Friday afternoon, October 26, 1962
The White House, Oval Office
The meeting was called in a rush, Secretary of State Rusk all but demanding that the president drop what he was doing, insisting that this particular bit of news could not wait.
Bobby joined his brother in the Oval Office, both men preparing for yet another Excomm meeting later that night. Kennedy sat behind his desk, leaning back in a stretch, his frequent attempt to unload the kinks in his back. Bobby stood to one side, his usual place, and was already wondering if Rusk had pushed some sort of foolish panic button. After a long silent moment, he said, “I would expect something like this from McNamara, maybe McCone. Rusk … not sure.”
Kennedy leaned over his desk now, the pains still in his face.
“We’ll find out in a minute.”
The door opened, the guard announcing with no fanfare, “Sir, the secretary of state.”
Rusk hurried in past the guard, an unusual entrance for a man not given to excitement. But in his tow came another man, familiar, wide eyes scanning the surroundings. Rusk seemed out of breath, said, “Mr. President, I believe you are acquainted with John Scali, ABC News?”
Scali was near Kennedy’s age, balding, with a poor attempt at hiding a bald head. Bobby scanned him, thought, he looks like a history professor, not a television reporter. But Bobby respected the man for his job, an able, efficient newshound who seemed to find himself at the center of stories others were merely chasing. That seemed to be the case right now.
Rusk turned to Scali, said, “Go ahead.”
Scali seemed to stand at attention, cleared his throat, said, “Mr. President, at lunchtime today, I was contacted by one of my Soviet sources, Mr. Alexander Fomin, of the Soviet embassy. Mr. Fomin expressed the urgent need for a meeting face-to-face. I obliged him.” Scali paused, seemed to swallow hard. “Sir, I am accustomed to seeking out the news, not becoming part of the story. Mr. Fomin insisted I convey a message to my contacts in the State Department, in the hopes that his message would reach … higher authorities.”
All eyes were on Scali now, and Kennedy seemed impatient, said, “What message?”
“Mr. Fomin inquired if the United Sates government might be interested in a way to settle the Cuban crisis. He suggested three specific proposals. One, the UN would supervise the dismantling of the missiles in Cuba and return them to the Soviet Union. Two, Castro would pledge in certain terms that he would never again accept offensive weapons. In return, three, the United States … you, sir, would pledge that in the future, there would be no invasion of Cuba.”
“Did he expect you to give him an answer?”
“Mr. President, I told him that I do not speak for my government, that I could only be a conduit to higher sources.”
Bobby stood with his arms tightly crossed, said, “My God. This sounds awfully simple.”
Rusk said, “I agree. But how can we not take this seriously?”
Bobby said, “What do we know of this Fomin fellow?”
Rusk said, “He’s pretty clearly a KGB operative, masquerading as what they label a counselor within their embassy. I doubt seriously he is some loose cannon just mouthing off. This sort of contact is ordered from high up the chain. Mr. President, I wrote out a response to be given Mr. Fomin, for your approval.”
Rusk handed Kennedy a slip of paper, and Kennedy read aloud.
“I have reason to believe that the U.S. Government sees real possibilities in this and supposes that representatives of the two governments could work this matter out with U Thant and with each other. It would seem, however, that time is very urgent.”
Kennedy nodded slowly, said to Scali, “Take the secretary’s note to Mr. Fomin, with all haste. But, do not use my name. For now, the Soviets don’t need to know I’m open to anything they’re suggesting.”
Scali seemed to wait for a final word, and Rusk said, “We will keep you informed, Mr. President.”
The two men moved out quickly, and Bobby moved to a chair, sat.
“What do you make of that, Jack?”
Kennedy shook his head.
“I don’t make anything of it yet. That’s hardly a negotiation from a position of strength. It’s hard to believe that the Soviets would just throw in the towel, without a serious action on our side.”
Bobby leaned one arm out on the president’s desk.
“I suppose there isn’t anything we can do but wait. If this Fomin fellow speaks for the Kremlin, he’ll surely have more to say. If he’s just some loudmouth KGB spy who likes to stir the pot on his own … well, I guess we’ll find that out too. This has to be a huge feather in Scali’s cap, though.”
Kennedy thought a moment, said, “This isn’t about anyone collecting feathers. I trust him to keep his mouth shut, and if I hear this broadcast on tomorrow’s ABC news, I’ll hang Scali by his privates.”
“I trust him, Jack. This is too important, and Scali has to be impressed as hell that some KGB agent reached out to him directly. He might end up a hero for this.”
“That can come later. For now, he’s just another newsman who has the ear of a Soviet spy. Nothing more.”
Friday night, October 26, 1962
The White House, Oval Office
“I’m not sure what we’re expecting to hear.”
Kennedy looked at his brother, then at Rusk.
“I hate being patient. But there’s a shoe that has to drop. Scali should have communicated his note to that Fomin fellow, and I would assume Fomin will produce some kind of response pretty quickly.”
Rusk fingered a cup of coffee, said, “I hate to say it, but this could take a while. We don’t know what kind of linkup Fomin has with the Kremlin. There could be a half dozen layers of bureaucracy he has to sift through.”
Kennedy shook his head.
“Doubt that. Unless Fomin’s just some spy shooting his mouth off, he’s getting orders straight out of Moscow. They’re waiting on their end, just like we are here.”
The phone buzzed on Kennedy’s desk, and Bobby felt his stomach jump. Kennedy picked up the receiver, said, “Yes?”
He listened for a long moment, then said, “We’ll be there in twenty minutes. The secretary of state is with me here. Get word to Secretary McNamara and the rest of the Excomm. We’ll meet over there.”
Kennedy hung up the receiver, and Bobby could feel the weight of the silent seconds. Kennedy stared ahead, and Rusk said, “Scali?”
Kennedy looked at him now, then at Bobby.
“Forget Scali. We’re going to the State Department. They just received a lengthy correspondence directly from Khrushchev.”
Friday night, October 26, 1962
The State Department Conference Room
The text was wordy and rambling, much like Khrushchev himself, one great clue that the letter did in fact come directly from the Soviet leader. The letter was both bullying and conciliatory, defensive and pleading, Khrushchev seeming to accept that the danger of the current crisis far outweighed any benefit the Soviets would receive by having missiles in Cuba. For long typewritten pages, the translation offered lengthy rants about Khrushchev’s own experiences in war, the deadly consequences of thoughtless aggression, some of that sounding more apologetic than threatening. Unlike the diplomatic claims from days before, Khrushchev’s letter freely acknowledged that the Soviet Union had placed missiles in Cuba, designed to counter the perceived threat offered by the United States, not only of a new invasion of the island, but that some kind of continuation was taking place from the Bay of Pigs operation, as though the United States had unfinished business there. As Scali’s contact had emphasized, should the United States pledge not to invade Cuba, the existence of the missiles on Cuban soil would become meaningless, since, in Soviet terms, they had been positioned there only to defend Cuba in the first place. Strangely, Khrushchev acknowledged acceptance of the American blockade by claiming that it had come too late to be effective, since the very weapons the Americans were seeking to halt had already been installed in Cuba.
“If assurances were given that the president of the United States would not participate in an attack on Cuba, and the blockade lifted, then the question of the removal or the destruction of the missile sites in Cuba would then be an entirely different question. Armaments only bring disasters. Consequently, only a madman can believe that armaments are the principal means in the life of society. If people do not show wisdom, then in the final analysis they will come to a clash, like blind moles, and then reciprocal extermination will begin.
“Mr. President, I appeal to you to weigh well what the aggressive, piratical actions … would lead to. If you did this as the first step towards the unleashing of war, well then it is evident that nothing else is left to us but to accept this challenge of yours. If, however, you have not lost your self-control, and sensibly conceive what this might lead to, then, Mr. President, we and you ought not now pull on the ends of the rope in which you have tied the knot of war, because the more the two of us pull, the tighter that knot will be tied. And a moment may come when the knot will be tied so tight that even he who tied it will not have the strength to untie it, and then it will be necessary to cut that knot; and what that would mean is not for me to explain it to you, because you yourself understand perfectly well of what terrible forces our countries dispose. Consequently, if there is no intention to … doom the world to the catastrophe of thermonuclear war, then let us not only relax the forces pulling on the ends of the rope. Let us take measures to untie the knot. We are ready for this.”
They passed the papers around, reading and rereading the voluminous letter. The mood was nearly buoyant, as though the crisis had suddenly been deflated, but not all members of the Excomm, including the president, saw this as the final solution.
Kennedy still read through another fragment of the letter, cut through the chatter around him.
“Listen, dammit. Nowhere in this tome does Khrushchev say what he is going to do. It insists that Castro offer a pledge, that the United States offers a pledge, and, just like that, there will no longer be any need for Soviet technicians to be housed in Cuba. Technicians? What about the damn missiles? He’s asking us to pledge not to invade Cuba, but he doesn’t pledge anything in return. He simply insists that the crisis will go away on its own … depending on what we do. What I do.”
The room grew quiet, and Rusk said, “Sir, weigh this together with the approach to Scali. Fomin’s proposal said that the missiles will be removed under UN supervision, if we agree not to invade.”
“Then why doesn’t Khrushchev repeat that here? He freely acknowledges that they’ve succeeded in placing their weapons throughout Cuba, as they had first intended, but now, because we caught them at it, we should calm down and accept their statement that the missiles are no longer necessary. There’s a big gap between removing technicians and removing missiles.”
Rusk said nothing, others in the room still poring through the pages. To one side, Bobby said, “He still doesn’t use the word offensive to describe their weapons. Maybe he just can’t admit that. We have to consider that he has his own people reading this at the same time we are, and it’s a good bet that some of the hard-liners in Moscow aren’t taking this too well.”
McNamara said, “One encouraging note. We’re all still alive. If the true hard-liners in the Kremlin had taken control, we wouldn’t have gotten this far.”
McCone sat across from Kennedy, said, “Our people in Miami are hearing plenty of chatter out of Cuba that Castro is pushing the Soviets to launch the damn missiles as soon as they’re ready to go. Since we know some of those sites are in fact up and running, it has to be encouraging to us that Castro’s not in command of the situation. The finger on the trigger is Russian, not Cuban.”
Bobby said, “Castro is just talking. He has to know damn well that if a single one of those missiles is fired, one of our first responses will be to obliterate Havana.”
Kennedy held up his hand.
“Eyes on the prize, gentlemen. Dean, I want your experts here to go over this letter word for word, if it takes all night. This was first received at our embassy in Moscow, so make sure the translation is accurate in every detail. I want to believe this is a breakthrough, but we can’t pretend everything’s just peachy. For now, let’s go home, and try to get a good night’s sleep. We’ll meet tomorrow morning.”
IT WAS AFTER midnight, Bobby’s mind drifting as the car slipped easily through nearly deserted streets. He was used to spending most of these nights near his office, the convenience of being close to any summons from the president. But tonight there was a difference, a different need, to be closer to his family, to see the faces of his children. His fear had been mounting, that the turmoil around this crisis was even more dangerous than the meetings revealed it to be, that beyond the discussions and debates, there was the very real chance that the Russians were preparing for something truly awful, that their negotiating was in fact only to delay until more of their missiles were ready to fire. Even now, the letter from Khrushchev weighed on him, frightening doubts. He thought of the Excomm members, some of them labeling Khrushchev as unstable, the letter filled with non sequiturs, scattered logic, odd displays of emotion unlike anything they would expect. Is he unstable, after all? So much of the letter was personal, from a man who isn’t supposed to be personal, ever. It’s all about image and for years we’ve viewed Khrushchev as tough, inflexible, the enemy. How much of that is accurate, how much is what we’ve been trained to believe? For over a week now, we’ve spent every day tossing around bad news, frightening possibilities, making decisions that could be deadly mistakes. What has Khrushchev been doing? He has enemies within his own system to be sure. Not just political enemies like we have, so many Republicans with big mouths. His enemies are more dangerous, would remove him from power, erase him … kill him? I have to believe him when he says he fears war. Only a madman seeks war as an answer to anything. Some of the Excomm seem to believe that Khrushchev’s letter is an unqualified olive branch, an easy way out, as though he stepped too far forward, and now he’s simply backing away. I don’t see anything in this letter that sounds like an apology, and I know Jack agrees with me. As much as we want to believe that Khrushchev has blinked, that he’s caving in, he hasn’t actually done anything but suggest this is all a big damned shame, something to feel sorry for. And yet … they still have those missiles. And they’re still pointed right at our families.
He turned onto the bridge, the route so familiar, crossed over into Virginia. The streetlights were gone now, the night very dark, the headlights showing the way. He thought of Ethel, the children. They are terrified, no matter how much comfort I try to give them that everything will be just fine. I wish I could believe that myself. I never expected … hell, I’m just the attorney general, for Chrissakes. I don’t solve the world’s problems, and none of us ever expected this. Jack never expected that by becoming president, he would find himself risking the destruction of the entire world.
He thought again of the Excomm members, some of them reliable bureaucrats, some just carefully chosen politicians, suddenly finding themselves with an awesome responsibility to weigh decisions that could … what? Kill us all? So, what’s the alternative decision? Convince ourselves that missiles in Cuba aren’t such a bad thing after all? If nothing else, it would ensure that Jack is a one-term president. The Republicans would roast him for being weak against Commies, one of their favorite mantras. And then what? Do we really want to see people like Goldwater or Keating stepping forward to confront this situation down the road? Half the Republicans in Congress think we should be launching a first strike. Probably just as many Soviet generals feel the same way. God help us.
He was frustrated now, knew Jack would offer some jewels of wisdom, something to calm him down. No, don’t lather yourself into a panic. We’re handling this as well as it can be handled. The American people are depending on us to work our way through this, to end the crisis without blowing up the world. Khrushchev started this mess, and now, he’s fumbling his way through a solution as well. But I have to believe we’re making progress, that there’s a light at the end of this that will satisfy both sides. The fact that Khrushchev is even writing this kind of letter shows he feels the same way.
He turned onto the narrower road, fought to see his own driveway in the darkness. He slowed the car, made the tight turn, saw lights on in the house, wondered how many of his children were still awake. Thank God for them, he thought. If we ever need to know why we are doing all of this, just pay attention to that. Maybe tomorrow, Jack will come up with the right kind of answer to send Khrushchev, and we’ll be that much closer to ending this thing. Meanwhile, our families … every family is hoping like hell we can tiptoe through the minefield.