Sunday, October 28, 1962, early morning
Hickory Hill, near McLean, Virginia
“Daddy, are we still going? You promised.”
“Get your sister up and dressed. There’s a car waiting for us.”
His oldest child bounded away, and he smiled, thought, God, she loves horses. I thought having them here would satisfy her craving, but clearly it’s not enough. Now her sister’s right there with her. You’d think those two had dreams of competing in the Olympics. Well, maybe so.
It was a promise he had made weeks before, well before Excomm meetings and so many threats of disaster. The International Horse Show had been founded a few years before, as though aimed squarely at Kathleen, Bobby’s oldest daughter. The girl had long insisted that her father drop anything of lesser importance, such as his activities as attorney general, to attend the festivities at the Washington Armory. At eleven years old, Kathleen was prime age to pursue horseback riding on her own, and he and Ethel had obliged her with a horse of her own, shared often with her siblings. Bobby was concerned that his daughter Courtney, now only six, might push too hard for her own opportunities to ride. Ethel had already made it clear to all concerned, that the younger girl was not quite ready for that kind of risk, though, at Hickory Hill, when it came to playing with the variety of livestock, there were few rules.
The two girls emerged from their bedrooms, full of squeals, followed him now to the waiting car. He spent the drive watching them, chatter and excitement, then focused his gaze out beyond the car, showers of falling leaves. He thought of Jack, no, he won’t be attending any horse show. He’s probably sitting at his desk, staring at the telephone, wondering how long it will be before he hears something new. Bobby tried to avoid the guilt of that, knew that many of the Excomm members were doing the same thing, huddled with various deputies in quiet offices, all of them debating what Khrushchev was going to do next. Hell no, he thought. I can’t ignore my own life. This is far more important, at least right now. Until there is some real news, the Excomm can wait.
The armory came into view now, the excitement from the girls increasing. He tried to share the moment, saw the hordes pushing through the entrances, an enormous percentage of young girls in the crowd. What is it with girls and horses, he thought. At least my boys have cheaper hobbies, usually involving a ball of some sort.
They bailed from the car, Bobby with a quick thank-you to the driver, a brief word as to where the car could be found later. The girls knew to stay close to him, and he led them into the crowd, no one paying attention to his presence, the attorney general not nearly as important as those fortunate few inside the armory who even now were putting their horses through their paces. The girls surged forward, found vantage points along a rail fence, the horses beyond, jumping barricades, fully capturing their attention. Bobby watched from behind, shook his head. They’ll want more horses when this is through. I’ll need Ethel for that, a firm foot saying no. But Ethel almost never says no.
He stood in the crowd for a long half hour, let the girls have their way, their excitement never waning. He caught glances from some of the crowd around him, recognition, the occasional smile, brief nods from strangers. He tried to ignore that, but couldn’t help feeling gratified that so many people offered him a positive gesture. These were, after all, voters.
He felt a tap on his shoulder, turned, was surprised to see his driver and another man.
“Sir, important call for you. This fellow sought me out at the car. There’s a phone behind that table. If you’d like, sir, I’ll stay with the girls.”
Bobby felt a jolt of nervousness, a quick glance at his two daughters, said, “Yes. Stay close to them. I’ll be right back.”
He was led through the crowd by the other man, saw a handful of people move aside at the ticket table.
“You have a phone call for me?”
“Yes, sir. Here.”
He saw the receiver, picked it up, stared at it for a short moment, his mind racing in every direction.
“Hello? This is the attorney general.”
He welcomed the familiar voice on the other end of the line. It was Dean Rusk.
“Bobby. You should come to the White House right now, if you can.”
“What’s going on?”
“We’ve received word from the Russians. They’re agreeing to withdraw their missiles from Cuba.”
Sunday morning, October 28, 1962
The White House, Kennedy’s private office
He couldn’t help the momentous disappointment he had handed his daughters, but there was no way he could simply leave them at the horse show. He had bathed them with promises that he fully intended to keep, that there would be other opportunities, whether or not that might involve horses.
He moved quickly into the president’s private office, saw Rusk, who stood briefly, a quick and enthusiastic handshake. Kennedy seemed weary, but beamed an energizing smile, and he looked up at Bobby, said, “Sit down, for God’s sake. You always stand. It’s time to take a breath … well maybe. We’re still waiting for confirmation, something in writing.”
The phone rang on Kennedy’s desk, and he snatched at the receiver, said, “Yes.” He listened for a moment, then looked at Bobby again. “Fine. I’ll tell him. He’ll be there.”
Kennedy hung up the phone, said to Bobby, “Well, don’t get too comfortable. It seems Ambassador Dobrynin wishes to see you. He’s asking if eleven o’clock will do, in your office. I agreed for you.”
Bobby stood, glanced at his watch, twenty after ten.
“I’ll be back, gentlemen.”
Rusk laughed, more nervousness than humor.
“We’ll be waiting, Mr. Attorney General.”
Sunday, October 28, 1962, late morning
Department of Justice, Attorney General’s Office
Dobrynin was smiling. Bobby could feel instinctively that it wasn’t that typical so nice to shake your hand but I have secrets smile. It was open and toothy and it seemed as though Dobrynin was containing himself from giving Bobby a slap on the back.
“Mr. Attorney General, thank you for seeing me on such short notice. Premier Khrushchev personally extends his best wishes to your brother the president and to yourself.”
“That’s very nice, and well appreciated. Thank you.”
Bobby forced himself to stay calm, waited for Dobrynin to say more. Dobrynin pulled a pad of paper from his valise, said, “If you will allow me, sir, I should like to read to you a message just received, directly from Premier Khrushchev.”
“By all means, Mr. Ambassador.”
“Esteemed Mr. President.
I express my satisfaction and gratitude for the sense of proportion and understanding you have shown of the responsibility borne by you at present for the preservation of peace throughout the world.” He stopped, seemed ready to jump out of his skin. “With your permission, I will read the pertinent points. As we know, Premier Khrushchev does tend to wax philosophical and personal on occasion.”
Bobby smiled, appreciated Dobrynin’s frankness, motioned with his hand.
“Please continue.”
“In order to eliminate as rapidly as possible the conflict which endangers the cause of peace, to give an assurance to all people who crave peace, and to reassure the American people who, I am certain, also want peace, as do the people of the Soviet Union, the Soviet government, in addition to earlier instructions on the discontinuation of further work on weapons construction sites, has issued a new order to dismantle the weapons which you describe as offensive, and to crate and return them to the Soviet Union … I regard with respect and trust your statement of 27 October, 1962, that there will be no attack, no invasion of Cuba—not only by the United States but also by other nations of the Western Hemisphere, as you said in your message. Then the motives which induced us to render assistance of such a kind to Cuba disappear … Thus, in view of the assurances you have given and our instructions on dismantling, there is every condition for eliminating the present conflict.”
Dobrynin stopped, waited for a response, still the smile, fading a little, as though there might yet be some kind of complication. “I assure you, Mr. Attorney General, this message, in its entirety is right this moment being read over Moscow radio.”
“I must emphasize, Mr. Ambassador, that one condition of this agreement is that you make no mention publicly of our intention to remove missiles from Turkey.”
Dobrynin nodded, made a slight bow, another smile.
“Did you hear any such mention in the message? Premier Khrushchev is agreeing to your demands, if I may call them demands. We have our understanding, Mr. Attorney General.”
Bobby absorbed the moment, fought to control himself, stood, moved out from behind his desk, extended a hand.
“Mr. Ambassador, this is wonderful news. You may be sure that the president will receive this in the spirit intended by Chairman Khrushchev. I believe this means that all of us … may once again enjoy a good night’s rest.”
October 28, 1962, early afternoon
The White House, Kennedy’s private office
Bobby stood quietly, waited for Jack to complete his phone conversation.
“That’s right, Ike. It’s all public now. They agreed. I’ll pull down the quarantine immediately.” There was a silent pause. “That’s right. It seems to be over or the hard part anyway. The UN will be brought in to take over from here and monitor things in Cuba, and more, on the high seas.” Another pause. “Thanks, Ike.”
Bobby was too nervous to sit, paced around Kennedy’s office. The phone call ended and Bobby said, “Eisenhower?”
“Yep. I called Truman, too, let them both know.”
“Good, good. Who else?”
Kennedy laughed.
“Easy, little brother. Word will spread just as it should. Excomm will be fully briefed this afternoon. The Joint Chiefs have been notified, and naturally, they aren’t happy. They were so damn excited to go to war as soon as tomorrow, so to them, this feels like a big damn fizzle. Taylor passed that along to me, but he insisted he was dissenting from the others, that he was actually happy for a peaceful settlement. I suppose I believe him. I have no patience for that shoot first, think about it later mentality, but I can’t change who they are.”
“By God, Jack. This is … well, hell, I don’t know what it is. I haven’t relaxed in two weeks, I feel like my gut’s got permanent knots.”
“I know. Listen, I’ve got something I need to do. Jackie and the kids are down in Virginia, but that won’t stop me from going alone. I think I need to go to church.”
Bobby stopped moving, nodded, said, “Good idea. Damn good idea.”
“What about you?”
“No, not right now. I’ve got something more important to do. I have to go to the horse show.”