Dimka and Valentin rode the Ferris wheel in Gorky Park with Nina and Anna.
After Dimka had been called away from the holiday camp, Nina had taken up with an engineer and had dated him for several months, but then they broke up, so now she was free again. Meanwhile, Valentin and Anna had become a couple: he slept over at the girls’ apartment most weekends. Also, significantly, Valentin had told Dimka a couple of times that having sex with one woman after another was just a phase men went through when they were young.
I should be so lucky, Dimka thought.
On the first warm weekend of the short Moscow summer, Valentin proposed a double date. Dimka agreed eagerly. Nina was smart and strong-minded, and she challenged him: he liked that. But mainly she was sexy. He often thought about how enthusiastically she had kissed him. He wanted very much to do that again. He recalled how her nipples had stuck out in the cold water. He wondered whether she ever thought about that day on the lake.
His problem was that he could not share Valentin’s cheerfully exploitative attitude to girls. Valentin, at least until he met Anna, would say anything to get a girl into bed. Dimka felt it was wrong to manipulate or bully people. He also believed that if someone said no, you should accept it, whereas Valentin always took no to mean “Maybe not yet.”
Gorky Park was an oasis in the desert of earnest Communism, a place Muscovites could go simply to have fun. People put on their best clothes, bought ice cream and candy, flirted with strangers, and kissed in the bushes.
Anna pretended to be scared on the Ferris wheel, and Valentin went along with the charade, putting his arm around her and telling her it was perfectly safe. Nina looked comfortable and unworried, which Dimka preferred to phony terror, but it gave him no chance to get intimate.
Nina looked good in a cotton shirtwaist dress with orange and green stripes. The back view was particularly alluring, Dimka thought as they climbed off the wheel. For this date he had managed to get a pair of American jeans and a blue checked shirt. In exchange he had given two ballet tickets that Khrushchev did not want: Romeo and Juliet at the Bolshoi.
“What have you been doing since I saw you last?” Nina asked him as they strolled around the park, drinking lukewarm orange cordial bought from a stall.
“Working,” he said.
“Is that all?”
“I usually get to the office an hour before Khrushchev, to make sure everything is ready for him: the documents he needs, the foreign newspapers, any files he might want. He often works until late into the evening, and I rarely go home before he does.” He wished he could make his job sound as exciting as it really was. “I don’t have much time for anything else.”
Valentin said: “Dimka was the same at university—work, work, work.”
Happily, Nina did not seem to think that Dimka’s life was dull. “You’re really with Comrade Khrushchev every day?”
“Most days.”
“Where do you live?”
“Government House.” It was an elite apartment building not far from the Kremlin.
“Very nice.”
“With my mother,” he added.
“I’d live with my mother for the sake of a place in that building.”
“My twin sister normally lives with us, also, but she’s gone to Cuba—she’s a reporter with TASS.”
“I’d like to go to Cuba,” Nina said wistfully.
“It’s a poor country.”
“I could live with that, in a climate where there’s no winter. Imagine dancing on the beach in January.”
Dimka nodded. He was thrilled by Cuba in a different way. Castro’s revolution showed that rigid Soviet orthodoxy was not the only possible form of Communism. Castro had new, different ideas. “I hope Castro survives,” he said.
“Why shouldn’t he?”
“The Americans have invaded once already. The Bay of Pigs was a disaster, but they will try again, with a bigger army—probably in 1964, while President Kennedy is running for reelection.”
“That’s terrible! Can’t something be done?”
“Castro is trying to make peace with Kennedy.”
“Will he succeed?”
“The Pentagon is against it, and conservative congressmen are making a fuss, so the whole idea is getting nowhere.”
“We have to support the Cuban revolution!”
“I agree—but our conservatives don’t like Castro either. They’re not sure he’s a real Communist.”
“What will happen?”
“It depends on the Americans. They may leave Cuba alone. But I don’t think they’re that smart. My guess is they’ll keep harassing Castro until he feels the only place he can look for help is the Soviet Union. So he’ll end up asking us for protection, sooner or later.”
“What can we do?”
“Good question.”
Valentin interrupted them. “I’m hungry. Have you girls got any food at home?”
“Of course,” said Nina. “I bought a knuckle of bacon for a stew.”
“Then what are we waiting for? Dimka and I will buy some beer on the way.”
They took the Metro. The girls had an apartment in a building controlled by the steel union, their employer. Their place was small: a bedroom with two single beds, a living room with a couch in front of a television set, a kitchen with a tiny dining table, and a bathroom. Dimka guessed that Anna was responsible for the lacy cushions on the couch and the plastic flowers in the vase on top of the TV, and Nina had bought the striped curtains and the posters on the wall showing mountain scenery.
Dimka worried about the shared bedroom. If Nina wanted to sleep with him, would the two couples make love in the same room? Such arrangements had not been unknown when Dimka was a university student in crowded accommodations. All the same he did not like the idea. Apart from anything else, he did not want Valentin to know just how inexpert he was.
He wondered where Nina slept when Valentin stayed over. Then he noticed a small stack of blankets on the living room floor, and he deduced that she slept on the couch.
Nina put the joint in a big saucepan; Anna chopped up a large turnip; Valentin put out cutlery and plates; and Dimka poured the beer. Everyone but Dimka seemed to know what was going to happen next. He was a little unnerved, but he went along.
Nina made a tray of snacks: pickled mushrooms, blinis, sausage, and cheese. While the stew was cooking they went into the living room. Nina sat on the couch and patted the place beside her to indicate that Dimka should sit there. Valentin took the easy chair and Anna sat on the floor at his feet. They listened to music on the radio while they drank their beer. Nina had put some herbs in the pot, and the aroma from the kitchen made Dimka hungry.
They talked about their parents. Nina’s were divorced, Valentin’s were separated, and Anna’s hated one another. “My mother didn’t like my father,” said Dimka. “Nor did I. Nobody likes a KGB man.”
“I’ve been married once—never again,” Nina said. “Do you know anyone who is happily married?”
“Yes,” said Dimka. “My uncle Volodya. Mind you, my aunt Zoya is gorgeous. She’s a physicist, but she looks like a film star. When I was little I called her Magazine Auntie, because she resembled the impossibly beautiful women in magazine photos.”
Valentin stroked Anna’s hair, and she laid her head on his thigh in a way Dimka found sexy. He wanted to touch Nina, and surely she would not mind—why else had she invited him to her apartment?—but he felt awkward and embarrassed. He wished she would do something: she was the experienced one. But she seemed content to listen to the music and sip beer, a faint smile on her face.
At last supper was ready. The stew was delicious: Nina was a good cook. They ate it with black bread.
When they had finished and cleared away, Valentin and Anna went into the bedroom and closed the door.
Dimka went to the bathroom. The face in the mirror over the washbasin was not handsome. His best feature was a pair of large blue eyes. His dark-brown hair was cut short in the military style approved for young apparatchiks. He looked like a serious young man whose thoughts were far above sex.
He checked the condom in his pocket. Such things were in short supply and he had gone to a lot of trouble to get some. However, he did not agree with Valentin’s contention that pregnancy was the woman’s problem. He felt sure he would not enjoy sex if he felt he might be forcing the girl to go through either childbirth or abortion.
He returned to the living room. To his surprise, Nina had her coat on.
“I thought I’d walk you to the Metro station,” she said.
Dimka was baffled. “Why?”
“I don’t think you know this neighborhood—I wouldn’t like you to get lost.”
“I mean, why do you want me to leave?”
“What else would you do?”
“I’d like to stay here and kiss you,” he said.
Nina laughed. “What you lack in sophistication, you make up for in enthusiasm.” She took off her coat and sat down.
Dimka sat beside her and kissed her hesitantly.
She kissed him back with reassuring enthusiasm. He realized with mounting excitement that she did not care if he was inexpert. Soon he was eagerly fumbling with the buttons of her shirtwaist. She had wonderfully large breasts. They were encased in a formidable utilitarian brassiere, but she took that off, then offered them to be kissed.
Things moved quickly after that.
When the big moment arrived, she lay on the couch with her head on the armrest and one foot on the floor, a position she assumed so readily that Dimka thought she must have done it before.
He hastily took out his condom and fumbled it out of the packet, but she said: “No need for that.”
He was startled. “What do you mean?”
“I can’t bear children. I’ve been told by doctors. It’s why my husband divorced me.”
He dropped the condom on the floor and lay on top of her.
“Easy does it,” she said, guiding him inside.
I’ve done it, Dimka thought; I’ve lost my virginity at last.
• • •
The speedboat was the kind once known as a rumrunner: long and narrow, extremely fast, and painfully uncomfortable to ride in. It crossed the Straits of Florida at eighty knots, hitting every wave with the impact of a car knocking down a wooden fence. The six men aboard were strapped in, the only way to be halfway safe in an open boat at such a speed. In the small cargo hold they had M3 submachine guns, pistols, and incendiary bombs. They were going to Cuba.
George Jakes really should not have been with them.
He stared across the moonlit water, feeling seasick. Four of the men were Cubans living in exile in Miami: George knew only their first names. They hated Communism, hated Castro, and hated everyone who did not agree with them. The sixth man was Tim Tedder.
It had started when Tedder walked into the office at the Justice Department. He was vaguely familiar, and George had placed him as a CIA man, although he was officially “retired” and working as a freelance security consultant.
George had been on his own in the room. “Help you?” he had said politely.
“I’m here for the Mongoose meeting.”
George had heard of Operation Mongoose, a project that the untrustworthy Dennis Wilson was involved in, but he did not know the full details. “Come in,” he had said, waving at a chair. Tedder had walked in with a cardboard folder under his arm. He was about ten years older than George, but looked as if he had got dressed in the 1940s: he wore a double-breasted suit and his wavy hair was brilliantined with a high side parting. George said: “Dennis will be back any second.”
“Thanks.”
“How’s it going? Mongoose, I mean.”
Tedder looked guarded and said: “I’ll report at the meeting.”
“I won’t be there.” George looked at his wristwatch. He was deceitfully implying that he had been invited, which he had not; but he was curious. “I have a meeting at the White House.”
“Too bad.”
George recalled a fragment of information. “According to the original plan, you should now be in phase two, the buildup.”
Tedder’s face cleared as he inferred that George was in the loop. “Here’s the report,” he said, opening the cardboard folder.
George was pretending to know more than he did. Mongoose was a project to help anti-Communist Cubans foment a counterrevolution. The plan had a timetable whose climax was the overthrow of Castro in October of this year, just before the midterm congressional elections. CIA-trained infiltration teams were supposed to undertake political organization and anti-Castro propaganda.
Tedder handed George two sheets of paper. Pretending to be less interested than he was, George said: “Are we keeping to our timetable?”
Tedder avoided the question. “It’s time to pile on the pressure,” he said. “Furtively circulating leaflets that poke fun at Castro is not achieving what we want.”
“How can we increase the pressure?”
“It’s all in there,” Tedder said, pointing at the paper.
George looked down. What he read was worse than he expected. The CIA was proposing to sabotage bridges, oil refineries, power plants, sugar mills, and shipping.
At that moment Dennis Wilson walked in. He had his shirt collar undone, his tie loose, and his sleeves rolled, just like Bobby, George noticed; although his receding hairline would never rival Bobby’s vigorous thatch. When Wilson saw Tedder talking to George he looked surprised, then anxious.
George said to Tedder: “If you blow up an oil refinery, and people are killed, then anyone here in Washington who approved the project is guilty of murder.”
Dennis Wilson spoke angrily to Tedder. “What have you told him?”
“I thought he was cleared!” said Tedder.
“I am cleared,” said George. “My security clearance is the same as Dennis’s.” He turned to Wilson. “So why have you been so careful to keep this from me?”
“Because I knew you’d make a fuss.”
“And you were right. We’re not at war with Cuba. Killing Cubans is murder.”
“We are at war,” said Tedder.
“Oh?” said George. “So, if Castro sent agents here to Washington, and they bombed a factory and killed your wife, that wouldn’t be a crime?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Apart from the fact that it’s murder, can’t you imagine the stink if this gets out? There would be an international scandal! Picture Khrushchev at the United Nations, calling on our president to stop financing international terrorism. Think of the articles in The New York Times. Bobby might have to resign. And what about the president’s reelection campaign? Has no one even thought about the politics of all this?”
“Of course we have. That’s why it’s top secret.”
“And how’s that working out?” George turned a page. “Am I really reading this?” he said. “We’re trying to assassinate Fidel Castro with poisoned cigars?”
“You’re not on the team for this project,” said Wilson. “So just forget about it, okay?”
“Hell, no. I’m going straight to Bobby with this.”
Wilson laughed. “You asshole. Don’t you realize? Bobby’s in charge of it!”
George was flattened.
All the same, he had gone to Bobby, who had said calmly: “Go down to Miami and take a look at the operation, George. Have Tedder show you around. Come back and tell me what you think.”
So George had visited the large new CIA camp in Florida where Cuban exiles were trained for their infiltration missions. Then Tedder had said: “Maybe you should come on a mission. See for yourself.”
It was a dare, and Tedder had not expected George to accept it. But George felt that if he refused he would be putting himself in a weak position. Right now he had the high ground: he was against Mongoose on moral and political grounds. If he refused to go on a raid, he would be seen as timid. And perhaps there was a part of him that could not resist the challenge of proving his courage. So, foolishly, he had said: “Yes. Will you be coming along?”
That had surprised Tedder, and George had seen clearly that Tedder wished he could withdraw the offer. But now he, too, had been challenged. It was what Greg Peshkov would call a pissing contest. And Tedder, too, had felt unable to back down; although he had said, as an afterthought: “Of course, we can’t tell Bobby you came.”
So here they were. It was a pity, George reflected, that President Kennedy was so fond of the spy novels of the British writer Ian Fleming. The president seemed to think the world could be saved by James Bond in reality as well as in thrillers. Bond was “licensed to kill.” That was crap. No one was licensed to kill.
Their target was a small town called La Isabela. It lay along a narrow peninsula that stuck like a finger out of Cuba’s north coast. It was a port, and had no business other than trade. Their aim was to damage the harbor facilities.
Their arrival was timed for first light. The sky to the east was turning gray when the skipper, Sanchez, throttled back the powerful engine, and its roar faded to a low burble. Sanchez knew this stretch of coast well: his father had owned a sugar plantation in the neighborhood, before the revolution. The silhouette of a town began to emerge on the dim horizon, and he killed the engine and unshipped a pair of oars.
The tide took them toward the town; the oars were mainly for steering. Sanchez had judged his approach perfectly. A line of concrete piers came into view. Behind the piers, George could dimly see large warehouses with pitched roofs. There were no big ships in port: farther along the coast, a few small fishing boats were moored. A low surf whispered on the beach; otherwise the world was hushed. The silent speedboat bumped against a pier.
The hatch was opened and the men armed themselves. Tedder offered George a pistol. George shook his head. “Take it,” Tedder said. “This is dangerous.”
George knew what Tedder was up to. Tedder wanted him to get blood on his hands. That way he would lose the ability to criticize Mongoose. But George was not so easy to manipulate. “No, thanks,” he said. “I’m strictly an observer.”
“I’m in charge of this mission, and I’m ordering you.”
“And I’m telling you to fuck off.”
Tedder gave in.
Sanchez tied up the boat and they all disembarked. No one spoke. Sanchez pointed to the nearest warehouse, which also seemed to be the largest. They all ran toward it. George brought up the rear.
No one else was in sight. George could see a row of houses that looked little more than timber shacks. A tethered ass was cropping the sparse grass at the side of the dirt road. The only vehicle in sight was a rusty pickup truck of 1940s vintage. This was a very poor place, he realized. Clearly it had once been a busy port. George guessed it had been ruined by President Eisenhower, who had imposed an embargo on trade between the USA and Cuba in 1960.
Somewhere, a dog started barking.
The warehouse had timber sides and a corrugated-iron roof, but no windows. Sanchez found a small door and kicked it in. They all ran inside. The place was empty but for packaging litter: broken packing cases, cardboard boxes, short lengths of rope and string, discarded sacks and torn netting.
“Perfect,” said Sanchez.
The four Cubans threw incendiary bombs around the floor. A moment later they flamed up. The litter caught fire immediately. The timber walls would light in moments. They all ran outside again.
A voice said in Spanish: “Hey! What’s this?”
George turned to see a white-haired Cuban man in some kind of uniform. He was too old to be a cop or a soldier, so George guessed he was the night watchman. He wore sandals. However, he had a handgun on his belt, and he was fumbling to open the holster.
Before he could get his gun out, Sanchez shot him. Blood bloomed from the breast of his white uniform shirt and he fell backward.
“Let’s go!” Sanchez said, and the five men ran toward the speedboat.
George knelt over the old man. The eyes stared up at the brightening sky, seeing nothing.
Behind him, Tedder yelled: “George! Let’s go!”
Blood pumped from the chest wound for a few moments, then slowed to a trickle. George felt for a pulse, but there was none. At least the man had died fast.
The blaze in the warehouse was spreading rapidly, and George could feel its heat.
Tedder said: “George! We’ll leave you behind!”
The speedboat’s engine started with a roar.
George closed the dead man’s eyes. He stood up. For a few seconds he remained standing, head bowed. Then he ran for the speedboat.
As soon as he was aboard, the boat veered away from the dock and headed across the bay. George strapped himself in.
Tedder yelled in his ear: “What the fuck did you think you were doing?”
“We killed an innocent man,” George said. “I thought he deserved a moment of respect.”
“He was working for the Communists!”
“He was the night watchman—he probably didn’t know Communism from cheesecake.”
“You’re a goddamn pussy.”
George looked back. The warehouse was now a giant bonfire. People were swarming around it, presumably trying to put out the blaze. He returned his gaze to the sea in front, and did not look back again.
When at last they reached Miami and stood on solid ground again, George said to Tedder: “While we were at sea, you called me a pussy.” He knew this was stupid, almost as stupid as going on the raid, but he was too proud to let it pass. “We’re on dry land, now, with no safety issues. Why don’t you say it again, here?”
Tedder stared at him. Tedder was taller than George, but not so broad. He must have had some kind of training in unarmed combat, and George could see him weighing the odds, while the Cubans looked on with neutral interest.
Tedder’s gaze flicked to George’s cauliflower ear and back again and he said: “I think we’ll just forget it.”
“I thought so,” said George.
On the plane back to Washington he drafted a short report for Bobby, saying that in his opinion Operation Mongoose was ineffective, as there was no sign that people in Cuba (as opposed to exiles) wanted to overthrow Castro. It was also a threat to the global prestige of the United States, as it would cause anti-American hostility if it ever became public. When he handed Bobby the report, he said succinctly: “Mongoose is useless, and it’s dangerous.”
“I know,” Bobby said. “But we have to do something.”
• • •
Dimka was seeing all women differently.
He and Valentin spent most weekends with Nina and Anna at the girls’ apartment, the couples taking turns to sleep in the bed or on the floor of the living room. In the course of a night he and Nina would have sex twice and even three times. He knew, in more detail than he had ever dreamed of, how a woman’s body looked and smelled and tasted.
Consequently he looked at other women in a new, more knowing way. He could imagine them naked, speculate how their breasts curved, visualize their body hair, imagine their faces when they made love. In a way he knew all women, knowing one.
He felt a little disloyal to Nina when he admired Natalya Smotrov on the beach at Pitsunda, wearing a canary-yellow swimsuit, with wet hair and sandy feet. Her trim figure was not as curvy as Nina’s, but it was no less delightful. Perhaps his interest was pardonable: he had been here on the Black Sea coast for two weeks with Khrushchev, living the life of a monk. Anyway, he was not seriously courting temptation, for Natalya wore a wedding ring.
She was reading a typed report while he took a midday swim, and then she slipped a dress on over her swimsuit at the same time as he changed into his homemade shorts, so they walked together from the beach up to what they called the Barracks.
It was an ugly new building with bedrooms for relatively low-status visitors such as themselves. They met with the other aides in the empty dining room, which smelled of boiled pork and cabbage.
This was a jockeying-for-position meeting ahead of next week’s Politburo. The purpose, as always, was to identify controversial issues and assess the support for one side or another. Then an aide could save his boss from the embarrassment of arguing in favor of a proposal that would be subsequently rejected.
Dimka went on the attack right away. “Why is the Defense Ministry so slow in sending arms to our comrades in Cuba?” he said. “Cuba is the only revolutionary state in the American continent. It is proof that Marxism applies all over the world, not just in the East.”
Dimka’s fondness for the Cuban revolution was more than ideological. He was thrilled by the bearded heroes with their combat fatigues and their cigars—such a contrast to the grim-faced Soviet leaders in their gray suits. Communism was supposed to be a joyous crusade to make a better world. Sometimes the Soviet Union was more like a medieval monastery where everyone had taken vows of poverty and obedience.
Yevgeny Filipov was aide to the defense minister, and he bristled. “Castro is not a true Marxist,” he said. “He ignores the correct line laid down by the Popular Socialist Party of Cuba.” The PSP was the pro-Moscow party. “He goes his own revisionist way.”
Communism was badly in need of revision, in Dimka’s opinion, but he did not say that. “The Cuban revolution is a massive blow to capitalist imperialism. We should support it if only because the Kennedy brothers so hate Castro!”
“Do they?” said Filipov. “I don’t know so much. The Bay of Pigs invasion happened a year ago. What have the Americans done since?”
“They have spurned Castro’s peace feelers.”
“True: the conservatives in Congress would not let Kennedy make a pact with Castro even if he wanted to. But that doesn’t mean he’s going to war.”
Dimka looked around the room at the assembled aides in their short-sleeved shirts and sandals. They were watching him and Filipov, discreetly remaining silent until they could tell who was going to win this gladiatorial contest. Dimka said: “We have to make sure the Cuban revolution is not overthrown. Comrade Khrushchev believes there will be another American invasion, this one better organized and more lavishly financed.”
“But where is your evidence?”
Dimka was defeated. He had been aggressive and done his best, but his position was weak. “We don’t have evidence either way,” he admitted. “We have to argue from probabilities.”
“Or we could delay arming Castro until the position becomes clearer.”
Around the table several people nodded agreement. Filipov had scored heavily against Dimka.
At that moment Natalya spoke. “As a matter of fact, there is some evidence,” she said. She passed Dimka the typed pages she had been reading on the beach.
Dimka scanned the document. It was a report from the KGB station chief in the USA, and it was headed: “Operation Mongoose.”
While he was rapidly reading the pages, Natalya said: “Contrary to what Comrade Filipov from the Defense Ministry argues, the KGB is sure the Americans have not given up on Cuba.”
Filipov was furious. “Why has this document not been circulated to us all?”
“It’s only just in from Washington,” Natalya said coolly. “You’ll get a copy this afternoon, I’m sure.”
Natalya always seemed to get hold of key information a little ahead of everyone else, Dimka reflected. It was a great skill for an aide. Clearly she must be very valuable to her boss, Foreign Minister Gromyko. No doubt that was why she had such a high-powered job.
Dimka was astonished by what he was reading. It meant he would win today’s argument, thanks to Natalya, but it was bad news for Cuba’s revolution. “This is even worse than Comrade Khrushchev feared!” he said. “The CIA has sabotage teams in Cuba ready to destroy sugar mills and power stations. It’s guerrilla warfare! And they’re plotting to assassinate Castro!”
Filipov said desperately: “Can we rely on this information?”
Dimka looked at him. “What’s your opinion of the KGB, comrade?”
Filipov shut up.
Dimka got to his feet. “I’m sorry to draw this meeting to a premature close,” he said. “But I think the first secretary needs to see this right away.” He left the building.
He followed a path through the pine forest to Khrushchev’s white stucco villa. Inside, it was strikingly furnished with white curtains and furniture made of timber bleached like driftwood. He wondered who had picked such a radically contemporary style: certainly not the peasant Khrushchev, who, if he noticed decor at all, would probably have preferred velvet upholstery and flower-patterned carpets.
Dimka found the leader on the upstairs balcony that looked over the bay. Khrushchev was holding a pair of powerful Komz binoculars.
Dimka was not nervous. Khrushchev had taken a liking to him, he knew. The boss was pleased with the way he stood up to the other aides. “I thought you would want to see this report right away,” Dimka said. “Operation Mongoose—”
“I just read it,” Khrushchev interrupted. He handed the binoculars to Dimka. “Look over there,” he said, pointing across the water toward Turkey.
Dimka put the binoculars to his eyes.
“American nuclear missiles,” said Khrushchev. “Aimed at my dacha!”
Dimka could not see any missiles. He could not see Turkey, which was one hundred fifty miles away in that direction. But he knew that this characteristically theatrical gesture by Khrushchev was essentially right. In Turkey the USA had deployed Jupiter missiles, obsolete but certainly not harmless: Dimka had this information from his uncle Volodya in Red Army Intelligence.
Dimka was not sure what to do. Should he pretend he could see the missiles through the binoculars? But Khrushchev must know he could not.
Khrushchev solved the problem by snatching the binoculars back. “And do you know what I’m going to do?” he said.
“Please tell me.”
“I’m going to let Kennedy know how it feels. I will deploy nuclear missiles in Cuba—aimed at his dacha!”
Dimka was speechless. He had not been expecting this. And he could not see it as a good idea. He agreed with his boss in wanting more military aid for Cuba, and he had been battling the Defense Ministry over that issue—but now Khrushchev was going too far. “Nuclear missiles?” he repeated, trying to gain time to think.
“Exactly!” Khrushchev pointed to the KGB report on Operation Mongoose that Dimka was still clutching. “And that will convince the Politburo to support me. Poisoned cigars. Ha!”
“Our official line has been that we will not deploy nuclear weapons in Cuba,” Dimka said, in the manner of one who presents incidental information, rather than in an argumentative tone. “We have given the Americans that reassurance several times, and publicly.”
Khrushchev grinned with impish delight. “Then Kennedy will be all the more surprised!”
Khrushchev scared Dimka in this mood. The first secretary was not a fool, but he was a gambler. If this scheme went wrong it could lead to a diplomatic humiliation that might bring about Khrushchev’s downfall as leader—and, by way of collateral damage, end Dimka’s career. Worse, it might provoke the American invasion of Cuba that it was intended to prevent—and his beloved sister was in Cuba. There was even a chance that it would spark the nuclear war that would end capitalism, Communism, and quite possibly the human race.
On the other hand, Dimka could not help feeling excited. What a tremendous blow would be struck against the rich, smug Kennedy boys, against the global bully that was the United States, and against the whole capitalist-imperialist power bloc. If the gamble paid off, what a triumph it would be for the USSR and Khrushchev.
What should he do? He switched to practical mode and strained to think of ways to reduce the apocalyptic risks of the scheme. “We could start by signing a peace treaty with Cuba,” he said. “The Americans could hardly object to that without admitting that they were planning to attack a poor Third World country.” Khrushchev looked unenthusiastic but said nothing, so Dimka went on. “Then we could step up the supply of conventional weapons. Again it would be awkward for Kennedy to protest: why shouldn’t a country buy guns for its army? Finally we could send the missiles—”
“No,” said Khrushchev abruptly. He never liked gradualism, Dimka reflected. “This is what we’ll do,” Khrushchev went on. “We’ll ship the missiles secretly. We’ll put them in boxes labeled ‘drainage pipes,’ anything. Even the ships’ captains won’t know what’s inside. We’ll send our artillerymen over to Cuba to assemble the launchers. The Americans won’t have any idea what we’re up to.”
Dimka felt a little sick, with both fear and exhilaration. It would be extraordinarily difficult to keep such a big project secret, even in the Soviet Union. Thousands of men would be involved in crating the weapons, sending them by train to the ports, opening them in Cuba, and deploying them. Was it even possible to keep them all quiet?
However, he said nothing.
Khrushchev went on: “And then, when the weapons are launch-ready, we’ll make an announcement. It will be a fait accompli—the Americans will be helpless to do anything about it.”
It was just the kind of grand dramatic gesture Khrushchev loved, and Dimka realized he would never talk him out of it. He said cautiously: “I wonder how President Kennedy will react to such an announcement.”
Khrushchev made a scornful noise. “He’s a boy—inexperienced, timid, weak.”
“Of course,” said Dimka, though he feared Khrushchev might be underestimating the young president. “But they have midterm elections on November sixth. If we revealed the missiles during the campaign, Kennedy would come under heavy pressure to do something drastic, to avoid humiliation at the polls.”
“Then you have to keep the secret until November sixth.”
Dimka said: “Who does?”
“You do. I’m putting you in charge of this project. You’ll be my liaison with the Defense Ministry, who will have to carry it out. It will be your job to make sure they don’t let the secret leak before we’re ready.”
Dimka was shocked enough to blurt out: “Why me?”
“You hate that prick Filipov. Therefore I can trust you to ride him hard.”
Dimka was too aghast to wonder how Khrushchev knew he hated Filipov. The army was being given a near-impossible task—and Dimka would get the blame if it went wrong. This was a catastrophe.
But he knew better than to say so. “Thank you, Nikita Sergeyevich,” he said formally. “You can rely on me.”