Read Online The Revisionists by Thomas Mullen - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Thomas Mullen
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with a woman: Have I ever told you about the time I helped track a cell of Islamist terrorists in Jakarta? Or on the phone with his father: There’s this time I fucked up and a bunch of people died. Anything like that ever happen to you? These were stories and questions he was not allowed to voice. So they silently caromed in his head like echoes of words that hadn’t been spoken, soundless reverberations, ghosts of stories. They took on a spectral power, haunting him.
Leo had always been a thinker, a quiet one, studiously independent. He’d grown up in Bethesda, the son of an energy executive and an intellectual property attorney who had heroically managed to have a child despite their hectic schedules and who seemed disappointed that they weren’t congratulated for this more. Leo read a lot. He scored a spot at Harvard, majoring in history with a focus on modern Asia; took a semester in Kyoto; and spent his first two years after college teaching English in Indonesia, living in a borderline-prehistoric village three hours from Jakarta. Why there? Mainly because he didn’t know what else to do with himself, partly because he wanted something unique, and, yes, partly because he was intrigued by hints from an acquaintance about how even normal-looking white guys could easily score with hot Asian chicks (which turned out to be woefully untrue at the Muslim village where he was stationed). He spent another year backpacking the continent, and then it was back to Harvard for grad work.
He somewhat perplexed his parents by choosing neither law nor business but political history as his field. They reminded him often of how paltry a salary professors earned. The brilliance of their son was never in question, only the best way to make use of that brilliance.
Leo spent years crafting an unwieldy dissertation on Asian dictators, paying particular attention to the Kims in North Korea and Suharto in Indonesia. Despots fascinated him. The cults of personality, the secret police, the godlike ability to not only rule but also define reality for their subjects, the various and unbelievably creative ways to kill dissidents—how could anyone not find this interesting? The thing that uncomprehending citizens of free countries often missed was how charismatic tyrants were, how frighteningly likable these guys could be when they weren’t torturing you or murdering your family. Kim Jong Il was beloved for the way he’d fought off the Japanese invaders, appreciated for his backslapping bonhomie. Suharto had a magnetic smile, a way with women, and was cheered for cracking down on Communists and convincing the islands’ hundreds of ethnic groups to play nice. That sort of charm was a mystery to Leo. He learned to speak Bahasa while in Indonesia, he taught himself rudimentary Korean and Cantonese while studying the Kims and Mao, but that certain something that the great leaders possessed, that it quality, was utterly beyond him. Which made it all the more fascinating.
Leo was preparing to defend his dissertation when the Twin Towers fell. He was in Logan airport that very morning, awaiting a flight to Washington to visit his parents. Maybe he was even sitting in the same chair one of the hijackers had occupied a few hours earlier. The burning tower had been on the TV for a few minutes before Leo realized it; he only noticed when he found himself staring at a young coed, maybe ten years his junior—God, he was getting old—and finally he heard what the announcer was saying, saw the screen. He stood, walked closer. By the time the second plane hit, there was a crowd. First everyone so quiet, then one by one the gasps, the cell phones materializing in shaky hands, the airport staff running in both directions. People watched the planes on the tarmac with a sort of helplessness, as if those flights too were doomed but the passengers inside them didn’t know it yet. Then the planes stopped lifting off, the constant rumbling on the other side of
Leo had always been a thinker, a quiet one, studiously independent. He’d grown up in Bethesda, the son of an energy executive and an intellectual property attorney who had heroically managed to have a child despite their hectic schedules and who seemed disappointed that they weren’t congratulated for this more. Leo read a lot. He scored a spot at Harvard, majoring in history with a focus on modern Asia; took a semester in Kyoto; and spent his first two years after college teaching English in Indonesia, living in a borderline-prehistoric village three hours from Jakarta. Why there? Mainly because he didn’t know what else to do with himself, partly because he wanted something unique, and, yes, partly because he was intrigued by hints from an acquaintance about how even normal-looking white guys could easily score with hot Asian chicks (which turned out to be woefully untrue at the Muslim village where he was stationed). He spent another year backpacking the continent, and then it was back to Harvard for grad work.
He somewhat perplexed his parents by choosing neither law nor business but political history as his field. They reminded him often of how paltry a salary professors earned. The brilliance of their son was never in question, only the best way to make use of that brilliance.
Leo spent years crafting an unwieldy dissertation on Asian dictators, paying particular attention to the Kims in North Korea and Suharto in Indonesia. Despots fascinated him. The cults of personality, the secret police, the godlike ability to not only rule but also define reality for their subjects, the various and unbelievably creative ways to kill dissidents—how could anyone not find this interesting? The thing that uncomprehending citizens of free countries often missed was how charismatic tyrants were, how frighteningly likable these guys could be when they weren’t torturing you or murdering your family. Kim Jong Il was beloved for the way he’d fought off the Japanese invaders, appreciated for his backslapping bonhomie. Suharto had a magnetic smile, a way with women, and was cheered for cracking down on Communists and convincing the islands’ hundreds of ethnic groups to play nice. That sort of charm was a mystery to Leo. He learned to speak Bahasa while in Indonesia, he taught himself rudimentary Korean and Cantonese while studying the Kims and Mao, but that certain something that the great leaders possessed, that it quality, was utterly beyond him. Which made it all the more fascinating.
Leo was preparing to defend his dissertation when the Twin Towers fell. He was in Logan airport that very morning, awaiting a flight to Washington to visit his parents. Maybe he was even sitting in the same chair one of the hijackers had occupied a few hours earlier. The burning tower had been on the TV for a few minutes before Leo realized it; he only noticed when he found himself staring at a young coed, maybe ten years his junior—God, he was getting old—and finally he heard what the announcer was saying, saw the screen. He stood, walked closer. By the time the second plane hit, there was a crowd. First everyone so quiet, then one by one the gasps, the cell phones materializing in shaky hands, the airport staff running in both directions. People watched the planes on the tarmac with a sort of helplessness, as if those flights too were doomed but the passengers inside them didn’t know it yet. Then the planes stopped lifting off, the constant rumbling on the other side of
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