive storm” family, committed to making a difference across the planet like some of the archetypal characters in PEACE.

  You are going to hear of wars and rumors of wars.

  See to it that you are not alarmed.

  These things must take place, but the end hasn’t come yet, because nation will rise up in arms against nation,

  and kingdom against kingdom.

  JESUS, MATTHEW 24:6–7

  ISRAEL TODAY

  PROLOGUE

  PARIS, FRANCE

  OCTOBER 1997

  The large crowd gathered outside Bercy was restless. Most of them clutched tickets or checked their pockets every few minutes to make sure the tickets were, in fact, still there. The exhibition games at the Palais Omnisports de Paris-Bercy in the 12th arrondissement of Paris had sold out weeks ago.

  Bercy seated, at most, fourteen thousand for an exhibition like this. The tickets were expensive, and the scalpers in the shadows and corners were pulling in huge sums.

  But the young Asian boy standing off to the side in the replica Chicago Bulls jersey didn’t care. All he knew was that he was here, with a ticket in hand, and he was about to watch the greatest basketball player who ever lived suit up and play against one of Europe’s finest teams. Nothing else mattered. Not right now.

  The headline, “Jordan Awaited like a King,” was displayed boldly at the top of the sports daily L’Equipe. “Michael has captured Paris,” said another paper. An overly exuberant, breathless French sports columnist went even further: “Michael Jordan is in Paris. That’s better than the Pope. It’s God in person.”

  Not that anyone outside Bercy that day would dispute this. They were, in fact, here to see their god, Michael Jordan, play basketball.

  For some of them, it would be the defining moment of their lives—the day they saw the great Jordan play at Bercy in Paris.

  The Asian boy was, perhaps, one of those who would mark this moment forever in his mind. Virtually every corner of his bedroom was adorned with photos of NBA superstars. He had begged his father and handlers for the opportunity to see his hero play basketball. All he wanted was a chance to see Jordan play just once. He would never see the legend play in America. Paris might be his only chance.

  In the end, he’d won his father and the others over. He could be very persuasive. He hated to lose at anything, and this quest was no different. He’d argued that it was just one wish before he had to leave to go to an exclusive boarding school in Switzerland. He could fly to Paris, watch the game, and then continue on to Switzerland, where he would start middle school.

  What’s more, he’d argued, he wasn’t like his older brother, who’d forged a passport and sneaked out of the country to travel and had been caught drinking in bars. He was asking his father for permission to go to Paris to watch Jordan play. Framed in this way, it had been almost impossible for his father to say no.

  They’d arrived in Paris just hours before the game started. The boy’s handlers were careful to stay in the background. A simple black town car had pulled up to the curb at the airport to pick them up and take them to Bercy. Two other cars followed at a discreet distance.

  Once at the famous indoor sports arena, the boy had simply stepped into the long line that had already formed outside. An older gentleman, who had been one of several caretakers for the boy since birth, stayed with him in line. Others, also with tickets to the event, took places in other parts of the line. Replicas of Jordan’s Bulls jersey were selling for $80 American at several spots.

  No one quite knew what to expect. Would the Chicago Bulls arrive one by one and enter the arena? Would they arrive in a big bus? Would they stop and talk to the legions of fans? Or would the organizers of the NBA exhibition take them around back, away from the throngs, so they could enter the stadium without having to stop?

  The fans had nothing to fear, though. The brilliant, single-minded commissioner of the National Basketball Association in America who’d built his league into a worldwide marketing force wasn’t about to let the arrival of the king of basketball in Paris go unnoticed.

  The world press corps was roped off to one side of Bercy. They knew that the Bulls had flown over on the same 747 that had carried the Rolling Stones around the globe, and that they would arrive in plenty of time to meet with some of the fans and pose for pictures. This part was, in fact, more important than the actual game itself.

  Somehow the word got to the fans outside the gates. Jordan and the Bulls were only a few minutes away. The fans started to press forward, anxious to get as close to the entrance and the world press corps as they could manage. The Asian boy was merely another face in the crowd, anxious to get as close as he possibly could to the entrance.

  But the boy was in good hands. He simply didn’t know it yet. A well-dressed, diminutive, older Korean gentleman talked calmly inside the arena doors with one of several officers from McDonald’s, the American corporation that had sponsored the NBA exhibition here in Paris.

  There was a small VIP room just inside the stadium, and the boy would be given a very brief audience with one of the Bulls players. Perhaps not Jordan, but with one of them, at least. It had all been arranged, well ahead of time.

  The bus arrived. The boy caught a fleeting glimpse of Jordan as he stepped down from the bus and disappeared into the crowd. His heart leapt. He’d seen him! Michael Jordan, in the flesh. The crowd pressed forward, eager to get inside.

  His caretaker pulled the boy gently at the elbow. “Jong Un,” he said quietly. The boy glanced at him and followed willingly. They made their way through the crowd and came to a small door nearby. Guards saw the badge carried by the caretaker and let the two of them in through the door. A dozen other VIPs
were inside, all hoping they’d get a chance to see Michael.

  One by one, each VIP was ushered into a small room inside the arena. The boy kept to himself. He spoke no French, and his English was still halting at best. He patiently waited his turn, content to follow along, to go where his caretakers and elders directed him.

  His chance came at last, and he entered the room. The lights inside were hot and blinding but necessary for the high-end photos taken inside. The boy shielded his eyes as he entered and glanced around the room quickly. Was Jordan here, in this room?

  No. He was in another room, with some other VIP. But Toni Kukoc was here. Once arguably the greatest player in all of Europe, Kukoc had made the trip over to Paris with Jordan. The boy was ecstatic. The press had lamented that two of Jordan’s famous teammates, Scottie Pippen and Dennis Rodman, had decided not to make the trip. But Kukoc had made the trip. And he was here, in this place.

  The boy’s hands trembled as he stepped forward to greet the great Kukoc. He had a poster of Kukoc in his room at home. But it didn’t compare to this moment, actually seeing the great Bulls player in the flesh.

  “How are you?” Kukoc asked in his thick Croatian accent as the boy stepped into the glare of the bright lights.

  The boy could only nod. Kukoc held out his hand. The boy shook it and nodded once, politely.

  The official photographer snapped several pictures of the shy Korean boy in the presence of the great Toni Kukoc of the Chicago Bulls. It was a dream come true, a moment Jong Un would cherish forever. He was certain there would never come a moment in his life quite like this. Nothing, really, could ever compare.

  And then the moment was over. Another VIP was ushered into the room, and the boy began to leave through another door.

  Jong Un did not see the exchange that took place as he was leaving. Two of the boy’s caretakers swept into the room quickly, talked to the McDonald’s official off to one side, then waited. The McDonald’s official moved to the photographer’s side and explained the situation.

  Like the tickets, this had also been prearranged. The photographer had known that someone would be making such a request—just not who it would be. He was mildly surprised that the request had been for the shy, young Asian boy.

  He removed the roll of film he’d used to shoot the boy’s pictures with Kukoc and handed it to the McDonald’s official. Placing a fresh roll of film in his camera, he returned to work. He didn’t ask who the kid was—he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to know. He was well paid for this gig, and asking questions sometimes got in the way of further opportunities like this.

  The Korean men accepted the roll of film with polite nods and left the room quickly. They’d watched everything closely, just to make sure there had been no other cameras in the room. But they had nothing to worry about. It was a small room, and there had been only the one camera.

  One of them hurried to the boy’s side and whispered something quickly to his companion, who would be sitting with him during the basketball game. The older gentleman smiled broadly. It had all worked very well. They would have the picture of the boy standing with one of his heroes, Toni Kukoc of the world-famous Chicago Bulls, processed and available for his private apartment in an exclusive Swiss chalet within hours. The boy would be so very pleased.

  And his father would be pleased as well—not only that the youngest of his three sons had seen the Bulls play, but that there would be just one picture of the boy with his hero, available only to private audiences in his bedroom and away from prying eyes.

  There was only one picture of the boy anywhere in the free world—a schoolyard photo taken when he was eleven that had somehow managed to make its way out of North Korea.

  His father knew that there was plenty of time for pictures. When the time came, many pictures of Pak Jong Un would be available. But not until then.

  The shy, young Korean boy who had just entered his teens was little more than an enigma to the free world. But the world would learn of Pak Jong Un when he succeeded his father, Pak Jong Il, as Dear Leader of North Korea. They would learn of his heroics as the leader of his country’s defense commission and of his many gifts of inspiration for the people.

  But for now, he was just another fan of the king of Paris, Michael Jordan, and the Chicago Bulls, the greatest basketball team of all time. That was all that mattered.

  01

  TEHRAN, IRAN

  PRESENT DAY

  The car horn startled Majid Sanjani. Lost in thought as he walked to his next class at Tehran University, he didn’t realize he’d drifted toward the center of the crowded street. Glancing over one shoulder, he stepped to the curb quickly and felt the hot engine exhaust as a black Mercedes sped past.

  Majid peered inside the car briefly and saw five people—two in the front and three in the back. He was sure the person in the middle of the back seat, pinned between two large men, was his psych professor, his friend.

  Without thinking, Majid pulled his cell phone from his pocket, held it up, and captured the speeding black car on video. He had the odd feeling that it might be the last time he would see his friend.

  The two of them had talked for months—in private, away from prying eyes and curious ears—about the current government in Iran. They shared a common goal and philosophy, one that neither of them discussed much in public. They often drank coffee together until the early morning hours, just talking about the opposition movement and its leaders.

  In his own way, Majid’s psych professor was one of those leaders. He occasionally spoke in public forums about the government he considered illegitimate. He knew that placed him at great risk, but it was a risk he said he was willing to take.

  Iran’s hard-line leaders had managed to maintain control in most parts of the country—except on the college campuses. Student resistance to the government was very much alive, even if the opposition movement was a shadow of its former self throughout the rest of the country.

  The conservative “principalist” clerics who’d once supported the overthrow of the Shah still regularly criticized the government, but it was the students who made the most noise and continued to organize protests.

  Iran’s theocracy had managed to quell mass street demonstrations, but it had been largely unable to stop widespread, spontaneous, raucous student protests. Majid’s psych professor had organized many of the student protests at the university.

  A chill swept through Majid. More than twenty student protests had taken place at a dozen college campuses in the last four months. Just in the past week, at Azad University, students had protested for two days. Some students had been expelled, and classes had been cancelled.

  But this was different, out of place. Tehran University’s campus had been quiet for many days. No one had organized a student protest in more than a month—not since the unannounced, surprise visit to Tehran University of Iran’s president.

  Majid grabbed the arm of another student as he walked by. “Did you see that?”

  “What?” the student answered, clearly startled.

  “The Mercedes. It looked like Revolutionary Guards inside, with one of my professors.”

  The other student took a step backwards and threw up a protesting hand. “I don’t get involved in that,” he said swiftly. “That’s not something I—”

  “I’m not asking you to get involved,” Majid said angrily. “I just asked you if you’ve seen other professors being taken away. Have you seen Guards on the campus today?”

  The student shrugged, shook his head, tucked his books tightly against his chest, and hurried off. He clearly wanted nothing to do with protests, Majid, or anything at all that might attract the Guards’ attention.

  Majid started to run. If something was happening, others at the student union would know. He sprinted the two blocks to the center of campus and burst through the doors.

  A dozen of his friends were there already. Nearly everyone had a cell phone to one ear, even as they carried on loud conversation
s with others nearby.

  Majid glanced around. Sure enough, there were two clerics at one end of the room, watching the growing group of students intently. The clerics had begun to arrive at Tehran University and other campuses that had been at the epicenter of the student protests in an effort to speak out against Western propaganda.

  It hadn’t worked. The students had very little use for the clerics and their anti-West language. They largely ignored them or, as they did now, viewed them with suspicion.

  “Majid! Have you heard?” one of his friends yelled as he neared the group. They embraced quickly.

  “No, brother,” Majid said breathlessly. “What have you learned?”

  “It is everywhere, on every campus,” his friend said. He was carrying on a conversation on his own cell phone. He paused just long enough to talk to Majid.

  “What is?” Majid asked.

  “Arrests,” his friend said darkly. “They have already picked up more than fifty professors on at least ten campuses, by our count.”

  “And here, on our campus?”

  “At least six here, maybe more.” His friend held his cell phone up to his opposite ear and listened intently. “They’ve arrested every one of the professors who’ve been involved at the Science and Technology school,” he said at last. “Any professor who’s ever been involved.”

  “Does anyone know where they’re going?” Majid asked.

  His friend sighed. “There’s some speculation they’re all being taken to a large holding cell at Evin.”

  Majid shuddered. Evin Prison was notorious. It now housed so many Iranian intellectual and student opposition leaders that some in the Green Movement had begun to call it Evin University—only partially in jest. Religious minorities, anti-government Iranian journalists, Christians the government didn’t like, opposition leaders, and student protesters all mingled together at Evin.