Back Channel (43 page)

“I’ll think about it.”

“Think hard, Miss Jensen. And before you go running to Bundy, or call your emergency number, remember one thing.” The smile was growing more confidently terrifying by the minute. “We know where your grandmother lives.”

The driver dropped her outside the Riggs National Bank on Wisconsin Avenue in Georgetown. The fallback where Margo would meet Fomin was miles away, down on the Mall, across from the Museum of Natural History, but she had no intention of helping Ziegler’s associate guess where she was going.

She had been betrayed. Again. Fomin had warned that there were those in the Administration who would seek to close the back channel if they learned of it, and, oh, how right he was. But Ziegler had made an error. He had made a threat where none was necessary. He must have known that she would have no choice but to deliver the letter, and yet he had mentioned Nana anyway.

“Big mistake,” Margo said aloud.

She hailed a cab.

“I have a letter for you,” Margo said.

Fomin said nothing. On this, their fifth encounter in Washington, his reticence had expanded until it encompassed his entire being. In the darkness, his rugged face achieved, if anything, a greater immobility.

“Did you hear me?” she asked.

The Soviet was a moment answering. They were seated on a cracked wooden bench. Across the way, the floodlit marble façade of
the Museum of Natural History gleamed whitely. Margo had visited the museum as a child, just after the war, when the right of colored visitors to use the bathrooms was yet an unresolved question.

“Your clothes are rumpled,” Fomin finally said.

She instinctively drew her collar together. “I beg your pardon.”

“This fiction you play with your President—it cannot be easy for you.”

“It isn’t.”

“He should be ashamed of himself. In socialism, we believe in the purity of our women. We do not abuse them, as the capitalists do. To the capitalist male, you will never be other than property. You are aware of this?”

She didn’t hesitate. “Mr. Fomin, I’m not here for a political debate. I told you that I have a letter.”

He cocked his head as if listening to something in the middle distance. “This is why you were late?”

“Yes.”

“Because you were receiving the letter, along with certain instructions?”

“Yes.” She held the envelope toward him. “I didn’t read it. You can inspect the seal.”

“No.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You may keep the letter, Miss Jensen. I would further suggest that you burn the pages as soon as practicable.” He lifted his head like an animal scenting the air. “No. No. You are not followed. They would not take the chance.”

“Please. Take the letter. You at least should read it.”

“There is no need, Miss Jensen. I have read this letter already, many times.” Fomin crossed his long legs. “I was in my early twenties when the Great Patriotic War began. Naturally, I volunteered. Everyone was expected to defend the Motherland. I was a bright lad, so they assigned me to an intelligence unit. When the Nazis invaded the Motherland, the Red Army made a temporary tactical withdrawal. I was part of a group tasked to remain behind. I was tasked with helping organize what is called a
réseau.
Do you know this word?”

“You told me in Varna. It means a spy network.”

“Yes. Network. I organized a network. I pretended to be a simple
farmer. I lived and worked on a farm, and meanwhile used my
réseau
to carry out sabotage operations against the fascist invader. Similar to your father’s work. We put plastique in the treads of tanks by night. Once, we managed to blow up a fuel depot. And fuel, as you may know, is everything in war. Everything.”

The night had acquired a campfire stillness. Margo found the story hypnotic.

“Sabotage is a nuisance,” Fomin continued. “No war has ever been won or lost because of sabotage, but certainly the tactic increases the enemy’s costs of doing battle. You may therefore well imagine that the fascist invader was determined to learn who was committing these acts of sabotage. They went from house to house. They smashed furniture, they stole, they raped, sometimes they murdered a son or a grandfather. They beat me twice because I was a male, and the right age. They were only making more enemies, of course, but they knew no other method than fear to achieve their ends. And at each stop they left a leaflet with instructions. To contact the local commandant if we saw anything suspicious. To cooperate with all orders of the fascist occupier. To remain indoors after curfew. And that the penalty for disobedience, however small, was death. And of course, as you know, death at the hands of the Nazis was not an honorable experience.” During this last sentence, his head had turned toward her at last. The dark eyes were hard. “The letter that you wish to deliver to me is not from your President. He is too intelligent to put a proposal in writing. Therefore, it is from elsewhere in your security apparatus.”

“Yes. It’s from a man named—”

“His name is irrelevant. His letter will contain demands, questions, threats. It is the same as the leaflet from the fascist occupier. I refused to read the ravings of the fascists then. I refuse to read them now.”

Margo was perplexed. Jack Ziegler’s warnings bubbled through her mind. “Please, Mr. Fomin. All I’m asking is that you take the letter. Whether you read it is up to you.”

“No.”

“But we’re not the Nazis. We’re not the fascist occupier. We—”

“It makes no difference how you see yourselves. To me, to those
who love Mother Russia, you are the Main Enemy, and you shall remain the Main Enemy until your ultimate defeat. For the moment we are collaborating, because the time is not right for the final battle. But make no mistake. When we are ready, at a time of our choosing, the battle will come. In the meanwhile, Miss Jensen, I have no interest in your internecine struggles.” His voice softened. “Listen to me. I have no doubt that pressure was brought upon you to force you to cooperate with whoever wrote the letter. It is my advice that you ignore the pressure. Their intimidation is a tactic. If it fails, they will choose another.”

She shook her head. “I wish I could believe that.”

“You are a brave woman, Miss Jensen. That you would wish no harm to those you love is not what distinguishes you. What distinguishes you is the ability to soldier on despite those risks.”

“But—”

“I ran the
réseau
for eight months, Miss Jensen. I courted the daughter of a local tradesman. I received the permission of her father to marry her when the war concluded. Shortly after the celebration of our engagement, I was recalled to Moscow, to be sent to a different theater to build a new
réseau.
It was difficult leaving my beloved, but I was a soldier. The Nazis were in full retreat. I went about my duties in another theater, sustained by the knowledge that the war would soon end, and I would be united once more with my beloved. After the surrender, I returned to the village to find her. But the village no longer existed. The fascist invader had taken revenge as he left, Miss Jensen. The Nazis had arrested the young woman and her father and her mother and her two older brothers and her three younger sisters. Then they burned the surrounding farms. Only one of the younger girls was left alive, and she was horribly disfigured. The rest died, Miss Jensen, none pleasantly. My fiancée was not among the survivors. Nevertheless, I performed my duty, and the war was won. My loss was not inconsiderable, but it was only a tiny piece of a catastrophe that swept the nation. I was a soldier, and, if called upon to defend the Motherland, and knowing the costs in advance, I would do the same again.” His gaze was bright and intense. “Threats to your loved ones are not uncommon. Most likely they are bluffing.”

Bluffing. So much of Niemeyer’s course was about bluff and counter-bluff. And the purpose of bluffing, as he endlessly reminded
them, was not always to fool the adversary; the true purpose was to keep the adversary uncertain. And in the case of Jack Ziegler—

“Suppose they’re not bluffing,” she said.

“It can make no possible difference. We are fighting one war to avoid another. It is the fate of the world we hold in our hands.” He turned away, the subject of Jack Ziegler’s letter closed. “Now. I assume that you have a counter-proposal for me.”

Margo swallowed. She felt teary, yet another part of her mind wondered whether any part of Fomin’s story was true.

“I do,” she said.

“Please present it.”

She did, explaining it just as Kennedy had explained it to her: that his advisers wanted him to retaliate for the downing of the U-2; that he was prepared to withhold the attack if Khrushchev would offer a gesture of good faith; that a deal was still possible if Friday’s offer to remove the missiles from Cuba in return for his promise not to invade remained on the table; and that any exchange of the Jupiter missiles in Turkey and Italy was out of the question.

“I see,” said Fomin when Margo was done. “Your President’s proposal, then, is that we remove the missiles and get nothing in return? Does he understand that the Comrade General Secretary would fall at once from power?”

“The President said to remind you that it was Khrushchev himself who made the offer on Friday.” She steeled herself. “And there’s something else. Before a deal can be reached, the President wants to be sure that he is in fact dealing with Khrushchev.”

“What assurances can I offer?”

“I don’t know. But the President asked me to convey the importance of that condition. If you cannot persuade him by this time tomorrow that he is indeed dealing with the General Secretary, there will be no deal.”

“That would mean war, Miss Jensen.”

“Yes, sir,” said Margo. “It would.”

It was nearly eleven, but Margo’s night was far from over. This time there was no Warren waiting to drive her. She wondered what had become of him: was he a conspirator, or had the conspirators gotten rid of him? But she had more immediate concerns.

She needed advice; and help.

She knew better than to call the emergency number, and she had no doubt that Dr. Harrington’s house would be under surveillance. So she found a phone booth on Constitution Avenue, near the federal courthouse, and called the only other person she could think of.

Jerry Ainsley listened for thirty seconds, then told her to stop talking.

“Do you remember where I took you a week ago Friday?”

“Yes.”

“Find a taxi. Go straight there. Wait for me inside, near the front, where it’s bright and crowded.”

“When will you be there?”

“As soon as I can. I have to check a couple of things first.”

This time he took her from the diner to his apartment, a high-ceilinged second-floor walk-up near American University. She supposed that the building had once been a single mansion. There were three rooms, and
a balcony overlooking an interior courtyard where the shrubbery had missed its autumn trimming, and probably its spring trimming, too. They sat at the kitchen table while she told him the story. He listened quietly, occasionally freshening her tea, and she could feel the tight attentiveness in his strange, orangey eyes. She had the sense that, had she asked, Jerry Ainsley could have quoted her testimony word for word.

When she was done, he stood and stretched and went over to the sink to put more water in the kettle. “Those bastards,” he said. “How could they put you in this position?”

“I volunteered.”

“They manipulated you.” He turned on the flame. “They’ve been manipulating you since day one.”

“This isn’t about me.” Margo was surprised at her own umbrage. “It’s about the missiles in Cuba.”

“Tell that to Jack Ziegler.” A thought struck him. “How much do you know about him, anyway?”

“I know I don’t like him very much.”

“Well, just wait until you know him better. You won’t like him at all.” Jerry Ainsley’s toothy grin had the same New England charm as the President’s. “I’ve known him for a while, Margo. And what I can tell you about him is that he’s a carrion eater.” He saw her blank look. “You know. A beast that lives off of what more powerful carnivores leave behind. If you’re encountering the Jack Zieglers of the world, that means somebody with an awful lot of influence is out to get you.” Then he asked the question she least anticipated. “Have you and the President been intimate?”

Margo blinked. She could not possibly have heard him correctly. “I beg your pardon.”

“You and Kennedy. The affair’s a fake, right? It’s not real? There’s nothing to it?”

“Of course it’s not real. Why would you ask that?”

“Wait here.” He went into the next room and returned a moment later with the late edition of the
Evening Star.
He flipped a couple of pages. “Have you seen this?”

She looked, and looked again. There was even a photograph of poor Erroll Haar, lying bloody in the street.

“They’re setting you up, Margo,” he said as she continued to stare.

“Setting me up for what?” she asked, faintly. Two men who bothered her, she kept thinking. Two hit-and-run accidents.

“Lots of people know about the affair. Okay, okay.” Holding up a hand. “Fine. It’s not a real affair. But people think it is. It’s an open secret, Margo. And the FBI knows that this guy bothered you the other day. The FBI knows, and, well, some of the people who do what I do—we also know. Are you with me?”

“Yes.” Faintly.

“Now, I don’t think for a moment that the Secret Service would let anybody follow Kennedy around with a camera and take pictures through the window. That means your own people leaked it. Maybe Bundy’s people. Are you following me?”

“I—I had the same thought after I met him. Mr. Haar.”

“Good. Now, let’s work backward.” Jerry leaned against the sink, folding his arms. “Think about it, Margo. Tonight is the crucial night. The key offer that you’re bringing to Fomin, the key questions—that’s all tonight. And today just so
happens
to be the day Haar is killed. And tonight just
happens
to be the night that Ziegler tries to wreck the negotiation. That’s not coincidence. That’s planning.”