A Secret Audience at Cheong Wa Dae
Based on history, Yoo Jae-won had visited Cheong Wa Dae multiple times after his regression. Until now, all those visits had been official, with grand ceremonies attached. This time, however, the meeting was conducted in the utmost secrecy—more so than any previous visit. Though Yoo Jae-won was no ordinary figure, the fact that he had been granted a private audience would burden both the President and himself if it became known. Still, he had decided the private meeting was necessary because, just as Lee In-je and Jeon Jae-jun showed no signs of change, President Roh remained exactly the same man he had always been.
One might wonder how he could judge that from a single inaugural address, but Yoo Jae-won had evaluated President Roh through various methods. The intelligence team’s reports on his movements were only the baseline; he had also applied his knowledge of the future. The inaugural address was merely the final confirmation.
Quietly entering Cheong Wa Dae, Yoo Jae-won soon met President Roh, who had been wrestling with documents in his office. It was immediately clear that the papers concerned personnel appointments. That made sense—personnel authority was one of the most powerful tools a President of the Republic of Korea possessed. By exercising it over the executive branch, public corporations, government-funded institutions, and national research institutes, a president could shape his own political landscape. Seeing the stacks of documents on the desk, Yoo Jae-won felt relieved that the President had not yet begun wielding that authority in earnest.
“Mr. President, good afternoon.”
“Chairman Yoo, it’s a pleasure. This is the first time we’ve met in person, isn’t it?”
Yoo Jae-won bowed his head in greeting, and President Roh extended his hand for a handshake.
“I read your paper. You’ve made quite an impact in the cutting-edge field of artificial intelligence. As a citizen, even before becoming President, I felt truly proud.”
True to his reputation as an IT expert, President Roh opened the conversation by referencing Yoo Jae-won’s artificial intelligence paper. One thing many people did not know was President Roh’s own programming ability. Though he appeared to be an expert in primary industries, he possessed considerable skill in programming. He had played a major role in developing E-Jiwon, Cheong Wa Dae’s electronic document-based administrative system. Among politicians, his understanding of IT was unmatched in history, so he had immediately recognized the excellence of Yoo Jae-won’s machine-learning-based AI paper.
“You flatter me.”
“Not at all. If anything, I feel your achievements are being underestimated.”
After the paper’s release, many had been disappointed to learn that AI Gold was not a strong artificial intelligence with its own personality. Moreover, Yoo Jae-won’s publication had opened new avenues for machine-learning AI research, spawning several large-scale, capital-intensive projects. Apple had announced a two-hundred-million-dollar Siri project, and even the traditional powerhouse IBM had unveiled its Watson AI initiative. A flood of competitors now threatened ID Group, creating an atmosphere reminiscent of the Warring States period.
In the old Republic of Korea, people would have been terrified by the pursuit of global giants. It had been unimaginable for Korean companies, once frogs in a well, to compete with them. But ID Group was different. That perception had now taken root in most people’s minds.
“By the way, I was quite surprised when I heard you requested a private audience. I couldn’t begin to guess what you wanted to discuss that required carving out such precious time.”
After exchanging pleasantries and a handshake, President Roh moved straight to the point. Looking around, Yoo Jae-won saw that only he and the President remained in the office. The Chief of Staff and aides who had escorted him had quietly withdrawn during their small talk. A private audience like this was unprecedented. President Roh had always disliked private meetings. He had abolished the private briefings from the Director of the National Intelligence Service that every previous president had accepted, and he had tried to avoid private audiences with other ministers or secretaries as much as possible. It was easy to imagine how much deliberation it had taken for him to accept Yoo Jae-won’s request.
“As you know, Mr. President, I can exert considerable influence over the Tongil National Party.”
Yoo Jae-won went straight to the main topic. President Roh let out a small cough, his discomfort evident. For a politician, it was deeply unsettling that the owner of a global corporation could wield such political power. Even former President Kim Dae-jung had found the situation burdensome and sought a breakthrough, but the only success he achieved was grooming Roh Moo-hyun as his successor.
“If a few concerns can be addressed, I’m willing to pursue a coalition with the Democratic Party in a very positive light this time as well.”
A coalition. The words were most welcome. After the launch of the Roh Moo-hyun administration, the greatest source of instability had been the minority government situation. Although the Democratic Party was the largest party, it had failed to secure a majority in the National Assembly. Therefore, reviving the coalition with the Tongil National Party, as during Kim Dae-jung’s presidency, was the top priority. President Roh also had his own calculations. Within the Democratic Party, there was a faction that viewed him unfavorably—the so-called “post-candidate alliance” group. They were essentially Kim Dae-jung’s inner circle, wielding enormous regional influence in Honam, with many having served two, three, or even four or more terms. They refused to acknowledge President Roh, an outsider. Their attitude had not changed since his candidacy, nor had it softened now that he was President. At times they even pursued independent moves within the Democratic Party rather than following Cheong Wa Dae’s lead in state affairs. Already, disputes were arising over cabinet formation and personnel appointments in public corporations and affiliated organizations. They treated important positions in national governance as mere spoils of war, using their power to expand their own influence.
In such circumstances, a coalition with the Tongil National Party would significantly ease President Roh’s burden. It could also serve as a foundation for a powerful political realignment. Of course, Yoo Jae-won knew that President Roh’s idea of realignment meant splitting the ruling Democratic Party, but he pretended not to notice.
“Chairman Yoo’s concerns. I’m curious what they are, yet at the same time I’m worried.”
“They might not seem like much once you hear them.”
Yoo Jae-won began speaking, hoping his concerns would indeed prove minor. It was not a short conversation. Unlike his usual style, he had to approach the topic indirectly. If the person before him had been an ID Group executive, he would have spoken bluntly, but this was President Roh. What he wanted to say was simple, yet he had to phrase it gently so as not to touch the President’s sensitive spot—authority.
“I agree with your belief that authoritarianism must be dismantled. However, there is no need to become a clown in order to relinquish authority.”
When Yoo Jae-won had drawn up his master plan before regressing, he had considered the era of President Roh as well. His analysis of the individual had led him to conclude that President Roh’s greatest mistake had been discarding “authority” too early and too lightly.
“I need a more detailed explanation.”
President Roh’s reaction was exactly as predicted. Having suffered greatly under the military dictatorship’s authoritarian rule and having helped many others who had suffered, he viewed dismantling authoritarianism as a historical mission. Yet he had never voiced this thought aloud. Even within Cheong Wa Dae, only a few, including the Chief of Staff, knew of it. Now Yoo Jae-won was telling him to preserve authority as if he knew everything, and it was only natural to be surprised.
“The military dictatorship is over, and the World Cup festival has united the Korean Peninsula. It may seem as though a perfect democratic society has arrived, but that is not the case.”
Since the reconstruction following the Korean War, conservative forces had held power for over fifty years. There had been only two regime changes, one of which was under Jeon Myeong-heon—essentially an extension of conservative rule.
“For now, it would be fair to say that only the single person at the very top of the establishment pyramid—the President—has changed.”
In such a situation, relinquishing presidential authority was tantamount to declaring one would not govern. Of course, in his previous life, President Roh’s lack of authority had partly been his own doing, but the conservative newspapers’ massive efforts to portray him as a ridiculous figure had played a far greater role. Now that three major conservative newspapers had become two, the situation might be somewhat better, but no one could be certain.
“If the President’s authority disappears, National Assembly members will pursue their own politics, and civil servants will look out for themselves. Moreover, problems that could have been resolved simply through authority may escalate into major conflicts as everyone voices their own opinions.”
He was not saying authority was unconditionally good. If authority was built on violence, like the military dictatorship, it was better to eliminate it. But if it was authority that commanded respect and trust, its positive effects were considerable.
“This is not a demand. However, I hope you understand that the stronger President Roh’s authority becomes, the lighter the burden of coalition government will be.”
Conversely, if President Roh became a laughingstock as in the past, the coalition would become difficult.
“I understand what you mean.”
President Roh’s expression had grown much heavier than at the start. He had expected Yoo Jae-won’s request for a private audience to involve something unusual, but he had never imagined the conversation would take this direction.
“If you would like a glimpse of the establishment’s resistance, you might consider floating the idea of legislating the Private School Reform Act.”
Yoo Jae-won added this advice. President Roh’s eyes lit up. Private school reform had been one of his long-cherished projects, repeatedly emphasized among his presidential pledges. Furthermore, the amended constitution now included a clause stating that where tax money was spent, it must be verified that the funds were used for their original purpose. The method of auditing was to be determined by law, but the relevant legislation was not yet complete. Currently, it was limited to government organizations. Based on this clause, even organizations like the National Intelligence Service, previously immune to national audits, would now be subject to them. While some confidential audits had occurred in the past, the level of precision was entirely different. For example, special activity funds disbursed in cash had previously required only a statement of expenditure; now, documentation was mandatory.
Another area that had escaped audits despite receiving massive tax funding was private school foundations. Education budgets increased dramatically every year, yet the quality of educational services had not improved correspondingly. The culprit was the private school foundations. Most private schools in Korea could not operate without government subsidies. The foundations that owned these schools rarely paid the required contributions, and many paid nothing at all. It was common for them to siphon off school assets under various pretexts.
President Roh’s private school reform centered on adding external directors to the boards of private school foundations in proportion to the government funding they received. Since boards handled budget decisions and personnel appointments within the foundations, this would faithfully reflect the spirit of the constitution. Rather than adding just one external director, the number would increase according to the proportion of tax money in the school’s budget. In cases of corrupt foundations, contributions were close to zero.
“Thank you for the advice.”
Yoo Jae-won bowed his head at President Roh’s gratitude while trying to read his expression. He wanted to know whether the thanks were sincere or merely perfunctory. Unfortunately, President Roh was a seasoned politician, and nothing showed on his face.
“If you ever need my help, please don’t hesitate to contact me.”
Yoo Jae-won had done what he came to do. Now all that remained was to watch how much would change from the past. He felt a flicker of anticipation. At the very least, with the coalition with the Tongil National Party at stake, President Roh might avoid the careless words and actions of the past. Yet there was one important event Yoo Jae-won was watching closely—the “Conversation with Prosecutors.” It had been the first incident to publicly expose how arrogant and lawless prosecutors could be, but in the end, it had only damaged President Roh’s authority. Prosecutors and the prosecution service were not moved by historical missions or principles; they operated solely according to the logic and interests of their own organization. The surest way to handle them was not through debate but through legislative constraints and personnel authority. President Roh had approached the matter incorrectly from the start.
Yoo Jae-won decided that if the “Conversation with Prosecutors” event was deleted, he would conclude that President Roh had accepted his advice. If not, he would abandon even his expectations, let alone his disappointment.
Leaving Cheong Wa Dae, Yoo Jae-won did not head straight for the airport. Although he had completed the most important task—the private audience with President Roh—his work was not yet finished. The business for ID Group was only just beginning.