Back Channel (44 page)

“You’re saying they know what’s going on in the White House? Not just when I’m meeting Fomin, but what messages I’m carrying? Because the President says the only people who know the details are him and his brother and Mr. Bundy.”

“Are you very sure?”

“Yes.”

Ainsley was seated across from her again. He took her hands. “Margo. Do you mind if I call you Margo? Listen. Carefully. I’ve asked you not to tell me the content of any of the messages you’ve carried between the President and Fomin. And I still don’t want you to do that.” His grip tightened. Those peculiar pupils, seen so close, were a fiery gold. She flinched away as his gaze bored into hers. “What I do want you to do is to think about tonight’s conversation with Jack Ziegler. Was there anything in it—anything at all—that would suggest that he knows what’s in those messages?”

“I don’t think so,” she said. “He said Kennedy was being duped, and he said Fomin’s people weren’t close to Khrushchev, but he didn’t say anything about the actual content of the back-channel negotiations. I think he was fishing.”

“And you didn’t tell him anything?”

“Nothing. I didn’t even admit knowing Fomin.”

Jerry let go of her hands. “Good. Very good. Then the reason he intercepted you tonight has to do with another aspect of the crisis, external to the messages. But somebody sent him. Somebody chose tonight.” Ainsley was on his feet again, the sort of active man who thought best in motion. He was very different now from the foppish diplomatic fixer she’d met in Bulgaria. “Let’s go out on the balcony.”

The balcony was cramped, aging concrete with a cast-iron rail. The furniture was modern and cheap—folding chairs, plastic straps stretched over chrome frames. Her coat was buttoned tightly against the night chill.

“Jack Ziegler used to be one of our traveling salesmen,” Ainsley resumed. “Do you know what that means? No? It means he wouldn’t have a permanent overseas assignment with diplomatic cover, like I did in Bulgaria. He’d go where he was needed. To fix problems that arise. I can’t give you more details, but you get the picture. Men who do what Ziegler does typically are fluent in two or three languages, and understand more than a smattering of two or three more. He left the Agency a couple of years ago. I haven’t kept track of him, but it sounds like he’s a freelancer now. And he’s very good at his work, so I’m told. Young to be so prominent—I think he’s just thirty—but he has quite a reputation, let me tell you. He’s not a man you want as an enemy, Margo, believe me.” He glanced at her. He had poured himself a Scotch, but she was sticking with tea. “What I’m saying is, if you back out now, I don’t think anybody will have cause to blame you.”

“Back out?” Despite her exhaustion, she sat up straighter. “You’re telling me to abandon the negotiations? What are you, the good cop?”

He laughed. “Before you start accusing me of being part of the conspiracy, let me clarify. As it happens, I don’t think you should back out. I think what you’re doing is heroic, and, obviously, important. But if you decide to go a different way, I would respect that decision. That’s all I’m saying.”

“And who’d carry the messages?”

“I’m sure they’d think of something.”

“Fomin says I’m the only one he trusts.”

“He might even be telling the truth.” A long swallow. “But he lies for a living, Margo. Who knows what he really thinks? The point is, if Ziegler and his patron had decided to make you disappear tonight, I very much doubt that the negotiations would have ended. Slowed down, maybe, while they worked out the details. But not ended.”

She remembered the desperation in Bundy’s manner the night they first met, a thousand years ago. “I’m not so sure,” she said. “I think if anything happened to me Fomin might run for cover.”

“So—you’re going on?”

She swallowed. Nodded.

“Okay. You can stay here tonight. No, no, don’t argue. I need to be able to keep an eye on you. Just in case. And don’t worry about your roommate. I’m sure she’ll assume … Well, we both know what she’ll assume. Sorry, Margo. That’s the role you took on when you said yes.”

Another nod. She couldn’t meet his eyes.

“You told the President what happened to her?”

“Yes.”

“Then Bundy will probably have somebody keep an eye on her. Not out of altruism—they just can’t afford to have you scared off. Now. What else? I have a colleague checking, very quietly, to see if anything has befallen a Secret Service agent whose first name or last is Warren. That was one of the things I had to do before I picked you up tonight. I’ll also arrange for somebody to keep an eye on your grandmother for the duration, although it’s possible that Bundy has already thought of that. I wouldn’t take Ziegler’s threat too seriously—probably he was just trying to scare you. Still, it pays to be sure.”

She sagged with relief. And dizzying gratitude at the swiftness with which he had assumed control. If he was one of the bad guys, then so be it. She was tired of fighting alone.

Meanwhile, Ainsley was still laying out the rules. “Tomorrow I’m going to drive you to meet Fomin, because, for all we know, there are Secret Service people who are part of this. And I’ll also be driving you to meet the President afterward.”

“Fomin won’t be able to reach me with the meeting time.”

“You can call your roommate and ask if there were any messages.”

“I’ll need clothes.” She swallowed. “A—a fancy dress. To meet the President.”

“We’ll buy whatever you need.”

“It’s Sunday,” she said. “What if I want to go to church?”

They both knew she was now raising objections for the sake of raising objections, but Ainsley treated it seriously.

“There’s a Bible on the shelf. You can pray here if you want.” He stood. “Come. Let’s go inside.”

The bedroom was small but pristinely kept. She was increasingly nervous, and again thought of Nana. She had never spent the night in a man’s apartment.

“Thank you for helping me,” she said.

“Dr. Harrington thinks the world of you,” he answered. He was at the closet, pulling out towels, a bathrobe, a nightshirt. “That counts for a lot with me.” He set everything on the narrow bed. “Besides, what you’re doing is vital. I’m not particularly interested in seeing the world blown to bits.”

She smiled.

“Well, thank you anyway,” she said, and, to her surprise, got up on her toes and pecked him lightly on the cheek.

“I’ll be right outside,” he said, crisply. “If anything bothers you—a bad dream, some sound outside the window, anything—give a holler.”

“I don’t think I can sleep.”

“You’ll sleep fine, Margo. Don’t worry.”

“May I ask you one more question?”

He was like a man on a mission, forcing patience upon himself as once again departure was postponed. “Of course.”

“How well do you know Dr. Harrington?”

“I’d never met her before last Friday.”

“But you said you admire her.”

“No. I said that her endorsement of you means a lot.” He was checking that the window was locked. “Doris Harrington has quite a reputation, Margo. She’s not an easy woman to impress.”

“Agatha admires her a lot.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“Because they’re both women?”

“Because they’re both killers.” His voice had gone cold. “I know, I
know. You think everybody who works for the CIA can kill ten Commies with a swipe of a pinkie. But that’s not the way it works, even in Plans Directorate. There are people who do what most of us do, and then there are people who do what Agatha does. She kills with her bare hands, Margo. She’s very good at it.”

“Then how—I mean, in Varna—they beat her up.”

“There were eight or ten of them, according to what I heard. And if I know Agatha, she might have killed one or two before they got her down.” He saw her face. “She’s fine, Margo. You don’t need to send a get-well card. She’s like Ziegler—a traveling salesman. Saleswoman.” She heard the stony disapproval in his voice, and understood that he would rather work for a Central Intelligence Agency that didn’t employ such people. “I’m sure she’s off on some other assignment by now.”

“Well, I guess now I know,” said Margo, unaware that she had spoken aloud until he answered.

“Know what?”

“Why the people we met—people who do what you do—why they all seemed to be afraid of her.”

“She’s said to have a temper,” he conceded. “At the camp, a couple of the boys who bothered her—well, from what I understand, they were in no shape to graduate when she was through. She’s made a lot of enemies, I’ll put it that way.” Back to the closet. This time he took down a metal box with a combination lock. He pulled out a small gun. “Do you know how to use one of these?”

“No.”

He showed her. “This is the Beretta 1951. Safety on. Safety off. Work the slide like so. Eight rounds in the magazine. Just point and shoot. Don’t worry about aiming. Point at your target and pull the trigger.” He handed it to her. “Light and portable, but plenty of stopping power. Just in case.”

Margo’s lips quivered. She couldn’t quite manage a third thank-you, and Ainsley’s story about Agatha had rocked her, even though it was no worse than what she had suspected.

“Lock the door,” he said, backing out of the room. “And keep it locked until you hear my voice telling you to open it.”

“Wait.”

“What’s wrong?”

“ ‘Jerry.’ What’s it short for?”

That lovely smile again as his eyes softened. “Alas, my parents saddled me with ‘Jericho.’ Walls and all.”

He was gone.

But he was right. From the moment her head hit the pillow, Margo slept soundly. So soundly that she never heard him creep from the apartment; or return.

On Sunday morning, the
Grozny
stopped short of the quarantine line. Earlier, it had slowed, which was why it had reached the blockade two days later than expected. Today the ship had throttled back its engines. The President was in the residence, about to head out to 10 a.m. mass at St. Matthew the Apostle, when Bundy called upstairs with the news. “Are they sure?” Kennedy asked.

“Yes, Mr. President. He’s dead in the water.”

“And it’s definitely the
Grozny
? It’s not—I don’t know—a duplicate?”

“Sir, Navy jets have been shadowing the ship for two days. The missile components are still carried openly on the deck. It’s definitely the
Grozny.
”

“So Khrushchev’s ready to listen to reason after all.”

Relief was patent in Kennedy’s voice, and his national security adviser wished he didn’t have to say the rest.

“I’m afraid there’s more, Mr. President. I was just on with the DDI. He says the Soviets are actually accelerating work on the missile launchers.”

“The SAMs?”

“No, sir. The ballistic launchers. They’re speeding things up.”

A long silence. “Are we sure?”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“So, on the one hand, Khrushchev says he wants peace and he stops
the
Grozny,
and on the other hand, he’s getting the launchers ready for war?”

“Mr. President, you ordered
GREENHILL
to ask for a gesture of good faith to hold off retaliation for the U-2 shoot-down. Stopping the
Grozny
might be that gesture. As for speeding up work, well, there’s no deal in place yet. Wouldn’t we do the same in his position?”

“Well, that’s very even-handed of you, Mac, but I’d have preferred if Khrushchev abandoned all work on the missiles. That would be a real gesture of good faith. Whereas stopping one ship while he speeds up the work is kind of …” He trailed off. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter what I think. LeMay and that crowd will see it as a trick.”

“Quite possibly, sir.”

“Will they be right?”

“I’m afraid we don’t have enough information. Not until Fomin gets back to
GREENHILL
.”

“Right. And the deadline is in—let’s see—twenty-eight hours. We attack Cuba tomorrow at two o’clock.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

Another pause. Then, more decisively: “Get the ExComm in early. I’ll be back from mass around eleven. Let’s start then.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“Oh, and, Mac?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Get in touch with
GREENHILL
. I want to know when she’s seeing Fomin.”

No point in not saying the rest. “Mr. President, we may have a bit of a problem there. We’ve already called her apartment twice—Janet does the calling, using code words and so forth—and, well, her roommate seems to be trying to cover for her, but Janet thinks
GREENHILL
never came home last night.”

Margo was still in bed. Ashamed of herself, frightened, exhilarated, confident. Despite her misgivings, she had fallen asleep the instant her head hit the pillow, and when she opened her eyes it was quarter past nine. Two mornings in a row now, sleeping late. Not like her at all.
Margo had been taught from childhood to be early to bed and early to rise.

And not to wake up in a strange man’s bed—or any man’s bed, for that matter, until the man was her husband.

That the man in question had slept in the other room only made the whole episode that much odder.

A bulbous stain marred the plastered ceiling, and Margo allowed her eyes to follow it. She smiled wistfully, wondering whether she and Tom were still a couple; and wondering other things besides. She yawned. She could see the other interns at the office, snickering together as they tried to figure out exactly who Margo’s secret man might be. She imagined their reactions if they could see her now, in her borrowed nightshirt, hair nearly beyond repair. She rolled onto her side to look out the window, and spotted, on the bedside table, the pistol Ainsley had given her last night.

The humor went out of her face.

Everything came back to her then: not only the missiles, but Ziegler, and Patsy, and poor dead Erroll Haar, and—

A light rapping on the door.

Margo hopped from the bed. The nightshirt was really too short. She pulled on the robe, tiptoed across the plank floor, laid her cheek against the wood.