Edge of Eternity (27 page)

Impatience was driving him mad. Kennedy would speak four hours from now. Surely the Presidium could learn the content of his speech before then? What was the KGB for?

Defense Minister Malinovsky looked like a veteran movie star, with his regular features and thick silver hair. He argued that the USA was not about to invade Cuba. Red Army Intelligence had people in Florida. There was a buildup of troops there, but nowhere near enough for an invasion, he thought. “This is some kind of election campaign trick,” he said. Dimka thought he sounded overconfident.

Khrushchev, too, was skeptical. Perhaps it was true that Kennedy did not want war with Cuba, but was he free to act as he wished? Khrushchev believed that the American president was at least partly under the control of the Pentagon and capitalist-imperialists such as the Rockefeller family. “We must have a contingency plan in case the Americans do invade,” he said. “Our troops must be prepared for every eventuality.” He ordered a ten-minute break for committee members to consider the options.

Dimka was horrified by the rapidity with which the Presidium had begun to discuss war. This was never the plan! When Khrushchev decided to send missiles to Cuba, he had not intended to provoke combat. How did we get here from there? Dimka thought despairingly.

He saw Filipov in an ominous huddle with Malinovsky and several others. Filipov was writing something down. When they reconvened, Malinovsky read a draft order for the Soviet commander in Cuba, General Issa Pliyev, authorizing him to use “all available means” to defend Cuba.

Dimka wanted to say:
Are you mad?

Khrushchev felt the same. “We would be giving Pliyev the authority to start a nuclear war!” he said angrily.

To Dimka's relief Anastas Mikoyan backed Khrushchev. Always a peacemaker, Mikoyan looked like a lawyer in a country town, with a neat mustache and receding hair. But he was the man who could talk Khrushchev out of his most reckless schemes. Now he opposed Malinovsky. Mikoyan had extra authority because he had visited Cuba shortly after its revolution.

“What about handing over control of the missiles to Castro?” said Khrushchev.

Dimka had heard his boss say some crazy things, especially during hypothetical discussions, but this was irresponsible even by his standards. What was he thinking?

“May I counsel against?” said Mikoyan mildly. “The Americans know that we don't want nuclear war, and as long as we control the weapons they will try to solve this problem by diplomacy. But they will not trust Castro. If they know he has his finger on the trigger they may try to destroy all the missiles in Cuba with one massive first strike.”

Khrushchev accepted that, but he was not prepared to rule out nuclear weapons altogether. “That would mean the Americans can have Cuba back!” he said indignantly.

At that point, Alexei Kosygin spoke up. He was Khrushchev's closest ally, though ten years younger. His receding hair had left a gray quiff on top of his head like the prow of a ship. He had the red face of a drinker, but Dimka thought he was the smartest man in the Kremlin. “We should not be thinking about when to use nuclear weapons,” Kosygin said. “If we get to that point, we will have failed catastrophically. The question to discuss is this: What moves can we make today to ensure that the situation does not deteriorate into nuclear war?”

Thank God, Dimka thought; someone talking sense at last.

Kosygin went on: “I propose that General Pliyev be authorized to defend Cuba by all means
short of
nuclear weapons.”

Malinovsky had doubts, fearing that U.S. intelligence might somehow learn of this order; but despite his reservations the proposal was agreed on, to Dimka's great relief, and the message was sent. The danger of a nuclear holocaust still loomed, but at least the Presidium was focused on avoiding a war rather than fighting it.

Soon afterward, Vera Pletner looked into the room and beckoned Dimka. He slipped out. In the broad corridor she handed him six sheets of paper. “This is Kennedy's speech,” she said quietly.

“Thank heaven!” He looked at his watch. It was one fifteen
A.M.
, forty-five minutes before the American president was due to go on television. “How did we get this?”

“The American government kindly provided our Washington embassy with advance copies, and the Foreign Ministry has quickly translated it.”

Standing in the corridor, alone but for Vera, Dimka read fast. “This government, as promised, has maintained the closest surveillance of the Soviet military buildup on the island of Cuba.”

Kennedy called Cuba an island, Dimka noticed, as if it did not count as a real country.

“Within the past week, unmistakable evidence has established the fact that a series of offensive missile sites is now in preparation on that imprisoned island.”

Evidence, Dimka thought; what evidence?

“The purpose of these bases can be none other than to provide a nuclear strike capability against the Western Hemisphere.”

Dimka read on but, infuriatingly, Kennedy did not say how he had come by the information, whether from traitors or spies, in the Soviet Union or Cuba, or by some other means. Dimka still did not know whether this crisis was his fault.

Kennedy made much of Soviet secrecy, calling it deception. That was fair, Dimka thought; Khrushchev would have made the same accusation in the reverse situation. But what was the American president going to do? Dimka skipped pages until he came to the important part.

“First, to halt this offensive buildup, a strict quarantine on all offensive military equipment under shipment to Cuba is being initiated.”

Ah, Dimka thought; a blockade. That was against international law, which was why Kennedy was calling it a quarantine, as if he were combating some plague.

“All ships of any kind bound for Cuba from whatever nation or port will, if found to contain cargoes of offensive weapons, be turned back.”

Dimka saw immediately that this was just a preliminary. The quarantine would make no difference: most of the missiles were already in place and nearly ready to be fired—and Kennedy must know that, if his intelligence was as good as it seemed. The blockade was symbolic.

There was also a threat. “It shall be the policy of this nation to regard any nuclear missile, launched from Cuba, against any nation in the Western Hemisphere, as an attack by the Soviet Union on the United States, requiring a full retaliatory response upon the Soviet Union.”

Dimka felt as if something cold and heavy had settled in his stomach. This was a terrible threat. Kennedy would not trouble to find out
whether the missile had been launched by the Cubans or the Red Army; it was all the same to him. Nor would he care what the target was. If they bombed Chile it would be the same as bombing New York.

Any time one of Dimka's nukes was fired, the USA would turn the Soviet Union into a radioactive desert.

Dimka saw in his mind the picture everyone knew, the mushroom cloud of a nuclear bomb; and in his imagination it rose over the center of Moscow, where the Kremlin and his home and every familiar building lay in ruins, and scorched corpses floated like a hideous scum on the poisoned water of the Moskva River.

Another sentence caught his eye. “It is difficult to settle or even discuss these problems in an atmosphere of intimidation.” The hypocrisy of the Americans took Dimka's breath away. What was Operation Mongoose if not intimidation?

It was Mongoose that had persuaded a reluctant Presidium to send the missiles in the first place. Dimka was beginning to suspect that aggression was self-defeating in international politics.

He had read enough. He went back into the Presidium Room, walked quickly up to Khrushchev, and handed him the sheaf of papers. “Kennedy's television speech,” he said, clearly enough for everyone to hear. “An advance copy, provided by the USA.”

Khrushchev snatched the papers and began to read. The room fell silent. There was no point in saying anything until they knew what was in the document.

Khrushchev took his time reading the formal, abstract language. Now and again he snorted with derision or grunted with surprise. As he progressed through the pages, Dimka sensed that his mood was changing from anxiety to relief.

After several minutes he put down the last page. Still he said nothing, thinking. At last he looked up. A smile broke over his lumpy peasant face as he looked around the table at his colleagues. “Comrades,” he said, “we have saved Cuba!”

•   •   •

As usual, Jacky interrogated George about his love life. “Are you dating anyone?”

“I only just broke up with Norine.”

“Only just? That was almost a year ago.”

“Oh . . . I guess it was.”

She had made fried chicken with okra and the deep-fried cornmeal dumplings she called hush puppies. This had been his favorite meal when he was a boy. Now at twenty-six he preferred rare beef and salad, or pasta with clam sauce. Also, he normally had dinner at eight in the evening, not six. But he tucked in and did not tell her any of this. He preferred not to spoil the pleasure she took in feeding him.

She sat opposite him at the kitchen table, as she always had. “How is that nice Maria Summers?”

George tried not to wince. He had lost Maria to another man. “Maria has a steady,” he said.

“Oh? Who is he?”

“I don't know.”

Jacky made a frustrated noise. “Didn't you ask?”

“I sure did. She wouldn't tell me.”

“Why not?”

George shrugged.

“It's a married man,” his mother said confidently.

“Mom, you can't possibly know that,” George said, but he had a horrible suspicion she might be right.

“Normally a girl boasts about the man she's seeing. If she clams up, she's ashamed.”

“There could be another reason.”

“Such as?”

For the moment George could not think of one.

Jacky went on: “He's probably someone she works with. I sure hope her preacher grandfather doesn't find out.”

George thought of another possibility. “Maybe he's white.”

“Married and white too, I'll bet. What is that press officer like, Pierre Salinger?”

“An affable guy in his thirties, good French clothes, a little heavy. He's married, and I hear he's up to no good with his secretary, so I'm not sure he has time for another girlfriend.”

“He might, if he's French.”

George grinned. “Have you ever met a French person?”

“No, but they have a reputation.”

“And Negroes have a reputation for being lazy.”

“You're right, I shouldn't talk that way, people are individuals.”

“That's what you always taught me.”

George had only half his mind on the conversation. The news about the missiles in Cuba had been kept secret from the American people for a week, but it was about to be revealed. It had been a week of intense debate within the small circle who knew, but little had been resolved. Looking back, George realized that when he had first heard he had underreacted. He had thought mainly of the imminent midterm elections and their effect on the civil rights campaign. For a moment he had even relished the prospect of American retaliation. Only later had the truth sunk in: that civil rights would no longer matter, and no more elections would ever be held, if there was a nuclear war.

Jacky changed the subject. “The chef where I work has a lovely daughter.”

“Is that so?”

“Cindy Bell.”

“What is Cindy short for, Cinderella?”

“Lucinda. She graduated this year from Georgetown University.”

Georgetown was a neighborhood of Washington, but few of the city's black majority attended its prestigious university. “She white?”

“No.”

“Must be bright, then.”

“Very.”

“Catholic?” Georgetown University was a Jesuit foundation.

“Nothing wrong with Catholics,” Jacky said with a touch of defiance. Jacky attended Bethel Evangelical Church, but she was broad-minded. “Catholics believe in the Lord, too.”

“Catholics don't believe in birth control, though.”

“I'm not sure I do.”

“What? You're not serious.”

“If I'd used birth control, I wouldn't have you.”

“But you don't want to deny other women the right to a choice.”

“Oh, don't be so argumentative. I don't want to ban birth control.”
She smiled fondly. “I'm just glad I was ignorant and reckless when I was sixteen.” She stood up. “I'll put some coffee on.” The doorbell rang. “Would you see who that is?”

George opened the front door to an attractive black girl in her early twenties, wearing tight Capri pants and a loose sweater. She was surprised to see him. “Oh!” she said. “I'm sorry, I thought this was Mrs. Jakes's house.”

“It is,” said George. “I'm visiting.”

“My father asked me to drop this off as I was passing.” She handed him a book called
Ship of Fools.
He had heard the title before: it was a bestseller. “I guess Dad borrowed it from Mrs. Jakes.”

“Thank you,” George said, taking the book. Politely he added: “Won't you come in?”

She hesitated.

Jacky came to the kitchen door. From there she could see who was outside: it was not a large house. “Hello, Cindy,” she said. “I was just talking about you. Come in, I've made fresh coffee.”

“It sure smells good,” said Cindy, and she crossed the threshold.

George said: “Can we have coffee in the living room, Mom? It's almost time for the president.”

“You don't want to watch TV, do you? Sit and talk to Cindy.”

George opened the living room door. He said to Cindy: “Would you mind if we watched the president? He's going to say something important.”

“How do you know?”

“I helped write his speech.”