Back Channel (39 page)

“What ship is that?”

She expected to be slapped down. Fomin, as she had already learned, hated questions, particularly from women. And he was fanatical on matters of security. So it surprised her when he answered.

“There is a cargo ship, the
Grozny,
that will arrive at the blockade line tomorrow. Your Navy will try to stop the ship and board her. The Comrade General Secretary cannot allow either of these actions, Miss Jensen. The loss of face would be too great. Tell President Kennedy, please, that if they attempt to intercept the ship, the captain will not stop. If they disable the ship in order to board, they will have committed an act of aggressive warfare against the peace-loving peoples of the Soviet Union.” His broad face furrowed. “You are not persuaded, I see. You have a further question?”

She was remembering a report on the news. “Isn’t it the position of your government that the blockade itself is an act of war?”

“Miss Jensen, if a single Soviet soldier were to get drunk and stumble across to the Western side of the Berlin Wall, he would be committing an act of war against the fascist German regime in Bonn. But unless he opens fire, the matter can likely be resolved without a fight. Do you begin to understand?”

“Yes.”

Fomin devoted himself to his food once more. He had insisted this time that Margot eat, and she picked listlessly at a chicken dish she would on another occasion have relished.

“You will convey the message?” he asked suddenly. “About the
Grozny
?”

“Yes, but”—she hesitated, unsure whether it was her place, but a part of her would always be the eager student determined to impress—“but don’t you think it’s likely that President Kennedy will face the same dilemma? How can he back down?”

The Soviet’s eyes were lidded. “It is not a matter of backing down, and the decision is not in your hands. You must tell your President that the Comrade General Secretary cannot turn the ship.”

Margo remembered Kennedy’s implicit expectation that she would not only convey his position but argue in favor of it.

“Mr. Fomin, the problem I believe the President has is that you keep asking him for things, or even demanding them—but you’re not offering anything in return. I think it’s fair to say that the President believes that America is the aggrieved party.”

“It makes no difference. The Comrade General Secretary cannot be the first to back down. He cannot lose face.”

“I don’t think President Kennedy can be the first to back down, either.”

Fomin signaled the waiter for another beer. “You are saying there is no solution. The negotiation is a waste of time.”

“Not exactly.” The idea sprang to mind, and she wanted to kick herself for not thinking of it before: textbook conflict theory. “It’s a classic example of what’s called the prisoner’s dilemma.”

Again Fomin cocked an eyebrow. “What is a prisoner’s dilemma?” he asked, still chewing.

For a moment, Margo was back in the classroom. Breezy. Confident. “Say that the sheriff knows that one of two suspects has committed a crime and arrests them both. Then he tells them—” she saw the Russian’s expression. “Um, never mind. Explaining it would take too long. But look at the situation. That ship is approaching the quarantine line. It can stop voluntarily; it can be forced to stop; or it can sail right through, untouched. If it stops voluntarily, Khrushchev loses. If it sails
right through, Kennedy loses. If it’s forced to stop, that’s the worst of all, because that’s when you could have the kind of accident that leads to war.”

“I see. This prisoner’s dilemma is the name you give to a problem with no solution?”

“The solution to the prisoner’s dilemma typically requires mutual trust, and a degree of sacrifice—”

“Yes. We will sacrifice, and you will break your word. That is how the world has always dealt with Mother Russia.”

“That’s what makes it a prisoner’s dilemma. Both men have to sacrifice a little. Each side has to trust that the other will do as he promises. Otherwise, both will break their promises, and the cost to both will be a lot higher.”

“This is what Niemeyer teaches you? These abstractions?” Fomin’s hand made a chopping motion. “Do you know that the West has broken every promise it has ever made to us? Does Niemeyer teach you this, too? How, in the Great Patriotic War, your President Roosevelt promised to open a Western front by 1943, then left Russia to fight for its life in the East for another entire year? How, after the war, you promised us aid, but attached so many strings that to accept it would have meant an end to socialism in our country? How you swore you would never place offensive nuclear weapons in Turkey? And yet there they sit.”

She felt as if they had gone in a circle. “Mr. Fomin, if your side has nothing to offer—”

“The Comrade General Secretary has informed your President that he considers your naval blockade of our Cuban ally an unacceptable act of aggression. Naturally, we would not cooperate by allowing your country to stop or inspect our ships.”

About to reply, Margo sensed that more was coming. She took a small bite, and waited.

“I have told you that there are those in the Kremlin who seek a war with the Main Enemy, who believe that it is better to fight now, on our terms, rather than later, on yours. This faction is powerful, and the Comrade General Secretary must placate them. This is what you must tell your President, Miss Jensen. Wolves need fresh meat. Do you understand?”

“I’m not sure I do.”

“At times it is necessary to behave irrationally, in order to make one’s point. I am sure Niemeyer taught you this principle.”

“He did.”

“Very well. Then please inform your President that it may become necessary for the Comrade General Secretary to engage in a small act of irrationality, in order to placate his war faction.” He took a long swallow of beer, wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “At the same time, it is vital that your President control his own war faction. Otherwise he will force upon the Comrade General Secretary an unthinkable choice.”

Margo put her chopsticks down with a snap. “Are you saying that you’re going to launch some kind of attack?”

“Your President will understand the message, Miss Jensen. It is not required that you understand it as well.”

But she did. She understood perfectly; and was frightened out of her wits.

At the townhouse, the scene felt wrong. There were no agents inside this time, and she heard the music even before she reached the top of the stairs. The room was the same—the same hideously ornate bed, the same champagne on ice—but the sounds of Sinatra from the wooden stereo beneath the bar seemed inappropriate to the moment.

Also, the President had his shoes off.

She tried to talk about Fomin, but he kept telling her it would keep. He took her coat and told her how nice she smelled; he handed her a glass and watched until she’d drained half.

“Mr. President, about Fomin. He says Khrushchev is in trouble with his hard-liners and—”

“Hush. Listen.” He hummed a couple of bars. “He’s singing ‘Come Dance with Me.’ Hear it?”

“Yes, sir, but—”

“Then dance with me. Come on, Miss Jensen. Margo.” A wink as he topped off her glass. “It’ll help with the fiction.”

Kennedy was courteous but pushy, and finally she asked him, straight out, if he wanted to hear what Fomin had to say.

He smiled. “Dance first. Then you can tell me the whole story.”

“For a minute,” she said, as she had said to so many pushy men before—even if this pushy man was the President of the United States.

“Try to relax,” he said, as he gently put his arms around her.

Margo swallowed. It was the fiction; that was all. His arms tightened, and she allowed it. For a minute, she told herself. Just one more minute, and then they would stop and talk, and everything would be fine again. Another minute, maybe two. The President was just being careful. He had no other purpose—

“Mr. President, I really think we—”

“Ssssh. Relax, Miss Jensen. Margo. Margo. A lovely name.”

“Sir, please. Listen. Fomin said—”

“We can get to Fomin in a minute. Relax. It’s a dance.” He patted the back of her neck. “Come on. Head down on the shoulder. You know how this works.”

She felt a lethargy taking her. A delicious, dizzying warmth. A sense of relief that events were spinning out of her control. She felt his strong arms, his chest, the urgent pressure of his body. His scent. The sound of his humming. She nestled closer. He stroked her shoulder, and she heard the sigh before she realized that it was hers. He kissed her hair and she shivered. His hands moved—

“No,” she gasped, pushing free of him. “Stop. Don’t.”

The crooked smile. “It’s all part of the fiction.”

“I—Mr. President—”

“Come on. Let’s at least finish the dance.”

He stood not two feet from her, collar undone, handsome face flushed, hand held out toward her. How easy it would be to lose herself. A part of her wanted to.

With an effort, Margo took another step away. Kennedy was talking again, voice low and syrupy and persuasive, but she hardly noticed the words. And when she spoke again, she brought him up short.

“Mr. President, I think the Soviets are getting ready to shoot down one of our planes.”

For as long as it takes to switch gears, the President stared. “Did Fomin tell you that?”

“Not exactly.” She drew a breath: the A student, back on stage. “He said that you mustn’t stop the
Grozny.
He implied that the command and control that Khrushchev exercises over his forces aren’t as strong as you might imagine. He said that you must accept that it is necessary for him to give something to what he called his war faction. And that you must control your war faction. I think he was saying that if they shoot down a plane you mustn’t retaliate.”

“Is that so? Maybe you should tell him that we have a plan in place. If they shoot down a U-2, we’ll blow up the SAM site that fired the missile. No question, no negotiation. He leaves our planes alone.”

“Mr. President, I think what he was trying to say was that if you retaliate—even just against the SAMs—Khrushchev will be under enormous pressure to—”

“To strike back. We know, Miss Jensen. We’ve reasoned all this out. Our people figure that we’ll face some difficulties elsewhere, maybe Turkey, most likely Berlin. A proportionate response.”

“I think that’s what he was getting at.” She could not believe her own calm. Perhaps it was shock. “He said retaliation would force upon the General Secretary ‘an unthinkable choice.’ ”

“He said that? ‘Unthinkable’?”

“Yes, sir.”

Kennedy shook his head. “Taylor and LeMay and that crowd are going to just love this.” He put down his glass, too hard, and the champagne slopped onto the polished wood. He didn’t notice. “I have to go.”

“Let’s assume she’s right,” said Bobby Kennedy. It was Friday afternoon. Last night they had agreed to sleep on Margo’s theory. The
Grozny
was still steaming toward the blockade line, but slowly. There was time to think. This morning’s ExComm was devoted to discussing disturbing new U-2 images that showed work proceeding on the missiles at an accelerated pace. There was talk of strengthening the blockade, but also of going in fast, perhaps as soon as Monday, to take out the launch sites. Neither the President, his brother, nor Bundy—the only three in the room aware of the back channel—had said a word about the possibility that one of the U-2s might be shot down. Now, in the Oval Office, the President wanted to talk it out.

“Let’s assume that the Soviets plan to shoot down one of our U-2s,” Bobby continued. “Fomin can’t seriously expect us to just sit here and do nothing.”

“Well, let’s slow down a minute,” Bundy began, but the attorney general rolled right over him.

“The ExComm has already discussed this, Mr. President. We have a protocol in place. If they shoot down a U-2, we attack their antiaircraft sites. We have to be able to keep eyes on the missiles, and they have to know that we’ll protect our ability to do so.” He was striding, gesturing, eyes bright with anger. “Taylor, LeMay, even McNamara—they’d hit the roof if we didn’t take action. Frankly, I wouldn’t put it past LeMay to order retaliation on his own initiative.”

“He has the delegated authority to do that,” said Bundy. “Unless, of course, the President should withdraw that authority.”

Kennedy was standing at the window, to all appearances studying the Rose Garden while his advisers fought this one out. “And why would I do that, Mac?” he asked, not turning.

“To avoid starting a war.”

Again Bobby cut in. “If the Reds shoot down one of our planes, they’re the ones who are committing an act of war.”

Bundy shook his head. “With respect, that’s not so. They’ve shot down our surveillance aircraft in other parts of the world. We’ve shot down theirs. Nobody’s thought that we have to fight. Our planes are over the sovereign territory of another country. Our pilots resign their commissions before they fly, precisely so that our overflights aren’t military incursions.” Back to the President: “Sir, I’m not saying we should do what Khrushchev seems to be suggesting. I do think that we should give it serious consideration.”

“You’re talking about sending an American pilot to his death and doing nothing,” said the attorney general.

Bundy ignored this sally. “The test is very simple, Mr. President. If the Soviets shoot down one of our planes this weekend, then I would say that
GREENHILL
’s interpretation is correct. The attack will be Khrushchev’s sop to his hard-liners.”

“And do you think he understands that I have hard-liners of my own to deal with? Hard-liners who are going to demand an attack on the SAM batteries?”

“I suspect, Mr. President, that Khrushchev is counting on you to be more firmly in control than he is.”

This was too much for Bobby. “If he’s not in control, why are we even negotiating with him? If he has to shoot down a plane to please the old guard, how do we know they can’t force him to fire off a missile or two?”