Back Channel (35 page)

Borkland he decided to exclude. In the wake of Harrington’s forced retirement, Borkland had opted to resign from government service as a protest—hardly the act of a spy. He had a law degree, and planned to join a Washington firm.

Bundy was also inclined to put aside Alfred Gwynn. Gwynn seemed too much the fool, although that could be cover. But his ambitions were too openly and honestly worn. It was obvious to everyone that he was destined to crash and burn.

The buzzer went off again, and again Bundy ignored it. He turned to the next page of Esman’s report.

That left two suspects—Ainsley and Harrington—who, between them, had engineered
GREENHILL
’s return to Washington.

Bundy was tempted to dismiss Ainsley, largely because, as Esman’s memorandum noted, his cover had been blown by the collapse of
SANTA GREEN
: his career in the field was over. On the other hand, the Soviets might have reasoned that a man of Ainsley’s prospects could serve them better from Washington. And although Ainsley had virtuously refused to listen to
GREENHILL
’s story, he surely could figure out why she was in such a hurry to get to Washington.

Harrington was so decorated and respected that Bundy could not imagine her as a fruitful target for Soviet recruitment. But Esman’s report pointed out that the KGB’s predecessor, the NKVD, had a significant presence in Vienna during the war years. Was it possible that she had been a Soviet agent since—

His secretary buzzed a third time.

“Yes, Janet?”

“Sir, Lorenz Niemeyer is in the West Wing lobby.”

“In the lobby? He’s at the White House? Now?”

“Yes, Mr. Bundy.”

The national security adviser glanced at his watch. In half an hour
he had to see McCone and McNamara—to talk about not Cuba but Southeast Asia, the other corner of the globe where America was on the verge of war. Bundy was skeptical that anything much could be accomplished, but the President seemed determined to try. At least Bundy would be spared his usual fight with Bobby: the attorney general was consulting with his staff about the security of James Meredith, who had recently become the first Negro ever to enroll at the University of Mississippi. The President was insistent that his Administration continue to do the work of the nation while awaiting the Soviet response.

Kennedy himself was on his way to the townhouse on East Capitol Street to hear
GREENHILL
’s latest report. Afterward, Bundy and Bobby would join him in the Oval Office to analyze whatever news she brought.

Niemeyer had certainly picked a bad time to drop in.

“Bring him down,” Bundy said, unaccountably worried.

Bundy cleared his desk. He locked Esman’s report in his safe. When the professor arrived, Bundy greeted him with a courteous diffidence that conveyed, if not quite affection, certainly respect. They made small talk for a few minutes, and Bundy poured his guest a glass of Scotch from the bottle on the credenza. Niemeyer was in town for a conference at Georgetown, and wanted to pay his respects. Bundy, just as disingenuously, assured the professor that not dropping in would have been a crime.

“I won’t take much of your time,” said Niemeyer when the pleasantries were done. He shifted his bulk. The wooden chair creaked. “I quite understand that this is a difficult moment.”

“Indeed,” said Bundy, dryly. “And so, just to save time, let me say right at the start, if this is about Dr. Harrington—”

“It isn’t.”

“Go ahead, then.”

“From what I read in the press, Soviet ships are approaching the blockade line.”

“I know you keep your contacts in the intelligence apparatus, Professor. You needn’t pretend that your sources are limited to the papers.”

Niemeyer toyed with his glass. “I would imagine that every amateur strategist in the Western Hemisphere is offering you advice. I’m mainly here to pay my respects, and to tell you I think the President is handling matters exactly right.”

“But,” invited Bundy.

“But,” his guest agreed, “I’m a little worried, to be frank.” He hunched forward. “Kennedy has made plain that he’s willing to go to war over the missiles.”

“That isn’t what we’ve been saying.”

“It’s the implication, Mr. Bundy. Let’s be honest. The President’s statements may be cautiously worded, but they amount to a threat to wage war. The American public certainly understands his meaning. That’s why you can’t find any canned goods in the stores. That’s why people in Washington and the other big cities are suddenly finding excuses to visit relatives in the Midwest. That’s why those same relatives are digging shelters in their back yards.”

“You’re saying we’re causing a panic.”

“No. The missiles are doing that. And it doesn’t really matter what your own people think. It matters what the Soviets think.”

“Go on,” said Bundy, eyes narrowing.

“The President’s determination has frightened America. The question is whether it’s frightened Khrushchev.” Nodding toward the bottle. “Maybe I could have another drop.”

Bundy crossed to the sideboard and poured. “Please continue, Professor.”

“Think about a game of chicken,” said Niemeyer. “The kids play it. I assume you know the rules. Two young men go zipping toward each other in their cars, fast as they can, and the one who swerves first loses. And if nobody swerves, they both die, so they both lose. If you want to win, the trick is to get the other fellow to believe that you’re so crazy you won’t swerve. At the same time, you need him to stay rational enough that, once he realizes you’re crazy, he’ll swerve.”

“I know the theory, Professor.”

“Do you?” Sardonically. “Well, then, maybe you’ve thought about the winning strategy. How do you persuade the other fellow that you’re crazy? Not just by driving straight at him fast as you can. He’s doing the same. You have to give him a stronger signal than that. Something unmistakable. Throw beer bottles out the window so the other fellow
will think you’re drunk. Better still, throw the steering wheel out the window. But I think there’s an even better idea.”

“What’s that?” asked Bundy, only because he knew it was expected of him.

“Run over somebody.”

“I beg your pardon.”

Niemeyer grinned. Savagely. He knew he’d made an impression. “On the way to the collision. Hit one of the spectators and keep on going.”

“Hit a spectator.”

“Hard. And make sure the other fellow knows you don’t give a damn.” He took a long swig from the glass. “When we drop a bomb in wartime, we accept that there will be civilian casualties. We always say it’s okay because we don’t target them intentionally. But we targeted them in Japan and we won the war. We made them see how crazy we were. That’s the point. The other side has to think you’re a little crazy. The best evidence that you’re crazy is to act crazy.”

“Let me be clear, Professor. Are you advising us to blow a Soviet ship out of the water just to make a point? Because if that’s what—”

“I’m advising you to do something crazy.”

Bundy watched him closely. “Can you be a little more specific?”

“I told you already. Run down a spectator. A bystander.”

“A bystander.”

“Not as a rule. Only if that’s what it takes to make your adversary believe you’re sufficiently irrational not to swerve.”

“Thank you, Professor,” said Bundy. He stood. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

Niemeyer didn’t budge. “How’s she doing?”

“Who?”

The pudgy man shifted his bulk. “Miss Margo Jensen. G
REENHILL
. I assume by now you have her running between wickets.” Toying with his glass. “Only you won’t tell me, will you? Operational security. All that.”

“I’m sorry, Professor Niemeyer. I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The old man ignored the attempt at deflection. “She’s taken a sudden leave. One minute Fomin shows up, and the next
GREENHILL
is in Washington. It’s not difficult to make the connection.” He put the
drink down and folded his pudgy hands across that ample stomach. “I’m sure she told you I disappeared on her. Ordered my staff to tell her nothing. You understand that it was necessary. After I called you to convey Fomin’s offer, and you turned it down, I had to find a way to force
GREENHILL
to act. If she was half the girl I thought she was, she’d fight her way up the ladder. She did, didn’t she?”

“You know I can’t—”

“After
GREENHILL
managed that feat, her utility would be obvious. You’d have no choice but to use her, and I suspect that you’re doing exactly that. Precisely as Aleks Fomin planned.” Niemeyer, too, was now on his feet. “Ah, well. Thank you for your time, Mr. Bundy. I’m afraid I’ve chewed your ear enough. You must be about your duties. But do bear in mind one detail.”

“What’s that?”

“You remember what I said about playing chicken.”

“Yes.”

“Excellent. Because I think you should bear in mind that
GREENHILL
isn’t one of the drivers. She’s a spectator. A bystander. I’m sure Fomin and his masters accept that.”

“You’re a coldhearted bastard. Did anyone ever tell you that?”

“This is war, Mr. Bundy. A war we need to win without fighting.”

The two men exchanged a hard look of professional understanding. Bundy extended a hand. “Thank you for coming by, Professor Niemeyer.”

“What happened to you was operational,” said Lorenz Niemeyer. “Bundy as much as told me that.”

Doris Harrington’s fingers tightened on her coffee cup. She was sitting on her living-room sofa. Niemeyer was in the chair opposite, drinking brandy.

“I’d figured that out,” she said. “As soon as that nice young man showed up with
GREENHILL
in tow, it was plain that they wanted me out of the way.” She sipped, watched his face for the old telltales. “Bundy must have spent days in preparation. Before he ever heard from me—before
GREENHILL
ever arrived in Washington—he had the plan ready.”

“He’s an amateur,” the great man murmured, “but he’s not without certain skills.”

She shook her head. “I took orders from amateurs in the war. We lost good people because the amateurs wouldn’t listen to those of us in the field.”

“Including
GREENHILL
’s father. He was one of the best.”

“Well, I’ve been wanting to ask you about that.” She put the cup down. “You said you promised him you’d look after his family.”

“I did.”

“I suppose you pulled a string or two to help
GREENHILL
’s brother get his job at that private academy in Ohio. Turns out that the headmaster was a colleague of yours in the war.” Harrington waited, but Niemeyer offered no reply. “Then there’s the grandmother,” she continued. “My research suggests she’s been through the money her husband left. She couldn’t possibly have had enough left to maintain that palace of hers. So I suppose you’ve been helping the family financially. At several removes, to be sure. Untraceably.”

A smile, faint but proud. “Perhaps.”

“All because of your promise to Donald Jensen.”

“Precisely.”

“A conversation that took place when?”

Niemeyer swirled his brandy. “I don’t think I understand.”

The telltales: the curled contemptuous lip, the rising disdain in the cultured voice.

“I’ve been thinking about this, Lore. You told me you promised to look after Donald Jensen’s family. It seems unlikely that you had that conversation with every agent you sent out. Or, if you did, it seems unlikely that you took it this seriously. Between us, we lost dozens of agents.” She put her cup down. “That means Donald Jensen was special. The promise to him was special. Why would that be?”

“Suppose you tell me.”

“I don’t need to. It’s obvious. He didn’t blow himself up with a grenade, did he?”

“Fomin showed
GREENHILL
the Gestapo photograph. We have a copy. It’s in the files.”

“I saw it.” Her finger jabbed at him. “The photograph only told us that he was blown to bits. It doesn’t tell us where the grenade came from.”

“The Gestapo report is very clear.”

“The Gestapo report is based on an assumption. They surrounded the farmhouse. They heard the explosion. They went in and found the body.”

“A sequence that seems to fit the narrative.”

“Of course it fits. Except that the same report said that, after the explosion, at least one other member of the Resistance was seen racing away. A heavyset man, Lore. A man like you.”

The clever face hardened. “And?”

“You were there. You threw the grenade.”

“Not exactly. I’m not a monster, Doris. I was there. I handed him the grenade after pulling the pin. Then I ran out.” His eyes focused on the middle distance. “He’d been wounded. Two in the chest, another that almost took his arm off. He couldn’t escape. He couldn’t blow himself up. He asked me to do it for him. We both knew that if they caught him, even if they patched him up, he had no strength left. Donald was a tough man, but in his condition he couldn’t have resisted torture for five minutes. Probably he’d have been dead in ten. He asked me to take care of his family, and he asked me to pull the pin.”

“That’s not in the official report.”

“No.”

“Why? And why couldn’t you tell Margo?”

“You mean
GREENHILL
.” At some point during the conversation, he had moved from the chair. He was beside her on the sofa. “The story was heroic enough as it was, but people don’t understand what it’s like out there. I altered the events a bit, and, in doing so, made him an even greater hero.”

“And spared yourself some difficult questions.”

“Oh, I live with the difficult questions, my dear.” He was stroking her hair. She allowed it. “I live with them every day. Every night. They haunt me. All the people I sent to their deaths, but Donald especially. They whisper in my dreams.” He leaned closer. “As they whisper to you.”

“They do,” she said, tight-lipped, her mind on Carina.

“Doris.”

“Stop it, Lore. You don’t want to do this, and neither do I. Can’t you find some willing undergraduate to take care of your needs?”