Beneath the Axis of Evil

FEBRUARY 11, 2002/TEHRAN ? On the morning of the evening of the anniversary of the 1979 Iranian uprising against the United States, all is quiet in my hotel's restaurant. As I sip my tea and eat a plate of authentic Middle Eastern food, I think about how I have come to Iran to interview Mohammad Khatami, the country's president. By all accounts, he is popular and elected, as well as charming and sleekly handsome, a ruthless politician who nonetheless shimmers with sophisticated intellectuality. "I tried to have sex with him in public once," I was told by Eda, an Iranian professor of women's studies who didn't want her name used for fear of being executed in public, "but he said he couldn't, because he was married. We did it in private later, and he was so sweet." Confidants of confidants of President Khatami tell me that he is very accessible, but in this brave new world of thundering yet murky geopolitics, I find myself adrift in a sea of confusion, misunderstanding and antigovernment clerical scheming. Who can I trust in this most antiquated of modern countries? Well, at least the prices are good.

A mob, numbering perhaps in the millions, streams by the hotel. They are chanting loudly and carrying signs that read, among other things: "Death to America," "America Is Very Naughty" and "93 KDKB Rocks the Karun River Valley."

"What's going on?" I ask my waiter. I am investigating the axis of evil now, and nothing, not even a figure-skating controversy, will distract my attention.

"I don't know, sir," he says. "I prefer to stay out of politics."

"Oh," I say. "Then I guess you can't get me in touch with President Khatami."

"No, sir."

"Um. Do you know anyone who can?"

?Two weeks earlier, the Dept. of Defense had invited me to a private daytime screening of the new Britney Spears movie, Crossroads. "It is our attempt as a department to get back to normal," said a dear friend of mine who is also a vital top-secret defense intelligence operative, over lunch at his house at 465 Sherman Ave. in McLean, VA.

But, as often happens to an aging and respected Watergate-era journalist who follows every lead, no matter how small, I had been duped. After traveling down a long series of corridors that connected with another long series of corridors, guarded by steel doors that clanged behind me, I found myself in a windowless room, staring down a hawk-faced man in a black suit.

I gasped, audibly.

"We meet again, Pollack," he said.

"Paul Wolfowitz," I said. "The deputy secretary of defense. I heard you were back in town."

"Yes," he said, smacking his lips together, even more audibly, "and my master plan for world domination is right back on track. Off the record."

"Of course," I said. "But why am I here?"

"America is at war," he said.

"I know."

"We must rid the world of this terrible axis of evil."

"Yes."

Paul Wolfowitz began to sweat and clutch at his shirt collar.

"I need our best writers to tell the American people how evil this axis really is. It is evil! Evil, I tell you. Saddam Hussein is a monster, a terrible, terrible monster?"

He slumped at his desk, clutching his head in his hands.

"Ohhhh," he moaned.

He hit the buzzer on his phone.

"Doris," he said, "is there a full moon tonight?"

"Yes, sir," said his secretary. "We're bringing your cage in right now."

"Oh God," he said.

On cue, two functionaries entered the office, rolling a cage large enough to hold three men, or one of the Cursed. The Deputy Defense Secretary entered it without a fight, took off his clothes and clutched the bars, his face mutated in agony. His assistants locked the cage, then padlocked it, then slipped a bar across it and locked it again.

"You'd better get out of here," one of them said.

"Axis of evil!" shouted Paul Wolfowitz, as his transformation began. "Tell America the truth about our enemies! Growwwwl! We will destroy them all! ARRRRRRRRGH!"

Through the bars of his cage, the man-beast that had been Paul Wolfowitz lunged for my throat, missing by inches. I backed toward the door. Next time, I thought, I'll go see Colin Powell instead.

?

Two days later, Secretary of State Powell and I were landing in Pyongyang, North Korea. It had been a delightful flight with excellent food, a DVD of Moulin Rouge, fine-looking ladies, vintage Pakistani champagne and a live 10-song set by the Strokes.

"You like the Strokes?" I asked Colin Powell.

"They're just a bunch of spoiled prep-schoolers," he said. "But it's a pretty good album, you've gotta admit."

"Totally," I said, and secretly wished he were my dad.

In a Bush administration staffed by drooling, intolerant madmen, Powell has been a voice of sanity and reason. Unlike many African-Americans in public life, he is refreshingly honest about the fact that he's black. God, how I love him!

Powell's reputation for allowing the media access to his every private dealing with foreign heads of state had led me to the secret antechamber of Kim Jong Il, the supreme leader of North Korea. I'm very proud of having excellent sources on both sides of the Korean DMZ. Kim and I go way back. He hugged me broadly.

"How's my boy?" he asked. "I've almost finished that copy of Disraeli's memoirs you lent me."

"Pshaw," I said.

He had filled the room with pictures of himself, with the lone exception of a Robert Doisneau poster that he said was left over from his university days. He sat on a high mound of comfortable pillows.

"Listen," Colin Powell said. "I apologize for all those crazy things President Bush has been saying about your country. In my mind, you're not part of any axis of evil or involved in this terrorist network in any way."

"That's okay," said Kim Jong Il. "Mistakes get made." He clapped his hands twice. "Send in the human-rights activist!"

His eunuch guards brought in a wasted, shivering man.

"My family is starving!" the man said. "Please, feed us!"

Kim Jong Il produced a pistol and shot the man in the left temple. Brains spray-painted the wall.

"Let us celebrate," he said. "I have no more domestic enemies."

"Holy shit," said Colin Powell. "You ARE evil!"

"That is not precisely accurate," said Kim. "Now then, may I interest you in some ICBMs? We have excellent prices, and many models from which to choose?"

Later, after a deft exit from that death chamber, Secretary Powell and I flew toward Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, and a secret rendezvous with a defected Iraqi intelligence agent who lives at 565 Abraham Lincoln Blvd. in Yemen's capital city. Powell discussed the problems he faces as a diplomat.

"Sometimes I don't know what to do with myself," he said. "I get so restless and angry."

I knew that I had just heard Powell say something important and historic. America is a nation challenged, and I am its self-appointed chronicler, but so many questions need to be answered, and also we have to figure out where Saddam Hussein lives so we can send him a "surprise" birthday present. In my mind, shadowy figures lurk, whispering secrets. Sometimes they send me e-mails and tell me to meet them in dark garages.

Colin Powell spoke into the plane's intercom.

"Captain," he said, "send in the dancing girls!"