God save us, George thought fearfully; the goddamn Cubans have nukes.
Someone said: ‘How the hell did they get there?’
The photo interpreter said: ‘Clearly, the Soviets transported them to Cuba in conditions of utter secrecy.’
‘Snuck them in under our fucking noses,’ said the questioner.
Someone else asked: ‘What is the range of those missiles?’
‘More than a thousand miles.’
‘So they could hit . . .’
‘This building, sir.’
George had to repress an impulse to get up and leave right away.
‘And how long would it take?’
‘To get here from Cuba? Thirteen minutes, we calculate.’
Involuntarily, George glanced at the windows, as if he might see a missile coming across the Rose Garden.
The President said: ‘That son of a bitch Khrushchev lied to me. He told me he would not deploy nuclear missiles in Cuba.’
Bobby added: ‘And the CIA told us to believe him.’
Someone else said: ‘This is bound to dominate the rest of the election campaign – three more weeks.’
With relief, George turned his mind to the domestic political consequences: the possibility of nuclear war was somehow too terrible to contemplate. He thought of this morning’s
New York Times.
How much more Eisenhower could say now! At least when he was President he had not allowed the USSR to turn Cuba into a Communist nuclear base.
This was a disaster, and not just for foreign policy. A Republican landslide in November would mean that Kennedy was hamstrung for the last two years of his presidency, and that would be the end of the civil rights agenda. With more Republicans joining Southern Democrats in opposing equality for Negroes, Kennedy would have no chance of bringing in a civil rights bill. How long would it be then before Maria’s grandfather would be allowed to register to vote without getting arrested?
In politics, everything was connected.
We have to do something about the missiles, George thought.
He had no idea what.
Fortunately, Jack Kennedy did.
‘First, we need to step up U-2 surveillance of Cuba,’ the President said. ‘We have to know how many missiles they have and where they are. And then, by God, we’re going to take them out.’
George perked up. Suddenly the problem did not seem so great. The US had hundreds of aircraft and thousands of bombs. And President Kennedy taking decisive, violent action to protect America would do no harm to the Democrats in the midterms.
Everyone looked at General Maxwell Taylor, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and America’s most senior military commander after the President. His wavy hair, slick with brilliantine and parted high on his head, made George think he might be vain. He was trusted by both Jack and Bobby, though George was not sure why. ‘An air strike would need to be followed by a full-scale invasion of Cuba,’ Taylor said.
‘And we have a contingency plan for that.’
‘We can land a hundred and fifty thousand men there within a week of the bombing.’
Kennedy was still thinking about taking out the Soviet missiles. ‘Could we guarantee to destroy every launch site in Cuba?’ he asked.
Taylor replied: ‘It will never be one hundred per cent, Mr President.’
George had not thought of that snag. Cuba was 777 miles long. The air force might not be able to find every site, let alone destroy them all.
President Kennedy said: ‘And I guess any missiles remaining after our air strike would be fired at the US immediately.’
‘We would have to assume that, sir,’ said Taylor.
The President looked bleak, and George had a sudden vivid sense of the dreadful weight of responsibility he bore. ‘Tell me this,’ said Kennedy. ‘If one missile landed on a medium-sized American city, how bad would that be?’
Election politics were driven from George’s mind, and once again his heart was chilled by the dread thought of nuclear war.
General Taylor conferred with his aides for a few moments, then turned back to the table. ‘Mr President,’ he said, ‘our calculation is that six hundred thousand people would die.’
16
Dimka’s mother, Anya, wanted to meet Nina. This surprised him. His relationship with Nina was exciting, and he slept with her every chance he got, but what did that have to do with his mother?
He put that to her, and she answered in tones of exasperation. ‘You were the cleverest boy in school, but you’re such a fool sometimes,’ she said. ‘Listen. Every weekend that you’re not away somewhere with Khrushchev, you’re with this woman. Obviously she’s important. You’ve been seeing her for three months. Of course your mother wants to know what she’s like! How can you even ask?’
He supposed she was right. Nina was not just a date, nor even merely a girlfriend. She was his lover. She had become part of his life.
He loved his mother, but he did not obey her in everything: she disapproved of the motorcycle, the blue jeans, and Valentin. However, he would do anything reasonable to please her, so he invited Nina to the apartment.
At first Nina refused. ‘I’m not going to be inspected by your family, like a used car you’re thinking of buying,’ she said resentfully. ‘Tell your mother I don’t want to get married. She’ll soon lose interest in me.’
‘It’s not my family, it’s just her,’ Dimka told her. ‘My father’s dead and my sister’s in Cuba. Anyway, what have you got against marriage?’
‘Why, are you proposing to me?’
Dimka was embarrassed. Nina was thrilling and sexy, and he had never been anywhere near so deeply involved with a woman, but he had not thought about marriage. Did he want to spend the rest of his life with her?
He dodged the question. ‘I’m just trying to understand you.’
‘I’ve tried marriage, and I didn’t like it,’ she said. ‘Satisfied?’
Challenge was her default setting. He did not mind. It was part of what made her so exciting. ‘You prefer being single,’ he said.
‘Obviously.’
‘What’s so great about it?’
‘I don’t have to please a man, so I can please myself. And when I want something else I can see you.’
‘I fit neatly into the slot.’
She grinned at the double meaning. ‘Exactly.’
However, she was thoughtful for a while; then she said: ‘Oh, hell, I don’t want to make an enemy of your mother. I’ll go.’
On the day, Dimka felt nervous. Nina was unpredictable. When something happened to displease her – a plate carelessly broken, a real or imagined slight, a note of reproof in Dimka’s voice – her disapproval was a blast like Moscow’s north wind in January. He hoped she would get on with his mother.
Nina had not previously been inside Government House. She was impressed by the lobby, which was the size of a small ballroom. The apartment was not large but it was luxuriously finished, by comparison with most Moscow homes, having thick rugs and expensive wallpaper and a radiogram – a walnut cabinet containing a record player and a radio. These were the privileges of senior KGB officers such as Dimka’s father.
Anya had prepared a lavish spread of snacks, which Muscovites preferred to a formal dinner: smoked mackerel and hard-boiled eggs with red pepper on white bread; little rye-bread sandwiches with cucumber and tomatoes; and her pièce de résistance, a plate of ‘sailboats’, ovals of toast with triangles of cheese held upright by a toothpick like a mast.
Anya wore a new dress and put on a touch of make-up. She had gained a little weight since the death of Dimka’s father, and it suited her. Dimka felt his mother was happier since her husband had died. Maybe Nina was right about marriage.
The first thing Anya said to Nina was: ‘Twenty-three years old, and this is the first time my Dimka has ever brought a girl home.’
He wished his mother had not told her that. It made him seem a beginner. He
was
a beginner, and Nina had figured that out long ago, but, all the same, he did not need her to be reminded. Anyway, he was learning fast. Nina said he was a good lover, better than her husband, though she would not go into details.
To his surprise, Nina went out of her way to be pleasant to his mother, politely calling her Anya Grigorivitch, helping in the kitchen, asking her where she got her dress.
When they had had some vodka, Anya felt relaxed enough to say: ‘So, Nina, my Dimka tells me you don’t want to get married.’
Dimka groaned. ‘Mother, that’s too personal!’
But Nina did not seem to mind. ‘I’m like you, I’ve already been married,’ she said.
‘But I’m an old woman.’
Anya was forty-five, which was generally considered too old for remarriage. Women of that age were thought to have left desire behind – and, if they had not, they were regarded with distaste. A respectable widow who remarried in middle age would be careful to tell everyone it was ‘just for companionship’.
‘You don’t look old, Anya Grigorivitch,’ Nina said. ‘You might be Dimka’s big sister.’
This was rubbish, but Anya liked it all the same. Perhaps women always enjoyed such flattery, regardless of whether it was credible. Anyway, she did not deny it. ‘I’m too old to have more children, anyway.’
‘I can’t have children, either.’
‘Oh!’ Anya was shaken by that revelation. It upturned all her fantasies. For a moment she forgot to be tactful. ‘Why not?’ she asked bluntly.
‘Medical reasons.’
‘Oh.’
Clearly, Anya would have liked to know more. Dimka had noticed that medical details were of great interest to many women. But Nina clammed up, as she always did on this subject.
There was a knock at the door. Dimka sighed: he could guess who it was. He opened up.
On the doorstep were his grandparents, who lived in the same building. ‘Oh! Dimka – you’re here!’ said his grandfather, Grigori Peshkov, feigning surprise. He was in uniform. He was nearly seventy-four, but he would not retire. Old men who did not know when to quit were a major problem in the Soviet Union, in Dimka’s opinion.
Dimka’s grandmother Katerina had had her hair done. ‘We brought you some caviar,’ she said. Clearly this was not the casual drop-in they were pretending. They had found out that Nina was coming and they were here to check her out. Nina was being inspected by the family, just as she had feared.
Dimka introduced them. Grandmother kissed Nina and Grandfather held her hand longer than necessary. To Dimka’s relief, Nina continued to be charming. She called Grandfather ‘Comrade General’. Realizing immediately that he was susceptible to attractive girls, she flirted with him, to his delight; at the same time giving Grandmother a woman-to-woman look that said
You and I know what men are like.
Grandfather asked her about her job. She had been promoted recently, she told him, and now she was publishing manager, organizing the printing of the steel union’s various newsletters. Grandmother asked about her family, and she said she did not see much of them as they all lived in her home town of Perm, a 24-hour train journey eastward.
She soon got Grandfather on to his favourite subject, historical inaccuracies in Eisenstein’s film
October
, especially the scenes depicting the storming of the Winter Palace, in which Grandfather had participated.
Dimka was pleased they were all getting on so well, yet at the same time he had the uneasy sensation that he was not in control of whatever was happening here. He felt as if he were on a ship sailing through calm waters to an unknown destination: all was well for the moment, but what lay ahead?
The phone rang, and Dimka answered. He always did in the evenings: it was usually the Kremlin calling for him. The voice of Natalya Smotrov said: ‘I’ve just heard from the KGB station in Washington.’
Talking to her while Nina was in the room made Dimka feel awkward. He told himself not to be stupid: he had never touched Natalya. He had thought about it, though. But surely a man need not feel guilty for his thoughts? ‘What’s happened?’ he asked.
‘President Kennedy has booked television time this evening to talk to the American people.’
As usual, she had the hot news first. ‘Why?’
‘They don’t know.’
Dimka thought immediately of Cuba. Most of his missiles were there now, and the nuclear warheads to go with them. Tons of ancillary equipment and thousands of troops had arrived. In a few days the weapons would be launch-ready. The mission was almost complete.
But two weeks remained before the American midterm elections. Dimka had been considering flying to Cuba – there was a scheduled air service from Prague to Havana – to make sure the lid was screwed on tight for a few more days. It was vital that the secret be kept just a little longer.
He prayed that Kennedy’s surprise TV appearance would be about something else: Berlin, perhaps, or Vietnam.
‘What time is the broadcast?’ Dimka asked Natalya.
‘Seven in the evening, Eastern time.’
That would be two o’clock tomorrow morning in Moscow. ‘I’ll phone him right away,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’ He broke the connection then dialled Khrushchev’s residence.
The phone was answered by Ivan Tepper, head of the household staff, the equivalent of a butler. ‘Hello, Ivan,’ said Dimka. ‘Is he there?’
‘On his way to bed,’ said Ivan.
‘Tell him to put his trousers back on. Kennedy is going to speak on television at two a.m. our time.’
‘Just a minute, he’s right here.’
Dimka heard a muttered conversation, then Khrushchev’s voice. ‘They have found your missiles!’
Dimka’s heart sank. Khrushchev’s spontaneous intuition was usually right. The secret was out – and Dimka was going to take the blame. ‘Good evening, Comrade First Secretary,’ he said, and the four people in the room with him went silent. ‘We don’t yet know what Kennedy will be speaking about.’
‘It’s the missiles, bound to be. Call an emergency meeting of the Presidium.’
‘What time?’
‘In an hour.’
‘Very good.’
Khrushchev hung up.
Dimka dialled the home of his secretary. ‘Hello, Vera,’ he said. ‘Emergency Presidium at ten tonight. He’s on his way to the Kremlin.’
‘I’ll start calling people,’ she said.
‘You have the numbers at your home?’