Edge of Eternity (29 page)

To his surprise, this made her laugh heartily.

“What did I say?” he said.

She laughed all the more, and all she would say was: “Oh, Dimka, I adore you.”

•   •   •

La Isabela was a ghost town, Tanya saw. Once a thriving Cuban port, it had been hit hard by Eisenhower's trade embargo. It was miles from anywhere, and surrounded by salt marshes and mangrove swamps. Scraggy goats roamed the streets. Its harbor hosted a few shabby fishing boats—and the
Aleksandrovsk,
a fifty-four-hundred-ton Soviet freighter packed to the gunwales with nuclear warheads.

The ship had been headed for Mariel. After President Kennedy announced the blockade, most of the Soviet ships had turned back, but a few that were only hours from landfall had been ordered to make a dash for the nearest Cuban port.

Tanya and Paz watched the ship inch up to the concrete dock in
a shower of rain. The antiaircraft guns on deck were concealed beneath coils of rope.

Tanya was terrified. She had no idea what was going to happen. All her brother's efforts had failed to stop the secret getting out before the American midterm elections—and the trouble Dimka might be in as a result was only the least of her worries. Clearly the blockade was no more than an opening shot. Now Kennedy had to appear strong. And with Kennedy being strong and the Cubans defending their precious
dignidad
anything could happen, from an American invasion to a worldwide nuclear holocaust.

Tanya and Paz had become more intimate. They had told one another about their childhoods and their families and their past lovers. They touched each other frequently. They often laughed. But they held back from romance. Tanya was tempted, but she resisted. The idea of having sex with a man just because he was so beautiful seemed wrong. She liked Paz—despite his
dignidad
—but she did not love him. In the past she had kissed men she did not love, especially while she was at university, but she had not had sex with them. She had gone to bed with only one man, and she had loved him, or at least she had thought she did at the time. But she might sleep with Paz, if only to have someone's arms around her when the bombs fell.

The largest of the dockside warehouses was burned out. “I wonder how that happened,” Tanya said, pointing.

“The CIA set fire to it,” said Paz. “We get a lot of terrorist attacks here.”

Tanya looked around. The quayside buildings were empty and derelict. Most of the homes were one-story wooden shacks. Rain pooled on the dirt roads. The Americans could blow the whole place up without doing noticeable damage to the Castro regime. “Why?” she said.

Paz shrugged. “It's an easy target, here on the end of the peninsula. They come over from Florida in a speedboat, sneak ashore, blow something up, shoot one or two innocent people, and go back to America.” In English he added: “Fuckin' cowards.”

Tanya wondered if all governments were the same. The Kennedy brothers spoke of freedom and democracy yet they sent armed gangs across the water to terrorize the Cuban people. The Soviet Communists
talked of liberating the proletariat while they imprisoned or murdered everyone who disagreed with them, and they sent Vasili to Siberia for protesting. Was there an honest regime anywhere in the world?

“Let's go,” said Tanya. “It's a long way back to Havana, and I need to tell Dimka that this ship has arrived safely.” Moscow had decided the
Aleksandrovsk
was close enough to reach port, but Dimka was anxious for confirmation.

They got into Paz's Buick and drove out of town. On either side of the road were tall thickets of sugarcane. Turkey vultures floated above, hunting the fat rats in the fields. In the distance, the high chimney of a sugar mill pointed like a missile at the sky. The flat landscape of central Cuba was crosshatched with single-track railway lines built to transport cane from the fields to the mills. Where the land was uncultivated it was mostly tropical jungle, flame trees and jacarandas and towering royal palms; or rough scrub grazed by cattle. The slim white egrets that followed the cows were grace notes on the dun landscape.

Transport in rural Cuba was still mostly horse-drawn, but as they approached Havana the roads became crowded with military trucks and buses taking reservists to their bases. Castro had declared a full combat alert. The nation was on a war footing. As Paz's Buick sped by, the men waved and called out: “
Patria o muerte!
Motherland or death!
Cuba si, yanqui no!
”

On the outskirts of the capital she saw that a new poster had appeared overnight and now blanketed every wall. In simple black and white, it showed a hand clutching a machine gun and the words
A LAS ARMAS
—
“To Arms.” Castro really understood propaganda, she reflected; unlike the old men in the Kremlin, whose idea of a slogan was: “Implement the resolutions of the twentieth party congress!”

Tanya had written and encoded her message earlier, and had only to fill in the exact time that the
Aleksandrovsk
had docked. She took the message into the Soviet embassy and gave it to the KGB communications officer, whom she knew well.

Dimka would be relieved, but Tanya was still fearful. Was it really good news that Cuba had another shipload of nuclear weapons? Might not the Cuban people—and Tanya herself—be safer with none?

“Do you have other duties today?” Tanya asked Paz when she came out.

“My job is liaison with you.”

“But in this crisis . . .”

“In this crisis, nothing is more important than clear communication with our Soviet allies.”

“Then let's walk along the Malecón together.”

They drove to the sea front. Paz parked at the Hotel Nacional. Soldiers were stationing an antiaircraft gun outside the famous hotel.

Tanya and Paz left the car and walked along the promenade. A wind from the north whipped the sea into angry surges that crashed against the stone wall, throwing up explosions of spray that fell on the promenade like rain. This was a popular place to stroll, but today there were more people than usual, and their mood was not leisurely. They clustered in small crowds, sometimes talking but often silent. They were not flirting or telling jokes or showing off their best clothes. Everyone was looking in the same direction, north, toward the United States. They were watching for the
yanquis.

Tanya and Paz watched with them for a while. She felt in her heart that the invasion had to happen. Destroyers would come slicing through the waves; submarines would surface a few yards away; and the gray planes with the blue-and-white stars would appear out of the clouds, loaded with bombs to drop on the Cuban people and their Soviet friends.

At last Tanya took Paz's hand in her own. He squeezed gently. She looked up into his deep brown eyes. “I think we're going to die,” she said calmly.

“Yes,” he said.

“Do you want to go to bed with me first?”

“Yes,” he said again.

“Shall we go to my apartment?”

“Yes.”

They returned to the car and drove to a narrow street in the old town, near the cathedral, where Tanya had upstairs rooms in a colonial building.

Tanya's first and only lover had been Petr Iloyan, a lecturer at her university. He had worshipped her young body, gazing at her breasts and touching her skin and kissing her hair as if he had never come across anything so marvelous. Paz was the same age as Petr but, Tanya
quickly realized, making love with him was going to be different. It was
his
body that was the center of attention. He took his clothes off slowly, as if teasing her, then stood naked in front of her, giving her time to take in his perfect skin and the curves of his muscles. Tanya was happy to sit on the edge of the bed and admire him. The display seemed to excite him, for his penis was already fat with arousal and half erect, and Tanya could hardly wait to get her hands on it.

Petr had been a slow, gentle lover. He had been able to work Tanya up into a fever of anticipation, then hold back tantalizingly. He would change positions several times, rolling her on top, then kneeling behind her, then getting her to straddle him. Paz was not rough but he was vigorous, and Tanya gave herself up to excitement and pleasure.

Afterward Tanya made eggs and coffee. Paz turned on the TV and they watched Castro's speech while they ate.

Castro sat in front of a Cuban national flag, its bold blue and white stripes appearing black and white in the monochrome television picture. As always, he wore battle-dress drab, the only sign of rank a single star on the epaulet: Tanya had never seen him in a civilian suit, nor in the kind of pompous medal-encrusted uniform beloved of Communist leaders elsewhere.

Tanya felt a rush of optimism. Castro was no fool. He knew he could not defeat the United States in a war, even with the Soviet Union on his side. Surely he would come up with some dramatic gesture of reconciliation, some initiative that would transform the situation and defuse the time bomb.

His voice was high and reedy, but he spoke with overwhelming passion. The bushy beard gave him the air of a messiah crying in the wilderness, even though he was obviously in a studio. His black eyebrows moved expressively in a high forehead. He gestured with his big hands, sometimes raising a schoolmasterly forefinger to forbid dissent, often clenching a fist. At times he grasped the arms of his chair as if to prevent himself taking off like a rocket. He appeared to have no script, not even any notes. His expression showed indignation, pride, scorn, rage—but never doubt. Castro lived in a universe of certainty.

Point by point, Castro attacked Kennedy's television speech, which had been broadcast on live radio beamed at Cuba. He scorned Kennedy's
appeal to the “captive people of Cuba.” “We are not sovereign by the grace of the
yanquis,
” he said contemptuously.

But he said nothing about the Soviet Union and nothing about nuclear weapons.

The speech lasted ninety minutes. It was a performance of Churchillian magnetism: brave little Cuba would defy big bullying America and would never give in. It must have boosted the morale of the Cuban people. But otherwise it changed nothing. Tanya was bitterly disappointed and even more scared. Castro had not even tried to prevent war.

At the end he cried: “Motherland or death, we will win!” Then he jumped out of the chair and rushed out as if he had not a minute to lose on his way to save Cuba.

Tanya looked at Paz. His eyes were glistening with tears.

She kissed him, then they made love again, on the couch in front of the flickering screen. This time it was slower and more satisfying. She treated him the way Petr had treated her. It was not difficult to adore his body, and he undoubtedly liked adoration. She squeezed his arms and kissed his nipples and pushed her fingers into his curls. “You're so beautiful,” she murmured as she sucked his earlobe.

Afterward, as they lay sharing a cigar, they heard noises from outside. Tanya opened the door leading to the balcony. The city had been quiet while Castro was on television, but now people were coming out onto the narrow streets. Night had fallen, and some were carrying candles and torches. Tanya's journalistic instincts returned. “I have to go out there,” she said to Paz. “This is a big story.”

“I'll come with you.”

They pulled on their clothes and left the building. The streets were wet but the rain had stopped. More and more people appeared. There was a carnival atmosphere. Everyone was cheering and shouting slogans. Many were singing the national anthem, “La Bayamesa.” There was nothing Latin about the tune—it sounded more like a German drinking song—but the singers meant every word.

To live in chains is to live

In dishonor and ignominy

Hear the call of the bugle:

Hasten, brave ones, to arms!

As Tanya and Paz marched through the alleys of the old city with the crowd, Tanya noticed that many of the men had armed themselves. Lacking guns, they carried garden tools and machetes, and had kitchen knives and meat cleavers in their belts, as if they were going to fight the Americans hand-to-hand on the Malecón.

Tanya recalled that one Boeing B-52 Stratofortress of the United States Air Force carried seventy thousand pounds of bombs.

You poor fools, she thought bitterly; how much use do you think your knives will be against that?

G
eorge had never felt nearer death than he did in the Cabinet Room of the White House on Wednesday, October 24.

The morning meeting began at ten, and George thought war would break out before eleven.

Technically this was the Executive Committee of the National Security Council, called ExComm for short. In practice President Kennedy summoned anyone he felt could help in the crisis. His brother Bobby was always among them.

The advisers sat on leather chairs around the long table. Their aides sat on similar chairs up against the walls. The tension in the room was suffocating.

The alert status of the Strategic Air Command had moved to DEFCON 2, the level just below imminent war. Every bomber of the air force was ready. Many were continuously in the air, loaded with nukes, patrolling over Canada, Greenland, and Turkey, as close as they could get to the borders of the USSR. Every bomber had a preassigned Soviet target.

If war broke out, the Americans would unleash a nuclear firestorm that would flatten every major town in the Soviet Union. Millions would die. Russia would not recover in a hundred years.

And the Soviets had to have something similar planned for the United States.

Ten o'clock was the moment the blockade went into effect. Any Soviet vessel within five hundred miles of Cuba was now fair game. The first interception of a Soviet missile ship, by the USS
Essex,
was expected between ten thirty and eleven. By eleven they might all be dead.

CIA chief John McCone began by reviewing all Soviet shipping en
route to Cuba. He spoke in a drone that heightened the tension by making everyone impatient. Which Soviet ships should the navy intercept first? What would happen then? Would the Soviets allow their ships to be inspected? Would they fire on American ships? What should the navy do then?

While the group tried to second-guess their opposite numbers in Moscow, an aide brought McCone a note. McCone was a dapper white-haired man of sixty. He was a businessman, and George suspected that the CIA career professionals did not tell him everything they were doing.

Now McCone peered through his rimless glasses at the note, which seemed to puzzle him. Eventually he said: “Mr. President, we've just received information from the Office of Naval Intelligence that all six Soviet ships currently in Cuban waters have either stopped or reversed course.”

George thought: What the hell does that mean?

Dean Rusk, the bald, pug-nosed secretary of state, asked: “What do you mean, Cuban waters?”

McCone did not know.

Bob McNamara, the Ford president whom Kennedy had made secretary of defense, said: “Most of these ships are outbound, from Cuba to the Soviet Union—”

“Why don't we find out?” the president interrupted tetchily. “Are we talking about ships leaving Cuba or ships coming in?”

McCone said: “I'll find out,” and he left the room.

The tension rose another notch.

George had always imagined that crisis meetings in the White House would be supernaturally high-powered, with everyone supplying the president with accurate information so that he could make a wise judgment. But this was the greatest crisis ever, and all was confusion and misunderstanding. That made George even more afraid.

When McCone came back in he said: “These ships are all westbound, all inbound for Cuba.” He listed the six vessels by name.

McNamara spoke next. He was forty-six, and the phrase
whiz kid
had been invented for him when he turned the Ford Motor Company from loss to profit. President Kennedy trusted him more than anyone
else in the room except Bobby. Now from memory McNamara reeled off the positions of all six ships. Most were still hundreds of miles from Cuba.

The president was impatient. “Now, what do they say they're doing with those, John?”

McCone replied: “They either stopped or reversed direction.”

“Is this
all
the Soviet ships, or just selected ones?”

“This is a selected bunch. There are twenty-four altogether.”

Once again McNamara interrupted with the key information. “It looks as though these are the ships closest to the quarantine barrier.”

George whispered to Skip Dickerson, sitting next to him: “The Soviets seem to be pulling back from the brink.”

“I sure hope you're right,” Skip murmured.

The president said: “We're not planning to grab any of those, are we?”

McNamara said: “We're not planning to grab any ship that is not proceeding to Cuba.”

General Maxwell Taylor, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, picked up a phone and said: “Get me George Anderson.” Admiral Anderson was the chief of naval operations and was in charge of the blockade. After a few seconds Taylor began speaking quietly.

There was a pause. Everyone was trying to absorb the news and figure out what it meant. Were the Soviets giving in?

The president said: “We ought to check first. How do we find out if six ships are simultaneously turning? General, what does the navy say about this report?”

General Taylor looked up and said: “Three ships are definitely turning back.”

“Be in touch with the
Essex
and tell them to wait an hour. We have to move quickly because they're going to intercept between ten thirty and eleven.”

Every man in the room looked at his watch.

It was ten thirty two.

George got a glimpse of Bobby's face. He looked like a man reprieved from a death sentence.

The immediate crisis was over, but George realized over the next few minutes that nothing had been resolved. While the Soviets were
clearly moving to avoid confrontation at sea, their nuclear missiles were still in Cuba. The clock had been turned back an hour, but it was still ticking.

ExComm discussed Germany. The president feared Khrushchev might announce a blockade of West Berlin to parallel the American blockade of Cuba. There was nothing they could do about that, either.

The meeting broke up. George was not needed at Bobby's next appointment. He left with Skip Dickerson, who said: “How's your friend Maria?”

“Fine, I think.”

“I was in the press office yesterday. She called in sick.”

George's heart missed a beat. He had given up all hope of a romance with Maria, but all the same the news that she was ill made him feel panicky. He frowned. “I didn't know that.”

“None of my business, George, but she's a nice gal, and I thought maybe someone should check up on her.”

George squeezed Skip's arm. “Thanks for letting me know,” he said. “You're a pal.”

White House staffers did not call in sick in the middle of the greatest crisis of the Cold War, George reflected; not unless they were seriously ill. His anxiety deepened.

He hurried to the press office. Maria's chair was empty. Nelly Fordham, the friendly woman at the next desk, said: “Maria's not well.”

“I heard. Did she say what the trouble was?”

“No.”

George frowned. “I wonder if I could get away for an hour and go see her.”

“I wish you would,” Nelly said. “I'm worried too.”

George looked at his watch. He was pretty sure Bobby would not need him until after lunch. “I guess I could manage it. She lives in Georgetown, doesn't she?”

“Yes, but she moved from her old place.”

“Why?”

“Said her flatmates were too nosy.”

That made sense to George. Other girls would be desperate to learn the identity of a clandestine lover. Maria was so determined to keep the
secret that she had moved out. That indicated how serious she was about the guy.

Nelly was flicking through her Rolodex. “I'll write down the address for you.”

“Thanks.”

She handed him a piece of paper and said: “You're Georgy Jakes, aren't you?”

“Yes.” He smiled. “It's a long time since anyone called me Georgy, though.”

“I used to know Senator Peshkov.”

The fact that she mentioned Greg meant, almost certainly, that she knew he was George's father. “Really?” George said. “How did you know him?”

“We dated, if you want to know the truth. But nothing came of it. How is he?”

“Pretty well. I have lunch with him about once a month.”

“I guess he never married.”

“Not yet.”

“And he must be past forty.”

“I believe there is a lady in his life.”

“Oh, don't worry, I'm not after him. I made that decision a long time ago. All the same, I wish him well.”

“I'll tell him that. Now I'm going to jump in a cab and go check on Maria.”

“Thank you, Georgy—or George, I should say.”

George hurried out. Nelly was an attractive woman with a kind heart. Why had Greg not married her? Perhaps it suited him to be a bachelor.

George's taxi driver said: “You work in the White House?”

“I work for Bobby Kennedy. I'm a lawyer.”

“No kidding!” The driver did not trouble to hide his surprise that a Negro should be a lawyer with a high-powered job. “You tell Bobby we ought to bomb Cuba to dust. That's what we ought to do. Bomb them to goddamn dust.”

“Do you know how big Cuba is, end to end?” George said.

“What is this, a quiz show?” the driver said resentfully.

George shrugged and said no more. Nowadays he avoided political discussions with outsiders. They usually had easy answers: send all the Mexicans home, put Hells Angels in the army, castrate the queers. The greater their ignorance, the stronger their opinions.

Georgetown was only a few minutes away, but the journey seemed long. George imagined Maria collapsed on the floor, or lying in bed on the edge of death, or in a coma.

The address Nelly had given George turned out to be a gracious old house divided into studio apartments. Maria did not answer her downstairs doorbell, but a black girl who looked like a student let George in and pointed out Maria's room.

Maria came to the door in a bathrobe. She certainly looked sick. Her face was bloodless and her expression dejected. She did not say
Come in,
but she walked away leaving the door open, and he entered. At least she was ambulatory, he thought with relief: he had feared worse.

It was a tiny place, one room with a kitchenette. He guessed she shared the bathroom down the hall.

He looked hard at her. It pained him to see her this way, not just sick, but miserable. He longed to take her in his arms, but he knew that would be unwelcome. “Maria, what's the matter?” he said. “You look terrible!”

“Just feminine problems, that's all.”

That phrase was normally code for a menstrual period, but he was pretty sure this was something else.

“Let me make you a cup of coffee—or maybe tea?” He took off his coat.

“No, thanks,” she said.

He decided to make it anyway, just to show her that he cared. But then he glanced at the chair she was about to sit on, and saw that the seat was stained with blood.

She noticed it at the same time, blushed, and said: “Oh, hell.”

George knew a little about women's bodies. Several possibilities passed through his mind. He said: “Maria, have you suffered a miscarriage?”

“No,” she said tonelessly. She hesitated.

George waited patiently.

At last Maria said: “An abortion.”

“You poor thing.” He grabbed a towel from the kitchenette, folded it, and placed it on the bloodstain. “Sit on this, for now,” he said. “Rest.” He looked at the shelf over the refrigerator and saw a packet of jasmine tea. Figuring that must be what she liked, he put water on to heat. He said no more until he had made the tea.

Abortion law varied from state to state. George knew that in DC it was legal for the purpose of protecting the health of the mother. Many doctors interpreted this liberally, to include the woman's health and general well-being. In practice, anyone who had the money could find a doctor willing to perform an abortion.

Although she had said she did not want tea, she took a cup.

He sat opposite her with a cup for himself. “Your secret lover,” he said. “I guess he's the father.”

She nodded. “Thank you for the tea. I presume World War Three hasn't started yet, otherwise you wouldn't be here.”

“The Soviets turned their ships back, so the danger of a showdown at sea has receded. But the Cubans still have nukes, aimed at us.”

Maria seemed too depressed to care.

George said: “He wouldn't marry you.”

“No.”

“Because he's already married?”

She did not answer.

“So he found you a doctor and paid the bill.”

She nodded.

George thought that was a despicable way to behave, but if he said so she would probably throw him out for insulting the man she loved. Trying to control his anger, George said: “Where is he now?”

“He'll call.” She glanced at the clock. “Soon, probably.”

George decided not to ask any more questions. It would be unkind to interrogate her. And she did not need to be told how foolish she had been. What
did
she need? He decided to ask. “Is there anything you need? Anything I can do for you?”

She started to cry. Between sobs she said: “I hardly know you! How come you're my only real friend in the whole city?”

He knew the answer to that question. She had a secret that she would not share. That made it difficult for others to be close to her.

She said: “Lucky for me you're so kind.”

Her gratitude embarrassed him. “Does it hurt?” he said.

“Yes, it hurts like hell.”

“Should I call a doctor?”

“It's not that bad. They told me to expect this.”

“Do you have any aspirin?”

“No.”

“Why don't I step out and get you some?”

“Would you? I hate to ask a man to run errands.”