Back Channel (53 page)

“My understanding as of an hour ago is that she was on the way to the White House.”

“Then where is she?”

“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t have any further information.”

“You’re sure she’s not here?” said a bewildered McGeorge Bundy.

“Absolutely,” said the chief usher.

“There’s no way she could have snuck in?”

“The Secret Service are very good at their jobs, Mr. Bundy. That’s why they’ve never lost a President.”

The two men were standing in the hallway outside the Cabinet Room. Inside, the ExComm was marching toward war. The usher was impatient. He was an Irishman of some years, and Kennedy was his fifth President. He had a great deal of work to do, coordinating with the Secret Service to arrange the movement of the President and his family should the attack on Cuba go bad. Bundy couldn’t figure out what he had missed. Major Madison had been adamant in his assurances that
GREENHILL
was in the building. Was Madison wrong? Had the Russians managed to stop her? It would seem so, because the head of presidential protection was right: it was unlikely in the extreme that his detail would miss a black woman entering—

Wait.

“Can you tell me how many Negro women are in the building at this moment?”

The usher was surprised. “We don’t keep track of their race, Mr. Bundy. I’d guess, secretaries and maids and cooks included, thirty. Perhaps a handful more.”

“Visitors?”

“I’d have to check.”

“Okay. On my authority, I want every black woman who works in the White House assembled in the East Room inside of ten minutes. And track down every one who’s here on a visit.”

“Uh, Mr. Bundy, that smacks of—”

“I know what it smacks of. Just do it, please. On my authority.”

“Of course. But I shall need the assistance of the Secret Service.”

“Get whoever’s help you need. If they have problems, have them give my office a call.”

The usher hurried away. Bundy wished he could handle this, but he had to get back inside the Cabinet Room, to do what he could to stave off war. He glanced at Nate Esman, who was sitting in an armchair nearby in case he was summoned to the meeting. Esman knew nothing about the current operation, but …

“Nate.”

Instantly the pudgy young man was on his feet. “I’ll take care of it, boss.”

“Let me explain what you’re looking for.”

“Margo Jensen, alias
GREENHILL
.” A proud grin. “Don’t give me that look, boss. Come on. You had me skulking around looking for the leak, you had me delve into her background, and it’s pretty obvious that there’s been a back-channel negotiation and … never mind. I know you have to get back in there. If she’s in the building, I’ll find her.”

Margo had given up trying to escape the cuffs. She slumped in the chair, trying and failing to invent a strategy. She told herself that Donald Jensen wouldn’t have found it any sort of problem. And she had to get out. She had to get the message to Kennedy. But all she could do was bang her wrist against the table in frustration.

The door opened. The same Secret Service agent stepped in, followed by two other men in suits.

“Miss Jensen, these gentlemen are from the FBI. They’re here to take you into custody.”

One of them was already releasing her from the chair and cuffing her wrists afresh behind her back.

Margo looked around at the hard faces. Then she turned back to the Secret Service man. “Please. Even if they have to take me, you have to let Mr. Bundy know where I am. He’s going to be looking for me.”

“Somehow I doubt that.”

“Will you just try? It’s vital to—to the nation’s security.”

“Miss Jensen, believe it or not, with the missiles in Cuba, the President’s special assistant for national security affairs has bigger things on his mind than your fate. Now, please don’t make any trouble.”

It took longer than the chief usher estimated to gather all the Negro women who worked at the White House to the East Room. Esman, whose parents had marched for civil rights in the 1950s, and whose sister had been beaten during last year’s Freedom Rides, was offended. The young man admired everything about his boss except a single-mindedness of purpose that distracted him from ordinary moral concerns.

“Let them leave,” he told the agent on duty, a pleasant Georgian in his late thirties called Youngblood.

As the women filed out, some bemused and some angry, he kept a lookout for anyone who matched the photograph he held in his hand, but nobody did.

The chief usher was beside him. “That’s everybody,” he said.

Esman frowned. “These were all staff?”

“Yes.”

“No visitors?”

“Not officially,” said Youngblood.

Esman rounded on him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“There’s one girl who snuck in with a false ID.”

“Why didn’t you say so? Where is she?”

“Last I heard, she was locked up in the basement.”

At ten minutes past eleven, Bundy slipped out of the Cabinet Room into the foyer. Janet was waiting.

“Any word?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Bundy. Nate Esman went off with the chief usher half an hour ago, and I haven’t seen him since.”

The national security adviser looked around. The foyer was unusually crowded. Most of those waiting were military aides. A direct line had been set up to the Signals Office, so that the President’s attack order might be transmitted precisely at noon.

In the Cabinet Room, a couple of members of the ExComm were continuing to fight a holding action, but support for any option except bombing and invasion was crumbling. Even Bobby Kennedy was finally running with the hounds—and not just as devil’s advocate.

Bundy slipped back into his chair. It was time to put aside childish hopes and begin planning for the war.

“We have to discuss evacuation,” he said.

Several heads turned. “Of what? Essential personnel?”

“Of our cities,” said Bundy.

Infected by Esman’s energy, Youngblood led him in a charge down the winding staircase. They burst into the room, only to find it empty.

“I guess the FBI already came for her,” said the agent.

Jack Ziegler and Viktor Vaganian were sitting in a car three blocks north of the White House, along Sixteenth Street.

“You should have arranged to take her yourself,” said Viktor.

“Too complicated once she’s inside the gates.”

“But surely your President can order her release!”

“The idea is to get her out of the building before that happens. Sure, eventually they’ll find out that Margo Jensen has been arrested. But look at the clock. Almost eleven. The planes will be in the air soon. The FBI only needs to hold her until noon. Then the attack begins.”

Viktor watched the thin stream of pedestrians. He had never known Washington to be so empty.

“Has it occurred to you, my friend, that, in our efforts to prevent
our governments from appearing weak, we are bringing down horror upon all of these innocent people?”

“Are you turning sentimental on me, Viktor Borisovich?”

“To be a true socialist is also to be a realist. It is you capitalists who cannot live with the consequences of your actions and therefore constantly deny them or blame them on others. I refuse to hide my eyes from that which I have caused.”

“You’re not going to cause anything, because there isn’t going to be a war.” Ziegler checked his watch again. “We’re going into Cuba, and your man isn’t going to do a thing about it.”

“You are wrong, my friend.”

“You can stop all that ‘my friend’ stuff, too. I’m not your friend. This is a business collaboration. We’ve always been enemies. We’ll always be enemies.”

Nyekulturny,
Viktor reminded himself. Not the man’s fault.

“I must return to my embassy now,” he said.

This got Ziegler’s attention. “Why?” he asked, suspiciously.

“I have an appointment with the traitor you call Aleksandr Fomin. He has betrayed the Motherland and must be placed under arrest.”

“He was acting under Khrushchev’s orders.”

“Once the bombing begins, the Comrade General Secretary will either deny that order or no longer be giving any.”

The FBI agents led her politely to a dark sedan parked at the crest of the driveway on the Pennsylvania Avenue side. One of them joined her in the back seat while the other slid in beside the driver. Up to this point, they had been deaf to both her entreaties and her arguments. The car headed down the drive, and Margo, turning her head, watched disbelieving as the White House into which she had so easily gained entry receded—

The driver slammed on the brakes.

A pudgy young man was standing in the road. A dark-haired Secret Service agent looked on curiously from the grass.

One of the FBI men stepped out.

“What’s going on?” she heard through the open door.

“I’m afraid you can’t take Miss Jensen,” said the pudgy man.

“And who are you exactly?”

“Nathaniel Esman, chief deputy to the President’s special assistant for national security affairs.”

The FBI man folded his arms. “Well, Mr. Esman, I don’t work for your boss, and I certainly don’t work for you. Now, get out of the way, or I’ll place you under arrest for obstruction.”

Esman turned to the man on the lawn. “Agent Youngblood. Do not let this car leave the grounds. I’ll be right back.”

It was another room, much like the first, although this time there was a window giving on an air shaft. A guard removed the cuffs and left her alone. A moment later, McGeorge Bundy stepped inside.

“Thank God,” he said, and the Catholic in him seemed to mean it. “We’ve been looking all over for you.”

He ordered the agent to wait outside.

Margo rubbed her wrists. “How did you even know I was here?” she asked, a bit stupidly.

“I got a call from your friend Major Madison. He seems like a good man, Miss Jensen. Never mind. Now, please. Tell me the message from Fomin, so that I can convey it to the President.”

“No.”

Bundy was startled. “What did you say?”

“I said, no. I’m sorry. The message is for the President’s ears only.”

He took his time. “You know who I am, Miss Jensen. I recruited you. I briefed you. I have the President’s ear, at this moment, more than anyone else, with the possible exception of his brother. You can tell me.”

“I don’t think so.”

“If you tell the President, I’m the first one he’ll consult in any case.”

“That’s up to him, Mr. Bundy. But after last night, I’m afraid I don’t trust anybody.” She lifted her chin, every inch a Jensen. “I have to see the President myself.”

Bundy shook his head. “I’m sorry, Miss Jensen. I don’t see how that’s going to be possible. We’re just about out of time. The President is in an emergency meeting. He can’t duck out to come down to visit you in the basement.”

“Then take me upstairs.”

“If you go upstairs, Miss Jensen, everyone will see you.”

“So what? All that will do is confirm what they already believe. That I’m having an affair with the President.” She almost smiled. “The fact that I’m being escorted by the national security adviser will simply add a certain spice to the tale.”

“I’ll seem to be a procurer. And what people will think of the President—”

“Mr. Bundy, you and the President have asked me to risk my reputation for the good of the country. I’ve been arrested twice, I’ve been kidnapped, and I’ve been shot at. It seems to me entirely reasonable that you and the President should also pay a small reputational price. If my presence in the White House embarrasses you, I apologize. But remember. History will record me as just another presidential mistress. If you take me upstairs, maybe you’re right, and history will record you as a procurer. But I’m ready to convey Fomin’s message only to the President. The question, then, is whether you and he are prepared to pay the same price you’ve demanded of me.”

Bundy pondered. He took off his glasses and polished them. Margo didn’t know what had gotten into her, speaking that way to a man of his eminence. And Bundy evidently wondered the same thing, or so she judged from his moue of disapproval. She wondered whether she had pressed too far. But then, to her surprise and immense relief, Bundy almost smiled—not quite, but it was a near thing. He slipped his horn-rimmed glasses back on. “And he that rolleth a stone, it will return upon him. Well, well.” He stood. “You make a reasonable point, Miss Jensen. I can certainly see why Fomin trusts you.” He walked over to the door and knocked. A guard opened it at once. “Come with me, then.”

“It’s good to see you again, Margo. I hear you’ve had a time of it.”

“Yes, Mr. President.” She had met the President on five occasions
now, had allowed him certain liberties, but she was awed nevertheless to be in his presence in the fabled Oval Office. She wondered whether people were whispering already about why Kennedy had left his meeting.

“Would you like a drink?”

“No, thank you, sir.”

“Mind if I have one?” He was already pouring. He poured a second, held the glass toward her. She shook her head. He smiled ruefully, set it down on the coffee table, and seated himself in the rocker. “So. I understand you have a message for me.”

“Yes, sir.” Margo had spent every calm moment rehearsing the words, so as to leave nothing out. “I am told that the General Secretary agrees to the entire arrangement, with one amendment. Whatever you decide to say publicly, you must agree privately to remove the Jupiters within a year. Khrushchev will trust your word on this.”

Kennedy took a moment to ponder. “You know, I just might be able to sell that to the ExComm. It won’t make everybody happy, but …” He trailed off, and his eyes found her again. “What about the other matter? Making sure of who we’re dealing with?”

“I am also told that, on the first night of the summit, the General Secretary sat beside the First Lady. The First Lady asked him not to bore her with statistics.”