George had never felt nearer death than he did in the Cabinet Room of the White House on Wednesday, October 24.
The morning meeting began at ten, and George thought war would break out before eleven.
Technically this was the Executive Committee of the National Security Council, called ExComm for short. In practice President Kennedy summoned anyone he felt could help in the crisis. His brother Bobby was always among them.
The advisers sat on leather chairs around the long table. Their aides sat on similar chairs up against the walls. The tension in the room was suffocating.
The alert status of the Strategic Air Command had moved to DEFCON 2, the level just below imminent war. Every bomber of the air force was ready. Many were continuously in the air, loaded with nukes, patrolling over Canada, Greenland, and Turkey, as close as they could get to the borders of the USSR. Every bomber had a preassigned Soviet target.
If war broke out, the Americans would unleash a nuclear firestorm that would flatten every major town in the Soviet Union. Millions would die. Russia would not recover in a hundred years.
And the Soviets had to have something similar planned for the United States.
Ten o’clock was the moment the blockade went into effect. Any Soviet vessel within five hundred miles of Cuba was now fair game. The first interception of a Soviet missile ship, by the USS Essex, was expected between ten thirty and eleven. By eleven they might all be dead.
CIA chief John McCone began by reviewing all Soviet shipping en route to Cuba. He spoke in a drone that heightened the tension by making everyone impatient. Which Soviet ships should the navy intercept first? What would happen then? Would the Soviets allow their ships to be inspected? Would they fire on American ships? What should the navy do then?
While the group tried to second-guess their opposite numbers in Moscow, an aide brought McCone a note. McCone was a dapper white-haired man of sixty. He was a businessman, and George suspected that the CIA career professionals did not tell him everything they were doing.
Now McCone peered through his rimless glasses at the note, which seemed to puzzle him. Eventually he said: “Mr. President, we’ve just received information from the Office of Naval Intelligence that all six Soviet ships currently in Cuban waters have either stopped or reversed course.”
George thought: What the hell does that mean?
Dean Rusk, the bald, pug-nosed secretary of state, asked: “What do you mean, Cuban waters?”
McCone did not know.
Bob McNamara, the Ford president whom Kennedy had made secretary of defense, said: “Most of these ships are outbound, from Cuba to the Soviet Union—”
“Why don’t we find out?” the president interrupted tetchily. “Are we talking about ships leaving Cuba or ships coming in?”
McCone said: “I’ll find out,” and he left the room.
The tension rose another notch.
George had always imagined that crisis meetings in the White House would be supernaturally high-powered, with everyone supplying the president with accurate information so that he could make a wise judgment. But this was the greatest crisis ever, and all was confusion and misunderstanding. That made George even more afraid.
When McCone came back in he said: “These ships are all westbound, all inbound for Cuba.” He listed the six vessels by name.
McNamara spoke next. He was forty-six, and the phrase whiz kid had been invented for him when he turned the Ford Motor Company from loss to profit. President Kennedy trusted him more than anyone else in the room except Bobby. Now from memory McNamara reeled off the positions of all six ships. Most were still hundreds of miles from Cuba.
The president was impatient. “Now, what do they say they’re doing with those, John?”
McCone replied: “They either stopped or reversed direction.”
“Is this all the Soviet ships, or just selected ones?”
“This is a selected bunch. There are twenty-four altogether.”
Once again McNamara interrupted with the key information. “It looks as though these are the ships closest to the quarantine barrier.”
George whispered to Skip Dickerson, sitting next to him: “The Soviets seem to be pulling back from the brink.”
“I sure hope you’re right,” Skip murmured.
The president said: “We’re not planning to grab any of those, are we?”
McNamara said: “We’re not planning to grab any ship that is not proceeding to Cuba.”
General Maxwell Taylor, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, picked up a phone and said: “Get me George Anderson.” Admiral Anderson was the chief of naval operations and was in charge of the blockade. After a few seconds Taylor began speaking quietly.
There was a pause. Everyone was trying to absorb the news and figure out what it meant. Were the Soviets giving in?
The president said: “We ought to check first. How do we find out if six ships are simultaneously turning? General, what does the navy say about this report?”
General Taylor looked up and said: “Three ships are definitely turning back.”
“Be in touch with the Essex and tell them to wait an hour. We have to move quickly because they’re going to intercept between ten thirty and eleven.”
Every man in the room looked at his watch.
It was ten thirty two.
George got a glimpse of Bobby’s face. He looked like a man reprieved from a death sentence.
The immediate crisis was over, but George realized over the next few minutes that nothing had been resolved. While the Soviets were clearly moving to avoid confrontation at sea, their nuclear missiles were still in Cuba. The clock had been turned back an hour, but it was still ticking.
ExComm discussed Germany. The president feared Khrushchev might announce a blockade of West Berlin to parallel the American blockade of Cuba. There was nothing they could do about that, either.
The meeting broke up. George was not needed at Bobby’s next appointment. He left with Skip Dickerson, who said: “How’s your friend Maria?”
“Fine, I think.”
“I was in the press office yesterday. She called in sick.”
George’s heart missed a beat. He had given up all hope of a romance with Maria, but all the same the news that she was ill made him feel panicky. He frowned. “I didn’t know that.”
“None of my business, George, but she’s a nice gal, and I thought maybe someone should check up on her.”
George squeezed Skip’s arm. “Thanks for letting me know,” he said. “You’re a pal.”
White House staffers did not call in sick in the middle of the greatest crisis of the Cold War, George reflected; not unless they were seriously ill. His anxiety deepened.
He hurried to the press office. Maria’s chair was empty. Nelly Fordham, the friendly woman at the next desk, said: “Maria’s not well.”
“I heard. Did she say what the trouble was?”
“No.”
George frowned. “I wonder if I could get away for an hour and go see her.”
“I wish you would,” Nelly said. “I’m worried too.”
George looked at his watch. He was pretty sure Bobby would not need him until after lunch. “I guess I could manage it. She lives in Georgetown, doesn’t she?”
“Yes, but she moved from her old place.”
“Why?”
“Said her flatmates were too nosy.”
That made sense to George. Other girls would be desperate to learn the identity of a clandestine lover. Maria was so determined to keep the secret that she had moved out. That indicated how serious she was about the guy.
Nelly was flicking through her Rolodex. “I’ll write down the address for you.”
“Thanks.”
She handed him a piece of paper and said: “You’re Georgy Jakes, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” He smiled. “It’s a long time since anyone called me Georgy, though.”
“I used to know Senator Peshkov.”
The fact that she mentioned Greg meant, almost certainly, that she knew he was George’s father. “Really?” George said. “How did you know him?”
“We dated, if you want to know the truth. But nothing came of it. How is he?”
“Pretty well. I have lunch with him about once a month.”
“I guess he never married.”
“Not yet.”
“And he must be past forty.”
“I believe there is a lady in his life.”
“Oh, don’t worry, I’m not after him. I made that decision a long time ago. All the same, I wish him well.”
“I’ll tell him that. Now I’m going to jump in a cab and go check on Maria.”
“Thank you, Georgy—or George, I should say.”
George hurried out. Nelly was an attractive woman with a kind heart. Why had Greg not married her? Perhaps it suited him to be a bachelor.
George’s taxi driver said: “You work in the White House?”
“I work for Bobby Kennedy. I’m a lawyer.”
“No kidding!” The driver did not trouble to hide his surprise that a Negro should be a lawyer with a high-powered job. “You tell Bobby we ought to bomb Cuba to dust. That’s what we ought to do. Bomb them to goddamn dust.”
“Do you know how big Cuba is, end to end?” George said.
“What is this, a quiz show?” the driver said resentfully.
George shrugged and said no more. Nowadays he avoided political discussions with outsiders. They usually had easy answers: send all the Mexicans home, put Hells Angels in the army, castrate the queers. The greater their ignorance, the stronger their opinions.
Georgetown was only a few minutes away, but the journey seemed long. George imagined Maria collapsed on the floor, or lying in bed on the edge of death, or in a coma.
The address Nelly had given George turned out to be a gracious old house divided into studio apartments. Maria did not answer her downstairs doorbell, but a black girl who looked like a student let George in and pointed out Maria’s room.
Maria came to the door in a bathrobe. She certainly looked sick. Her face was bloodless and her expression dejected. She did not say Come in, but she walked away leaving the door open, and he entered. At least she was ambulatory, he thought with relief: he had feared worse.
It was a tiny place, one room with a kitchenette. He guessed she shared the bathroom down the hall.
He looked hard at her. It pained him to see her this way, not just sick, but miserable. He longed to take her in his arms, but he knew that would be unwelcome. “Maria, what’s the matter?” he said. “You look terrible!”
“Just feminine problems, that’s all.”
That phrase was normally code for a menstrual period, but he was pretty sure this was something else.
“Let me make you a cup of coffee—or maybe tea?” He took off his coat.
“No, thanks,” she said.
He decided to make it anyway, just to show her that he cared. But then he glanced at the chair she was about to sit on, and saw that the seat was stained with blood.
She noticed it at the same time, blushed, and said: “Oh, hell.”
George knew a little about women’s bodies. Several possibilities passed through his mind. He said: “Maria, have you suffered a miscarriage?”
“No,” she said tonelessly. She hesitated.
George waited patiently.
At last Maria said: “An abortion.”
“You poor thing.” He grabbed a towel from the kitchenette, folded it, and placed it on the bloodstain. “Sit on this, for now,” he said. “Rest.” He looked at the shelf over the refrigerator and saw a packet of jasmine tea. Figuring that must be what she liked, he put water on to heat. He said no more until he had made the tea.
Abortion law varied from state to state. George knew that in DC it was legal for the purpose of protecting the health of the mother. Many doctors interpreted this liberally, to include the woman’s health and general well-being. In practice, anyone who had the money could find a doctor willing to perform an abortion.
Although she had said she did not want tea, she took a cup.
He sat opposite her with a cup for himself. “Your secret lover,” he said. “I guess he’s the father.”
She nodded. “Thank you for the tea. I presume World War Three hasn’t started yet, otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”
“The Soviets turned their ships back, so the danger of a showdown at sea has receded. But the Cubans still have nukes, aimed at us.”
Maria seemed too depressed to care.
George said: “He wouldn’t marry you.”
“No.”
“Because he’s already married?”
She did not answer.
“So he found you a doctor and paid the bill.”
She nodded.
George thought that was a despicable way to behave, but if he said so she would probably throw him out for insulting the man she loved. Trying to control his anger, George said: “Where is he now?”
“He’ll call.” She glanced at the clock. “Soon, probably.”
George decided not to ask any more questions. It would be unkind to interrogate her. And she did not need to be told how foolish she had been. What did she need? He decided to ask. “Is there anything you need? Anything I can do for you?”
She started to cry. Between sobs she said: “I hardly know you! How come you’re my only real friend in the whole city?”
He knew the answer to that question. She had a secret that she would not share. That made it difficult for others to be close to her.
She said: “Lucky for me you’re so kind.”
Her gratitude embarrassed him. “Does it hurt?” he said.
“Yes, it hurts like hell.”
“Should I call a doctor?”
“It’s not that bad. They told me to expect this.”
“Do you have any aspirin?”
“No.”
“Why don’t I step out and get you some?”
“Would you? I hate to ask a man to run errands.”
“It’s okay, this is an emergency.”
“There’s a drugstore right on the corner of the block.”
George put down his cup and shrugged on his coat.
Maria said: “Could I ask you an even bigger favor?”
“Sure.”
“I need sanitary napkins. Do you think you could buy a box?”
He hesitated. A man, buying sanitary napkins?
She said: “No, it’s too much to ask, forget it.”
“Hell, what are they going to do, arrest me?”
“The brand name is Kotex.”
George nodded. “I’ll be right back.”
His bravado did not last long. When he reached the drugstore he felt stricken with embarrassment. He told himself to shape up. So, it was uncomfortable. Men his age were risking their lives in the jungles of Vietnam. How bad could this be?
The store had three self-service aisles and a counter. Aspirins were not displayed on the open shelves, but sold from the counter.
To George’s dismay, feminine sanitary products were the same.
He picked up a cardboard container with six bottles of Coke. She was bleeding, so she needed fluids. But he could not postpone the moment of mortification for long.
He went up to the counter.
The pharmacist was a middle-aged white woman. Just my luck, he thought.
He put the Cokes on the counter and said: “I need some aspirin, please.”
“What size? We have small, medium, and large bottles.”
George was thrown. What if she asked him what size sanitary towels he wanted? “Uh, large, I guess,” he said.
The pharmacist put a large bottle of aspirin on the counter. “Anything else?”
A young woman shopper came and stood behind him, holding a wire basket containing cosmetics. She was obviously going to hear everything.
“Anything else?” the pharmacist repeated.
Come on, George, be a man, he thought. “I need a box of sanitary napkins,” he said. “Kotex.”
The young woman behind him stifled a giggle.
The pharmacist looked at him over her spectacles. “Young man, are you doing this for a bet?”
“No, ma’am!” he said indignantly. “They are for a lady who is too sick to come to the store.”
She looked him up and down, taking in the dark-gray suit, the white shirt, the plain tie, and the folded white handkerchief in the breast pocket of the jacket. He was glad he did not look like a student involved in a jape. “All right, I believe you,” she said. She reached below the counter and picked up a box.
George stared at it in horror. The word Kotex was printed on the side in large letters. Was he going to have to carry that out in the street?
The pharmacist read his mind. “I guess you’d like me to wrap this for you.”
“Yes, please.”
With quick, practised movements she wrapped the box in brown paper, then she put it in a bag with the aspirin.
George paid.
The pharmacist gave him a hard look, then seemed to relent. “I’m sorry I doubted you,” she said. “You must be a good friend to some girl.”
“Thank you,” he said, and he hurried out.
Despite the October cold, he was perspiring.
He returned to Maria’s place. She took three aspirins, then went along the corridor to the bathroom clutching the wrapped box.
George put the Cokes in the refrigerator, then looked around. He saw a shelf of law books over a small desk with framed photographs. A family group showed her parents, he presumed, and an elderly clergyman who must have been her distinguished grandfather. Another showed Maria in graduation robes. There was also a picture of President Kennedy. She had a television set, a radio, and a record player. He looked through her discs. She liked the latest pop music, he saw: the Crystals; Little Eva; Booker T and the MGs. On the table beside her bed was the novel Ship of Fools.
While she was out, the phone rang.
George picked it up. “This is Maria’s phone.”
A man’s voice said: “May I speak with Maria, please?”
The voice was vaguely familiar, but George could not place it. “She stepped out,” he said. “Who is—wait a minute, she just walked in.”
Maria snatched the phone from him. “Hello? Oh, hi . . . He’s a friend, he brought me some aspirins . . . Oh, not too bad, I’ll get by . . .”
George said: “I’ll step outside, give you some privacy.”
He strongly disapproved of Maria’s lover. Even if the jerk was married he should have been here. He had made her pregnant, so he should have taken care of her after the abortion.
That voice . . . George had heard it before. Had he actually met Maria’s lover? It would not be surprising, if the man was a work colleague, as George’s mother surmised. But the voice on the phone was not Pierre Salinger’s.
The girl who had let him in now walked by, on her way out again. She grinned at him standing outside the door like a naughty boy. “Have you been misbehaving in class?” she said.
“No such luck,” said George.
She laughed and walked on.
Maria opened the door and he went back inside. “I really have to get back to work,” he said.
“I know. You came to visit me in the middle of the Cuba crisis. I’ll never forget that.” She was visibly happier now that she had talked to her man.
Suddenly George had a flash of realization. “That voice!” he said. “On the phone.”
“You recognized it?”
He was astonished. “Are you having an affair with Dave Powers?”
To George’s consternation, Maria laughed out loud. “Please!” she said.
He saw right away how unlikely it was. Dave, the president’s personal assistant, was a homely-looking man of about fifty who still wore a hat. He was not likely to win the heart of a beautiful and lively young woman.
A moment later, George realized who Maria was having an affair with.
“Oh, my God,” he said, staring. He was astonished at what he had just figured out.
Maria said nothing.
“You’re sleeping with President Kennedy,” George said in amazement.
“Please don’t tell!” she begged. “If you do, he’ll leave me. Promise, please!”
“I promise,” said George.
• • •
For the first time in his adult life, Dimka had done something truly, indisputably, shamefully wrong.
He was not married to Nina, but she expected him to be faithful, and he assumed she was faithful to him; so there was no question that he had betrayed her trust by spending the night with Natalya.
He had thought it might be the last night of his life but, since it had not been, the excuse seemed feeble.
He had not had sexual intercourse with Natalya, but that, too, was a lousy excuse. What they had done was, if anything, even more intimate and loving than regular sex. He felt wretchedly guilty. Never before had he seen himself as untrustworthy, dishonest, and unreliable.
His friend Valentin would probably handle this situation by cheerfully carrying on affairs with both women until he was found out. Dimka did not even consider that option. He felt bad enough after one night of deception: he could not possibly do it on a regular basis. He would end up throwing himself in the Moskva River.
He had to either tell Nina, or break up with her, or both. He could not live with such a mammoth deception. But he found that he was scared. This was ludicrous. He was Dmitri Ilich Dvorkin, hatchet man to Khrushchev, hated by some, feared by many. How could he be afraid of a girl? But he was.
And what about Natalya?
He had a hundred questions for Natalya. He wanted to know how she felt about her husband. Dimka knew nothing about him except his name, Nik. Was she getting divorced? If so, did the breakdown of the marriage have anything to do with Dimka? Most importantly, did Natalya see Dimka playing any role in her future?
He kept seeing her around the Kremlin, but there was no chance for them to be alone. The Presidium met three times on Tuesday—morning, afternoon, and evening—and the aides were even busier during the meal breaks. Each time Dimka looked at Natalya she seemed more wonderful. He was still wearing the suit he had slept in, as were all the men, but Natalya had changed into a dark-blue dress with a matching jacket that made her look both authoritative and alluring at the same time. Dimka had trouble concentrating on the meetings, even though their task was to prevent World War III. He would gaze at her, remember what they had done to one another, and look away in embarrassment; then, a minute later, he would stare at her again.
But the pace of work was so intense that he was not able to talk privately to her even for a few seconds.
Khrushchev went home to his own bed late on Tuesday night, so everyone else did the same. First thing on Wednesday, Dimka gave Khrushchev the glad news—hot from his sister in Cuba—that the Aleksandrovsk had docked safely at La Isabela. The rest of the day was equally busy. He saw Natalya constantly, but neither of them had a minute to spare.
By this time Dimka was asking himself questions. What did he think Monday night meant? What did he want in the future? If any of them were alive in a week’s time, did he want to spend the rest of his life with Natalya, or Nina—or neither?
By Thursday he was desperate for some answers. He felt, irrationally, that he did not want to be killed in a nuclear war before he had resolved this.
He had a date with Nina that evening: they were to go to a movie with Valentin and Anna. If he could get away from the Kremlin, and keep the date, what would he say to Nina?
The morning Presidium normally began at ten, so the aides got together informally at eight in the Onilova Room. On Thursday morning Dimka had a new proposal from Khrushchev to put to the others. He was also hoping for a private talk with Natalya. He was about to approach her when Yevgeny Filipov appeared with the early editions of the European newspapers. “The front pages are all equally bad,” he said. He was pretending to be distraught with grief, but Dimka knew he was feeling the opposite. “The turning back of our ships is portrayed as a humiliating climb-down by the Soviet Union!”
He was hardly exaggerating, Dimka saw, looking at the papers spread on the cheap modern tables.
Natalya sprang to Khrushchev’s defense. “Of course they say that,” she countered. “All those newspapers are owned by capitalists. Did you expect them to praise our leader’s wisdom and restraint? How naïve are you?”
“How naïve are you? The London Times, the Italian Corriere della Sera, and Le Monde of Paris—these are the papers read and believed by the leaders of the Third World countries whom we hope to win to our side.”
That was true. Unfair though it was, people around the world trusted the capitalist press more than Communist publications.
Natalya replied: “We cannot decide our foreign policy based on the probable reactions of Western newspapers.”
“This operation was supposed to be top secret,” Filipov said. “Yet the Americans found out about it. We all know who was responsible for security.” He meant Dimka. “Why is that person sitting at this table? Should he not be under interrogation?”
Dimka said: “Army security may be to blame.” Filipov worked for the defense minister. “When we know how the secret got out, then we will be able to decide who should be interrogated.” It was feeble, he knew, but he still had no idea what had gone wrong.
Filipov changed his tack. “At this morning’s Presidium, the KGB will report that the Americans have massively stepped up their mobilization in Florida. The railroad tracks are jammed with railcars carrying tanks and artillery. The racetrack in Hallandale has been taken over by the 1st Armored Division, thousands of men sleeping in the grandstands. Ammunition factories are working twenty-four hours a day producing bullets for their planes to strafe Soviet and Cuban troops. Napalm bombs—”
Natalya interrupted him. “This, too, was expected.”
“But what will we do when they invade Cuba?” Filipov said. “If we respond using only conventional weapons, we cannot win: the Americans are too strong. Will we respond with nuclear weapons? President Kennedy has stated that if one nuclear weapon is launched from Cuba he will bomb the Soviet Union.”
“He cannot mean it,” said Natalya.
“Read the reports from Red Army Intelligence. The American bombers are circling us now!” He pointed at the ceiling, as if they might look up and see the planes. “There are only two possible outcomes for us: international humiliation, if we’re lucky, and nuclear death if we’re not.”
Natalya fell silent. No one around the table had an answer to that.
Except Dimka.
“Comrade Khrushchev has a solution,” he said.
They all looked at him in surprise.
He went on: “At this morning’s meeting, the first secretary will propose making an offer to the United States.” There was dead silence. “We will dismantle our missiles in Cuba—”
He was interrupted by a chorus of reaction around the table, from gasps of surprise to cries of protest. He held up a hand for quiet.
“We will dismantle our missiles in exchange for a guarantee of what we have wanted all along. The Americans must promise not to invade Cuba.”
They took a few moments to digest this.
Natalya was the quickest to get it. “This is brilliant,” she said. “How can Kennedy refuse? He would be admitting his intention to invade a poor Third World country. He would be universally condemned for colonialism. And he would be proving our point that Cuba needs nuclear missiles to defend itself.” She was the smartest person at the table, as well as the prettiest.
Filipov said: “But if Kennedy accepts, we have to bring the missiles home.”
“They will no longer be necessary!” Natalya said. “The Cuban revolution will be safe.”
Dimka could see that Filipov wanted to argue against this but could not. Khrushchev had got the Soviet Union into a fix, but he had devised an honorable way out.
When the meeting broke up, Dimka at last managed to grab Natalya. “We need a minute to discuss the wording of Khrushchev’s offer to Kennedy,” he said.
They retreated to a corner of the room and sat down. He gazed at the front of her dress, remembering her little breasts with their pointed nipples.
She said: “You have to stop staring at me.”
He felt foolish. “I wasn’t staring at you,” he said, though it was obviously not true.
She ignored that. “If you keep it up even the men will notice.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t help it.” Dimka was downcast. This was not the intimate, happy conversation he had foreseen.
“No one must know what we did.” She looked scared.
Dimka felt as if he were talking to a different person from the cheerfully sexy girl who had seduced him only the day before yesterday. He said: “Well, I’m not planning to go around telling people, but I didn’t know it was a state secret.”
“I’m married!”
“Are you planning to stay with Nik?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“Do you have any children?”
“No.”
“People get divorced.”
“My husband would never agree to a divorce.”
Dimka stared at her. Obviously that was not the end of the matter: a woman might get a divorce against her husband’s will. But this discussion was not really about the legal situation. Natalya was in some kind of panic. Dimka said: “Why did you do it, anyway?”
“I thought we were all going to die!”
“And now you regret it?”
“I’m married!” she said again.
That did not answer his question, but he guessed he was not going to get any more from her.
Boris Kozlov, another of Khrushchev’s aides, called across the canteen: “Dimka! Come on!”
Dimka stood up. “Can we talk again soon?” he murmured.
Natalya looked down and said nothing.
Boris said: “Dimka, let’s go!”
He left.
The Presidium discussed Khrushchev’s proposal for most of the day. There were complications. Would the Americans insist on inspecting the launch sites to verify that they had been deactivated? Would Castro accept inspection? Would Castro promise not to accept nuclear weapons from any other source, for example China? Still Dimka thought it represented the best yet hope of peace.
Meanwhile, Dimka thought about Nina and Natalya. Before this morning’s conversation, he had thought it was up to him which of the two women he wanted. He now realized he had deluded himself into thinking the choice was his to make.
Natalya was not going to leave her husband.
He realized he was crazy for Natalya in a way he had never been for Nina. Every time there was a tap on his office door he hoped it was Natalya. In his memory he replayed their time together over and over, obsessively hearing again everything she said, up to the unforgettable words: “Oh, Dimka, I adore you.”
It was not I love you but it was close.
But she would not get a divorce.
All the same, Natalya was the one he wanted.
That meant he had to tell Nina their affair was over. He could not carry on an affair with a girl he liked second best: it would be dishonest. In his imagination he could hear Valentin mocking his scruples, but he could not help them.
But Natalya intended to stay with her husband. So Dimka would have no one.
He would tell Nina tonight. The four were due to meet at the girls’ apartment. He would take Nina aside and tell her . . . what? It seemed more difficult when he tried to think of the actual words. Come on, he told himself; you’ve written speeches for Khrushchev, you can write one for yourself.
Our affair is over . . . I don’t want to see you anymore . . . I thought I was in love with you, but I’ve realized I’m not . . . It was fun while it lasted . . .
Everything he thought of sounded cruel. Was there no kind way to say this? Perhaps not. What about the naked truth? I’ve met someone else, and I really love her . . .
That sounded worst of all.
At the end of the afternoon, Khrushchev decided the Presidium should put on a public display of international goodwill by going en masse to the Bolshoi Theater, where the American Jerome Hines was singing Boris Godunov, the most popular of Russian operas. Aides were invited too. Dimka thought it was a stupid idea. Who was going to be fooled? On the other hand, he found himself relieved to have to call off his date with Nina, which he was now dreading.
He phoned her place of work and caught her just before she left. “I can’t make it tonight,” he said. “I’ve got to go to the Bolshoi with the boss.”
“Can’t you get out of it?” she said.
“Are you joking?” A man who worked for the first secretary would miss his mother’s funeral rather than disobey.
“I want to see you.”
“It’s out of the question.”
“Come after the opera.”
“It will be late.”
“No matter how late it is, come to my place. I’ll be up, if I have to wait all night.”
He was puzzled. She was not normally so insistent. She almost sounded needy, and that was not like her. “Is anything wrong?”
“There’s something we have to discuss.”
“What?”
“I’ll tell you tonight.”
“Tell me now.”
Nina hung up.
Dimka put on his overcoat and walked to the theater, which was only a few steps from the Kremlin.
Jerome Hines was six foot six, and wore a crown with a cross on top: his presence was immense. His astonishingly powerful bass filled the theater and made its echoing spaces seem small. Yet Dimka sat through Mussorgsky’s opera without hearing much. He ignored the spectacle onstage. He spent the evening worrying alternately about how the Americans would respond to Khrushchev’s peace proposal and how Nina would respond to his ending their affair.
When at last Khrushchev said good night, Dimka walked to the girls’ apartment, which was a mile or so from the theater. On the way he tried to guess what Nina wanted to talk about. Perhaps she was going to end their relationship: that would be a relief. She might have been offered a promotion that required her to move to Leningrad. She might even have met someone else, as he had, and decided the new man was Mr. Right. Or she could be ill: a fatal disease, perhaps connected with the mysterious reasons why she could not get pregnant. All these possibilities offered Dimka an easy way out, and he realized he would be gladdened by any one, perhaps even—to his shame—the fatal illness.
No, he thought, I don’t really wish her dead.
As promised, Nina was waiting for him.
She was wearing a green silk robe, as if about to go to bed, but her hair was perfect and she wore a little light makeup. She kissed him on the lips, and he kissed her back with shame in his heart. He was betraying Natalya by relishing the kiss, and betraying Nina by thinking of Natalya. The double guilt gave him a pain in his stomach.
Nina poured a glass of beer and he drank half of it quickly, eager for some Dutch courage.
She sat beside him on the couch. He was pretty sure she had nothing on under the robe. Desire stirred in him, and the picture of Natalya in his mind began to fade a little.
“We’re not at war yet,” he said. “That’s my news. What’s yours?”
Nina took the beer from him and set it on the coffee table, then she held his hand. “I’m pregnant,” she said.
Dimka felt as if he had been punched. He stared at her in uncomprehending shock. “Pregnant,” he said stupidly.
“Two months and a bit.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’ve missed two consecutive periods.”
“Even so . . .”
“Look.” She opened her robe to show him her breasts. “They’re bigger.”
They were, he saw, feeling a mixture of desire and dismay.
“And they hurt.” She closed the robe, but not very tight. “And smoking makes me sick to my stomach. Damn it, I feel pregnant.”
This could not be true. “But you said . . .”
“That I couldn’t have children.” She looked away. “That’s what my doctor told me.”
“Have you seen him?”
“Yes. It’s confirmed.”
Incredulously, Dimka said: “What does he say now?”
“That it’s a miracle.”
“Doctors don’t believe in miracles.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Dimka tried to stop the room spinning around him. He swallowed hard and struggled to get over the shock. He had to be practical. “You don’t want to get married, and I sure as hell don’t,” he said. “What are you going to do about it?”
“You have to give me the money for an abortion.”
Dimka swallowed. “All right.” Abortions were readily available in Moscow, but they were not free. Dimka considered how he would get the money. He had been planning to trade in his motorcycle and buy a used car. If he postponed that he could probably manage it. He might borrow from his grandparents. “I can do that,” he said.
She immediately relented. “We should pay half each. We made this baby together.”
Suddenly Dimka felt different. It was her use of the word baby. He found himself conflicted. He pictured himself holding a baby, watching a child take its first steps, teaching it to read, taking it to school. He said: “Are you sure an abortion is what you want?”
“How do you feel?”
“Uncomfortable.” He asked himself why he felt this way. “I don’t think it’s a sin, or anything like that. I just started imagining, you know, a little baby.” He was not sure where these feelings had come from. “Could we have the child adopted?”
“Give birth, and then hand the baby over to strangers?”
“I know, I don’t like it either. But it’s hard, to raise a child on your own. I’d help you, though.”
“Why?”
She took his hand. “Thank you for saying that.” She looked very vulnerable suddenly, and his heart lurched. She said: “We love each other, don’t we?”
“Yes.” At that moment he did. He thought of Natalya, but somehow his picture of her was vague and distant, whereas Nina was here—in the flesh, he thought, and that phrase seemed more vivid than usual.
“We’ll both love the child, won’t we?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then . . .”
“But you don’t want to get married.”
“I didn’t.”
“Past tense.”
“I felt that way when I wasn’t pregnant.”
“Have you changed your mind?”
“Everything feels different now.”
Dimka was bewildered. Were they talking about getting married? Desperate for something to say, he tried a joke. “If you’re proposing to me, where’s the bread and salt?” The traditional betrothal ceremony required the exchange of gifts of bread and salt.
To his astonishment, she burst into tears.
His heart melted. He put his arms around her. At first she resisted, but after a moment she allowed herself to be hugged. Her tears wet his shirt. He stroked her hair.
She lifted her head to be kissed. After a minute she broke away. “Will you make love to me, before I get too fat and hideous?” Her robe gaped, and he could see one soft breast, charmingly freckled.
“Yes,” he said recklessly, pushing the picture of Natalya even farther back in his mind.
Nina kissed him again. He grasped her breast: it felt even heavier than before.
She pulled away again. “You didn’t mean what you said at the start, did you?”
“What did I say?”
“That you sure as hell didn’t want to get married.”
He smiled, still holding her breast. “No,” he said. “I didn’t mean it.”
On Thursday afternoon George Jakes felt a faint optimism.
The pot was boiling, but the lid was still on. The quarantine was in force, the Soviet missile ships had turned back, and there had been no showdown on the high seas. The United States had not invaded Cuba and no one had fired any nuclear weapons. Perhaps World War III could be averted after all.
The feeling lasted just a little longer.
Bobby Kennedy’s aides had a television set in their office at the Justice Department, and at five o’clock they watched a broadcast from United Nations headquarters in New York. The Security Council was in session, twenty chairs around a horseshoe table. Inside the horseshoe sat interpreters wearing headphones. The rest of the room was crowded with aides and other observers, watching the head-to-head confrontation between the two superpowers.
The American ambassador to the UN was Adlai Stevenson, a bald intellectual who had sought the Democratic presidential nomination in 1960 and had been defeated by the more telegenic Jack Kennedy.
The Soviet representative, the colorless Valerian Zorin, was speaking in his usual drone, denying that there were any nuclear weapons in Cuba.
Watching on television in Washington, George said in exasperation: “He’s a goddamn liar! Stevenson should just produce the photographs.”
“That’s what the president told him to do.”
“Then why doesn’t he?”
Wilson shrugged. “Men like Stevenson always think they know best.”
On-screen, Stevenson stood up. “Let me ask one simple question,” he said. “Do you, Ambassador Zorin, deny that the USSR has placed and is placing medium- and intermediate-range missiles and sites in Cuba? Yes or no?”
George said: “Attaboy, Adlai,” and there was a murmur of agreement from the men watching TV with him.
In New York, Stevenson looked at Zorin, who was sitting just a few seats away from him around the horseshoe. Zorin continued to write notes on his pad.
Impatiently, Stevenson said: “Don’t wait for the translation—yes or no?”
The aides in Washington laughed.
Eventually Zorin replied in Russian, and the interpreter translated: “Mr. Stevenson, continue your statement, please, you will receive the answer in due course, do not worry.”
“I am prepared to wait for my answer until hell freezes over,” said Stevenson.
Bobby Kennedy’s aides cheered. At last, America was giving them what for!
Then Stevenson said: “And I’m also prepared to present the evidence in this room.”
George said: “Yes!” and punched the air.
“If you will indulge me for a moment,” Stevenson went on, “we will set up an easel here at the back of the room where I hope it will be visible to everyone.”
The camera moved in to focus on half a dozen men in suits who were swiftly mounting a display of large blow-up photographs.
“Now we’ve got the bastards!” said George.
Stevenson’s voice continued, measured and dry, but somehow infused with aggression. “The first of these exhibits shows an area north of the village of Candelaria, near San Cristobal, southwest of Havana. The first photograph shows the area in late August 1962; it was then only peaceful countryside.”
Delegates and others were crowding around the easels, trying to see what Stevenson was referring to.
“The second photograph shows the same area one day last week. A few tents and vehicles had come into the area, new spur roads had appeared, and the main road had been improved.”
Stevenson paused, and the room was quiet. “The third photograph, taken only twenty-four hours later, shows facilities for a medium-range missile battalion,” he said.
Exclamations from the delegates combined into a hum of surprise.
Stevenson went on. More photographs were put up. Until this moment some national leaders had believed the Soviet ambassador’s denial. Now everyone knew the truth.
Zorin sat stone-faced, saying nothing.
George glanced up from the TV to see Larry Mawhinney enter the room. George looked askance at him: the one time they had talked, Larry had got angry with him. But now he seemed friendly. “Hi, George,” he said, as if they had never exchanged harsh words.
George said neutrally: “What’s the news from the Pentagon?”
“I came to warn you that we’re going to board a Soviet ship,” Larry said. “The president made the decision a few minutes ago.”
George’s heartbeat quickened. “Shit,” he said. “Just when I thought things might be calming down.”
Mawhinney went on: “Apparently he thinks the quarantine means nothing if we don’t intercept and inspect at least one suspicious vessel. He’s already getting flak because we let an oil tanker through.”
“What kind of ship are we going to arrest?”
“The Marucla, a Lebanese freighter with a Greek crew, under charter to the Soviet government. She left from Riga, ostensibly carrying paper, sulfur, and spare parts for Soviet trucks.”
“I can’t imagine the Soviets entrusting their missiles to a Greek crew.”
“If you’re right, there’ll be no trouble.”
George looked at his watch. “When will it happen?”
“It’s dark in the Atlantic now. They’ll have to wait until morning.”
Larry left, and George wondered how dangerous this was. It was hard to know. If the Marucla were as innocent as she pretended to be, perhaps the interception would go off without violence. But if she were carrying nuclear weapons, what would happen? President Kennedy had made another knife-edge decision.
And he had seduced Maria Summers.
George was not very surprised that Kennedy was having an affair with a black girl. If half the gossip were true, the president was not in any way picky about his women. Quite the contrary: he liked mature women and teenagers, blondes and brunettes, socialites who were his equal and empty-headed typists.
George wondered for a moment whether Maria had any idea that she was one among so many.
President Kennedy had no strong feelings about race, always considering it as a purely political issue. Although he had not wanted to be photographed with Percy Marquand and Babe Lee, fearing it would lose him votes, George had seen him cheerfully shaking hands with black men and women, chatting and laughing, relaxed and comfortable. George had also been told that Kennedy attended parties where there were prostitutes of all colors, though he did not know whether those rumors were true.
But the president’s callousness had shocked George. It was not the procedure she had undergone—though that was unpleasant enough—but the fact that she had been alone. The man who made her pregnant should have picked her up after the operation and driven her home and stayed with her until he was sure she was okay. A phone call was not enough. His being president was not a sufficient excuse. Jack Kennedy had fallen a long way in George’s estimation.
Just as he was thinking about men who irresponsibly get girls pregnant, his own father walked in.
George was startled. Greg had never before visited this office.
“Hello, George,” he said, and they shook hands just as if they were not father and son. Greg was wearing a rumpled suit made of a soft blue pinstripe fabric that looked as if it had some cashmere in the mix. If I could afford a suit like that, George thought, I’d keep it pressed. He often thought that when he looked at Greg.
George said: “This is unexpected. How are you?”
“I was just passing your door. Do you want to get a cup of coffee?”
They went to the cafeteria. Greg ordered tea and George got a bottle of Coke and a straw. As they sat down, George said: “Someone was asking after you the other day. A lady in the press office.”
“What’s her name?”
“Nell something. I’m trying to remember. Nelly Ford?”
“Nelly Fordham.” Greg looked into the distance, his expression showing nostalgia for half-forgotten delights.
George was amused. “A girlfriend, evidently.”
“More than that. We were engaged.”
“But you didn’t get married.”
“She broke it off.”
George hesitated. “This may be none of my business . . . but why?”
“Well . . . if you want to know the truth, she found out about you, and she said she didn’t want to marry a man who already had a family.”
George was fascinated. His father rarely opened up about those days.
Greg looked thoughtful. “Nelly was probably right,” he said. “You and your mother were my family. But I couldn’t marry your mom—couldn’t have a career in politics and a black wife. So I chose the career. I can’t say it’s made me happy.”
“You’ve never talked to me about this.”
“I know. It’s taken the threat of World War Three to make me tell you the truth. How do you think things are going, anyway?”
“Wait a minute. Was it ever really in the cards that you might marry Mom?”
“When I was fifteen I wanted to, more than anything else in the world. But my father made damn sure it didn’t happen. I had another chance, a decade later, but at that point I was old enough to see what a crazy idea it was. Listen, mixed-race couples have a hard enough time of it now, in the sixties. Imagine what it would have been like in the forties. All three of us would probably have been miserable.” He looked sad. “Besides, I didn’t have the guts—and that’s the truth. Now tell me about the crisis.”
With an effort, George turned his mind to the Cuban missiles. “An hour ago I was beginning to believe we might get through this—but now the president has ordered the navy to intercept a Soviet ship tomorrow morning.” He told Greg about the Marucla.
Greg said: “If she’s genuine, there should be no problem.”
“Correct. Our people will go aboard and look at the cargo, then give out some candy bars and leave.”
“Candy?”
“Each interception vessel has been allocated two hundred dollars for ‘people-to-people materials’—that means candy, magazines, and cheap cigarette lighters.”
“God bless America. But . . .”
“But if the crew are Soviet military and the cargo is nuclear warheads, the ship probably won’t stop when requested. Then the shooting starts.”
“I better let you get back to saving the world.”
They got up and left the cafeteria. In the hall they shook hands again. Greg said: “The reason I came by . . .”
George waited.
“We may all die this weekend, and before we do there’s something I want you to know.”
“Okay.” George wondered what the hell was coming.
“You are the best thing that ever happened to me.”
“Wow,” George said quietly.
“I haven’t been much of a father, and I wasn’t kind to your mother, and . . . you know all that. But I’m proud of you, George. I don’t deserve any credit, I know, but, my God, I’m proud.” He had tears in his eyes.
George had had no idea Greg felt so strongly. He was stunned. He did not know what to say in response to such unexpected emotions. In the end he just said: “Thank you.”
“Good-bye, George.”
“Good-bye.”
“God bless and keep you,” said Greg, and he walked away.
• • •
Early Friday morning George went to the White House Situation Room.
President Kennedy had created this suite in the West Wing basement where previously there had been a bowling alley. Its ostensible purpose was to speed communications in a crisis. The truth was that Kennedy believed the military had kept information from him during the Bay of Pigs crisis, and he wanted to make sure they never got another chance to do that.
This morning the walls were covered with large-scale maps of Cuba and its sea approaches. The teletype machines chattered like cicadas on a warm night. Pentagon telegrams were copied here. The president could listen in to military communications. The quarantine operation was being run from a room in the Pentagon known as Navy Flag Plot, but radio conversations between that room and the ships could be overheard here.
The military hated the Situation Room.
George sat on an uncomfortable modern chair at a cheap dining table and listened. He was still mulling over last night’s conversation with Greg. Had Greg expected George to throw his arms around him and cry: “Daddy!” Probably not. Greg seemed comfortable with his avuncular role. George had no wish to change that. At the age of twenty-six he could not suddenly start treating Greg like a regular father. All the same, George was kind of happy about what Greg had said. My father loves me, he thought; that can’t be bad.
The USS Joseph P. Kennedy hailed the Marucla at dawn.
The Kennedy was a twenty-four-hundred-ton destroyer armed with eight missiles, an antisubmarine rocket launcher, six torpedo tubes, and twin five-inch gun mounts. It also had nuclear depth charge capability.
The Marucla immediately cut its engines, and George breathed easier.
The Kennedy lowered a boat and six men crossed to the Marucla. The sea was rough, but the crew of the Marucla obligingly threw a rope ladder over the side. All the same, the chop made it difficult to board. The officer in charge did not want to look ridiculous by falling in the water, but eventually he took a chance, leaped for the ladder, and boarded the ship. His men followed.
The Greek crew offered them coffee.
They were delighted to open the hatches for the Americans to inspect their cargo, which was pretty much what they had said. There was a tense moment when the Americans insisted on opening a crate labeled SCIENTIFIC INSTRUMENTS, but it turned out to contain laboratory equipment no more sophisticated than what might be found in a high school.
The Americans left and the Marucla resumed course for Havana.
George reported the good news to Bobby Kennedy by phone, then hopped a cab.
He told the driver to take him to the corner of Fifth and K Streets, in one of the city’s worst slum neighborhoods. Here, above a car showroom, was the CIA’s National Photographic Interpretation Center. George wanted to understand this art and had asked for a special briefing, and since he worked for Bobby, he got it. He picked his way across a sidewalk littered with beer bottles, entered the building, and passed through a security turnstile; then he was escorted to the fourth floor.
He was shown around by a gray-haired photointerpreter called Claud Henry who had learned his trade in the Second World War, analyzing aerial photographs of bomb damage from Germany.
Claud told George: “Yesterday the navy sent Crusader jets over Cuba, so we now have low-level photographs, much easier to read.”
George did not find it so easy. To him the photos pinned up around Claud’s room still looked like abstract art, meaningless shapes arranged in a random pattern. “This is a Soviet military base,” Claud said, pointing at a photo.
“How do you know?”
“Here’s a soccer pitch. Cuban soldiers don’t play soccer. If it was a Cuban camp it would have a baseball diamond.”
George nodded. Clever, he thought.
“Here’s a row of T-54 tanks.”
They just looked like dark squares to George.
“These tents are missile shelters,” Claud said. “According to our tentologists.”
“Tentologists?”
“Yes. I’m actually a cratologist. I wrote the CIA handbook on crates.”
George smiled. “You’re not kidding, are you.”
“When the Soviets are shipping very large items such as fighter aircraft, they have to be carried on deck. They disguise them by putting them in crates. But we can usually work out the dimensions of the crate. And a MiG-15 comes in a different-size crate than a MiG-21.”
“Tell me something,” said George. “Do the Soviets have this kind of expertise?”
“We don’t think so. Consider this. They shot down a U-2 plane, so they know we have high-altitude planes with cameras. Yet they thought they could send missiles to Cuba without us finding out. They were still denying the existence of the missiles until yesterday, when we showed them the photos. So, they know about the spy planes and they know about the cameras, but until now they didn’t know we could see their missiles from the stratosphere. That leads me to think they’re behind us in photointerpretation.”
“That sounds right.”
“But here’s last night’s big revelation.” Claud pointed to an object with fins in one of the photos. “My boss will be briefing the president about this within the hour. It’s thirty-five feet long. We call it a Frog, for Free Rocket over Ground. It’s a short-range missile, intended for battlefield situations.”
“So this will be used against American troops if we invade Cuba.”
“Yes. And it’s designed to carry a nuclear warhead.”
“Oh, shit,” said George.
“That’s probably what President Kennedy is going to say,” said Claud.