Back Channel (31 page)

Bundy weighed his options, then called in his favorite deputy, a chubby postgraduate named Esman. “Go to Langley, then go to State. I want you to look at every scrap of paper on
SANTA GREEN
.”

Esman wore thick glasses. His dark hair was shaggy. His sports coat needed pressing. He lacked small talk and, for the most part, affect. He was utterly unprepossessing. He was also one of the two or three brightest people Bundy had ever met.

“Are you sure they’ll show me everything?”

“I’ll get you a presidential order.”

“That might not do it,” said Esman tonelessly. “Remember the JSCP?”

A studied silence. Bundy did not like being reminded of the embarrassing incident, a year ago, when he had demanded, in the President’s name, to see the Joint Strategic Capabilities Plan, the entire nuclear attack strategy worked out by the Joint Chiefs of Staff—and had been refused. Eventually, the Pentagon had agreed to send over not the entire plan but a brief summary—and for the President’s eyes only.

Which the White House was not permitted to keep.

Few Americans probably realized the extent to which the military had become a law unto itself, in effect a separate branch of government. The Congress controlled its budget but gave the generals whatever they wanted, and the President was the commander in chief when he had time and they had the inclination. The system worked because the American military was run by men of unparalleled integrity.

Most of the time.

“I don’t think you’ll have any trouble,” Bundy finally said. He rolled the gold pen in his fingers. “The President isn’t about to take on the Pentagon. Not in this climate. But the spies are another story. Anybody who gets in your way, I’ll fire.”

Esman might have been impressed; he might not have. As usual, neither his face nor his tone betrayed his feelings—if indeed he possessed any.

“And I’m looking for what exactly?”

“The names, positions, and clearances of every individual who had access to any part of the files.”

“The subscription list has about forty names.”

“Let’s see who actually subscribed.”

Esman tilted his pudgy head back and tapped a finger against his front teeth. The habit annoyed Bundy unreasonably, but it seemed to help the young man think. Esman himself was, as usual, quite unconscious of anybody’s reaction. “You think the operation was blown. You don’t think
GREENHILL
made a mistake. You don’t agree with Langley’s assessment that things went wrong in the field.” The head came down again. “You think it was leaked to the opposition, and you want to see who had access to which pieces of information so that you can tell who might have been able to leak it.”

“That’s correct,” said Bundy, both amused and alarmed by the young man’s swift perception. “How long will it take you?”

“Three or four hours.”

“Three or four hours from when you get the materials?”

“Three or four hours from now. I already have the files I need. I ordered them up last week.”

“And how exactly did you manage that?”

“I told them that anybody who got in my way, you’d fire.”

Bundy permitted himself a smile. “You’re going to go far, Nate.”

“True,” said Esman. He rumbled to his feet, and left without a word.

Bundy liked to unwind with his martini of an evening, but at the office he drank only Scotch. He went to the cupboard and took down the bottle. He was missing something, and it annoyed him. He didn’t miss much. True, he had overlooked the missiles going into Cuba, but gathering intelligence wasn’t his job. He was in the White House to ensure that the President adopted the right policies with respect to the security of the country. In a few minutes, the ExComm would resume—

His secretary buzzed again. Langley was coming through on the secure line.

“Who?”

“Head of Plans.” Plans. Clandestine operations. The happy end of the business, as some of the old-timers called it. “Mr. Bundy? He says it’s an emergency.”

Bundy wasn’t a man for physical exercise, but he sprinted up the marble stair. Having first called the President’s private secretary and warned her that Kennedy was under no circumstances to walk into the ExComm meeting until he’d spoken to Bundy. He shouldn’t even have a conversation with any member of the group.

In the Oval Office, the President was behind his desk, Bobby standing off to the side, snapping out a stream of orders to a trio of aides. The aides took one look at Bundy’s face and fled.

Bundy shut the door.

“What is it, Mac?” asked Kennedy, the half-smile two-thirds forced. “Where’s the fire? Or are you here to tell me that
GREENHILL
is even more gorgeous than I’ve been led to believe?”

“Bad news, Mr. President. Y
OGA
’
S
been arrested.”

“What!”

“Langley doesn’t have the details yet. They’re waiting to hear from the Brits. But there’s no question about the arrest. Penkovsky is a full colonel of military intelligence, and technically shouldn’t come under KGB jurisdiction, but they dragged him out of his apartment all the same, and our understanding is that they weren’t gentle.”

“How long did they suspect him?” Kennedy asked.

“I’m sorry. We don’t know.”

“Penkovsky gave us crucial information just last week.” The attorney general’s voice lacked his usual fire. The timbre was one Bundy had never heard from him before: less than panic but more than anxiety. “He’s the reason we’re sure those missiles aren’t ready to fire. Are you telling me we don’t know if he was telling the truth?”

“I’m sorry, Bobby. Yes, it’s possible that the information is bad. If they already suspected him, they might have been feeding him disinformation.”

“So those missiles might be operational!”

“I’m afraid so.”

The attorney general turned to his brother. “When the ExComm hears this, support for an attack will go right through the roof. They’ll say Penkovsky was programmed to tell us the wrong number of days until the missiles would be ready to go so we wouldn’t do anything and the Soviets would have time to get them ready. They’ll demand action by yesterday.”

The President was doodling. “And you’ll be with them, won’t you, Bobby?” He laughed, and Bundy was relieved at the evident ease of his manner. “What about you, Mac? Which side will you be on?”

“We simply lack the data to draw any conclusions.”

“Come on, Mac,” said Bobby, suddenly angry. “You can’t spend your life on the fence.”

Bundy’s voice was mild. “I won’t do the President much good if I shoot from the hip.” He turned back to the older brother. “In any case, Bobby is worrying unnecessarily. The ExComm won’t be told of
YOGA
’
S
arrest. Remember, aside from the three of us, McCone and McNamara are the only ones in that room who even know of
YOGA
’
S
existence.” He let this sink in. “We have to keep it that way, Mr. President, at least until we get the back channel going and see whether Khrushchev is prepared to negotiate seriously.”

The President was dubious. “If Khrushchev wants to negotiate, why arrest Penkovsky? What kind of signal does that send?”

“Maybe he’s not even in charge,” said Bobby, darkly: a theory already floated in the ExComm by LeMay and others. The attorney general leaned close to his brother, and spoke with a soft urgency. “Maybe Khrushchev’s fanatics have taken control. Maybe they arrested Penkovsky
because they don’t care about consequences. If those missiles are active, they could be getting ready for a pre-emptive strike as we speak.”

“There’s another possibility,” said Bundy. “Khrushchev might have allowed Penkovsky to operate just long enough to get us truthful intelligence about when the missiles would be operational.”

“Then why arrest him now?” the attorney general demanded. “Why not keep him in place in case he’s needed again?”

“This could be Khrushchev’s way of making clear that from now on there will be one and only one means of genuine communication. This could be his way of forcing us to rely on the back channel.”

“That’s pretty ruthless,” said the President. “Letting his own man be tortured and probably executed just to send us a message.” He pondered. “Okay. We’ll stick with the back channel. But only for a couple of days. We’ll wait for Langley to confirm that the missiles have gone operational. Once that happens, I’ll have to decide what to do next. But I’ll tell you right now, my inclination is to go in and take them out.”

“You’ll start a war, Mr. President.”

“Khrushchev already did.”

In the foyer of the restaurant, she checked her coat. She had assumed that Fomin would take a shadowed table at the back, but when she walked into the dining room he was sitting alone in the first booth on the right. His expression as he stared was amiable, and he even stood politely as she sat down across from him.

“I feel conspicuous,” Margo muttered.

“Good.” He was seated again. “Sometimes the most visible secret agent is the one who tries too hard to be surreptitious.” He summoned the waiter with an imperious gesture that would have done a capitalist proud. “Will you drink? Are you hungry?”

“Just water,” she said. Fomin, she noticed, had a half-finished plate in front of him: remnants of egg rolls and chow mein. Her older brother, who had spent time studying in Asia, heaped scorn on what he called American-style Chinese food.

“Was it difficult getting here? Have you spoken to Kennedy?”

Straight to the point. Bundy had instructed her to withhold nothing—except what he told her to. “I met his national security adviser. I’m supposed to meet the President only if you have a substantive offer to place on the table. Otherwise, I go back to the apartment and wait for you to contact me again.”

“How will they know?” asked Fomin, as if this were the usual way of doing business.

“I have a number to call.”

“Will you tell me the number?”

“No.”

The waiter was back. He had brought more egg rolls without being asked. Fomin grabbed a pair with his hands, but for Margo, family lessons held. She used her fork to put one on her plate, then cut into it delicately.

“I am pleased that you managed to make contact with your President,” the Russian said. “I was confident that you would.”

“I didn’t think things would move this fast.”

“The times demand haste. Did you listen to Kennedy’s speech last night?”

“Yes.”

“What did you think of it?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know, Mr. Fomin.”

Another nod, but his gaze became less sympathetic. Perhaps he was at last regretting his chosen conduit. “Bundy briefed you personally?”

“Yes.”

“You will contact him later also?”

She remembered Bundy’s language. “I shouldn’t share operational details.”

“Who else knows about your mission?” he asked between bites. “You didn’t arrange all of this yourself. You had to talk to people in order to make your way to the White House. So—who else knows?”

“Only two people. One in Ithaca, one here.”

“Who in Washington?”

“I’d rather not say.”

That frown again. There were men who took defiance in women as a challenge to their charm, and there were men who took it as an affront to their dignity. Fomin was in the second category.

“I mean no harm, Miss Jensen. I would simply like to know the extent of our risk.” Back to the food. “I say ‘our risk’ advisedly. I have told you that there are hotheads on my side, but perhaps there are hotheads on your side, too. If they become aware of your mission, they will try to disrupt it. Violently, if necessary.”

“Why would they do that?”

“Because they want war. They believe your country would prevail in a general nuclear exchange. Perhaps they are wrong.” A very Slavic
shrug. “Certainly your technology is more advanced than ours, but our country is much larger. Less of the Soviet Union would be contaminated.” Again he was windmilling food into his mouth. “Of course, we are here because we do not wish to test this theory. You understand the need for haste.”

“I do, Mr. Fomin.”

“Good. Because I have a message for your President. But first, let us discuss the matter of operational security.”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Please tell me by what means your side is concealing your meetings with the President.”

Margo hesitated. As the blush rose in her cheeks, Fomin read the truth on her face. His frozen demeanor softened into humor. “Ah. I see. Well. You are to be congratulated, my dear. Such a sacrifice for the peace of the world. To place your reputation at risk.”

Margo dropped her eyes, for he was speaking into the fears of her heart; she imagined Nana’s shocked fury, were she ever to learn the fictional version of her granddaughter’s reasons for going to Washington.

Fomin wasn’t finished. His wolfish expression told her that he was enjoying himself. “Then, one day, long after the events of the moment are done, when you are married and have grandchildren, an ambitious historian will discover your liaisons with President Kennedy. He will knock on your door and demand the details. He will want to know whether you seduced the President or the President seduced you, and what Kennedy was like as a lover. And even then, you will be expected to lie, to pretend that the affair was real. Because your reporters are like the birds who eat carrion. They produce little of value, and feed off the remains of what others have left. They will destroy the reputation of your President for profit. The First Amendment is the tragedy of your system. In my country, we protect the reputations of our leaders, because in that way we protect the reputation and integrity of the Party, and therefore of the country and the people. We would know how to take care of such a fool.”

Margo could not meet his gaze. She had no way of knowing that she would shortly see his words as prescient.

Ten minutes later, she was back on Connecticut Avenue. She walked south along the wet pavement, low heels clopping loudly in the empty darkness. The rain had stopped during her meeting with Fomin. Traffic was thin. At the public library, she turned right and proceeded uphill on Macomb, a tree-lined street of quiet homes. On her left was Tregaron, the fabled estate of Marjorie Merriwether Post. Behind a high fence, trees rose in darkly beautiful ranks. No cars passed. No other pedestrians climbed the twisted cobbles. She was back in high school, sneaking up the driveway after Nana’s curfew. She was back in Varna, tromping toward the restaurant where Colonel Ignatiev would arrest her. She was in the Yenching Palace, squirming at Fomin’s snide insinuations about how future historians would view her. She wasn’t sure why the Soviet’s words had so disturbed her. He had told her nothing she didn’t know. She understood that she would never be able to tell what had really happened. She saw the possibility that someone would find out, and word would travel back to Garrison, and Nana would keel over from a stroke.