The fact that there were discreet channels of communication

Host: The night hung heavy over Geneva, its streets bathed in a thin, amber glow from the lamps that lined the avenue. A light mist curled over the stone, softening the edges of the embassies that slept behind iron gates. Inside a dimly lit café, the hum of a coffee machine broke the silence every few minutes, like a heartbeat in the fog.

Jack sat by the window, his coat still buttoned, a glass of whiskey untouched before him. His eyes, grey as winter steel, followed the reflections of passing cars on the wet pavement. Across from him, Jeeny stirred her coffee, the steam curling between them like a veil of unspoken words. The clock above the counter ticked with measured precision, a reminder of how time can both separate and connect.

Jeeny broke the silence first.

Jeeny: “Ben Rhodes once said, ‘The fact that there were discreet channels of communication established with Iran in 2012 is something that we confirmed publicly. However, we did not have any serious prospect of reaching a nuclear deal until after the election of Hassan Rouhani in 2013.’”

She looked at Jack, her voice soft, but her eyes alive with conviction. “I’ve been thinking about what that means — how even in the darkest of politics, there are whispers of hope, waiting for the right moment to bloom.”

Jack: “Hope?” He smirked, the word rolling off his tongue like a challenge. “That wasn’t hope, Jeeny. That was strategy. No one makes ‘discreet channels’ because they believe in the goodness of their enemies. They do it to gain an edge, to watch, to wait until the odds shift in their favor.”

Jeeny: “But doesn’t that also mean they still believed in the possibility of dialogue? Even when trust was nonexistent?”

Jack: “No. It means they believed in timing. There’s a difference. The U.S. didn’t talk to Iran in 2012 because of faith — they did it because they knew nothing would move until power changed hands. You don’t negotiate with a storm; you wait until it passes.”

Host: The café door opened, letting in a gust of cold air that fluttered the napkins on their table. A waiter passed by, placing another candle between them. The flame wavered, mirroring the uncertainty in their eyes.

Jeeny: “Jack, you always see the world as a boardroom — moves, timing, transactions. But what if diplomacy is more than that? What if it’s like planting a seed in a desert? You don’t know when it’ll grow, or if it even will — but you still plant it.”

Jack: “A poetic image, but the world doesn’t work that way. You can plant all you want, but if the soil is toxic, nothing grows. Before Rouhani, Iran’s leadership had no interest in change. The talks in 2012 were performative. Everyone was pretending. The U.S., the Iranians — they were just testing the temperature.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t testing still a form of faith? Even a pretend conversation means you haven’t given up on words. Look at the Cold War — the Cuban Missile Crisis was resolved not by weapons, but by a backchannel between Kennedy and Khrushchev. Discreet communication saved the world.”

Jack: “Saved it, yes — temporarily. And then we went right back to the brink again. Humanity’s memory is short, Jeeny. We learn nothing from talks, we just delay the inevitable.”

Host: Jack’s voice lowered, the whiskey finally touched his lips. His reflection in the window looked older, harder, as though the weight of a thousand failed conversations had settled on his shoulders. Jeeny watched him, silent for a moment, her hands trembling slightly on the ceramic cup.

Jeeny: “You talk as if inevitability is a law of the universe, not a choice we make. But every progress we’ve ever had — civil rights, peace treaties, even love — came from someone believing that change wasn’t impossible. If you wait for the perfect conditions, you’ll never act.”

Jack: “Idealism works in poems, not in policy. You can’t negotiate with a theocracy using hope. You need leverage, pressure, and the right man in power. Rouhani was that moment, the crack in the wall. Before him, there was no door.”

Jeeny: “So you’re saying the channels before 2013 meant nothing?”

Jack: “They meant observation. Preparation. Like a chess player studying his opponent before the real match.”

Jeeny: “And yet without that study, the match would’ve ended in blood. You can’t win peace with war. You can’t understand someone by ignoring them.”

Host: The flame between them flickered again, as if it understood the tension. Outside, a police siren echoed through the wet streets, a reminder of how fragile order always is. Jeeny leaned forward, her eyes glimmering with the kind of emotion that cuts through logic.

Jeeny: “Tell me, Jack — have you ever spoken to someone who you knew would never agree with you, but you spoke anyway, because you needed to? That’s what those channels were. A human instinct to reach, even when the walls are high.”

Jack: “And how many times has that instinct led to betrayal? You open your hand, and someone cuts it off. I’ve seen it — in politics, in business, in love. Sometimes silence is safer.”

Jeeny: “But safety is not the same as living.”

Host: Her words hung there, raw and quiet, as though they had punctured something inside him. Jack turned his head, his jaw tightening, his eyes flickering toward the rain that now tapped gently on the glass.

Jack: “You think Rouhani’s election was a miracle of faith, but it was politics, Jeeny. A shift in interest, not in heart. When sanctions hurt, when the currency collapsed, then they came to the table. Pain is the only language nations understand.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But even pain can be transformed. Sometimes suffering is what teaches us how to listen. That’s what those talks were — a slow, painful learning. You call it strategy; I call it evolution.”

Jack: “Evolution? You make it sound noble.”

Jeeny: “Isn’t it? Every step toward understanding, no matter how small, is noble. Even if it starts in shadows, even if it’s discreet.”

Host: The rain intensified, pattering against the glass like tiny applause. A train horn sounded in the distance, and for a moment, the city seemed to pause — as if it, too, was listening to their argument.

Jack: “You know what your problem is, Jeeny? You romanticize compromise. But every agreement has blood beneath it. The Iran Deal, the peace accords, even the alliances that hold the world — all built on loss, sacrifice, and self-interest.”

Jeeny: “And yet those agreements also save lives, Jack. Isn’t that worth something? Maybe we can’t erase the blood, but we can stop it from flowing. Isn’t that the point?”

Jack: “Maybe.” He exhaled, his voice lowering, almost a whisper. “But at what cost?”

Jeeny: “At the cost of trying, Jack. Because if we don’t, then we’re no better than the wars we condemn.”

Host: The room fell into silence, broken only by the sound of the rain easing, the candlelight now steady and warm. Jeeny looked at him — not as a debater, but as a human being who had seen too much disappointment. Jack met her gaze, the edge in his eyes softening.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe those discreet channels were the only kind of honesty possible back then. Two nations that couldn’t speak in the light, so they whispered in the dark.”

Jeeny: “And sometimes, Jack, the dark is where the truth starts to breathe.”

Host: The rain had stopped now. A single ray of streetlight fell across their table, illuminating the half-empty glasses, the thin trail of steam from Jeeny’s cup, the quiet forgiveness in their faces. Outside, the city moved on — unaware, but alive.

And between Jack and Jeeny, in that tiny, hidden corner of the night, a new channel of understanding had been opened — not by strategy, not by timing, but by the courage to speak, even when no one was listening.