Dean Rusk suggested that Bobby could go a little farther with Dobrynin. In today’s meetings it had become clear that no one really wanted the Jupiter missiles to remain in Turkey. From a strictly military point of view, they were useless. The problem was cosmetic: the Turkish government and the other NATO allies would be angered if the US traded those missiles in a Cuba settlement. Rusk suggested a solution that George thought was very smart. ‘Offer to pull the Jupiters out later – say, in five or six months’ time,’ said Rusk. ‘Then we can do it quietly, with the agreement of our allies, and step up the Mediterranean activity of our nuclear-armed submarines to compensate. But the Soviets have to promise to keep that deal deadly secret.’
It was a startling suggestion, but brilliant, George thought.
Everyone agreed with remarkable speed. ExComm discussions had rambled all over the globe for most of the day, but this smaller group here in the Oval Office had suddenly become decisive. Bobby said to George: ‘Call Dobrynin.’ He looked at his watch, and George did the same: it was 7.15 p.m. ‘Ask him to meet me at the Justice Department in half an hour,’ Bobby said.
The President added: ‘And release the letter to the press fifteen minutes later.’
George stepped into the secretaries’ office next to the Oval Office and picked up a phone. ‘Get me the Soviet Embassy,’ he said to the switchboard operator.
The ambassador agreed instantly to the meeting.
George took the typed letter to Maria and told her the President wanted it released to the press at 8 p.m.
She looked anxiously at her watch then said: ‘Okay, girls, we’d better go to work.’
Bobby and George left the White House and a car drove them the few blocks to the Justice Department. In the gloomy weekend lighting, the statues in the Great Hall seemed to watch the two men suspiciously. George explained to the security staff that an important visitor would shortly arrive to see Bobby.
They went up in the elevator. George thought Bobby looked exhausted, and undoubtedly he was. The corridors of the huge building echoed emptily. Bobby’s cavernous office was dimly lit, but he did not bother to switch on more lamps. He slumped behind his wide desk and rubbed his eyes.
George looked out of the window at the street lights. The centre of Washington was a pretty park full of monuments and palaces, but the rest of it was a densely populated metropolis with five million residents, more than half of them black. Would the city be here this time tomorrow? George had seen pictures of Hiroshima: miles of buildings flattened to rubble, and burned and maimed survivors on the outskirts, staring with uncomprehending eyes at the unrecognizable world around them. Would Washington look like that in the morning?
Ambassador Dobrynin was shown in at exactly a quarter to eight. He was a bald man in his early forties, and he clearly relished his informal meetings with the President’s brother.
‘I want to lay out the current alarming situation the way the President sees it,’ Bobby said. ‘One of our planes has been shot down over Cuba and the pilot is dead.’
‘Your planes have no right to fly over Cuba,’ Dobrynin said quickly.
Bobby’s discussions with Dobrynin could be combative, but today the Attorney General was in a different mood. ‘I want you to understand the political realities,’ he said. ‘There is now strong pressure on the President to respond with fire. We can’t stop these overflights: it’s the only way we can check the state of construction of your missile bases. But if the Cubans shoot at our planes, we’re going to shoot back.’
Bobby told Dobrynin what was in the letter from President Kennedy to Secretary Khrushchev.
‘And what about Turkey?’ Dobrynin said sharply.
Bobby replied carefully. ‘If that is the only obstacle to achieving the regulation I mentioned earlier, the President doesn’t see any insurmountable difficulties. The greatest difficulty for the President is the public discussion of the issue. If such a decision were announced now it would tear NATO apart. We need four to five months to remove the missiles from Turkey. But this is extremely confidential: only a handful of people know that I am saying this to you.’
George watched Dobrynin’s face carefully. Was it his imagination, or was the diplomat concealing a rush of excitement?
Bobby said: ‘George, give the ambassador the phone numbers we use to get to the President directly.’
George grabbed a pad, wrote down three numbers, tore off the sheet and handed it to Dobrynin.
Bobby stood up, and the ambassador did the same. ‘I need an answer tomorrow,’ Bobby said. ‘That’s not an ultimatum, it’s the reality. Our generals are itching for a fight. And don’t send us one of those long Khrushchev letters that take all day to translate. We need a clear, businesslike answer from you, Mr Ambassador. And we need it fast.’
‘Very well,’ said the Russian, and he went out.
* * *
On Sunday morning, the KGB station chief in Havana reported to the Kremlin that the Cubans now thought an American attack was inevitable.
Dimka was at a government dacha at Novo-Ogaryevo, a picturesque village on the outskirts of Moscow. The dacha was a small place with white columns that made it look a bit like the White House in Washington. Dimka was preparing for the Presidium meeting to be held here in a few minutes, at twelve noon. He went around the long oak table with eighteen briefing folders, putting one in each place. They contained President Kennedy’s latest message to Khrushchev, translated into Russian.
Dimka felt hopeful. The American President had agreed to everything Khrushchev had originally demanded. If this letter had arrived, miraculously, minutes after Khrushchev’s first message had been sent, the crisis would have been over instantly. But the delay had permitted Khrushchev to add to his demands. And, unfortunately, Kennedy’s letter did not directly mention Turkey. Dimka did not know whether that would be a sticking-point for his boss.
The Presidium members were assembling when Natalya Smotrov came into the room. Dimka noticed first that her curly hair was getting longer and sexier, and second that she looked scared. He had been trying to get a few minutes with her to tell her about his engagement. He felt he could not give the news to anyone in the Kremlin until he had told Natalya. But once again this was not a good moment. He needed her alone.
She came straight to him and said: ‘Those imbeciles have shot down an American plane.’
‘Oh, no!’
She nodded. ‘A U-2 spy plane. The pilot is dead.’
‘Shit! Who did it, us or the Cubans?’
‘No one will say, which means it was probably us.’
‘But no such order was given!’
‘Exactly.’
This was what they had both feared: that someone would start the shooting without authorization.
The members were taking their seats, aides behind them as usual. ‘I’ll go and tell him,’ Dimka said but, as he spoke, Khrushchev came in. Dimka hurried to his side and murmured the news in the leader’s ear as he sat down. Khrushchev did not reply, but looked grim.
He opened the meeting with what was clearly a prepared speech. ‘There was a time when we advanced, as in October 1917; but in March 1918 we had to retreat, having signed the Brest-Litovsk agreement with the Germans,’ he began. ‘Now we find ourselves face to face with the danger of war and nuclear catastrophe, with the possible result of destroying the human race. In order to save the world, we must retreat.’
This sounded like the beginning of an argument for compromise, Dimka thought.
But Khrushchev quickly turned to military considerations. What should the Soviet Union do if the Americans were to attack Cuba today, as the Cubans themselves fully expected? General Pliyev must be instructed to defend Soviet forces in Cuba. But he should ask permission before using nuclear weapons.
While the Presidium was discussing that possibility, Dimka was called out of the room by Vera Pletner, his secretary. There was a phone call for him.
Natalya followed him out.
The Foreign Ministry had news that must be passed to Khrushchev immediately – yes, in the middle of the meeting. A cable had just been received from the Soviet ambassador in Washington. Bobby Kennedy had told him the missiles in Turkey would be removed in four or five months – but this must be kept deadly secret.
‘This is good news!’ Dimka said delightedly. ‘I’ll tell him right away.’
‘One more thing,’ said the Foreign Ministry official. ‘Bobby kept stressing the need for speed. Apparently the American President is under severe pressure from the Pentagon to attack Cuba.’
‘Just as we thought.’
‘Bobby kept saying there is very little time. They must have their answer today.’
‘I’ll tell him.’
He hung up. Natalya was standing beside him, looking expectant. She had a nose for news. He told her: ‘Bobby Kennedy offered to remove the missiles from Turkey.’
She smiled broadly. ‘It’s over!’ she said. ‘We’ve won!’ Then she kissed him on the lips.
Dimka went back into the room in high excitement. Malinovsky, the defence minister, was speaking. Dimka went up to Khrushchev and said in a low voice: ‘A cable from Dobrynin – he’s received a new offer from Bobby Kennedy.’
‘Tell everyone,’ Khrushchev said, interrupting the speaker.
Dimka repeated what he had been told.
Presidium members rarely smiled, but Dimka now saw broad grins around the table. Kennedy had given them everything they had asked for! It was a triumph for the Soviet Union and for Khrushchev personally.
‘We must accept as quickly as possible,’ Khrushchev said. ‘Bring in a stenographer. I will dictate our letter of acceptance immediately, and it must be broadcast on Radio Moscow.’
Malinovsky said: ‘When should I instruct Pliyev to start dismantling the missile launchers?’
Khrushchev looked at him as if he was stupid. ‘Now,’ he said.
* * *
After the Presidium, Dimka at last got Natalya alone. She was sitting in an anteroom, going through her notes of the meeting. ‘I have something to tell you,’ he said. For some reason he had a feeling of discomfort in his stomach, though he had nothing to be nervous about.
‘Go ahead.’ She turned a page in her notebook.
He hesitated, feeling he did not have her attention.
Natalya put down the book and smiled.
Now or never.
Dimka said: ‘Nina and I are engaged to be married.’
Natalya went pale and her mouth dropped open in shock.
Dimka felt the need to say something else. ‘We told my family yesterday,’ he said. ‘At my grandfather’s birthday party.’ Stop gabbling, shut up, he told himself. ‘He’s seventy-four.’
When Natalya spoke, her words shocked him. ‘What about me?’ she said.
He hardly understood what she meant. ‘You?’ he said.
Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘We spent a night together.’
‘I’ll never forget it.’ Dimka was baffled. ‘But afterwards, all you would say to me was that you were married.’
‘I was scared.’
‘Of what?’
Her face showed genuine distress. Her wide mouth was twisted in a grimace, almost as if she were in pain. ‘Don’t get married, please!’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I don’t want you to.’
Dimka was flabbergasted. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I didn’t know what to do.’
‘But now it’s too late.’
‘Is it?’ She looked at him with pleading eyes. ‘You can break off an engagement . . . if you want to.’
‘Nina is going to have a baby.’
Natalya gasped.
Dimka said: ‘You should have said something before . . .’
‘And if I had?’
He shook his head. ‘There is no point in discussing it.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I see that.’
‘Well,’ said Dimka, ‘at least we avoided a nuclear war.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘We’re alive. That’s something.’
20
The smell of coffee woke Maria. She opened her eyes. President Kennedy was in bed beside her, sitting upright with several pillows propping him, drinking coffee and reading the Sunday edition of the
New York Times.
He was wearing a light-blue nightshirt, as was she. ‘Oh!’ she said.
He smiled. ‘You sound surprised.’
‘I am,’ she said. ‘To be alive. I thought we might die in the night.’
‘Not this time.’
She had gone to sleep half hoping it would happen. She dreaded the end of their love affair. She knew it had no future. For him to leave his wife would destroy him politically; to do so for a black woman was unthinkable. Anyway, he did not even want to leave Jackie: he loved her, and he loved their children. He was happily married. Maria was his mistress, and when he tired of her he would discard her. Sometimes she felt she would prefer to die before that came to pass – especially if death could come while she was at his side, in bed, in a flash of nuclear destruction that would be over before they knew what was happening.
She said none of this: her role was to make him happy, not sad. She sat upright, kissed his ear, looked over his shoulder at the newspaper, took his cup from his hand and drank some of his coffee. Despite everything, she was glad she was still alive.
He had not mentioned her abortion. It was almost as if he had forgotten about it. She had never raised it with him. She had called Dave Powers and said she was pregnant; and Dave had given her a phone number and said he would take care of the doctor’s fee. The only time the President had spoken about it had been when he phoned her after the procedure. He had bigger worries on his mind.
Maria thought about raising the subject herself, but quickly decided against. Like Dave, she wanted to shield the President from care, not give him additional burdens. She felt sure this was the right decision, though she could not help feeling sorry, and even hurt, that she was not able to talk to him about something so important.
She had feared that sex might be painful, after the procedure. However, when Dave had asked her to go to the residence last night, she had been so reluctant to decline the invitation that she had decided to take the risk; and it had been fine – wonderful, in fact.