Back Channel

by Stephen L Carter

  A small light went on. The national security adviser was remembering a certain young woman he had been obliged to add to his staff for a time last year. “Mr. President, ah, did something happen tonight that I should know about?”

  The President finally looked up, and there was the mischievous, crooked smile, although it seemed to Bundy a little forced. “Whatever do you mean, Mac? What are you accusing me of?”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “Sure you did. But GREENHILL isn’t that kind of girl. She told me.” He laughed. “Besides, I’d never mix business with—well, with whatever you’re accusing me of. I’m not a total degenerate, no matter what Khrushchev thinks. Anyway, I’m a happily married man,” he added with a wink. Then his mood grew sober again. “Mac, look. I’m serious. This seems like a lot for some nineteen-year-old to go through. Now that we know the back channel works, maybe we should get somebody else to run between wickets.”

  “Mr. President, with respect. I see all the same risks you do. Yes, she’s young. Yes, she’s a college student. But so far she’s been worthy of our trust, and, before us, Dr. Harrington’s. I think she’s up to it.” He addressed himself to the glittering pen he was rolling between his fingers. “Besides, sir, we can’t send somebody else. Fomin chose her. Fomin trusts her. He put her through a great deal to be sure she was worthy of that trust. If we send someone else, he’ll get suspicious. He might blow up the back-channel negotiations and go home to die with his family.”

  “We’re stuck with her? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  “And if it turns out that I’m right and Fomin’s wrong? If GREENHILL’s not up to the job? What happens then?”

  “Then, sir, we find out whether the White House bomb shelter is deep enough.”

  THIRTY-NINE

  An Exclusive Interview

  I

  On Thursday, October 25, Margo went to lunch with a gaggle of girls from the office. The autumn weather had turned fine, so they walked the several blocks to the National Gallery of Art to eat in the basement cafeteria. A lot of the FBI guys ate there, one of the girls said confidently. Margo was distracted. She kept looking over her shoulder. There was no way she could have spotted a follower in the thronging midday crowds along the Mall, but the prickling hair at the nape of her neck told her things weren’t right.

  At the museum, Margo paid seventy-five cents for meatloaf and vegetables and joined the other girls at a long table. They were chattering about a new record somebody’s cousin had brought back from England, “Love Me Do,” by some group Margo had never heard of. She was frustrated, and puzzled. Three days ago, the President had announced the presence of Soviet missiles in Cuba. She had been waiting ever since for any sign that her co-workers were bothered by the news. But the one time she had raised the topic, they had all but engaged in a collective shrug, assuring her that there was no reason to worry, because JFK, as they familiarly called him, would fix it.

  But Margo had noticed an unspoken change. She had started work on Monday, and Kennedy’s speech had been Monday night. Here it was Thursday, and people were leaving the city. Grocery stores were sold out of canned goods. Of the six interns on her floor, three had left the city. The girls who had stayed might not want to talk about the crisis, but they could hardly ignore the rising swirl of panic. As her luncheon partners chattered on about music and men, Margo could not help wondering whether this desperate gabble was simply their way of coping: sticking to the mundane to cover the fears—

  She sat up very straight.

  A tubby little middle-aged man was waddling toward her across the cafeteria. He had a camera in his hand.

  II

  Margo was through running. She excused herself, leaped to her feet, and marched straight toward him. His hair was unkempt, there were food stains on his collar, and he wore his weight like an insolent challenge to a world he despised. His lips were set in a pout of disapproval. His eyes were pouchy and dissatisfied. Behind her, the girls were giggling and pointing, thinking, maybe, that this odd-looking creature was the secret explanation for Margo’s sudden presence among them.

  “Oh, good,” he said, his voice as gratingly disagreeable as his face. “I was afraid I’d have to drag you away. You showed some sense.”

  “Who are you? What do you want?”

  “Name’s Haar. Erroll Haar. My card,” he said, handing it over.

  Margo looked. And looked again. He was a staff reporter for one of the sleazier supermarket tabloids.

  “And what exactly do you want with me, Mr. Haar?”

  “I want you to look at these.”

  From the folds of his coat, he produced a manila envelope. He handed it over. She opened it up, and slid out several glossy photographs.

  And died inside.

  There she was, dressed to kill, slinking into the townhouse on East Capitol Street.

  There she was, leaving later, clothes and hair mussed, being assisted by a Secret Service agent.

  And there was the President of the United States, head down, hands in his pockets, hurrying into the same door.

  “No,” she whispered. “No. Oh, no. God. No.”

  “Mmmm. First words out of her mouth are a blasphemy. Can I quote you?”

  “It was a prayer,” she muttered.

  “Good. I’ll quote you that way, then.” Scribbling eagerly. He caught her expression, and his own became wolfish. “Sorry, sweetie,” he said. “No real secrets in this town.”

  She didn’t understand. How could they have been so careless? Bundy, or the Secret Service, or whoever was in charge of this madness: how was it possible that they had allowed a photographer to get pictures? It made no sense, but just now nothing did, because her brain had gone sludgy and soft. She felt the reporter’s greedy gaze. She hated being on display. She knew the girls from work were watching, too, but she was gripped by the horrible paralysis that clutched her so tightly in the dream, when the fate of the world rested on her shoulders, and yet she was helpless.

  No. She wasn’t.

  According to Niemeyer, outwardly irrational behavior often signaled a willingness to bargain. Haar wasn’t here for a quote. He was here because he wanted something.

  She squeezed the skin on the inside of her wrist and managed a semblance of control. She lifted her head. “Let’s go outside,” she said.

  “Fine by me.”

  They took the marble steps to the lobby, not exchanging a word, and exited at the back of the museum. She looked up and down Constitution Avenue, wondering whether, despite Bundy’s assurances, somebody was watching.

  Half hoping.

  “Okay,” said Haar. He coughed twice. Climbing the stairs had winded him. “That’s far enough. We’re outside. Now. Any comment?”

  “No. Absolutely not.” She handed the envelope back. “I think you’re filthy. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

  “Can I quote you on that?”

  “Just leave me alone,” she said, turning away.

  “Whatever you say, Miss Jensen.” The pudgy man laughed. “I don’t really need a comment from you. The photos sort of speak for themselves. You getting out of the car, you leaving the house so drunk a Secret Service man has to help you. I also have a very nice telephoto shot through the upstairs window. I have pretty much everything I need.” He had her attention again and knew it. “The only question at this point is what I should do with it.”

  During this peroration, Margo had swiveled partway back toward him. She hesitated, frightened and torn. “You can’t publish anything,” she said, trying to keep her voice from cracking. “Take my word, Mr. Haar. You cannot publish this story.”

  “Care to offer a reason?”

  “Because of what’s at stake. I can’t tell you. I’m sorry. But it’s more important than—than”—she searched for a comparison, found none, and finished insipidly—“than you can imagine.”

  “You mean, Kennedy’s reputation? Every reporter in t
his town knows about his little flings. They’re just protecting him.” That grating laugh again. “Or is it your own reputation you’re thinking about? Afraid you’ll ruin your future? Be known as just one of JFK’s girls?”

  “This isn’t about me. It isn’t about the President. It’s about—it’s about larger issues than that.”

  “Right. And I suppose you’d do anything to get me not to publish, wouldn’t you?”

  “What?”

  “I know about girls like you, Miss Jensen. I see you all the time. You think your body and your face will get you whatever you want.” He coughed again, the sound hollow and wet. “Well, I’ve got news for you. My tastes don’t run to dark flesh. You don’t have anything I want. I’m publishing.”

  This, finally, was too much. She didn’t slap his face, but only because they were standing on the sidewalk and had drawn too much attention already.

  “You’re filthy,” she said again, and made to stalk away.

  “Go ahead!” he called after her, not caring who heard. “Tell the Kennedys! That’s great! They know how this works!”

  That caught her attention. Margo didn’t turn around, but she did stop. The breeze freshened, brushing fallen leaves along the sidewalk in a mocking dance. She heard his footsteps nearing.

  “You don’t know, do you?” he said from close behind. His breath was very bad. If he touched her she would scream. “They’ll send somebody who’s empowered to negotiate. They always do. I’ll make more money from them than I’d ever make selling the photos.” His rheumy, satisfied laugh got her moving again. “If you didn’t know that, honey, you’re in the wrong line of work.”

  III

  Margo told nobody. Not at first. She had an emergency number to call, but wasn’t sure whether this qualified. Besides, she was afraid of wrecking the negotiation. That was what she told herself. She didn’t want the back channel to collapse. Hurrying back to the office, Margo tried to weigh things out. She didn’t yet know whether she was seeing Fomin tonight. If there was no meeting with Fomin, there was none with Kennedy. She didn’t need to decide yet, she kept assuring herself as she spent the rest of the afternoon plucking files and sorting them and delivering them. She ignored the now less discreet stares of her fellow interns. If they had heard the shouting on the street, there was nothing to do about it. Margo fretted nevertheless, and was even grateful for the worry over who knew what, because it kept her tortured mind away from what seemed to her a hauntingly likely explanation.

  The reporter hadn’t been following the President and happened to stumble on the townhouse on East Capitol Street.

  He had been guided there.

  Somebody had leaked the supposed affair, and Margo—deep down inside, where she kept truths she would rather not face—harbored the suspicion that the leaker was Bundy.

  No better way to preserve the fiction than to multiply the number of people who thought it was fact.

  IV

  At the end of the day, her boss stopped by her cubbyhole, perched herself on the file cabinet, and folded her smooth brown arms.

  “Is everything okay, Margo?”

  “Everything’s fine, Miss Elden.”

  “Some of the girls said you got into an argument with some guy this afternoon.”

  “It was nothing.”

  Torie nodded. “A lot of people are tense. We had a memo around lunch. One out of four folks in the department didn’t come in today. Did you notice how empty the place is? Everybody’s scared. I can’t tell you how many big arguments I’ve overheard today, all of them over nothing. Those missiles have all of us on edge.”

  “I guess they do.”

  Nana liked to say that Torie Elden was the loosest thing on two legs, but Margo had learned already that she was no fool. Torie had caught something in her young cousin’s voice, and now sat there with a frown on her face, swinging a leg back and forth to some unheard beat, hands clasped together as if in prayer.

  “I don’t know what’s going on with you,” she finally said. “And I don’t know what connections you think you have. But you are not going to embarrass this office. Is that clear?”

  “Of course. I would never do anything—”

  “I worked on Kennedy’s campaign, Margo.” A girls-in-it-together tone. “I worked for Stevenson in ’56. I know what it’s like to be young and pretty, on your own for the first time, and having all the guys chase you. May I give you some advice?”

  “I would appreciate it,” said Margo, truthfully.

  “Stay away from the guys. Especially the powerful ones. They’ll show you a great time, they’ll make all kinds of promises, but in the end”—a brief hesitation as some secret pain played over her face—“in the end, you’ll wind up even lonelier than when you started. Because, once a girl gets a certain kind of reputation, she can’t get rid of it. And the really good guys don’t want to be with that kind of girl. Do you follow what I’m saying?”

  “I understand,” Margo said. “Thank you,” she added, because she knew Torie meant well.

  “You’re a sweet girl,” said Torie. She reached out and tousled Margo’s hair, the caress warm and womanly. Her voice was soft. “You don’t have to let some guy treat you this way. There are other men out there.”

  “I know,” said Margo; and said no more.

  Torie gave her a look. Probably she thought her cousin was being haughty, because, without another word, she shook her head and marched out. But the reason Margo hadn’t responded to the advice was that her mind was on Torie’s words: they’ll make all kinds of promises … once a girl gets a certain kind of reputation, she can’t get rid of it. Again, basic conflict theory: negotiations were pointless unless each side was able to trust the other. Commitments had to be credible. And establishing credibility sometimes required sacrifice.

  Margo was beginning to wonder if she would turn out to be the sacrifice.

  V

  “There’s a passenger ship nearing the blockade line,” the secretary of defense was saying. “It’s carrying five hundred technicians. Czechs.”

  The President had been doodling but now looked across the table. It was past six, and the lowering clouds glowed redly in the west. “To work on the missiles?”

  “It’s a good bet,” McNamara said.

  “Do we stop them?” asked the attorney general.

  “It’s a passenger ship,” McNamara repeated. “There’s the issue of civilian casualties.”

  The President looked at his watch. Bundy understood. He wanted to get back to the Oval Office and catch the Security Council debate on television. But they needed a decision first on the ship, and Kennedy would follow his natural inclination to let all sides argue for pretty much as long as they chose.

  “If we stop them, we show we mean business,” said Bobby. “We’re calling it a quarantine, but we haven’t actually stopped anybody yet.”

  “Fifteen ships have turned back without challenging the line,” McNamara reminded the group. “That’s a bigger victory than one symbolic stop.”

  “What about the Grozny?” asked the President. “We know it’s carrying military equipment, right?”

  “The Grozny will be at the blockade line late sometime tomorrow,” McNamara said.

  General Taylor wanted to return the conversation to where it had stalled this morning: the possibility of attacking the missile sites.

  “I thought we were going to wait on that,” said Gwynn, who was representing State this evening. “I thought the idea was to see how the blockade went first.”

  Silence greeted the remark. Poor Gwynn was bewildered. Bundy hid a smile. Yes, the man had made a good point, but it wasn’t his point to make. He didn’t understand his role here. He was somebody’s deputy—not even an undersecretary—and here he was, trying to argue with the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Bundy gave him high marks for courage but no marks for bureaucratic intelligence. Maxwell Taylor was the sort who wouldn’t forget, and who would, on some fitter occasion, v
isit retribution on him.

  “Let’s remember this morning’s intelligence brief,” said Taylor, as if Gwynn had never spoken. “Langley’s sources say the Russian antiaircraft crews have orders not to fire on our surveillance planes, right? So we could fly in bombers at high altitude. The Russians would think it was a reconnaissance mission. They wouldn’t know it was an attack until the bombs were falling.”

  “At which point they’d fire back,” said McNamara, clearly irritated.

  “I still want to be prepared to go in there at a moment’s notice,” said Kennedy. “How much notice do we need?”

  “Half an hour to hit the SAMs.” Taylor always had precise facts at his fingertips, a talent Bundy appreciated. “Two hours to hit the missiles.”

  The President nodded. He stood up, and the room with him. “Don’t turn the passenger liner. Let it go.” He glanced at Maxwell Taylor. “But I want a plan to intercept the Grozny if it doesn’t turn.”

  “What do we do then?” asked Gwynn, once more out of turn: the President had already announced his decision.

  “Then we shoot,” said General Taylor.

  The President left, and the others filed out in twos and threes. Bundy stood with the attorney general in the private foyer connecting the Cabinet Room and the Oval Office. Two of the three secretarial desks stood empty, typewriters covered for the night. A young woman sat filing behind the third desk, on call in case she was needed.

  “Is she seeing Fomin tonight?” asked Bobby.

  “I don’t know. I haven’t heard.”

  “We need Khrushchev’s answer,” Bobby persisted. “You heard the President in there. He’s wavering. We need something fast, or he’s going to bomb those missile sites.”

  “I thought you were in favor of an attack.”

  “Devil’s advocate. The President didn’t tell you? He asked me to take that side in the meetings, then wait and see who piles on. I assumed you knew.”