Somewhere Inside Part 2

He then moved his hand across his neck in a slicing motion. I started to tremble and broke down in tears.

"You are being cunning!" the woman translated in a harsh, stern tone. "Don't try to gain sympathy with your weeping. Do you think we are fools?"

I looked up into the official's dark, narrow eyes. I felt the stabbing of his sharp gaze and bitter scowl. He handed me a pen and a few sheets of paper and told me to write down information about my family. They wanted the names, ages, and work history of all immediate family members and spouses.

I tried to think of a way to describe Lisa's profession. I knew they could easily find out that Lisa was a journalist and that a simple Internet search could reveal her work on a controversial doc.u.mentary she surrept.i.tiously filmed in North Korea for National Geographic Television. That information could be hugely detrimental to my situation. But I wasn't convinced that in this remote part of the country they even had the technological capability to access the Internet. "Sister-Lisa Ling Song," I jotted down, adding Lisa's husband's surname to her designation. "Profession-housewife and volunteer." I figured I wasn't lying completely. Lisa was a wife and a volunteer.

This questioning session went on for several hours. During this time, I often explained that I couldn't understand what the translator was asking or saying. I tried to play ignorant so that Euna's stories and mine would not conflict. At one point the electricity went out and the room went dark. A single flashlight provided light for the remainder of the evening. I would see that these blackouts happen multiple times in a day.

At one point I looked down at my jacket and saw fresh droplets of blood. I had forgotten about my injury. The events of that morning seemed like a lifetime ago. The wound had opened up again and my head began to throb. I remembered I had a few tablets of Tylenol in the bag I had been carrying when we were apprehended. I asked the officers if I could take them to alleviate the pain. They summoned a soldier to retrieve my bag and watched carefully as I rummaged through the contents until I found the package of pills. The interrogation lasted about six hours. A clock on the wall read 3:00 A.M. A.M. when I was finally escorted out of the room. when I was finally escorted out of the room.

Back in my cell, I curled up on the wooden platform and pulled my bloodied parka over me as an extra layer of warmth. As I clutched the puffy winter coat, it was a reminder of my sister, who on the morning of my trip had driven all the way across town to see me off. She was concerned about the biting cold of northern China in March, so she rushed over to loan me her warmest clothes.

Suddenly a beam of light shone into the cell as the soldier standing watch aimed his flashlight through the slot in the door. His cold gaze sent daggers through my body. He slid the metal opening shut, and the darkness engulfed me. I was terrified to the point of breathlessness.

Then I heard two distinct knocks on the cell door to the right of me. Euna's cell was to my left; there were two others to my right. The knocking was followed by a brief silence, and then I heard two more taps, this time coming from within the cell. This went on for a few more moments. I listened closely and heard the guard move on to the next cell down and begin the knocking again. Until this moment, I hadn't known that other prisoners were being held with Euna and me in the four-unit jail. This eerie knocking ritual between guard and prisoner seemed to be a system the guards used to make sure the inmates were still alive. It was either that or some strange way of inducing sleep deprivation because it continued throughout the night.

I wanted desperately to communicate with Euna. I decided to test how strict the guards were and to see if I could converse with her from cell to cell. I tapped the metal door and a guard opened the slot.

"Thank you," I said respectfully in Korean. Then, a bit louder, I said, "Euna," hoping she could hear me.

"Yes? Laura?" she replied.

"Euna cla.s.smate, would you please tell the guard I have a bad stomachache, Euna cla.s.smate, and could I please use the toilet, Euna cla.s.smate?"

I was trying to let her know I had stuck to our original story about being students, and I wanted to see if she too had stood by the plan. But other than hearing her translate my request to the guard, who unlocked the door to let me use the bathroom, I couldn't tell if she had told them we were journalists. Euna and I needed to tell the Korean authorities the truth soon. If we continued to lie, we might be viewed as spies, which was the worst possible scenario.

I started to wonder what had happened to Mitch and whether he had made it back to our hotel safely. The terrifying events of that morning flashed through my mind, and I kept replaying the image of Mitch vanishing over the mound. I didn't harbor any anger toward him. Everything on the ice happened so quickly; we were all completely petrified. I thought of Mitch's wife and two kids and felt relieved that he was not in our situation. I even saw it as a blessing that he got away, because he would be able to contact our families. I desperately hoped he was able to alert them about what had happened.

LISA.

SOMETIME IN MIDMORNING, I finally got a call from Mitch. He said that immediately after Laura and Euna's seizure, he had turned himself in to the Chinese authorities with the hope that they would do something to help get the girls back. They interrogated him for about fifteen hours, and he had just been released from custody and allowed to go back to his hotel in Yanji. It was close to midnight where Mitch was, but he and I spent more than an hour on the phone going through the details of exactly what had happened on the river in those early hours. finally got a call from Mitch. He said that immediately after Laura and Euna's seizure, he had turned himself in to the Chinese authorities with the hope that they would do something to help get the girls back. They interrogated him for about fifteen hours, and he had just been released from custody and allowed to go back to his hotel in Yanji. It was close to midnight where Mitch was, but he and I spent more than an hour on the phone going through the details of exactly what had happened on the river in those early hours.

Mitch said that Laura, Euna, and he had followed a guide who brought them to the Tumen River. When journalists work overseas in unfamiliar places, we often hire fixers whom we trust to take us where we need to go. In my sister's case, they did exactly that. They hired a man who had worked with news crews before to take them to see the border between China and North Korea. Mitch told me that the guide led the team across the border into North Korea for no more than a minute before heading straight back to the Chinese side of the river. He and the guide were able to outrun the North Korean border guards once they reached Chinese soil. The guide had also turned himself in to Chinese authorities, but Mitch hadn't seen him since.

"Did you definitely cross the border, Mitch?" I probed, even though he had already explained that they had.

"It was so fast, but yes, we crossed briefly," Mitch said.

"Are you sure the girls had reached China when they were seized?" I asked.

"Yes," he said definitely.

This was a big deal. Mitch confirmed that the team did cross the border into North Korea for a few moments, but he was also certain the North Korean soldiers entered China's sovereign territory in order to capture my sister and Euna. This gave me hope that perhaps we could get the Chinese government to intervene and help us.

Then Mitch said something that struck me.

"What do you mean, 'the guide started to make hooting noises'?" I probed.

"I don't know why he was doing it," Mitch responded. "It seemed like he knew what he was doing."

I couldn't stop thinking about this. Why would their guide make any loud noises at all under such delicate circ.u.mstances? I wondered whether the team had been led into a trap. I continued to press Mitch about the possibility that the guide might have knowingly led them across the border into North Korea.

"I just can't imagine that could have happened," replied Mitch.

"Do you think she's okay?" I asked.

"I don't know."

We kept going over what had happened again and again, even though it was after 1:00 A.M A.M. in China where Mitch was. I just couldn't let him off the phone. I kept asking the same questions. I needed every detail. I thought that if I asked in a slightly different way, he might remember something he hadn't told me. I could tell he was exhausted; he had been up since 4:00 A.M A.M. the day before. At a certain point, I realized that he had nothing more to tell me. After he ran, he lost all contact with Laura and Euna. My sister was still wearing the wireless microphone when she was captured. The last thing Mitch heard her say through his headphones was "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

I had known Mitch for nearly twenty years, and we spent more than five years working together exclusively at Channel One. I had shared some of the most deeply personal moments of my life with him. He was my mentor and friend, and I will always regard him warmly. But I couldn't stop wondering if things might have been different if he hadn't left them. I couldn't focus too much on this. What happened happened. Now we all collectively needed to figure out how we were going to get the girls out. If Mitch hadn't run, it might have taken days to learn of their capture.

Later that morning, Richard Holbrooke returned my phone call. He had so much going on with his Afghanistan a.s.signment that I was nervous about bothering him. He told me right away that he had just been with Secretary of State Hillary Clinton and that she was calling an emergency meeting to talk about our situation later on that day. He then said something that at the time was very rea.s.suring to me. "Look, Lisa," he exclaimed, "I've seen many examples of government inaction over the years, and this is not one of them."

News of Laura and Euna's detainment broke a full two days after they were arrested; we had managed to keep it quiet until then. A South Korean newspaper was first to report the news, and it was immediately picked up by press the world over. News sites were rife with variations of the same headline: "American Journalists Reportedly Detained by North Korean Border Officials on the ChineseNorth Korean Border."

The morning after the news came out, I got a call from my boss, Oprah Winfrey. I work on her show as a field correspondent. She asked if she could do anything to help. Reality suddenly struck when it dawned on me that even the most powerful woman in the media couldn't do much. For that matter, there was little my country-the most powerful in the world-could do either. We were at the mercy of a government that answered to no one but itself.

My sister was being held inside North Korea at the worst possible time. For weeks, North Korea had been saying it intended to launch what it called a "peaceful" satellite. Much of the rest of the world, however, charged that the North Koreans were trying to reignite their country's ballistic weapons program. j.a.pan, for instance, had been threatening to shoot down any satellite or weapon that entered its territory. North Korea said it would consider any action by j.a.pan an act of war. Tensions were growing by the day.

On top of it all, America had a brand-new president and secretary of state, whom pundits and conservative talk show hosts were ardently watching for any signs of weakness. I wondered if having two young American women in captivity would complicate things for the U.S. government. I knew the United States had a policy of not negotiating with terrorists for hostages, but what if a government government was holding American citizens? The problem was that this was no ordinary government. North Korea is considered one of the most unpredictable regimes on earth. was holding American citizens? The problem was that this was no ordinary government. North Korea is considered one of the most unpredictable regimes on earth.

Within the first twenty-four hours of Laura and Euna's absence, both of our families were introduced by phone to Kurt Tong, director for Korean affairs at the State Department. He would be our main point of contact for whatever diplomatic efforts ensued between the United States and North Korea. But our family had no idea how complicated that would be.

LAURA.

IN THE MORNING, BREAKFAST was brought to our cells. Rather than the previous night's meager fare, this was a more substantial meal consisting of rice, half a hard-boiled egg, tofu, and kimchi. The guard also let me eat with my cell door slightly cracked open to let in more light. I guessed that the prisoners to my right were not receiving the same type of treatment. The only times I heard the guards open their cell doors was once in the morning and once at night so that they could use the toilet. I wondered if this was a good sign, an indication that they might let us go. Or were we being treated differently because it might be our last meal? was brought to our cells. Rather than the previous night's meager fare, this was a more substantial meal consisting of rice, half a hard-boiled egg, tofu, and kimchi. The guard also let me eat with my cell door slightly cracked open to let in more light. I guessed that the prisoners to my right were not receiving the same type of treatment. The only times I heard the guards open their cell doors was once in the morning and once at night so that they could use the toilet. I wondered if this was a good sign, an indication that they might let us go. Or were we being treated differently because it might be our last meal?

I was relatively confident that the guard standing watch could not understand English, so I decided to try communicating with Euna again.

I raised my voice, hoping she would hear me from her cell. "Euna, did you tell the officials that we work for Current?"

"No," she replied.

"I think we need to tell them the truth," I said. "We need to tell them we work for Current. Otherwise they are going to think we are spies."

"Okay," she replied softly.

To avoid arousing any suspicion, I asked Euna to tell the guard that my head was hurting and to ask if I could please see a doctor.

"And, Euna," I said, "when the officials come, please tell them I would like to be with you when we confess. The other translator does not understand what I am saying, and I am afraid she is misinterpreting what I mean."

A doctor arrived shortly after this exchange, and I was taken to a cold, dank room. I asked if Euna could join me, which they allowed. The doctor was an expressionless man. I could smell the strong cigarette odor on his breath and clothes. He proceeded to examine the wound in a very matter-of-fact way. He didn't seem bothered that his inspection of the cuts was going to cause me pain.

I squeezed Euna's hand tightly as he poked at the sensitive areas. My hair was covering the gash, so he had to cut off a patch to better see and clean the lesion. After tossing the blood-encrusted locks onto the concrete floor, he opened the wound to see if there was any infection. My shoulders and brows contracted as he probed the area with a metal tool and used a cotton pad doused in alcohol to sanitize the gash. After wrapping my head with gauze, the doctor asked me if I had any other injuries. Euna translated, and through her I told him I did not have any sensation on the right side of my nose and that my legs were very sore. I rolled my dirt-stained jeans up and saw my legs in the light for the first time. Deep purple welts covered the entire length of both legs. No wonder it had been so painful to walk and bend down. The doctor gave me some ointment to put on the affected areas. He also gave me a raw egg that was still in its sh.e.l.l and told me to rub it over my black eye and nose area to reduce the swelling. The egg was cold simply from being out in the frigid air, and the cool sensation of the sh.e.l.l pressed up against my skin provided some momentary relief. I was grateful for the doctor's attention and for the chance to be out of the claustrophobic cell. But soon enough, Euna and I were separated and sequestered once again.

Not long after that, I heard the lock on Euna's door open. She was being taken to another interrogation session. I waited nervously, knowing she was about to tell them the truth about our jobs. Then my turn came. I was brought into a room where I saw the same two officials who had questioned me the night before. I was relieved to see Euna sitting on the floor.

"I've told them that we work for Current, and that we were producing a report about the border region," Euna explained. "They want to ask you some questions."

I was glad Euna was translating. This way I could be sure our responses were aligned and that my words would not be misconstrued.

The officials asked me about my job as a reporter for Current TV. I refrained from letting them know I was the head of the journalism department, to minimize my culpability. I explained that as a reporter, I had covered many different types of stories all over the world. I told them that Mitch was the producer on this story and that he was essentially directing Euna and me throughout the project.

"Have you ever had any contact with the CIA or anyone from the CIA?" one of them asked.

I remembered a segment I had worked on almost a decade earlier inside the CIA's headquarters, and the public information officer, Chase Brandon, with whom I had become friends. Were they asking this because they knew about my past work or were they trying to make sure we were not connected with the U.S. government?

"No," I responded. "I've never done anything with the CIA. We're journalists. Not spies."

I exhaled in relief when they didn't press me on that again. Compared with last night's grilling, this question session was much more restrained. It helped that we could answer many of their questions with relative ease. Thankfully, they seemed more interested in our backgrounds than in the actual story we were reporting, because we still hadn't told them any specifics about the interviews we had conducted with the North Koreans who had escaped the dire conditions in their homeland. Finally, they asked both of us to write a confession statement admitting we were journalists and that we had crossed into North Korea illegally.

Back in the darkness of my cell, I wondered how long we would be kept there. I shuddered to think that we could be sent to one of North Korea's notorious gulags. The U.S. Committee for Human Rights in North Korea estimates that approximately two hundred thousand people are imprisoned in North Korea's brutal labor camps, and that four hundred thousand have perished due to torture, starvation, disease, and execution. I considered myself lucky that I was in this dingy, claustrophobic jail and not in a hard labor facility.

The next morning one of the officials told us that the U.S. government had been informed that we were being held in North Korea. We also learned that the authorities in Pyongyang were arranging for us to be transferred to the capital. My emotions were mixed when hearing this news. I was glad to hear that our government was aware of our situation, in part because it meant that our families most likely knew as well. The idea that we had simply disappeared, leaving them no way of knowing if we were even alive, was gut-wrenching. But the thought of being moved to Pyongyang made me uneasy. It seemed that any chance of getting released back to Chinese authorities was now gone.

To begin the process of turning us over to officials in the capital, we were brought into a small office that had a computer and telephone. This was the first time I had seen working technology. We were asked to sign and fingerprint our confession statements. We pressed our right thumbs into the red ink and rolled them onto the bottom of the doc.u.ments.

"Euna, please tell them I was the reporter on this project, and I bear the responsibility for our actions. If anyone is punished it should be me, not you."

"No," Euna cried. "I will not translate that. It's okay, Laura."

"Please, Euna," I continued, tears streaming down my cheeks.

"No," she said firmly.

"What is going on?" asked the officer.

"Nothing," replied Euna in Korean. "Everything is fine." We embraced each other, not knowing what was going to happen to us.

As we were being escorted back to our cells, I suggested that Euna ask if we could stay together in one cell. Surprisingly, they granted this request. I had sensed a palpable softening of these officials' att.i.tude. They seemed to feel that since we would soon be in the hands of authorities in Pyongyang, their work was pretty much over.

Being together in one cell was an amazing gift. We were still careful to watch what we said, especially because Euna thought one of the guards could understand a little bit of English. We tried to comfort each other as best we could. We believed there was a very good chance we'd be separated again once we got to Pyongyang, so I asked Euna to teach me some basic Korean words and phrases, such as "Good morning," "Good evening," "My head hurts," "My stomach hurts," "I don't speak Korean," "Sorry," and "toilet."

I had been practicing yoga for several years, and even in this cramped s.p.a.ce, I was able to show her a few yoga stretches. We breathed in deeply, stretched, and exhaled. With each breath, I prayed that something was being done back home to help us get out of this nightmare. Euna and I took turns giving each other ma.s.sages to help ease some of the discomfort we had been feeling in our muscles and bones. We talked about how much we missed our husbands. I tried to hold back tears when Euna spoke about how much she longed for her little daughter. Though we had known each other for years, this was the most personal conversation we'd ever had together. We were both trying to stay positive, but it was hard to keep our minds from wandering and thinking that the worst might happen to us.

I noticed some Korean characters that were lightly etched into the wall. It was a kind of Korean prison graffiti.

"What does that say?" I whispered.

"I miss my mom," she translated.

I tried to imagine who had been in this cell before us, as well as who was being held in the nearby cells. Unlike us, they were not allowed to use the toilet whenever they asked, nor were they given special meals and allowed to talk to each other. But like all people who are isolated from society, we all missed our mothers.

Euna and I talked about what we should say when we got to Pyongyang. In the capital city there would be access to technology and they would know more about us. We knew we'd have to be as honest as possible. We were determined not to compromise any of our sources or interview subjects.

"Don't worry," I said to Euna. "I'm sure Al is doing something to help."

I was referring to former Vice President Al Gore, the cofounder and chairman of our company. It was his vision that had made me want to work at Current TV nearly five years ago. He and his business partner, Joel Hyatt, formed Current as an independent network that gave its young adult viewers an actual say in political and global issues. Vice President Gore encouraged our journalism department to seek out stories that were too important to be ignored.

I knew that being held prisoner in North Korea was one of the absolute worst situations an American journalist could be in, but I also knew that if anyone could get attention for us in Washington, it was the former vice president.

"I wonder if your sister might be able to do anything," Euna added. "She must have a lot of contacts."

"Yeah, but the problem is that she was in North Korea a couple of years ago. She came undercover with a medical team and did a really critical doc.u.mentary about this place," I explained. "I'm nervous they're going to find out about that piece. That would not be good for me."

Euna and I spent that night in her cell. The guards gave me a blanket, which I placed on the concrete floor next to the wooden platform where Euna had been sleeping. The two of us lying there side by side took up the entire area of the cell.

The next day we were taken to a small washroom where we were told to clean up and make ourselves presentable for the authorities in Pyongyang. One of the officials gave us each a towel. "Comb your hair," he said as he handed us pink and green plastic combs with cartoon characters printed on the sides. "You can keep these as souvenirs," he said with a self-important smile, proud of his cruel joke. Shivering, we splashed cold water from a large basin over ourselves. It was the first time we'd rinsed off since our detainment. My body was so sore from the blows dealt by the soldier on the frozen river that it was still hard to move. When the icy water hit my skin, it sent a shock through my system.

In an adjoining room, a soldier brought in a low folding table. The same two officials who had interrogated us entered the room and invited us to be seated for lunch. We sat cross-legged on the floor as the soldier served a number of dishes including radishes, tofu, eggs, kimchi, and North Korean traditional cold noodles. They filled our gla.s.ses with warm beer.

"What is going to happen to us?" I asked.

"Don't worry," the handsome official responded. "Our chairman, Kim Jong Il, is a compa.s.sionate man. Just be frank and honest and he will forgive you."

The megalomaniacal Kim is reputed to be one of the most dictatorial heads of state in the world. Compa.s.sion Compa.s.sion was one word I never heard a.s.sociated with his reputation. was one word I never heard a.s.sociated with his reputation.

The official then went on to say that we'd probably be home in ten days. Ten days, Ten days, I thought. That sounded like forever. After our first day, when the officer a.s.sured us we were being taken back to the bridge connecting North Korea and China, but instead we ended up in jail, I wasn't convinced that this guy was telling the truth. But no matter what was going to happen, we were helpless. Everything seemed out of our control, and all we could do was wait and hope. I thought. That sounded like forever. After our first day, when the officer a.s.sured us we were being taken back to the bridge connecting North Korea and China, but instead we ended up in jail, I wasn't convinced that this guy was telling the truth. But no matter what was going to happen, we were helpless. Everything seemed out of our control, and all we could do was wait and hope.

"How do you like the food?" the other official asked. "It was prepared by our soldiers. The vegetables are local to this region. We do not use any pesticides." Then he added, "It's organic."

"It's really good," we responded truthfully.

After lunch, two new escorts arrived to take us to Pyongyang. These officials laid out our belongings, along with a list describing each item. As before, they seemed to be obsessed with totaling up the money and making sure that every cent was accounted for.

We got into an SUV with one of the escorts sitting in the backseat with us. I was by the window, with Euna in the center, and the escort by the other window. We were told to look down and close our eyes. Euna and I clasped hands the entire way. The mountainous roads were steep and rocky. I had to be careful that I didn't knock my wounded head up against the window as we curved through the rough terrain. But it wasn't easy, and I found myself banging up against the gla.s.s several times, causing my head to pulsate. I was able to look up occasionally and saw nothing out the window other than dry, barren fields. We rarely, if ever, pa.s.sed other vehicles on the road. After about six or seven hours, it began to get dark, and we pulled into a gloomy motel. It seemed we were again being handed off to new escorts, who met us at this location. In a dark room lit by candles because there was no electricity, the new people in charge took note of our belongings, once again carefully counting the money.

Dinner was brought to the room. One of the escorts looked on as we ate a simple meal of rice, soup, and vegetables. He seemed almost apologetic about the lack of meat, and said in Korean, "I hope you are okay with not having meat. It's become very popular for people to eat only vegetables, because it's healthier. These vegetables are all organic. There are no pesticides."

This was the second time I had heard someone express pride in the pesticide-free vegetables. I knew they were just covering up for their country's shortages. I was embarra.s.sed that our being Americans had caused such a reaction.

"The food is delicious," I responded with a gentle smile, asking Euna to translate. "We have a lot of vegetarians in the United States too."

After dinner, Euna and I were placed in separate rooms. We were told that under no circ.u.mstances were we to open our doors, and that someone would come for us in the morning.

LISA.

LINDA M MCFADYEN WAS ALSO a.s.signed to our case from the State Department's Office of Citizen Services. She was in contact with both Euna's and our family every day. More than anything she became our friend and the shoulder my mother cried on. Mom called Linda every morning, as soon as she woke up, to find out if there were any updates. Most days Linda had nothing to report, but she was always patient and gracious with her time. I know this was hard to do because, for lack of a better way of phrasing it, Mom got crazy. She walked around the house like a zombie and she looked like one too. Her hair stuck straight up from not washing it, and she wore the same brown sweater and gray sweatpants for days on end. She had already been diagnosed as an insomniac, and her prescription sleeping aids weren't working. A family friend gave her some enhanced baked goods that were moderately successful in helping to relax her and get her through the tear-filled days and nights. Two full weeks into our ordeal, Iain finally had to tell her to shower and change her clothes. She became so frantic that every time I left her house, I would get nothing short of ten calls from her asking if I had heard anything new. In frustration, I often exclaimed, "No!" a.s.signed to our case from the State Department's Office of Citizen Services. She was in contact with both Euna's and our family every day. More than anything she became our friend and the shoulder my mother cried on. Mom called Linda every morning, as soon as she woke up, to find out if there were any updates. Most days Linda had nothing to report, but she was always patient and gracious with her time. I know this was hard to do because, for lack of a better way of phrasing it, Mom got crazy. She walked around the house like a zombie and she looked like one too. Her hair stuck straight up from not washing it, and she wore the same brown sweater and gray sweatpants for days on end. She had already been diagnosed as an insomniac, and her prescription sleeping aids weren't working. A family friend gave her some enhanced baked goods that were moderately successful in helping to relax her and get her through the tear-filled days and nights. Two full weeks into our ordeal, Iain finally had to tell her to shower and change her clothes. She became so frantic that every time I left her house, I would get nothing short of ten calls from her asking if I had heard anything new. In frustration, I often exclaimed, "No!"

Dad has always been known as the funny guy with the lewd punch lines, so for the most part, he held himself together when he was out in public. Privately at night, however, he would call me from his home in Sacramento and break down. It's difficult to describe how hard it was for me to hear my tough-guy father crying so deeply and painfully.

"I miss her," he would say. "I miss my little girl."

Kurt Tong and Linda McFadyen started scheduling a weekly conference call with our family and Euna's husband, Michael, on Fridays. Most of the time there was little to report. Kurt, Linda, and others who were in the room at the State Department during the calls were often on the receiving end of my foul-mouthed tirades, which erupted out of frustration.

Former Vice President Gore became a main point of contact with the highest-level people in the State Department and the White House, and without him the mora.s.s of layers of government would have seemed impenetrable. Though I had connections within different branches of government, it was comforting to have someone with such intimate knowledge of Washington's inner workings.