“Miss Jensen. It’s a great pleasure to see you again.” The President was busily shaking her hand. The agent outside the door pulled it shut.
“I didn’t—didn’t think you remembered,” she stammered. “The campaign film was two years ago.”
He flashed the world-famous smile, all of it for her. “Of course I’d remember.”
But the smoothness in Kennedy’s voice told her he had no idea what she was talking about. The bedroom was large and plush, decorated in bright colors. The canopied bed was fit for an emperor. The heavy comforter had been turned down. Margo could hardly look at it. On a polished sideboard stood glasses, an ice bucket, and several bottles. The sofa was brocaded in gold. “Please, Miss Jensen. Sit.”
“Thank you, sir.”
For a moment they sized each other up. The President’s jacket was off and his tie was loose. His collar was unbuttoned, and there was stubble on his chin. He looked like what he was: a hardworking executive at the end of a long day. His next word confirmed the image.
“Drink?”
“No, sir. Um, thank you, no.”
Kennedy had a glass already. He swirled the smooth brown liquid, sipped, pulled a face. He stood looking down at her. “You’re a very brave young woman, Miss Jensen: Bulgaria. Now this. Has anyone bothered to say thank you? I’ll say it now. On behalf of a grateful nation. Thank you.”
The swift move beyond pleasantries momentarily threw her. “I—I don’t know what to say, Mr. President.”
“Try ‘You’re welcome.’ That usually works.”
She found a weak half-smile somewhere. “You’re welcome.”
“All those adventures and you’re just nineteen. You’ll have a lot to write about one day.”
“I would never—I mean, I signed a nondisclosure agreement.”
“Oh, that.” The President took another swallow. “They tell me you’re quite the student. Straight A’s your freshman year. Well, other than that B in French.” He waved his glass. “Is this what you want to do when you graduate? Politics? Government? National security?”
“I—I haven’t decided, Mr. President.”
“Get married? Have a family?”
“Eventually. Of course.”
“Of course,” he echoed, and Margo realized that her answer had amused him. “It turns out I knew your great-uncle a bit. Your father’s uncle, I suppose he would have been. Your grandfather’s brother. Pierce Jensen. I didn’t know you were related.”
“Oh. Yes.” She didn’t know where to put her eyes. Her mother had rarely spoken of Uncle Pierce, and Nana never did. He had been an accountant, a graduate of Northwestern, but had wound up in prison for helping the wrong sort of people evade taxes. She was afraid to ask how Kennedy could know such a man. “I never met him,” she said, sounding to her own ear arch and unpersuasive.
“I didn’t know him well,” said the President, catching her mood. “It’s just that Pierce and my father did some business together a long time ago.”
“Oh. I see.”
“Thick as thieves,” he said, and winked. When Margo didn’t reply, he realized that his effort at small talk had misfired. “Tell me, Miss Jensen. What’s your impression of Aleksandr Fomin?”
Again the change of subject caught her short. “I’m not sure yet.”
“Bundy tells me he’s a smooth so-and-so. Dangerous. Never tells you what he’s really thinking. Great poker face.” Kennedy settled beside her, so close she could feel his warmth. And his anxiety. “But the times are dangerous, aren’t they? At times like these, maybe we need dangerous men.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you feel you can trust him?”
“I don’t know. I think he trusts me.”
“That’s a good answer. Very good.” He yawned. “You look very nice. That’s a lovely dress.”
Her face burned, and she dropped her eyes. “Oh, um, thank you. Thank you, sir.”
The President’s arm was stretched along the back of the sofa. Her shoulders were bare, and if his fingers touched her she would jump out of her skin. But he only sipped at his drink.
“You need to try to relax, Miss Jensen. If we’re going to be meeting like this, you need to relax.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Remember, honey. Our cover is that we’re having a fling. It won’t work if everybody thinks you’re afraid of me.”
Margo was feeling trapped and panicky. “Yes, sir.”
“Like when you came in just now. They have to see that you’re happy to see me. A little nervousness, sure. But don’t overdo it. You have to glow with anticipation. Excitement. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir. I do, sir.”
“You’re an innocent girl.” His eyes were huge and strangely warm as they bored in on her. “Very pretty, but innocent. Young. So—remember. Being with me like this is the biggest thrill of your young life.” He touched her cheek. She flinched. “You love every minute,” he said.
The Soviet Embassy was located in an ornate mansion at 1125 Sixteenth Street, just blocks from the White House. Half a century earlier, before the Russian Revolution, the house had been considered the fanciest in the city. Nowadays, it was a cramped rabbit warren of subdivided rooms, especially on the fourth floor, given over entirely to the activities of the Committee on State Security. It was there on the fourth floor that same night that Viktor Vaganian knocked on the door of Aleksandr Fomin’s long, narrow office, then stepped inside without waiting to be admitted.
Fomin glanced up from the file to which he was appending a note. Those thick eyebrows knitted briefly, and then he returned to his reading.
“What can I do for you, Comrade Captain?”
“I am here in my counterintelligence capacity—”
“I asked what I can do for you.”
“You met an American woman tonight at a restaurant on Connecticut Avenue.”
The pen continued moving across the page. “And?”
“You met this same woman earlier, in Ithaca. She is the woman you also interrogated in Varna.”
“And?”
“I should like to know, please, the subjects of your conversations.”
“No.”
Vaganian had to tread carefully. Fomin, like Smyslov, had powerful protectors. “As you know, Comrade, I am tasked with discovering how the Americans got word of Anadyr. I have full powers in this matter.”
“I already told you, no.” Fomin’s flat tone offered no clue to his response to the implied accusation. “Listen to me, Viktor Borisovich. It is not the task of Counterintelligence to tell me how to do my job. I will gather intelligence in any way that I see fit. I don’t care what jurisdiction you think you have. Interfere with my operations, and you will wind up in Siberia.”
He picked up the pen and returned to his work.
“Is there a problem, Miss Jensen?” Kennedy murmured, still far too close. “Is there something you want to say?”
“No. No, Mr. President.”
“Then try to act like you’re enjoying yourself. At least pretend.”
She bit her lip, trying not to cry. In some ways, this was worse than Varna. “I understand,” she managed. “I’ll try, sir.”
Her compliance seemed to bother him. He drained his glass, sprang to his feet, only to stop, make a sound, rub his lower back. “Never mind,” he said, now annoyed, although at whom was unclear. “I assume he gave you a message for me.”
“Yes, Mr. President.” She took a moment to compose herself, wanting to make no error. “He said that the General Secretary cannot afford to lose face just now. He said that the missiles are defensive only, but nevertheless the General Secretary might be willing to consider reducing the number if you are able to give him something in return. A show of good faith, so he’ll know you’re serious about negotiating.”
Kennedy turned toward her, hand still massaging the same spot. “Did he say what?”
“No, sir. He, um, he said you’d know what the General Secretary had in mind.”
“Oh, yes. I do.” All business again. “I know exactly what he has in mind. Is that all he said?”
She felt a rising alarm. “Yes, sir. That’s all.”
“That bastard,” said the President with sudden vehemence. “Wait. Don’t tell Fomin what I just said.” He was shaking with anger. Margo couldn’t think why. “Just tell him that I am willing to help Khrushchev to save face, but he’ll have to be more specific about what he’s asking. Tell him I don’t want a war, but I also can’t give much. America can’t send the message to the world that it’s open season, that all you have to do is threaten us and we’ll give you what you want.”
“Yes, sir.”
Lightning flashed outside. Kennedy was still angry. He put his glass down too hard. Scotch sloshed onto the sideboard. “Tell me, Miss Jensen. Did Fomin happen to mention what Ambassador Dobrynin, in the official negotiations, is asking for? They want us to take our Jupiter missiles out of Turkey and Italy. That’s the official position of the Soviet government. That’s the show of good faith Khrushchev wants. What good is a back channel if they take the same position as in the formal negotiations?”
“It might not be the same position,” she said.
Kennedy spun around. “What did you say?”
“I said, he might not be taking the same position. You said that in the official negotiations they’re insisting that we remove the Jupiters. But all Fomin said was that Khrushchev needs something in return. He didn’t say what.”
The President’s eyes narrowed. “Go on.”
“Maybe there’s another way Khrushchev can save face. Maybe he’s hoping, if you won’t move the Jupiters, you’ll offer something else.”
“Something like what?”
She shook her head. More yellowy flashes from the window. She remembered how Nana liked to close the curtains during a thunderstorm so the lightning couldn’t find you. “I don’t know, Mr. President. Something.”
A faint smile. “Now I see how you got those A’s. And why Niemeyer is so high on you. That’s what Bundy says, anyway. He and Niemeyer have known each other a long time. I don’t think they like each other very much, but there’s a lot of respect there.” The smile vanished. “Okay. When do you see Fomin next?”
“He’s supposed to contact me.”
“Well, let’s hope it’s tomorrow. Tell him we’re working on it. Tell him we’re perfectly willing to help Khrushchev save face, but those missiles in Cuba have to go, and he can’t expect us to dismantle the Jupiters in return. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell him we need Khrushchev to be very specific in explaining what he wants. I’m not saying he can have it—I’m not saying he can have anything at all—but I’m perfectly happy to listen to his proposals. After all, the back channel was his idea.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And remind him”—a moment’s hesitation, and on the President’s face a shadow of something—mistrust, maybe, or even uncertainty—“remind him that they started this. They snuck the missiles in and lied to us about them. Say it just like that. Snuck. Lied. Understand?”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
He was back at the sideboard. This time he poured but didn’t drink. “Anyway, that’s not what Khrushchev really wants to know.” His craggy profile had gone reflective again. “He’s trying to measure my will, Miss Jensen. What he wants to know—what that probe is about—maybe what this whole back channel is about—is whether I’m willing to go to war.”
Margo swallowed. “Are you?”
Kennedy was a long time answering. It occurred to her that at this moment she was, paradoxically, calmer than the President of the United States. Not that he was in any sense panicky: he simply bore the weight of decision. Her actions made little difference; his mattered enormously.
And he knew it.
When at last he spoke, his voice was sharp and determined. “Oh, yes, Miss Jensen. I am. We are. In the end, either Khrushchev removes those missiles or we do it for him. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“I suppose I said quite a bit, but I want you to take it all to Fomin.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You can remember all that?”
“Yes, sir.”
Kennedy was leaning against the sill now, arms crossed. He examined her, head to toe and back, taking his time. Her skin felt warm. She realized that his gaze, like his manner, had once more lost its professional distance. She stood his scrutiny. She took hold of that fold of skin and pinched, but she stood his scrutiny.
“You don’t need to write it down?” he asked.
“Um, no. Mr. Bundy said not to.”
“That’s right. You’re smart. Everybody says how smart you are.”
She blushed. “They’re kind, sir.”
“Don’t be a shrinking violet, Miss Jensen. You know you’re smart. Don’t look away. Admit it. You’re smart and you know it.”
“I guess so, sir.”
“You guess so?”
“I—yes, sir. I’m smart.”
“Good. Now, come over here.”
She rose to her feet, approached him gingerly.
“Closer,” said the President.
“Sir, I—”
“Here,” he said, and drew her roughly into an embrace. She gasped and, instinctively, pushed at him. “Stop it. No. Stop. Stand still. Don’t worry. This is just for effect. I need you to kiss my collar and my cheek. For the lipstick smears.”
Margo stiffened. She imagined Nana peering in the window in disgust. “Mr. President, please. Tell me you’re not serious.”
“The Secret Service has to believe it’s an affair, Miss Jensen.” He leaned in. “Come on. Let’s go.”
“But—but I—”
“In for a penny, in for a pound.” He pointed to his cheek. “I don’t have all night, Miss Jensen. I have a roomful of advisers back at the White House waiting for me to tell them what we’re going to do. Hurry up.”
Trembling, she kissed his collar. He smelled of expensive cologne. She kissed his stubbly cheek. Her eyes teared up and she wiped her mouth on the back of her hand.
“Good girl,” he said, grinning again. He chucked her chin. “Sorry, honey. Now, try to relax next time. Remember. For as long as this lasts, you’ll have to do that and maybe more pretty much every night.”
And then I’ll go home and throw up.
But she said only: “Yes, Mr. President.”
The storm had passed. Margo lay half awake in the lumpy twin bed. The apartment had two bedrooms. Before Margo’s arrival, each girl had her own. Margo shared with Hope, who told her, without going into detail, that rooming with Patsy would be awkward. Above Hope’s bed was a window. The blackness without was broken by a scattering of distant twinkles. Not long ago, Kennedy had promised the nation that an American would walk on the moon within a decade. Tom told her that the technology had been understood for years; all that was lacking was the money and the will. To the Toms of the world, the march of science was equivalent to the march of civilization. The future belonged to those who could build the best machines. But building machines capable of killing tens of millions of people in a single afternoon didn’t seem very civilized to her.
Margo shut her eyes. Still sleep eluded her. She knew why. Blaming Tom or technology—those were excuses. It was Fomin who had gotten under her skin, with his clever insinuations about how history would judge her, as just another Kennedy woman. She hated the thought. She had hated it when Bundy explained it, and she hated it when Fomin made her face it, and she hated the President for forcing her to play to the role. Even though she knew why Kennedy made her kiss his collar and muss her dress, she felt filthy doing it.
Worse, Margo had the sense that maybe, just maybe, Kennedy was enjoying the fiction a little more than was proper. It was as if he wasn’t just trying to fool the Secret Service into thinking they were having an actual affair: he seemed to want to fool Margo, too.
She turned her face to the wall, opened her eyes, remembered the burning humiliation of that day back in tenth grade when Melody Davidson had read that horrible double dactyl to the class. She had fought back; but the years had taught her that no amount of struggle back quite banished the pain.
There were many things in life that Margo hated or feared, but first on the list was humiliation—especially in front of white peers she knew she ought to best. Melody’s poem had hurt less than her classmates’ eager laughter. She had been fleeing their mockery ever since. Getting straight A’s didn’t help her escape the demons who pursued her, and she had a hunch that helping to save the world wouldn’t, either. She wasn’t supposed to lose to the Melody Davidsons of the world, but too often she did. Fomin was right. Margo was only nineteen, but even if the world survived, her own reputation would be destroyed. Half dozing now, she allowed her sleepy but agile mind to compose another double dactyl:
Washington Poshington,
future historians,
trying to figure out
who Margo was.
Bound to dismiss her as
extracurricular:
Kennedy doing what
Kennedy does.
Margo smiled wanly through her tears. She’d long had the sense that she was called to do something special. She’d dreamed since moving in with Nana of leaving her mark on the world. Before this week, she would never have guessed that her footnote in the history books would expose her as the lowest kind of—
She slept.