"Medical reasons."
"Oh."
Clearly Anya would have liked to know more. Dimka had noticed that medical details were of great interest to many women. But Nina clammed up, as she always did on this subject.
There was a knock at the door. Dimka sighed: he could guess who it was. He opened up.
On the doorstep were his grandparents, who lived in the same building. "Oh! Dimka--you're here!" said his grandfather Grigori Peshkov, feigning surprise. He was in uniform. He was nearly seventy-four, but he would not retire. Old men who did not know when to quit were a major problem in the Soviet Union, in Dimka's opinion.
Dimka's grandmother Katerina had had her hair done. "We brought you some caviar," she said. Clearly this was not the casual drop-in they were pretending. They had found out that Nina was coming and they were here to check her out. Nina was being inspected by the family, just as she had feared.
Dimka introduced them. Grandmother kissed Nina and Grandfather held her hand longer than necessary. To Dimka's relief, Nina continued to be charming. She called Grandfather "comrade General." Realizing immediately that he was susceptible to attractive girls, she flirted with him, to his delight, at the same time giving Grandmother a woman-to-woman look that said You and I know what men are like.
Grandfather asked her about her job. She had recently been promoted, she told him, and now she was publishing manager, organizing the printing of the steel union's various newsletters. Grandmother asked about her family, and she said she did not see much of them as they all lived in her hometown of Perm, a twenty-four-hour train journey eastward.
She soon got Grandfather onto his favorite subject, historical inaccuracies in Eisenstein's film October, especially the scenes depicting the storming of the Winter Palace, in which Grandfather had participated.
Dimka was pleased they were all getting on so well, yet at the same time he had the uneasy sensation that he was not in control of whatever was happening here. He felt as if he were on a ship sailing through calm waters to an unknown destination: all was well for the moment, but what lay ahead?
The phone rang, and Dimka answered. He always did in the evenings: it was usually the Kremlin calling for him. The voice of Natalya Smotrov said: "I've just heard from the KGB station in Washington."
Talking to her while Nina was in the room made Dimka feel awkward. He told himself not to be stupid: he had never touched Natalya. He had thought about it, though. But surely a man need not feel guilty for his thoughts? "What's happened?" he asked.
"President Kennedy has booked television time this evening to talk to the American people."
As usual, she had the hot news first. "Why?"
"They don't know."
Dimka thought immediately of Cuba. Most of his missiles were there now, and the nuclear warheads to go with them. Tons of ancillary equipment and thousands of troops had arrived. In a few days the weapons would be launch-ready. The mission was almost complete.
But two weeks remained before the American midterm elections. Dimka had been considering flying to Cuba--there was a scheduled air service from Prague to Havana--to make sure the lid was screwed on tight for a few more days. It was vital that the secret be kept just a little longer.
He prayed that Kennedy's surprise TV appearance would be about something else: Berlin, perhaps, or Vietnam.
"What time is the broadcast?" Dimka asked Natalya.
"Seven in the evening, Eastern time."
That would be two o'clock tomorrow morning in Moscow. "I'll phone him right away," he said. "Thank you." He broke the connection, then dialed Khrushchev's residence.
The phone was answered by Ivan Tepper, head of the household staff, the equivalent of a butler. "Hello, Ivan," said Dimka. "Is he there?"
"On his way to bed," said Ivan.
"Tell him to put his trousers back on. Kennedy is going to speak on television at two A.M. our time."
"Just a minute, he's right here."
Dimka heard a muttered conversation, then Khrushchev's voice. "They have found your missiles!"
Dimka's heart sank. Khrushchev's spontaneous intuition was usually right. The secret was out--and Dimka was going to take the blame. "Good evening, comrade First Secretary," he said, and the four people in the room with him went silent. "We don't yet know what Kennedy will be speaking about."
"It's the missiles, bound to be. Call an emergency meeting of the Presidium."
"What time?"
"In an hour."
"Very good."
Khrushchev hung up.
Dimka dialed the home of his secretary. "Hello, Vera," he said. "Emergency Presidium at ten tonight. He's on his way to the Kremlin."
"I'll start calling people," she said.
"You have the numbers at your home?"
"Yes."
"Of course you do. Thank you. I'll be at the office in a few minutes." He hung up.
They were all staring at him. They had heard him say "Good evening, comrade First Secretary." Grandfather looked proud, Grandmother and Mother were concerned, and Nina had a gleam of excitement in her eye. "I've got to go to work," Dimka said unnecessarily.
Grandfather said: "What's the emergency?"
"We don't know yet."
Grandfather patted him on the shoulder and looked sentimental. "With men such as you and my son, Volodya, in charge, I know the revolution is safe."
Dimka was tempted to say he wished he felt so confident. Instead he said: "Grandfather, will you get an army car to take Nina home?"
"Of course."
"Sorry to break up the party . . ."
"Don't worry," said Grandfather. "Your work is more important. Go, go."
Dimka put on his coat, kissed Nina, and left.
Going down in the elevator, he wondered despairingly whether he had somehow let out the secret of the Cuban missiles, despite all his efforts. He had run the entire operation with formidable security. He had been brutally efficient. He had been a tyrant, punishing mistakes severely, humiliating fools, ruining the careers of men who failed to follow orders meticulously. What more could he have done?
Outside, a nighttime rehearsal was in progress for the military parade scheduled for Revolution Day, in two weeks' time. An endless line of tanks, artillery, and soldiers rumbled along the embankment of the Moskva River. None of this will do us any good if there's a nuclear war, he thought. The Americans did not know it, but the Soviet Union had few nuclear weapons, nowhere near the numbers the USA had. The Soviets could hurt the Americans, yes, but the Americans could wipe the Soviet Union off the face of the earth.
As the road was blocked by the procession, and the Kremlin was less than a mile away, Dimka left his motorcycle at home and walked.
The Kremlin was a triangular fortress on the north side of the river. Within were several palaces now converted to government buildings. Dimka went to the senate building, yellow with white pillars, and took the elevator to the third floor. He followed a red carpet along a high-ceilinged corridor to Khrushchev's office. The first secretary had not yet arrived. Dimka went two doors farther along to the Presidium Room. Fortunately, it was clean and tidy.
The Presidium of the Supreme Soviet was in practice the ruling body of the Soviet Union. Khrushchev was its chairman. This was where the power lay. What would Khrushchev do?
Dimka was first, but soon Presidium members and their aides began to trickle in. No one knew what Kennedy was going to say. Yevgeny Filipov arrived with his boss, Defense Minister Rodion Malinovsky. "This is a fuckup," Filipov said, hardly able to hide his glee. Dimka ignored him.
Natalya came in with the black-haired, dapper foreign minister Andrei Gromyko. She had decided that the late hour licensed casual clothing, and she looked cute in tight American-style blue jeans and a loose-fitting wool sweater with a big rolled collar.
"Thank you for the early warning," Dimka murmured to her. "I really appreciate it."
She touched his arm. "I'm on your side," she said. "You know that
."
Khrushchev arrived and opened the meeting by saying: "I believe Kennedy's television address will be about Cuba."
Dimka sat up against the wall behind Khrushchev, ready to run errands. The leader might need a file, a newspaper, or a report; he might ask for tea or beer or a sandwich. Two other Khrushchev aides sat with Dimka. None of them knew the answers to the big questions. Had the Americans found the missiles? And, if they had, who had let the secret out? The future of the world hung in the balance but Dimka, somewhat to his shame, was equally worried about the future of Dimka.
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."