As soon as she climbed into the car, Margo sensed that something was amiss. She was at the right corner—Wisconsin and Newark, just outside Giant Food—and she recognized the black Chevy’s familiar plate. The driver, however, was not Warren. He was towheaded and charming and gave his name as Jack: “Like the boss,” he said, and laughed. Jack drove with the same smooth alertness, but Margo’s flight-or-fight reflex remained in overdrive. Perhaps it was the way he kept smiling and joking about where she was headed tonight: Warren had never so much as smirked.
Margo sank down into the leather seat. Patsy had been beside herself. You can’t be going to see him again, she kept saying. You can’t. Unable to tell her the truth, Margo had to settle for pleading with her roommate to get out of the city.
Why? Patsy demanded. Because they might beat me up again? Or will they do something worse next time?
Margo said she was sorry it had happened, she couldn’t talk about it, and she would do what she could to make sure it didn’t happen again.
Leaving the apartment in yet another fancy dress, she all but cringed with guilt and self-horror.
“We’re here, ma’am,” said the new driver. Margo looked up. They were outside the townhouse on East Capitol Street. There was no sense of excitement this time. No thrill. Only the aching guilt, and fear twisting inside like liquid heat. This time, she promised herself, she would not yield to the President’s charm. Their assignations were part of a façade, nothing else.
A façade that was now threatening those around her.
She climbed from the car and crossed the street. Burning with anger and purpose, she strode past the guards without a glance.
It was well over an hour before she came back down.
As the car ticked through the night toward the meeting with Fomin, Margo brooded. She supposed some of Kennedy’s somber mood had rubbed off. This was it, she told herself. This was the moment at which the negotiations succeeded or failed. She took out her compact and fixed her makeup. She had done it already in the bathroom but still felt dirty. She should be heading home to check on Patsy, not to another meeting. She sighed and looked at her wrinkled dress. She put her compact away and looked around. The plan was that the driver would take her up to Chevy Chase Circle, where she would catch the bus south to the Yenching Palace.
The only problem was that he wasn’t heading north.
She leaned forward. “Excuse me—Jack, right?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
That was it, she realized. That was the other thing that bothered her. To Warren she was always “miss.”
“Jack. Where are we going?”
“Ma’am?”
“We’re supposed to be heading to Chevy Chase Circle.”
“Change of plans.”
“Authorized by whom? I’m the only one who knows where I’m supposed to be dropped off.”
“Sorry, ma’am.”
He was driving faster now. They were in a neighborhood she didn’t recognize, but from the sight of the Capitol dome in the misty distance, she guessed they were down in Southeast: one of the higher-crime areas of the oft-ravaged city.
“Where are we going?” she demanded. No answer. “Who are you?”
The car stopped with a jolt, and her chin struck the seat back. They were at a little park. The road was separated by a median strip, and small aging row houses stood across the way. Dark faces peered from the stoops.
“We need to talk, Miss Jensen,” said the driver.
“Who are you?” she asked again, fingers on the door handle.
“It’s locked, Miss Jensen. You can’t get out until I let you. I know you have to get to another meeting, so let’s not waste time. My name is Jack Ziegler. I am not, at the moment, affiliated with the government. Not officially. I represent a group of people who are aware of your meetings with Aleksandr Fomin, and very concerned about them. We have one purpose, Miss Jensen. To shut down the back channel before the President betrays his country.”
A lot of things went through Margo’s mind. That she herself might be in actual physical danger. That the back-channel negotiations weren’t nearly as secret as McGeorge Bundy seemed to think. That her dress and face were truly a mess this time: of their five meetings, this was the one that had left her least presentable. That, although the people across the street were fellow Negroes, this was the sort of neighborhood that Claudia Jensen had raised her granddaughter to keep out of. That Jack Ziegler was somewhat shorter than average, and was the sort of small man who would always address tall girls like herself with condescension and disdain. That she now understood why Patsy was beaten last night. But most of all she was remembering the urgency of the President’s message. She would have to try what Fomin called the fallback, for use if an emergency left her unable to make their scheduled meeting.
An emergency like, say, being kidnapped by some kind of rogue conspirator.
All of this actually went through her remarkable brain in about six seconds, at the end of which, remembering the lessons of Varna, she simply shook her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Ziegler snickered. “That’s right. There aren’t any negotiations, are there? You’re just the President’s latest girlfriend.”
“That’s a lie.”
“Yes, Miss Jensen. It is. The point is, we know the truth.”
“We’re professionals, Miss Jensen. We know how it’s done.” When Jack Ziegler smiled, he looked like the playground bully after a victory. “The President isn’t a bad man, but he’s inexperienced. He’s surrounded by amateurs. Wall Street lawyers. Academics. Limousine liberals who think they’re experts on national security.” Jack Ziegler pinched the bridge of his nose as if physically restraining further criticism of his titular superior. “We’re the real experts, Miss Jensen. And we’re being shut out. This isn’t ego. It’s reality. Kennedy and the intelligentsia on his ExComm are going to get the world blown to pieces.”
For a mad moment she found her mind cataloguing intelligentsia—another double-dactyl word—before she forced herself to focus. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because the President of the United States is being duped. Those back-channel negotiations of yours—they’re dangerous, Miss Jensen. The people at the other end aren’t even close to Khrushchev’s inner circle. That’s what our sources tell us. We’ve tried to tell the White House. They won’t listen.”
Margo covered her eyes, as much to still the trembling in her hand as to slow the whirl of her thoughts. “I still don’t understand what you want.”
He had the envelope ready. “Tonight, when you see Fomin, give him this. Don’t tell the President. Don’t tell anybody.”
“I don’t know who Fomin is.”
A baring of teeth too large for the slender face. “Please don’t play those games, Miss Jensen.”
“I’m not the one playing games, Mr. Ziegler. And you can’t seriously expect me to trust you.”
“I’m not asking you to trust anybody. That’s the point. Don’t trust Fomin. Don’t trust Kennedy’s people. Don’t trust me. You can tell Fomin exactly where the envelope came from. If you’re right—if Fomin is on the up-and-up—and if he doesn’t like what he reads, if he doesn’t believe it, then he’ll ignore it, so no harm done. But I don’t think that’s going to happen, Miss Jensen. I think Fomin will find the message is important. I think he’ll read it and end the negotiations and probably get out of the country on the next Russian plane. You’re just the messenger, Miss Jensen. It has nothing to do with you.”
“Whoever Fomin is, why don’t you deliver the letter yourself?”
“You know better than that, Miss Jensen. A man like me can’t be seen within a mile of a man like Aleks Fomin. And he wouldn’t let himself wind up in a situation—say, the back seat of a strange car—where it’s possible for a man like me to hand him a note. But you he trusts. If you hand him the envelope, he’ll take it.” Another car was pulling up. “I’m sure Fomin has arranged a fallback. Don’t worry. I’m not going to ask you where it is. This man will take you wherever you tell him to.”
“I’ll call a cab.”
That ugly smile again. His gesture encompassed the block. “From where?”
“Just let me out. I’ll think of something.”
“You’re resourceful, Miss Jensen. But this isn’t one of those moments when you have to prove yourself.” He put the envelope in her hand. At the same time, the door lock popped. The man from the other car opened the door for her. Margo already had one foot on the pavement. “A moment more,” said Jack Ziegler. “Listen to me. You’ve done well. You’re colored, but you have a grand future ahead of you. You’re reliable, you’re intelligent, and you’re brave. You know that the people I represent wouldn’t go to all this trouble unless we had good reason. We don’t want to pick a fight with the President. This is for the good of the country. We don’t have another motive. So, please, Miss Jensen. Deliver the envelope.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Think hard, Miss Jensen. And before you go running to Bundy, or call your emergency number, remember one thing.” The smile was growing more confidently terrifying by the minute. “We know where your grandmother lives.”