Back Channel (55 page)

“Sir, my only cause is the security of the nation.”

“Well, I’m just glad you’re on our side.” Kennedy leaned on the balustrade, gazing out over the city that was now safe from nuclear destruction. “I assume you have a plan?”

“Yes, Mr. President. Now that we’ve persuaded Khrushchev we’re willing to act, I don’t think we’ll have trouble negotiating the removal of the bombers. As for the tactical warheads, Castro will do his best to get the Soviets to leave them in place, because he’s terrified now that we might invade. But, under the circumstances, I would think that Khrushchev won’t listen to him. The tactical warheads will be gone before the end of the year, and we won’t have to give anything up to get them.”

“Unless you’re wrong.”

“Yes, sir. If the bombers or the tactical warheads are still in Cuba two months from now, you’ll have my resignation.”

“Oh, I think if those bombers stay in Cuba, the United States might have slightly bigger problems than the fate of one McGeorge Bundy.” Then he laughed. “You and Niemeyer. They say you don’t get along, but you’re just like him. Sitting there, thinking you’re smarter than everybody else, manipulating everybody to build the world you want.” The President was leafing through a folder. He pulled out a memorandum, waved it toward his national security adviser. “So tell me, then. Off the record. As long as you’re busy rearranging the world, what do you think we should do about Vietnam?”

“Sir?”

“I followed your advice on Cuba and we didn’t do too badly. So give me advice about Asia. The Joint Chiefs want to send more troops. My political people think we’re in too deep already. They think it could kill the party in ’64. Now I want your view. And remember”—waggling a finger—“the future of America is at stake. Again.”

Jericho Ainsley had driven her to the meeting with Fomin. She would ride with no one else. Their reunion had taken place in a crowded White House anteroom. Now they were once more alone together—for the last time, she suspected—as he drove her back to the apartment. Margo still was not sure precisely who had conspired against her, but she accepted Agatha’s word that Jerry was one of the good guys. And she doubted entirely that all of the bad guys were in custody.

As it turned out, she was righter than she could have imagined.

“That man Ziegler,” she asked sleepily, “the one who tried to push things off the rails. What’s going to happen to him?”

Ainsley was a moment answering. “Nothing, I suspect.”

This jolted her wide awake. “I thought he’d been arrested!”

“They’ll have to let him go.”

“Why? I don’t understand. He tried to stop the negotiations. There could have been a war. Isn’t that treason, or disobedience of orders, or something? He can’t just get off!”

“Grow up, Margo,” said Ainsley. She had never heard his voice so harsh, but understood instinctively that his anger was not directed at her. “Washington has factions, just like the Kremlin. Part of the job of any successful President is to balance them one against another. Jack Ziegler and his coterie represent a faction, and a powerful one, within the government. Oh, there might be some resignations and early retirements,
people forced to move to the private sector, that kind of thing. But that’s all.”

His fingers tightened on the steering wheel.

“And I’ll tell you something else that you don’t want to hear. After the President made his deal with Khrushchev, General LeMay, the chief of staff of the Air Force, sent a confidential memorandum to the White House. Believe it or not, he wanted to bomb Cuba anyway. He called the decision not to do so the greatest defeat in the history of the nation. And do you know what the President is going to do to General LeMay as a result? Nothing. Not a thing. The good general will continue in his post, because the faction of which he is a part is a faction without which it is not possible to govern. Not now. Maybe not ever. That’s the brutal truth, Margo. I’m sorry.”

“But people are dead. My roommate was beaten up. Those aren’t factional squabbles. Those are crimes.”

“Oh, they’re going to say the Russians did it.”

“Even Dr. Harrington?”

“Especially Dr. Harrington. Because the alternative is to admit the truth.”

“What truth?”

“That, contrary to what you may have heard, the President doesn’t run the government.”

Margo wasn’t sure what to say to this, and so said nothing. She watched the grand federal buildings pass, and probably she fell asleep, because when she looked out again they were in the turnaround beside her apartment building. Jericho Ainsley courteously got out first and opened her door.

“Do you need me to come upstairs?”

She shook her head. “At this point, the only person I’ll need protection from is Patsy.” She hesitated. “But, Jerry, I—if you’re ever in Ithaca—not that anybody ever is …”

She dropped her eyes, unable to believe she was being so forward. He held on to her hand, touched her chin, made her look. That strange orange gaze was warmly assuring. “I’ll bear that in mind,” he said softly.

They hugged, awkwardly. But by now her analytical self was back, and before they parted she had another question.

“What you said before—if the government really is that divided—well, their side lost, right? They won’t take that lying down.”

The CIA man was gazing at the elementary school across the street. “You may have a point,” he finally said.

“Well, shouldn’t somebody do something?”

“There’s nothing to do, Miss Jensen. There’s nobody to do it to. This is just the way it is.” He gave a little bow and shut the car door behind her. “Still, if I were the President, I suppose I’d watch my back.”

PART IV
Credible Commitment

October 1962–March 1963

And so the two Great Powers stepped back from the nuclear brink. The world sighed with relief. For a little while, anyway, people even remembered to give thanks, because every day was a blessing. Then the news moved on—the Sino-Indian War, Richard Nixon’s campaign for governor of California, Cassius Clay calling his fourth-round knockout of Archie Moore all had their innings—and, as goods returned to grocery shelves and residents to the cities, the world moved on, too.

That’s what they told Margo to do: Move on. Forget. Discover your life once more.

She tried.

Nana’s house was like a foreign country. Margo wandered the many rooms, the furnishings scarcely changed since her childhood, and felt as if she was seeing it all for the first time. Had the living-room sofa always been quite this chintzy? Had the seascapes that lined the hallways always been so dismally rendered? Had the gravel driveway always been so pitted and warped? She pressed her anxious mind against these meaningless questions in order to drive away the meaningful ones.

For the first week, at least, Margo was convalescing royalty. It was plain to Claudia Jensen that her grandchild had been to terrible
places and seen terrible things, and if she wanted to eat dinner on a metal folding table in front of the television in the study—previously a breach of etiquette so severe that Nana would practically faint on the spot, but only after the bawling out—well, if that was what Margo wanted, that was what Margo got. And if she preferred to spend hours sitting in the rotting wooden playhouse down the slope from the mansion, Nana left her alone to do exactly that, never troubling herself, as only months ago she would have, over what venomous memories were whirling through her granddaughter’s head.

In the second week, Margo’s brother, Corbin, arrived from Ohio, wife Holly and two children in tow—but his physical presence only confirmed what both siblings already knew: they had little in common these days. Each found the other a constant reminder of a painful childhood both would rather forget. So Corbin spent his hours with Nana at the house, while Margo played with his children out in the yard, and Holly, who earned a nice living photographing families, shuttled back and forth.

One afternoon, Tom Jellinek came to visit, and Nana could not have been more pleased to meet him. They lunched in the sunroom, Tom and Margo and her brother and his brood, the moment immortalized by Holly, the professional, with her clunky camera. In the photograph, which today is owned by a collector of Kennedy memorabilia in Colorado, Claudia Jensen is beaming as though she could not have been happier. Her gaze seems directed at Tom, whose arm is shyly around Margo’s shoulder as they sit very close. Nana’s bright smile at first glance might be taken as a sort of delighted approval of her granddaughter’s choice—although, in fairness, it must be said that her wise old eyes no doubt sensed what the young lovers, with the tendency of all those of a certain age to confuse tenderness with devotion, did not: that the relationship had not long to run. Margo had in some indefinable way moved beyond him, and their lack of comfort with each other was slowly outgrowing their affection.

Corbin left the next day. Tom came twice more, but never stayed long.

With Annalise and Jerri, who dropped in on a Saturday, Margo was scarcely more animated, although she did allow them to coax her into driving into New York City to see
Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?
But
they left the theater early, because Margo experienced an unexpected fit of tears during the second act, when the actors played their game of “Get the Guests.” On the way back to Garrison, they apologized, and said they should have taken her to see a comedy instead. They stayed the night, sitting up with her and playing cards to all hours, because she couldn’t sleep. On Sunday afternoon they left, but assured her they could hardly wait until January, when Margo was scheduled to return to school.

Miles and Vera Madison also dropped in one day for tea, along with Kimberly and Marilyn, the toddlers. Miles had been bumped all the way to a full colonelcy, and also granted early retirement. He shared with Nana his plans to go into real estate, all the same details he had shared with Margo on that night neither one of them would ever mention again, especially to each other.

Patsy had returned to California. Margo wrote, but never heard back.

Jericho Ainsley visited twice, and on those occasions Margo seemed to brighten. Mainly they walked together on the property, scarcely saying a word, evidently quite content to be in each other’s company. To Claudia Jensen, this represented courting behavior. After the first visit, she asked around and learned of the Ainsley father, and the Ainsley money. Moreover, she found the young man’s manner impeccable, even suitably diffident in her presence. It occurred to her that she should encourage his suit, notwithstanding his race. But after the second visit, Margo explained that Jerry had been promoted and reassigned and was moving abroad for an extended period. Other than that, she refused to speak of him. At first, Nana supposed that Ainsley had wounded her. But as time passed, Claudia Jensen sensed in her granddaughter not a broken heart but a kind of fatalistic optimism that reminded her of Donald.

Margo spent time with a psychiatrist, too, a certain Dr. Aprahamian, who worried about how much she refused to tell him, and was skeptical of those bits she deigned to share. After a few visits, Margo stopped going. Aprahamian was undeterred. He had a theory that her imagined experiences were cloaking a deeper trauma, and worked out an approach to her cleverly invented tale in which the various characters stood in for family members—the unnamed powerful politician
for her absent father, for instance, and thus her insistence that he was attracted to her—and the psychiatrist decided to write it up for one of the journals. A week after he submitted his paper, he received a quiet visit from the Federal Bureau of Investigation. The journal, he was told, would not be publishing his piece, and if he ever breathed to anyone the smallest, most carefully camouflaged and hypothetical word of what Margo Jensen had related in their sessions, he would find himself behind bars. The agents confiscated his notes, and even the daybook that listed her appointments. Shortly thereafter, a grand dinner was held in Manhattan in honor of Dr. Aprahamian on the occasion of his retirement from active psychoanalytic practice.

Just before Thanksgiving, a lawyer arrived, representing not the government but the Kennedy family. His name was Chancellor. He was about seventy, and skinny as a rail, with a shock of startlingly white hair. And he had plainly done this before, for he was donnish and reassuring yet cautious and firm, everybody’s favorite grandfather, dignified to the point of funereal in his smoothly understated black suit.

“You look well, Miss Jensen,” he announced as if he hadn’t seen her in a long time. They were in the study, facing each other across the desk. Nana had offered to sit in, but Margo had assured her that she would be fine.

“Thank you,” she said, and waited.

“I know you’ve been through a terrible ordeal. I want you to know that my clients are terribly sorry for everything that’s happened. They very much want to make it up to you.”