The Invitation-Only Zone (25 page)

Koizumi was whisked by limousine to the Hundred Flowers Guesthouse, near the Kumsusan Memorial Palace, where Kim Il-sung lay in state. Designed for honored foreign guests, the guesthouse had been used by former U.S. president Jimmy Carter
when he brokered a nuclear deal in 1994, and Secretary of State Madeleine Albright in 2000. While Koizumi settled in, Tanaka was taken to a distant building for a last-minute briefing. He was nervous. Would Kim Jong-il apologize for the abductions, as Mr. X had promised? Would enough of the victims be alive to justify Koizumi’s trip in the eyes of the Japanese public? North Korea’s normalization
wish list was virtually identical to the South’s in 1965: it wanted the money and investment that normalization would bring, and it wanted Japan to apologize for colonizing Korea. The knotty question was precisely how North Korea would apologize for the abductions, given its past attempts to avoid the word
apology
. As they drafted the Pyongyang Declaration in the weeks leading up to the summit,
Mr. X had begged Tanaka to exclude such language from the historical document, which would provide a road map for the new era in Japan–North Korea relations. The compromise left both sides unhappy. The Koreans translated the Japanese word for “apology” into the Korean word for “atonement,” and the text referred to the abductions as “regrettable incidents, which took place under the abnormal bilateral
relationship, and would never happen in the future.” In return for allowing the Koreans to employ diplomatic euphemisms, Tanaka had insisted that Kim Jong-il apologize for the abductions to Koizumi in person.

It wasn’t until Tanaka’s last-minute meeting that the North’s calculations suddenly became clear. North Korea had deliberately waited until the very last second to hand over the list of
surviving and deceased abductees, which Tanaka had spent months trying to wrangle from Mr. X. As Tanaka scanned the document, the reason for the North’s deceptiveness became apparent. On it were the names of thirteen Japanese whom the North admitted kidnapping, eight of whom the regime claimed were dead, including Megumi Yokota and Keiko Arimoto. The circumstances of their deaths—suicide, swimming
accidents, asphyxiation, heart attack, and a car crash in a country with few cars—were suspicious, and the evidence the regime presented was questionable. All the death certificates had been issued by the same hospital, and it was said that no remains existed for any of the abductees, the graves having been washed away by floods. The North claimed that only five of the abductees—two couples and a
single woman—were alive. Tanaka had been trapped. By agreeing to a Koizumi visit without first learning the fate of the abductees, he had lost his leverage. Although he and Koizumi had assumed that some of the abductees might have died, the fact that the deceased outnumbered the living, and that the evidence of death was so flimsy, wasn’t something they had anticipated. How would the Japanese public
react when it learned that the prime minister was normalizing relations with a regime that had kidnapped and perhaps killed or was still holding so many fellow citizens?

With barely thirty minutes to go, Tanaka ran several hundred yards to the guesthouse. Had the Koreans intended to deliver the news in a place where he would have difficulty reaching the prime minister? he wondered. Koizumi was
shocked by the news Tanaka brought him. But what had he expected? Diplomats must be coldly realistic in their calculations in ways the public can’t be expected to be. He knew that some of the abductees must be alive—otherwise Kim Jong-il wouldn’t have invited him to Pyongyang in the first place. But the North had been so unforthcoming that he’d suspected some were dead. It was common knowledge that
the regime seldom admitted its mistakes. Its national pride depended on everything going according to plan, or at least seeming to, despite evidence to the contrary. The Japanese had assumed the North would announce the names of the surviving abductees and report the others as “missing,” the euphemism the two sides had used in previous negotiations. But they departed from the text and delivered
the bad news with unseemly directness. North Korea’s definitive, if not honest account—since nobody knew if
all
the abductees were accounted for—made it all but impossible for the Japanese to save face.

Koizumi and Kim
(Associated Press)

Kim Jong-il entered the room at eleven in the morning wearing his signature khaki-colored military jacket. Koizumi was careful to avoid the bonhomie that ordinarily occurs when two heads of state greet each other for the first time. The Ministry of Foreign Affairs had advised him to keep it simple: no smiles, use only one hand to shake, make sure not to bow.
“As the host, I regret that we had to make the prime minister of Japan come to Pyongyang so early in the morning in order to open a new chapter in the DPRK-Japan relationship,” Kim said. Reading from note cards, Kim explained he wanted to become “true neighbors” and establish new relations with Japan. “I, too, hope that the opportunity that this meeting presents will greatly advance bilateral relations
between our two countries,” Koizumi responded.

After a few minutes of pleasantries, Koizumi had had enough and departed from his script. “I was utterly distressed by the information that was provided” about the abductees, he began. His tone was angry. “I ask that you arrange a meeting for us with the surviving abductees. And I would like you to make an outright apology.” Kim listened in silence,
looking uncomfortable. Tanaka wondered if Mr. X had ever actually told Kim that Koizumi would require him to make a public apology. Kim neither acknowledged Koizumi’s remarks nor offered an apology. “Shall we take a break now?” he suggested, after a long pause.

The meeting had lasted barely an hour. Discouraged, Koizumi and the delegation retreated to an anteroom to consider their options. The
North had wanted to host a state visit, with banquets and performances, but the Japanese insisted it be an all-business one-day affair, and even brought along their own bento boxes for lunch. Koizumi didn’t want to be photographed toasting a dictator. In the anteroom, they watched the Japanese television news coverage of the talks, keeping the volume high on the assumption that the room was bugged.
“If the North Koreans won’t acknowledge their wrongdoings, you have to push them,” Tanaka said. It pained him to think that a year of diplomacy might be for naught, but what else could they do? And if Kim refused to address the abductions and apologize? “You should not sign the joint statement,” said Cabinet Undersecretary Shinzo Abe. Koizumi’s bento went untouched, and he wondered if he had made
a mistake.

The afternoon session began at two sharp, and Kim, having eavesdropped on his guests’ lunchtime conversation, got right to the point.
³
“We have thoroughly investigated this matter,” Kim read from a memo. “Decades of adversarial relations between our two countries provided the background of this incident. It was, nevertheless, an appalling incident.” Kim continued: “It is my understanding
that this incident was initiated by special mission organizations in the 1970s and 1980s driven by blindly motivated patriotism and misguided heroism.” He explained that the purposes of the abductions were to find people to teach its agents Japanese and to steal identities with which to infiltrate the South. “As soon as their scheme and deeds were brought to my attention, those who were responsible
were punished.” He claimed that the two people responsible for Megumi Yokota’s abduction had been tried and found guilty in 1998. Both were now dead: one was executed and the other died while serving a fifteen-year sentence. “I would like to take this opportunity to apologize straightforwardly for the regrettable conduct of those people. I will not allow that to happen again,” Kim promised.
⁴

The explanation was implausible on several levels. It was inconceivable to Koizumi that a covert program like this could have existed without Kim’s knowledge, especially as he was in charge of espionage operations during the years most of the abductions occurred. Despite his misgivings, Koizumi signed the Pyongyang Declaration at a 5:30 ceremony, an event immortalized on a North Korean postage stamp.
What choice did he have? Kim had apologized for the abductions, even if his account was unsatisfactory. And what might happen to the remaining abductees if Koizumi refused to sign? After the ceremony, the Japanese delegation returned to the Koryo Hotel to announce the news to the world.

*   *   *

Tsutomu Watanabe’s heart sank as Koizumi and the others stepped up to the lectern. The officials
looked nervous, their faces pale. Abe, the Cabinet undersecretary, spoke first. He described the Pyongyang Declaration as an important step toward normalization and quickly moved on to the only subject anyone wanted to hear about. As he began reading the names of the abductees, noting who was alive and who was dead, Watanabe was overcome with grief. When big news is announced at press conferences,
reporters immediately run to their phones, but he and his fellow reporters just stood in shocked silence. “The Japanese people are going to be very angry,” thought Watanabe. “Koizumi, the gambler, has failed after all.”

“Did you confirm that the eight abductees were dead?” asked the first reporter. Abe replied that the information came from North Korea’s investigation. “Well, why did
you
not
confirm it?” asked Watanabe. He was surprised by how emotional he was. After a few more questions, the reporters finally ran to the pressroom to phone in their stories. “Five people alive, eight people dead,” Watanabe told his editor. The editor didn’t believe him. “Really?
Eight
people dead!?” he responded, incredulous.

The next day, every newspaper in Japan ran similar headlines: “Eight Dead,
Five Alive.” News of the Pyongyang Declaration was relegated to the second line, if it was mentioned all. The missing abductees, especially Megumi Yokota, were all anyone talked about.

19

RETURNING HOME: FROM NORTH KOREA TO JAPAN

In the summer of 2000, Kaoru Hasuike received a visit from a high party official. With the attention the abductions had been receiving in Japan, such visits were rare, and seldom brought good news. Were they being moved to a new Invitation-Only Zone or, worse, away from Pyongyang altogether? No, the official had a question: Would he and Yukiko
be willing to appear at a press conference and tell the world they were living happily in North Korea, of their own free will? Kaoru and Yukiko were confused. Was this a trick to test their loyalty to the regime? After twenty years of hiding their identities, trying to fit in as normal North Koreans, were they now really being asked to step out from the shadows?

Kaoru could barely breathe, his
heart beating so fast he feared it would burst from his chest. He tried masking his panic with the calm, deadpan façade he’d cultivated over the years. “If this is an order, we will do it,” he replied, choosing his words carefully.
¹
It was essential that he come across as dutiful above all, and he certainly couldn’t show any enthusiasm. But all he could think about was the possibility of seeing
his family again. Kaoru had long ago given up the hope of returning to Japan, resigning himself to life in the North with his wife and children. Of course, it wasn’t the life he’d planned, but it was a life nonetheless, and after twenty years he’d gotten used to it. It was painful to again feel the longing for home and family, but he couldn’t pass up this opportunity.

What Kaoru didn’t know was
that this was the regime’s first step in the long process of normalizing diplomatic relations with Japan. Still reeling from the damage done by the famine, North Korea was desperate for the aid that was once provided by the Soviet Union. Japan seemed a promising source, but the abduction issue was a stumbling block. In negotiations, no matter how many times the regime denied the existence of the
abductees, the Japanese would bring them up again. Kaoru didn’t learn anything more until a year and a half later, when he read an article in the regime’s official newspaper,
Rodong Sinmun
, that reported a search for “missing people” from Japan, a woman named Keiko Arimoto among them. Kaoru didn’t recognize her name, but he assumed that she, too, had been abducted. Although the regime still denied
the abductions, the article suggested to Kaoru that its position was changing.

In April 2001, Kaoru received another visit from the official, who told him that the regime had concocted a cover story to explain his presence in the North. They wanted him to say that he had fallen in love with the idea of
juche
philosophy while a student at Chuo University and fled to the North with his girlfriend
to live in the socialist paradise. Kaoru countered that he’d been such an apolitical student that nobody would believe the story. And how would he and Yukiko even have managed to get to North Korea in 1978? Undeterred, the official came up with another story: On the July evening in 1978 when he and Yukiko were strolling on Kashiwazaki’s main beach, Kaoru jumped into a motorboat bobbing offshore
and zipped around for a few hours. The boat ran out of fuel and drifted all night, until a North Korean spy boat rescued them. Once in North Korea, the couple was grateful to be free of Japan’s “brutal capitalism.” Now married with children, they lived happily in Pyongyang. Even with minor adjustments, Kaoru said he would never be able to tell the story convincingly. “We don’t need to
convince
them,” the official replied angrily. “All you have to do is stick to the story. In the end, Japan will
have
to accept it.” Resigned, Kaoru rehearsed the ludicrous tale until he almost believed it.