Wednesday, October 24, 1962
Moscow, the Kremlin
“If the United Sates government carries out the program of piratical actions outlined by it, we shall have to resort to means of defense against the aggressor to defend our rights.”
It was yet another necessary response to the Kennedy blockade order, a copy of which had been sent to Khrushchev through Dobrynin.
He hadn’t slept, paced now in his long narrow office, his breathing hard and short. I am too old for crises, he thought. He moved to a window, a heavy cloth curtain covering, and he pulled it aside, saw a grim gray day, a storm of sleet. He thought of the American, William Knox, an invitation Khrushchev had sent, requesting a brief conversation. I have inconvenienced the man, no doubt. He would rather sit comfortably in his hotel room and perhaps drink our vodka. But unless he is a complete fool, Mr. Knox will be useful.
He let go of the curtain, the room suffering from dim light against pale walls. He paced again, thought, so much is happening, so quickly. We are treading heavily toward a doomsday scenario. Kennedy surely doesn’t want this, surely he will not begin firing his missiles. It is all so foolish. I am caught in a tight squeeze, between those in the military, like Marshal Kochov, who would push the nuclear button with little provocation, sitting across from those who pray for the health of their children. There is no place in the middle of that, and yet, here I am.
He moved toward the office door, pulled it open, surprising his office staff.
“Is Mr. Knox here yet?”
“I will check, sir. Allow me one moment.”
The aide moved quickly away, the outer door closing, Khrushchev looking at the others, his interpreter sitting to one side, summoned just an hour before. Khrushchev motioned to him.
“Viktor, inside, now. Be certain of your English. This could be an important day, and I want no mistakes.”
“I assure you, Premier, I will make no mistakes. Who are we speaking to?”
It was an unusual question asked by someone who rarely had questions at all. But Khrushchev knew that these were extraordinary times, for all of them. The man would be allowed his fears.
“His name is William Knox. He, presumably, is the president of the Westinghouse International Corporation, but I also assume him to be a spy. He has been here allegedly to offer advice on patents to our new state trading organization. But corporate giants who lurk within our borders are rarely here for reasons that benefit us.”
The door opened again, his aide there.
“He is here, sir. Shall I send him in?”
“Wait. Then send him into my office.”
Khrushchev knew protocol, would let the man come to him. He slipped quickly back into his office, the interpreter pulling the door closed. After a short minute, the aide knocked, opened the door, Khrushchev sitting at his desk, as though he had been there all the while.
“Premier, Mr. Knox has accepted your invitation. He is here, sir.”
Knox was in the doorway now, a hesitant smile, his eyes darting around the room, absorbing every detail. That’s what a spy does, Khrushchev thought. He is older than I expected. Not as old as me. No one is as old as me.
Khrushchev studied the man in return, Knox seeming to expect that, standing patiently. Khrushchev stood now, extended a hand, Knox coming forward, a genial shake. Khrushchev said, “Let us sit at my conference table. I have much to discuss with you.”
Knox made a short bow, moved to a chair at the table, waited for Khrushchev to sit, then followed suit.
“Your invitation was a surprise, Premier. I will do all I can to answer whatever questions you have. Though, I admit, I’m not sure exactly what information I can provide.”
Khrushchev folded his hands in front of him, a glance at the interpreter, who completed Knox’s words. He stared hard at Knox, said, “I require a go-between for myself and President Kennedy. Not directly or publicly of course. That’s why we have ambassadors. I require someone to transmit a private message to your president. I am concerned that events are spiraling, with too many uncertainties. I want Kennedy to know exactly what I am thinking.”
Knox was clearly surprised, said, “I don’t know the president personally. But I am sure I can get a message through to the State Department. I have a close contact there.”
“Yes, I’m certain you do. I wish you to tell Mr. Kennedy the following.” He glanced at his interpreter again, who sat on the far side of the table, a pad of paper in hand. “I am loathe to think that the president’s speech that occurred on October 22 was only for electoral reasons. It sounded to me to stem from hysteria, and I have tried to address that. The president is a very young man. I am finding it difficult to relate to such a man. I do not understand how he thinks.”
He stopped, poured a glass of water from a pitcher to one side. Knox had paper of his own now, had come prepared. He scribbled furiously, then looked up. Khrushchev said, “Except in time of war, a blockade is illegal, no matter what name you call it. If the U.S. stops and searches Soviet ships, this would be piracy. I must emphasize that the ships now en route to Cuba are unarmed. And your president must know this. If the United States Navy was to sink a Soviet ship, we will return the favor with our submarines. And that will escalate to the third world war. Should the president seek still to invade and occupy Cuba, that would not be possible. We possess considerable defensive forces there now, and alongside our Cuban allies, I can assure you, it would be a bloody affair.”
Khrushchev paused, and Knox said, “Premier, I understand that the president is most angry that you have placed offensive missiles in Cuba, all the while denying their existence. Lies can be a common commodity in the corporate world. But between superpowers, it can lead to the most serious consequences of all.”
“Do not lecture me on offensive versus defensive. Tell me about your missiles in Turkey. They are alleged to be defensive, and yet, what is their range? How far into the Soviet Union can they reach? Tell me, sir, if I point a pistol at you, in order to attack you, it is an offensive weapon, yes? But if I aim to keep you from shooting me, it is defensive, is it not? But I am tired of so many accusations and lies, threats and counterthreats. There is no longer any need for subterfuge. You will tell the president, and be perfectly clear, that the Soviet Union admits to having placed ballistic missiles in Cuba, with nuclear warheads. I do not necessarily trust the Cubans to manage such weapons, and so, be advised that the weapons are in the hands of Russians and will be fired, if necessary, by Russians. But I say now, they will not be fired except in defense of Cuba. If the U.S. does not believe this, they should attack Cuba, and learn the answer. I assure you, Guantánamo would disappear from the Earth in the first hour.”
Khrushchev gave Knox time to make his notes, felt himself sweating, flexed his fingers, tried to calm his breathing. Knox finished writing, looked at Khrushchev with wide eyes. Khrushchev forced a smile, said, “This should get you an audience at your State Department. Allow me to conclude this meeting with a story. A farmer learned to get along with a goat, to accept the goat in his barnyard, even though the goat smelled and was not very nice. The Soviet Union has its smelly, disagreeable goats in Italy, Greece, Turkey, et cetera. We have accepted them, learned to live with them. You may tell your president that the U.S. now has its own goat, in Cuba.”
Wednesday evening, October 24, 1962
Moscow, the Kremlin
It had been another difficult, very long day. He sat at his desk, shuffled through messages from his various departments, messages from Cuba, from various embassies around the world. As if there wasn’t enough for him to grow anxious about, he had a report from the agricultural ministry, indicating that this year’s corn harvest had been considerably below expectations.
“Corn. I hate corn. I hate everything to do with it, and yet, we must grow it, to feed our animals. How can it be so difficult?”
He realized he had been talking out loud, knew they could hear him in the outer office. No, he thought, I am not crazy, not yet. I am just … very tired.
There was a brief knock, Khrushchev answering, “Yes, what is it?”
The door opened; his aide, Vasily.
“Premier, we have received an urgent message from the Secretary General of the United Nations, Mr. U Thant.”
He held up a paper, and Khrushchev waved him forward.
“Well, what might he want? Is he afraid we’re going to blow up the world on his watch?”
He took the paper, read.
“This says an identical letter has been sent to Kennedy.”
“I have been asked by the permanent representatives of a large number of member governments, to address an urgent appeal to you in the present critical situation.”
He spoke to himself, ignored his aide.
“Yes, yes, they are concerned for world peace.”
“… the voluntary suspension of all arms shipments to Cuba, and also the voluntary suspension of the quarantine … I believe such voluntary suspension for two or three weeks will greatly ease the situation…”
He put down the paper, struggled to see the words.
“I am very tired, Vasily. Perhaps it is a good thing, if U Thant wishes to broker a meeting, a summit between me and Kennedy. But Kennedy is like a child, compared to so many of those in his own government, and certainly to those in my own. How do you negotiate with a man who speaks in such absolutes, who stirs up a pot with his citizens, causing them to fear global war? How does he find the way to back down? And if he does not … what happens then?”