Thursday, November 1, 1962
Department of Justice, Attorney General’s Office
“He said he preferred it this way. Said there’s no reason for hiding anymore. Not sure what he meant, but he’s waiting in the outer office.”
Bobby sat back in his heavy chair, said, “Seriously? Well, he’s the spy. But there’s got to be more to this than what he’s saying.”
Siegenthaler laughed.
“Isn’t that always the way with spies? I’ll send him in.”
Bobby waited, curious, hadn’t seen Bolshakov in several days, before the meetings with Ambassador Dobrynin. Well, he thought, I wonder what new problem we’ve got.
Bolshakov was there now, as round as ever, but without the usual boisterous smile.
“Greetings, Georgi. You don’t seem too happy to see me.”
It was meant as a pleasantry, but Bolshakov responded with a deeper frown.
“It is apparent my usefulness to you is over. Before I take my leave, I just had to see you, to ask if there was something I had done, some error perhaps.”
Bobby was puzzled.
“What are you talking about? I haven’t had to see you through most of this Cuba mess because, as you know, I was dealing directly with Ambassador Dobrynin.”
Bolshakov nodded, still the frown.
“He didn’t know. You must believe that. He knew as little as I did. There were no lies.”
Bobby felt a hint of clarity.
“You mean about missiles in Cuba? Once we verified the missiles being there, it didn’t make sense that you would continue to lie about it. If you say you never knew in the first place, I’ll believe you. I’ll do the same for Dobrynin. That was a military decision made in Moscow, and it makes sense it was highly secret. Moscow surely knows that you and I talk, so it makes sense that they wouldn’t tell you all the secrets. I don’t hold a grudge about that. But why do you say your usefulness is past?”
Bolshakov stared at him for a long moment, searching him with his eyes.
“Did you not … as you say in the spy novels … blow my cover?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Bolshakov kept the seriousness, said, “Your newspaper columnist, Joseph Alsop. He mentioned my name, and my … um … position. It was assumed in Moscow … and assumed by me that you had given him the information. Moscow is not pleased, and they are recalling me. My usefulness has been compromised.”
Bobby sat back in the chair, shook his head.
“Alsop is a friend to my family, and I respect his work. But I told him nothing. Obviously, he heard about you through other channels, and it sounded like a story worth telling.”
“I must accept your explanation, Mr. Attorney General. I would just emphasize one more time … neither myself nor Ambassador Dobrynin lied to you about missiles in Cuba. We simply didn’t know.”
Bobby caught the sudden formality from Bolshakov, the distance already growing between them. Bolshakov made a short bow.
“I have enjoyed our acquaintance, although brief. I congratulate you on your success in defusing the Cuban crisis. Those are words I can never speak in Moscow.”
“THEY’RE RECALLING HIM? That’s not good, not for his future.”
Bobby shook his head, pointed to a chair, Siegenthaler sitting.
Bobby said, “It’s a damned shame. I don’t know what kind of bug crawled up Alsop’s ass, but I’ll find out.”
“Or maybe you won’t. Sometimes it’s best not to make a stink that can become public. Alsop has a lot of readers.”
Bobby couldn’t help the anger, but Alsop was a friend to his entire family. Revealing Bolshakov’s name might have simply been a mistake, a clumsy error.
“You’re right, I suppose. The only one hurt by Bolshakov’s disappearance is Bolshakov. Still, I rather liked having a Soviet spy at my disposal.”
“I would suggest, Bobby, that if the time comes, you now have the Soviet ambassador. And he has more clout.”
Thursday, November 1, 1962
Hickory Hill, near McLean, Virginia
The Bolshakov news was depressing at best, no matter Siegenthaler’s attempt to smooth it over. Bobby had responded by allowing himself a rare afternoon off, still felt as though he was riding a massive wave of stress over Cuba. Before leaving the city, he had visited the president at the White House, his brother dealing with the uncomfortable task of writing a personal letter to the widow of Major Rudolf Anderson, the pilot killed in his U-2. Bobby had driven across the Potomac engulfed by the single thought, that Major Anderson was the sole combat fatality of the entire crisis.
He walked now over his property, the expansive backyard, the great open patch where so many touch football games had been played and would be played again. His sudden appearance at home in the early afternoon had of course been a surprise, especially to his smallest children, but he couldn’t entertain them, at least not now. Their energy and cheerfulness were welcomed, always, but Bobby felt the need for solitude. He moved past the horse paddocks, a glance at the animals looking back at him. He couldn’t help a smile, thought of the horses, so blissfully unaware of all that had happened. And yet, you too would have been casualties. That was the point, after all. Nothing would survive, and if the war had come, and been what some foolishly called limited, what kind of life would the survivors have had?
He had thought about the UN, the fecklessness of U Thant, trying to solve a crisis that was beyond him, trying to please every part of the struggle, all the while being pressured by the nonaligned countries to find a peaceful solution at any cost. I don’t recall that we gave that as much thought, as perhaps we should have. We begged for the support of the Latin countries, and they obliged us, which had to be a shocking blow to Khrushchev. But the African countries, the Middle East, Southern Asia … we ignored their concerns, believing our concerns were the greater danger. Perhaps if we had seen some of this through their eyes, it would not have gone so far. He scolded himself now. Don’t be foolish. Khrushchev paid no attention to nonaligned nations either. This was a chess game between the big boys, except checkmate had an entirely different meaning. And Jack is right, there will be no gloating, no victory dance. We did not stand firm so that we would inflict damage on the Soviets. They would have found that completely unacceptable, and unacceptable would have meant war.
He looked toward the house, saw Ethel standing by the rear entrance, a piece of paper held high. She stood quietly, seemed to wait for him to decide what to do. All right, he thought. I’ll come. I knew leaving the office after lunch was a bad idea. He called out to her, “Coming.”
He hurried across the field, and she set the paper down on a table, moved back inside. She already knows what I have to do, he thought. For two weeks, I was part of something like the world has never seen. Jack relied on a cross-section of brilliant men to help him navigate this mess, those fellows plus his brother. I should tell him that perhaps the smartest thing he did was command someone to take the opposite sides. There could be no committee of yes-men. If the Joint Chiefs weren’t always involved, their viewpoints had to be. I doubt there has ever been anything like the Excomm before. Hopefully, there will never be need for it again.
He reached the patio, picked up the paper, a message in Ethel’s hand from Siegenthaler.
Martin Luther King requires a conference with you, immediately.
It suddenly came back to him, all that he had been avoiding, the great hole in his life the Excomm had filled. Now that’s over, hopefully forever, and I’m back to being the attorney general.
The thoughts came in a flood, the responsibilities, tasks big and small, the demands on his time. I had quite forgotten about James Meredith, he thought. It seems he has survived his first few weeks at the University of Mississippi. Now, there will be more like him, more students who will push against the great white wall, what Teddy Roosevelt called the lily-whites. Change is coming in a galloping stampede, and it’s my job to keep it from becoming too violent. I’m sure that’s what Dr. King has on his mind. I know the FBI is compiling a file on King, as though any Civil Rights leader is a threat to our nation. What most people don’t realize is that the greater danger is J. Edgar Hoover, keeping files on anyone he pleases. If he really wanted to be useful, he’d be keeping files on those idiots down south who think it’s good sport burning crosses or those goons beating the crap out of someone just because they want to eat at a lunch counter. And of course, there’s the Teamsters, that damned Jimmy Hoffa. He’d just as soon see me dead, and that’s a threat I suppose I should take seriously.
He knew what he had to do, moved to the back door, opened it, leaned in, heard voices scattered throughout the house.
“Ethel?”
She responded from upstairs. “Yes?”
“I’m headed back to the city. I have work to do.”