Edge of Eternity (12 page)

“We can't go back without the others,” Nina said; but a moment later Valentin and Anna emerged from the woods. They had been only just out of sight, Dimka guessed, and had heard the megaphone summons.

The boys moved a little apart from the girls and they all put on their outer clothes over their swimsuits. Dimka heard Nina and Anna talking in low voices, Anna speaking urgently and Nina giggling and nodding agreement.

Then Anna gave Valentin a meaningful look. It seemed to be a
prearranged signal. Valentin nodded and turned to Dimka. Quietly he said: “The four of us are going to the folk-dancing evening tonight. When we come back, Anna will come into our tent with me. You're to go with Nina in their tent. Okay?”

It was more than okay, it was thrilling. Dimka said: “You've arranged it all with Anna?”

“Yes, and Nina has just agreed.”

Dimka could hardly believe it. He would be able to spend all night embracing Nina's firm body. “She likes me!”

“Must be the shorts.”

They got into the boat and rowed back. The girls announced that they wanted to shower as soon as they returned. Dimka wondered how he could make the time pass quickly until evening.

When they reached the dock, they saw a man in a black suit waiting.

Dimka knew instinctively that this was a messenger for him. I might have known, he thought regretfully; things were going too well.

They all got out of the boat. Nina looked at the man sweating in his suit and said: “Are we going to be arrested for keeping the boat too long?” She was only half joking.

Dimka said: “Are you here for me? I'm Dmitri Dvorkin.”

“Yes, Dmitri Ilich,” the man said, respectfully using his patronymic. “I'm your driver. I'm here to take you to the airport.”

“What's the emergency?”

The driver shrugged. “The first secretary wants you.”

“I'll get my bag,” said Dimka regretfully.

By way of a small consolation, Nina looked awestruck.

•   •   •

The car took Dimka to Vnukovo airport, southwest of Moscow, where Vera Pletner was waiting with a large envelope and a ticket to Tbilisi, capital of the Georgian Soviet Socialist Republic.

Khrushchev was not in Moscow but at his dacha, or second home, in Pitsunda, a resort for top government officials on the Black Sea, and that was where Dimka was headed.

He had never flown before.

He was not the only aide whose holiday had been cut short. In the
departure lounge, about to open the envelope, he was approached by Yevgeny Filipov, wearing a gray flannel shirt as usual despite the summer weather. Filipov looked pleased, which had to be a bad sign.

“Your strategy has failed,” he said to Dimka with evident satisfaction.

“What's happened?”

“President Kennedy has made a television speech.”

Kennedy had said nothing for seven weeks, since the Vienna Summit. The United States had not responded to Khrushchev's threat to sign a treaty with East Germany and take West Berlin back. Dimka had assumed that the American president was too cowed to stand up to Khrushchev. “What was the speech about?”

“He told the American people to prepare for war.”

So that was the emergency.

They were called to board. Dimka said to Filipov: “What did Kennedy say, exactly?”

“Speaking of Berlin, he said: ‘An attack upon that city will be regarded as an attack upon us all.' The full transcript is in your envelope.”

They went on board, Dimka still wearing his holiday shorts. The plane was a Tupolev Tu-104 jetliner. Dimka looked out of the window as they took off. He knew how aircraft worked, the curved upper surface of the wing creating an air-pressure difference, but all the same it seemed like magic when the plane lifted into the air.

At last he tore his gaze away and opened the envelope.

Filipov had not exaggerated.

Kennedy was not merely making threatening noises. He proposed to triple the draft, call up reservists, and increase the American army to a million men. He was preparing a new Berlin airlift, moving six divisions to Europe, and planning economic sanctions on Warsaw Pact countries.

And he had increased the military budget by more than three
billion
dollars.

Dimka realized that the strategy Khrushchev and his advisers had mapped out had failed catastrophically. They had all underestimated the handsome young president. He could not be bullied, after all.

What could Khrushchev do?

He might have to resign. No Soviet leader had ever done that—both
Lenin and Stalin had died in office—but there was a first time for everything in revolutionary politics.

Dimka read the speech twice and mulled it for the rest of the two-hour journey. There was only one alternative to Khrushchev's resignation, he thought: the leader could sack all his aides, take on new advisers, and reshuffle the Presidium, giving his enemies more power, as an acknowledgment that he had been wrong and a promise to seek wiser counsel in the future.

Either way, Dimka's short career in the Kremlin was over. Perhaps it had been too ambitious, he thought dismally. No doubt a more modest future awaited him.

He wondered whether the voluptuous Nina would still want to spend a night with him.

The flight landed at Tbilisi and a small military aircraft shuttled Dimka and Filipov to an airstrip on the coast.

Natalya Smotrov from the Foreign Ministry was waiting for them there. The humid seaside air had curled her hair, giving her a wanton air. “There's bad news from Pervukhin,” she said as she drove them away from the plane. Mikhail Pervukhin was the Soviet ambassador to East Germany. “The flow of emigrants to the West has turned into a flood.”

Filipov looked annoyed, probably because he had not received this news before Natalya. “What numbers are we talking about?”

“It's approaching a thousand people a day.”

Dimka was flabbergasted. “A thousand a
day
?”

Natalya nodded. “Pervukhin says the East German government is no longer stable. The country is approaching collapse. There could be a popular uprising.”

“You see?” Filipov said to Dimka. “This is what your policy has led to.”

Dimka had no answer.

Natalya drove along the coast road to a forested peninsula and turned in at a massive iron gate in a long stucco wall. Set amid immaculate lawns was a white villa with a long balcony on the upper floor. Beside the house was a full-size swimming pool. Dimka had never seen a home with its own pool.

“He's down by the sea,” a guard told Dimka, jerking his head toward the far side of the house.

Dimka found his way through the trees to a shingle beach. A soldier with a submachine gun looked hard at him, then waved him on.

He found Khrushchev under a palm tree. The second-most powerful man in the world was short, fat, bald, and ugly. He wore the trousers of a suit, held up by suspenders, and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled. He was sitting on a wicker beach chair, and on a small table in front of him were a jug of water and a glass tumbler. He seemed to be doing nothing.

He looked at Dimka and said: “Where did you get those shorts?”

“My mother made them.”

“I should have a pair of shorts.”

Dimka said the words he had rehearsed. “Comrade First Secretary, I offer you my immediate resignation.”

Khrushchev ignored that. “We will overtake the United States, in military might and economic prosperity, within the next twenty years,” he said, as if he were continuing an ongoing discussion. “But, meanwhile, how do we prevent the stronger power from dominating global politics and holding back the spread of world Communism?”

“I don't know,” said Dimka.

“Watch this,” said Khrushchev. “I am the Soviet Union.” He picked up the jug and poured water slowly into the glass until it was full to the brim. Then he handed the jug to Dimka. “You are the United States,” he said. “Now you pour water into the glass.”

Dimka did as he was told. The glass overflowed, and water soaked into the white tablecloth.

“You see?” said Khrushchev as if he had proved a point. “When the glass is full, no more can be added without making a mess.”

Dimka was mystified. He asked the expected question. “What's the significance of this, Nikita Sergeyevich?”

“International politics is like a glass. Aggressive moves by either side pour water in. The overflow is war.”

Dimka saw the point. “When tension is at its maximum, no one can make a move without causing a war.”

“Well done. And the Americans do not want war, any more than we do. So, if we maintain international tension at the maximum—full to the brim—the American president is helpless. He cannot do anything without causing war, so he must do nothing!”

Dimka realized this was brilliant. It showed how the weaker power could dominate. “So Kennedy is now powerless?” he said.

“Because his next move is war!”

Had this been Khrushchev's long-term plan, Dimka wondered? Or had he just made it up as a hindsight justification? He was nothing if not an improviser. But it hardly mattered. “So, what are we going to do about the crisis in Berlin?” he said.

“We're going to build a wall,” said Khrushchev.

G
eorge Jakes took Verena Marquand to the Jockey Club for lunch. It was not a club, but a swanky new restaurant in the Fairfax Hotel that had found favor with the Kennedy crowd. George and Verena were the best-dressed couple in the room, she ravishing in a gingham check frock with a wide red belt, he in a tailored dark-blue linen blazer with a striped tie. Nevertheless, they were given a table by the kitchen door. Washington was integrated, but not unprejudiced. George did not let it get to him.

Verena was in town with her parents. They had been invited to the White House later today for a cocktail party being given to thank high-profile supporters such as the Marquands—and, George knew, to keep their goodwill for the next campaign.

Verena looked around appreciatively. “It's a long time since I was in a decent restaurant,” she said. “Atlanta is a desert.” With parents who were Hollywood stars, she had been raised to think lavish was normal.

“You should move here,” George told her, looking into her startling green eyes. The sleeveless dress showed off the perfection of her café-au-lait skin, and she surely knew it. If she were to move to Washington, he would ask her for a date.

George was trying to forget Maria Summers. He was dating Norine Latimer, a history graduate who worked as a secretary at the National Museum of American History. She was attractive and intelligent, but it was not working: he still thought about Maria all the time. Perhaps Verena might be a more effective cure.

He kept all that to himself, naturally. “You're out of the swim, all the way down there in Georgia,” he said.

“Don't be so sure,” she said. “I'm working for Martin Luther King. He's going to change America more than John F. Kennedy.”

“That's because Dr. King has only one issue, civil rights. The president has a hundred. He's the defender of the free world. Right now his major worry is Berlin.”

“Curious, isn't it?” she said. “He believes in freedom and democracy for German people in East Berlin, but not for American Negroes in the South.”

George smiled. She was always combative. “It's not just about what he believes,” he said. “It's what he can achieve.”

She shrugged. “So how much difference can
you
make?”

“The Justice Department employs nine hundred and fifty lawyers. Before I arrived, only ten were black. Already I'm a ten percent improvement.”

“So what have you achieved?”

“Justice is taking a tough line with the Interstate Commerce Commission. Bobby has asked them to ban segregation in the bus service.”

“And what makes you think this ruling will be enforced any better than all the previous ones?”

“Not much, so far.” George was frustrated, but he wanted to hide the full extent of that from Verena. “There's a guy called Dennis Wilson, a young white lawyer on Bobby's personal team, who sees me as a threat, and keeps me out of the really important meetings.”

“How can he do that? You were hired by Robert Kennedy—doesn't he want your input?”

“I need to win Bobby's confidence.”

“You're cosmetic,” she said scornfully. “With you there, Bobby can tell the world he's got a Negro advising him on civil rights. He doesn't have to listen to you.”

George feared she might be right, but he did not admit it. “That depends on me. I have to make him listen.”

“Come to Atlanta,” she said. “The job with Dr. King is still open.”

George shook his head. “My career is here.” He remembered what Maria had said, and repeated it. “Protesters can have a big impact but, in the end, it's governments that reshape the world.”

“Some do, some don't,” said Verena.

When they left, they found George's mother waiting in the hotel lobby. George had arranged to meet her here, but had not expected her to wait outside the restaurant. “Why didn't you join us?” he asked.

She ignored his question and spoke to Verena. “We met briefly at the Harvard commencement,” she said. “How are you, Verena?” She was going out of her way to be polite, which was a sign, George knew, that she did not really like Verena.

George saw Verena to a taxi and kissed her cheek. “It was great to see you again,” he said.

He and his mother went on foot, heading for the Justice Department. Jacky Jakes wanted to see where her son worked. George had arranged for her to visit on a quiet day, when Bobby Kennedy was at CIA headquarters at Langley, Virginia, seven or eight miles out of town.

Jacky had taken a day off work. She was dressed for the occasion in a hat and gloves, as if she were going to church. As they walked he said: “What do you think of Verena?”

“She's a beautiful girl,” Jacky replied promptly.

“You'd like her politics,” George said. “You and Khrushchev.” He was exaggerating, but both Verena and Jacky were ultra-liberal. “She thinks the Cubans have the right to be Communists if they want.”

“And so they do,” Jacky said, proving his point.

“So what don't you like?”

“Nothing.”

“Mom, we men aren't very intuitive, but I've been studying you all my life, and I know when you have reservations.”

She smiled and touched his arm affectionately. “You're attracted to her, and I can see why. She's irresistible. I don't want to badmouth a girl you like, but . . .”

“But what?”

“It might be difficult to be married to Verena. I get the feeling she considers her own inclinations first, last, and in between.”

“You think she's selfish.”

“We're all selfish. I think she's spoiled.”

George nodded and tried not to be offended. His mother was probably right. “You don't need to worry,” he said. “She's determined to stay down there in Atlanta.”

“Well, perhaps that's for the best. I only want you to be happy.”

The Department of Justice was housed in a grand classical building across the street from the White House. Jacky seemed to swell a little with pride as they walked in. It pleased her that her son worked in such a prestigious place. George enjoyed her reaction. She was entitled: she had devoted her life to him, and this was her reward.

They entered the Great Hall. Jacky liked the famous murals showing scenes of American life, but she looked askance at the aluminum statue
Spirit of Justice,
which depicted a woman showing one breast. “I'm not a prude, but I don't see why Justice has to have her bosom uncovered,” she said. “What's the reason for that?”

George considered. “To show that Justice has nothing to hide?”

She laughed. “Nice try.”

They went up in the elevator. “How is your arm?” Jacky asked.

The plaster was off, and George no longer needed a sling. “It still hurts,” he said. “I find it helps to keep my left hand in my pocket. Gives the arm a little support.”

They got off at the fifth floor. George took Jacky to the room he shared with Dennis Wilson and several others. The attorney general's office was next door.

Dennis was at his desk near the door. He was a pale man whose blond hair was receding prematurely. George said to him: “When's he coming back?”

Dennis knew he meant Bobby. “Not for an hour, at least.”

George said to his mother: “Come and see Bobby Kennedy's office.”

“Are you sure it's okay?”

“He's not there. He wouldn't mind.”

George led Jacky through an anteroom, nodding to two secretaries, and into the attorney general's office. It looked more like the drawing room of a large country house, with walnut paneling, a massive stone fireplace, patterned carpet and curtains, and lamps on occasional tables. It was a huge room, but Bobby had managed to make it look cluttered. The furnishings included an aquarium and a stuffed tiger. His enormous desk was a litter of papers, ashtrays, and family photographs. On a shelf behind the desk chair were four telephones.

Jacky said: “Remember that place by Union Station where we lived when you were a little boy?”

“Of course I do.”

“You could fit the whole house in here.”

George looked around. “You could, I guess.”

“And that desk is bigger than the bed where you and I used to sleep until you were four.”

“Both of us and the dog, too.”

On the desk was a green beret, headgear of the U.S. Army Special Forces that Bobby admired so much. But Jacky was more interested in the photographs. George picked up a framed picture of Bobby and Ethel sitting on a lawn in front of a big house, surrounded by their seven children. “This is taken outside Hickory Hill, their home in McLean, Virginia.” He handed it to her.

“I like that,” she said, studying the photo. “He cares for his family.”

A confident voice with a Boston accent said: “Who cares for his family?”

George spun round to see Bobby Kennedy walking into the room. He wore a crumpled light-gray summer suit. His tie was loose and his shirt collar unbuttoned. He was not as handsome as his older brother, mainly because of his large rabbity front teeth.

George was flustered. “I'm sorry, sir,” he said. “I thought you were out for the afternoon.”

“That's all right,” said Bobby, though George was not sure he meant it. “This place is owned by the American people—they can look at it if they like.”

“This is my mother, Jacky Jakes,” George said.

Bobby shook her hand vigorously. “Mrs. Jakes, you have a fine son,” he said, turning on the charm, as he did whenever talking to a voter.

Jacky's face had darkened with embarrassment, but she spoke without hesitation. “Thank you,” she said. “You have several—I was looking at them in this picture.”

“Four sons and three daughters. They're all wonderful, and I speak with complete objectivity.”

They all laughed.

Bobby said: “It was a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Jakes. Come and see us anytime.”

Though gracious, that was clearly a dismissal, and George and his mother left the room.

They walked along the corridor to the elevator. Jacky said: “That was embarrassing, but Bobby was kind.”

“It was also planned,” George said angrily. “Bobby's never early for anything. Dennis deliberately misled us. He wanted to make me look uppity.”

His mother patted his arm. “If that's the worst thing that happens today, we'll be in good shape.”

“I don't know.” George recalled Verena's accusation, that his job was cosmetic. “Do you think my role here could be just to make Bobby look like he's listening to Negroes when he's not?”

Jacky considered. “Maybe.”

“I might do more good working for Martin Luther King in Atlanta.”

“I understand how you feel, but I think you should stay here.”

“I knew you'd say that.”

He saw her out of the building. “How is your apartment?” she said. “I have to see that next.”

“It's great.” George had rented the top floor of a high, narrow Victorian row house in the Capitol Hill neighborhood. “Come over on Sunday.”

“So I can cook you dinner in your kitchen?”

“What a kind offer.”

“Will I meet your girlfriend?”

“I'll invite Norine.”

They kissed good-bye. Jacky would get a commuter train to her home in Prince George's County. Before she walked away she said: “Remember this. There are a thousand smart young men willing to work for Martin Luther King. But there's only one Negro sitting in the office next to Bobby Kennedy's.”

She was right, he thought. She usually was.

When he returned to the office he said nothing to Dennis, but sat at his desk and wrote a summary for Bobby of a report on school integration.

At five o'clock Bobby and his aides jumped into limousines for the short ride to the White House, where Bobby was scheduled to meet
with the president. This was the first time George had been taken along to a White House meeting, and he wondered whether that was a sign that he was becoming more trusted—or just that the meeting was less important.

They entered the West Wing and went to the Cabinet Room. It was a long room with four tall windows on one side. Twenty or so dark-blue leather chairs stood around a coffin-shaped table. World-shaking decisions were made in this room, George thought solemnly.

After fifteen minutes there was no sign of President Kennedy. Dennis said to George: “Go and make certain Dave Powers knows where we are, will you?” Powers was the president's personal assistant.

“Sure,” said George. Seven years at Harvard and I'm a messenger boy, he thought.

Before the meeting with Bobby, the president had been due to drop in on a cocktail party for celebrity supporters. George made his way to the main house and followed the noise. Under the massive chandeliers in the East Room, a hundred people were into their second hour of drinking. George waved to Verena's parents, Percy Marquand and Babe Lee, who were talking to someone from the Democratic National Committee.

The president was not in the room.

George looked around and spotted a kitchen entrance. He had learned that the president often used staff doors and back corridors, to avoid constantly being buttonholed and delayed.

He went through the staff door and found the presidential party right outside. The handsome, tanned president, only forty-four years old, wore a navy blue suit with a white shirt and a skinny tie. He looked tired and edgy. “I can't be photographed with an interracial couple!” he said in a frustrated tone, as if forced to repeat himself. “I'd lose ten million votes!”

George had seen only one interracial couple in the ballroom: Percy Marquand and Babe Lee. He felt outraged. So the liberal president was scared to be photographed with them!

Dave Powers was an amiable middle-aged man with a big nose and a bald head, about as different from his boss as could be imagined. He said to the president: “What am I supposed to do?”