Back Channel (27 page)

Still, Hyde Park wasn’t Margo’s true destination: she was teasing herself.

As she resumed her drive north, a black Chrysler replaced the blue Chevy. Fine. If they knew, they knew. It could scarcely make any difference. She got off in Poughkeepsie, and stopped at a lunch counter near the edge of the Vassar campus because the sign outside, a blue bell in a blue circle, told her the restaurant boasted a phone booth. By a miracle, the phone book was intact. By a further miracle, the name was listed:
LITTLEJOHN, WM & SUSAN
—with an address on Lockerman Avenue. She had to ask directions twice, but finally found the place, a sprawling Dutch Colonial set well back from the street.

And the last thing she expected, as she pulled into the driveway, was the gray-uniformed men carrying paintings and crates into a moving truck out front.

A stylish convertible was parked in a turnaround. Margo pulled the Cadillac beside it and hurried up the steps. The movers ignored her as she walked to the open door. Maybe they thought she was staff.

She stepped into the foyer. Pale rectangles on the dark wood marked places where art had been removed. Two men were trundling a large seascape down the stairs. From what Margo could tell, the furniture was untouched. Only the art was going.

“Mr. Littlejohn?” she called out. “Mrs. Littlejohn?”

No answer.

She grabbed the sleeve of one of the movers, asked the obvious question.

“I just do what I’m told, lady,” he said, and continued out the door, a bust of Shakespeare cradled in his arms.

The living room had views of the woods behind. A man was taping shut the drawers of a beautiful antique desk.

“May I help you?”

Margo turned. Behind her was a stout woman perhaps five years her senior, with the same flaming red hair and bulbous chin as the young man who had accosted her so regularly these last few weeks.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to barge in. My name is Margo Jensen. I was a—a friend of Phil’s. A classmate at Cornell. I came to pay my respects.”

The stout woman looked her up and down. “You’re the one he talked about, then,” she said. She stuck out a pale, fleshy hand. “My name is Priscilla. I’m his big sister. Would you care for a cup of coffee?”

The President was furious. Not at Bundy or Bobby—the only ones present for his outburst—and for once not at Khrushchev, either. He was furious at the ExComm, his own handpicked advisers, who at today’s meeting had scarcely bothered to hide a growing frustration, bordering on disrespect.

Kennedy had told the group that he was increasingly uneasy about attacking Cuba, because the Soviets would likely respond in Berlin. The comment had enraged General LeMay, who shot back that the best way to invite the Soviets to move in Germany would be to do nothing about the missiles. To refrain from invading, he’d added, would be “almost as bad as the appeasement at Munich”—a thinly veiled reference to the President’s ailing father, Joseph Kennedy, who had argued for placating Hitler and staying out of the war.

The other members of the Joint Chiefs, in more muted and respectful language, had said much the same; and several of the civilians present joined in.

Although Kennedy maintained his aplomb in the meeting, afterward he exploded. Bundy was seriously worried that the President might actually try to dismiss his top military officials in the midst of the crisis.

“Who do they think they’re talking to?” Kennedy fumed. “Who do they think they are?”

“They’re frustrated,” said his brother. “We all are. We need a decision, Jack. We’re out of time.”

The President was stung. “
Et tu,
Bobby?”

The attorney general stood his ground. “We should at least set a deadline for action. Let the Joint Chiefs start planning.”

“Maybe. We’ll see.” Kennedy turned to Bundy. “You know what the real problem is, Mac? Our vaunted intelligence agencies aren’t supplying any useful information. They can count missile launchers but not votes in the Politburo. This would all be a lot easier if we knew what was going on in Khrushchev’s head.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” said Bundy.

“Do it fast, Mac. If we don’t come up with something in a couple of days, I’m going to have to let the brass have their war.”

Back at his desk, Bundy called Langley. After a wrangle, the Agency agreed to send over all of its material on Oleg Penkovsky, code name
YOGA
, the West’s top Kremlin source. The files arrived within the hour, in an armored vehicle accompanied by an armed guard who was sitting even now in the anteroom, waiting for the national security adviser to finish his reading so that he could return the papers to the Agency vaults.

Bundy read fast, and the more he read, the more he worried. Although Penkovsky was a British source, the Agency paid his hefty “salary.” Yet the man was mostly bluff and bluster, and often seemed almost to agitate for war. There was that peculiar line in
YOGA
’
S
first serious debriefing, back when the fear was that Khrushchev would give the Cuban regime conventional weapons: “I must report to you that the Soviet Union is definitely not prepared at this time for war.… With Cuba for example, I simply can’t understand why Khrushchev should not be sharply rebuked.… Kennedy should be firm. Khrushchev is not going to fire any rockets. He is not ready for any war.” In the same conversation, Penkovsky kept telling his handlers how easy it would be to eliminate the entire Soviet general staff in case of war—including details of where they would disperse and how much explosive it would take to get them. Almost as if he wanted them gone.

Or at least wanted the West to try.

Bundy put the file aside. Whatever
YOGA
’
S
agenda, he wasn’t the solution to the President’s demand for a line into Khrushchev’s thinking. They needed something better, something more direct.

He asked his secretary to step in. “Do we still have the file on
GREENHILL
?”

“Yes, Mr. Bundy.”

“Please check and see if she has any relatives or close family friends in Washington.” He considered. “And I need to see the head of the White House Secret Service detail. Right now.”

“Concerning?” Pen poised.

“Presidential security.”

“My brother liked you a lot,” said Priscilla, puttering around the kitchen. “The way he talked, I think he had a little crush on you.”

“I can’t believe that,” said Margo.

Priscilla’s mourning was just hours old. Her smile was wan and forced. The cabinets were cherry, polished to a high sheen. Most of the dishes were packed, but a tea service stood on a trolley, as if awaiting this very moment. The cups were by Versailles Bavaria. “He could be a pain in the ass,” Priscilla was saying, “but he could also be sweet. He said you had a boyfriend. I think he counted that his loss.”

“We were just in a couple of classes together. He was a—a friend. A good guy.”

“Not really. He was a spoiled brat. But he had his moments.” She blew out a lot of air, like a patient getting ready to hold her breath for the needle. “My folks will be sorry they missed you. They’re up in Maine. Well, Dad actually went up to Ithaca, to claim the body, but he’ll be back in Maine soon. Phil—Phil would have—he would have been up there, too.” But for the momentary catch in her voice, she seemed entirely unruffled. “Mom’s family has a compound twenty miles north of Bangor. Twelve hundred acres. Most of the relatives will be arriving there in the next day or two. I’ll be heading up as soon as the truck leaves.”

“I notice they’re taking mainly art.”

She nodded as she poured the tea. “The art, the valuables. Dad’s collection
of rare books. Plus the gold coins, of course.” She saw Margo’s puzzlement. “It was one of Grandpa’s rules. Everybody in the family has to have a couple of thousand dollars’ worth of gold stashed somewhere, in case of emergency.”

Margo found it odd that the family would respond to the death of their son by heading off to Maine with their gold and artwork, but she supposed that the manner of their mourning was none of her business.

“Miss Littlejohn—”

“Priscilla. Please.”

“And I’m Margo. About your brother—”

The pudgy woman waved a hand. “You don’t need to offer more condolences. If you’re wondering why I’m not wearing black or sitting around sobbing, well, that’s not who we are. We’ve lost relatives before. We know how it’s done. We’re old New Englanders, Margo. We aren’t public in our grief.” She played with her cup. “So, you. Where are you going?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Phil said your grandmother lives down in Westchester somewhere.”

“In Garrison.”

“Wow. That’s really close.”

Margo was more mystified than ever. “Um, yes. I suppose.”

“You do have some kind of plan, right? From what Phil says, you’re the kind who always does.” That diffident smile again. “Oh, never mind. My family doesn’t pry. Well, except for Phil, I suppose. Oh! I almost forgot. Where are my manners?” She sprang to her feet, crossed to the counter, put some cookies on a tray. She set the tray on the table, curled into her chair once more, and immediately began to munch. “Mmmm. Chocolate-chip. These are the best. From a bakery down the road. Want one?”

“Um, no, thank you.”

“Come on. Why should I get fat by myself?” Shoving the platter her way. “And anyway, who knows when there’ll be more?”

Margo dutifully selected a small one. It was as delicious as promised, and, not quite against her will, she was soon eating another.

“Poor Phil. He wanted to run for office. Did you know that? It’s kind of a family tradition. Public service. My dad did all sorts of things before he settled down to teach. He wanted to be President one day. Not Dad. Phil. And why not? We’ve had Senators in the family. A
governor of Connecticut. A Supreme Court justice. Cabinet secretaries. Three or four ambassadors. A couple of generals. But no President Littlejohn. Not yet. One of my less attractive duties is to marry a rising star in some political field and have lots of children who’ll grow up and keep the family famous. Dad was furious that I wanted to have a career. I told him I’d meet a better class of men in New York. Not my dream, of course. In my family, we don’t have choices. We have our assigned roles to play.” As if caught by a fugitive emotion, the round face for a moment looked ordinary, and sad, and woefully tired. Then the smooth aristocrat was back. “Not that the girls aren’t allowed to work. Why, Aunt Beverly is private secretary to Mamie Eisenhower. And I have a cousin who’s some kind of senior accountant for the Rockefellers.”

“Very impressive,” said Margo, once she realized that Priscilla was waiting for some sort of response. “That’s quite a family tree.”

Priscilla flapped a soft hand, as if to show she didn’t care about her own pedigree, although if that were true there would have been no reason to describe it in such detail. “But you, Margo. It’s so interesting that you would turn up today. Phil and I were just talking about you—oh, Wednesday, it must have been. The night before he died.” She sipped her coffee. “He was fascinated. He said he didn’t know they made Negroes that smart. I’m sorry if I give offense, but that’s what he said. And there’s something else that he mentioned. Oh, you’re done. Here. Another cookie. No, I insist. Look. I’ll have one, too.”

One of the movers came in with a question. Priscilla got up and followed him out of the kitchen. She left the tray practically in her guest’s lap, and it occurred to Margo, as she considered her host’s sweet but relentless pushiness, that Nana must have been like this once. Margo herself tended to be self-effacing; she had always let her grades speak for her. But now, as she bit into another delicious cookie, she wondered, not for the first time, whether this instinctive assertiveness, rather than intelligence or hard work, might be the true key to success.

“Sorry,” said Priscilla. “Some people can’t find their own shoes unless you hold their hands. And rude! Did you see how he didn’t step aside to let me precede him from the room?” Sliding into her seat, she took back the conversation. “You, on the other hand. Your manners are impeccable. We’re not racists here. Not my family. We’ve been for the civil-rights thing since 1948, when Humphrey gave that speech.
A couple of my relatives were there. I’m sure Phil must have mentioned that. And of course one of my uncles drafted Truman’s order to desegregate the armed forces. I don’t mean I’m for those marches and boycotts and sit-ins and all that. No sensible person supports that kind of behavior. We’re a nation of laws. Yes, we should be changing the laws, but we shouldn’t break them to do it. Some of those civil-rights preachers are real rabble-rousers. That’s dangerous. Hey, did you leave me any cookies? Oh, good. Now. Where were we?”

Margo stifled a retort to her host’s peculiarly limited enthusiasm. Priscilla once more sounded like Nana. “You were saying that your brother told you something else about me.”

Priscilla’s mouth was full. She nodded. “He said he thought you were in some kind of trouble.” She laughed, sprayed crumbs, mopped them embarrassedly with a napkin. “Sorry. Sorry. And I said, of course you’re in trouble, given what happened.” She put the napkin aside. “In Bulgaria.”

Margo tensed. Finally, she was where she had intended to wind up, without having to be the one to raise the subject. “What about Bulgaria? How do you even know about that?”

“Oh, well.” Flapping an impatient hand. “Dad’s a banker. He worked at the Treasury. He was on General Marshall’s staff in the war. Afterward, he worked for the Economic Cooperation Administration—they handled the Marshall Plan—and then he went to Wall Street for a while. Uncle Donnan used to run the bank where I work. That’s after he was Secretary of Commerce. Anyway, Eisenhower put Dad on the Forty Committee for a while”—a momentary flicker of the eyes, as if wondering whether a Negro would know what this was; in the end, Priscilla compromised—“and, as you probably know, they advise the President on intelligence operations and so on and so forth. Dad still has friends down there. Anyway, last weekend, Phil and I were up here for our folks’ anniversary. Over dinner, Dad told us that the State Department had sent a college student to Eastern Europe on some damn-fool mission to find out what the Soviets were up to in Cuba, and she’d been arrested, and Phil said one of his classmates had just gone to Bulgaria. Dad wouldn’t say any more, but Phil knew it was
you, of course. He said Professor Niemeyer pulled you out of class one day, and the next day you were gone. And Dad said, ‘Niemeyer? Really?’ And he laughed. He said, ‘Well, Niemeyer’s not the craziest of the bunch’—something like that.”