Back Channel

by Stephen L Carter

“And didn’t he tell you not to amplify his message? Because I’d say that reading some dark meaning into his words counts as amplification. Secret messages, secret promises …” He was running his hand through his hair, obviously agitated. “We can only go by what he actually says. Okay?”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  An awkward beat. “Long day, Miss Jensen,” he said, not looking at her. She supposed this was an apology of sorts for losing his temper.

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  “I’ve got people telling me I have to invade.” His suit jacket was slung over the back of a chair. The thick brown hair was mussy, and, before he departed, would be a good deal mussier.

  He talked for a while, unwinding, and then, once more, they set about creating the fiction, balling up the bedsheets and wrinkling their clothes. Just like last night, Margo was unable to look at him as they worked; and, just like last night, she sensed his eyes a little too steady on her body. She went over to the sofa and, unbidden, sat. She realized that she was trembling. Without asking, he fixed her a drink.

  “Nobody shot down any planes,” he said, speaking slowly and softly, as we do around invalids. “All that worry about Khrushchev’s hard-liners was for nothing. That’s why we can celebrate. It may not be over, but it’s close. The Jupiters were the only stumbling block.”

  Just as with Fomin, her questions were plainly beginning to annoy him. She wondered what it was about powerful men, their annoyance at women seeking entrée to their thoughts.

  “It just all seems too easy,” she said.

  “If there’s one thing I’ve learned being President …” he began, but then sensed that she was in no mood to be lectured. “Look. Take my word for it.”

  “Fomin says the General Secretary still has to—”

  “Please his hard-liners. I know. But, believe me: In a confrontation like this? Once a guy twitches? He’ll back down.”

  Margo thought about Niemeyer’s classroom, and his theory about bluff: the key was to keep the other side guessing. Maybe this time he means it, maybe this time he doesn’t. Your adversary had to be uncertain.

  “The Grozny,” she began, but again Kennedy interrupted her.

  “Has slowed to half-speed. We’re fine, Miss Jensen. The Cuban missile crisis is essentially over.”

  III

  It was dinner and dancing. Viktor and one of his associates followed Patsy and her boyfriend of the moment to a fancy restaurant in Chevy Chase and then to a dance hall a few blocks away. Inside the hall, they sat at the bar, amidst spoiled young people whirling and shimmying to decadent music that a more cultured country would ban. Viktor worried briefly that he and his associate might stand out, but then he noticed that any number of men of middle years were there without women. It took him a few minutes to work out that these men were prospecting for girls to go home with them for the night.

  “Disgusting,” he whispered.

  “It is,” said his associate, raptly watching the dancers, the women especially.

  And these were the Western values that the United States wanted to teach the world.

  At last their opportunity arose. Patsy excused herself and headed for the ladies’ room. Viktor had already mapped the route, including the fire door with a broken lock. He sent his associate outside, then positioned himself in the dingy corridor. Viktor removed the gold-rimmed glasses and slipped them into a pocket. As Patsy approached, he nudged the door with his foot. His associate tugged it open. Viktor grabbed her around the throat and mouth and yanked her into the alley. His associate slammed the door.

  Nobody noticed a thing.

  Viktor continued to hold her as she struggled in panic. But the position of his hands made it impossible for her to cry out.

  “Twice in the stomach,” he said.

  Her eyes widened.

  Viktor’s associate punched her, very hard. Her body tensed, she shrieked into his palm, but he didn’t let go. The other man punched her a second time. Viktor released her. She fell on her hands and knees, in terrible pain but unmarked.

  He crouched beside her.

  “That’s a warning,” he said.

  Patsy was coughing and choking. “What—what did I do?”

  “Pull your legs up to your chest,” Viktor murmured. “It will help with the pain.” Groaning, she did as bidden. “The warning is not for you,” he continued. “It is for your roommate. Tell her what happened here. Tell her it is time to stop.”

  They ran off, leaving her in the mud.

  IV

  Margo was seated on the sofa, knees primly together. She was having trouble taking in the President’s words. “The crisis is over,” she repeated. “That’s it? We’re done?”

  “Not quite. I’m sure you’ll be carrying a lot of messages the next couple of days, while we work out the details.” Kennedy laughed. “Don’t worry. Not every night, like this week. But intermittently. Something to write about in your memoirs.”

  Margo shook her head. “I could never write about this.”

  “National security concerns don’t last forever, Miss Jensen.”

  “It’s not that, Mr. President. It’s just”—miserably—“it’s too embarrassing.”

  “Ah. You mean our little façade.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Again the silence, as he sat on the bed, glass in hand, watching her with those amazing eyes. He took a swallow, tilted his head to the side, seemed to consider.

  “You’re still nervous.”

  “A little.”

  “It’s okay. Nobody’s shot down any planes, and your secret is safe.” She said nothing. Kennedy tilted his head the other way; grinned. “You know, Miss Jensen, it doesn’t have to be like this.”

  “I’m sorry, sir?”

  “You’re so stiff. Worried sick, I know. Scared. Well, that’s natural. But it’s over, I promise you. Here. You should have a drink.” Gesturing toward the bottle. “Not the sips you take so the Secret Service will smell alcohol on your breath. A real one. Take some of the edge off.”

  “No, thank you.”

  He downed his glass, then crossed the room in his socks and stood looking down at her. His white shirt had lost its crispness. She found the tousled hair and weatherproof smile warm and welcoming, magnetic somehow. Here he was, the most powerful man in the world, and all of his considerable charm was being focused on her.

  “I’m not a bad guy,” he said.

  Margo dropped her eyes. Her hands were shaking. “I know that, Mr. President.”

  “Look at me, Miss Jensen.” He put a finger beneath her chin, and the touch sizzled. He tilted her head back. “We could be friends, you know.”

  “Sir, I—”

  “Good friends,” he said, and took her hand.

  He tugged slightly.

  Margo allowed herself to be lifted to her feet.

  “You’re a very beautiful young woman,” he murmured, stroking her jaw. “You’re going to make some lucky man very happy one day, Margo. May I call you Margo?”

  She was dizzy. Warm. Frightened. “Of course, Mr. President.”

  “Jack. When we’re alone, you should call me Jack.”

  “I—I think maybe we should—”

  “Try,” he murmured. “Jack. Say it.”

  Margo swallowed. “Jack,” she said, voice strangled.

  “Again.”

  “Jack.”

  “Good girl.” Margo went very still. She wondered whether the President was going to kiss her. In her topsy-turvy world, she knew she wouldn’t stop him. But Kennedy stepped toward the sideboard. She shut her eyes, heard rather than saw the ice plopping and the Scotch pouring. “Now, how about that drink?” he said heartily.

  She had thought the spell was broken, but when she looked, he was in front of her, disheveled and mesmerizing, holding out the glass.

  “Thank you,” she said, dropping her gaze. She gulped.

  “You can relax,” he said gently. Somehow she was seated again. The President c
rouched in front of her. He brushed a stray lock of hair from her forehead. “Now, where were we? Oh, yes. We didn’t get to finish our dance last night, because you thought Khrushchev was going to shoot down a plane, so I had to go. Remember?”

  “Yes, sir, I—”

  “Ah-ah.” Waggling a finger.

  She took another swallow. “Yes, Jack.”

  “Right. Good. So, since you’re the reason we didn’t get to finish our dance last night, you owe me tonight.”

  “I think maybe I should—”

  But he had turned the music on again, and Margo was out of arguments. The Scotch and the exhaustion and his proximity were doing their work. He lifted her to her feet, and she allowed it. He drew her into his arms, and she allowed it. More than allowed it. Participated in it.

  “Relax, Margo,” he whispered, very near her ear. She felt loose and boneless and warm.

  “I’m trying.”

  “I’m trying, Jack.”

  “I’m trying, Jack.”

  “We’re fine.” He rubbed her back. “They didn’t shoot down the plane.”

  “Right. Yes.”

  “They didn’t shoot down the plane,” he repeated, making a song of it, crooning the words. “It’s all over. They didn’t shoot down the plane, honey. You were wrong for once. You can relax.”

  Murmuring and murmuring as they danced.

  FORTY-FOUR

  An Unfortunate Incident

  I

  But Margo was right.

  The news hit the ExComm on Saturday. Kennedy had just told the group that there had been a secret offer from Khrushchev, through a reliable intermediary—he avoided the term “back channel”—to remove the missiles from Cuba in return for a promise by the United States to respect the island’s territorial integrity.

  The room exploded—not only because the ExComm had been kept in the dark, but also because, just this morning, Khrushchev had publicly announced that he would not remove the missiles for anything less than the Jupiters.

  The President suggested that they could accept the Friday offer and ignore what the Kremlin had announced today.

  Hardly anybody agreed.

  General Taylor reported that the Pentagon was prepared to begin a bombing campaign as early as Monday, with the invasion to follow, and did not believe it prudent to wait any longer. The B-52S were still orbiting in shifts at their “go” points, he said, and that level of alert could not be maintained indefinitely. Dean Rusk, the secretary of state, added that their European allies remained fiercely opposed to any deal involving the Jupiters. In the midst of a fierce peroration by Vice President Lyndon Johnson, who insisted that any deal would leave Kennedy’s Administration “a shambles,” an aide handed a note to Secretary of Defense McNamara. He called for quiet.

  “One of our U-2s is overdue,” he announced. “We think it’s been shot down.”

  For a moment there was confusion. Some around the table thought he was just updating a report he had given the group a little earlier, that a U-2 based in Alaska had strayed into Soviet airspace and been fired upon. But it soon became clear that McNamara was talking about Cuba.

  All at once they were in a shooting war.

  The attorney general asked about the pilot.

  General Taylor gave him a withering look. “The wreckage is on the ground. The pilot was in the plane.” The general turned to the President. “You’ll remember, sir, that we’ve already planned for this eventuality. The Air Force has its orders. We immediately take out the SAM site that fired the missile, and we warn the Russians that we’ll treat further attacks on our surveillance aircraft the same way.”

  Most of the others agreed: there was no choice. Bundy was about to speak up, but the President beat him to it.

  “Those SAM sites have Soviet crews, correct?” Nobody disputed this. “So, if we take them out, we’ll be killing their people.”

  “If we don’t do anything,” said McCone, “we’ll be sending the message that you can kill our people with impunity. No threats we make after that will have a shred of credibility.”

  As the argument raged on, Bundy began to form a plan. GREENHILL had been right all along. Fomin’s warning was accurate, and they had celebrated too soon. Whether the downing of the U-2 had been ordered by higher authority or was the accident of some trigger-happy local commander, Khrushchev still needed to save face in order to make a deal. By letting the pilot go unavenged, they just might be able to give the General Secretary the leverage he would need to face down his own hard-liners.

  “General LeMay has the planes at Homestead ready to go,” Taylor was saying. “Just give the order, Mr. President, and the SAM site is gone in minutes.”

  Kennedy shook his head. “You will instruct General LeMay, in the clearest possible language, that he is not, under any circumstances, to take military action absent my direct order.”

  “Mr. President,” McNamara began.

  “You will transmit that order at once, Mr. Secretary.”

  But this show of resolve turned out to be a holding action, no more. With his chosen advisers almost unanimously against him, the President kept giving ground. Finally, he compromised. It was now two in the afternoon. If the crisis was not resolved by this time Monday—forty-eight hours away—the attack would begin.

  Kennedy stood, and the room with him. “Bobby and Sorensen, with me.” He strode out.

  “Tomorrow morning, people,” said Bundy. “Eleven sharp.”

  In the hallway, Bobby pulled him aside. “Your back channel better come up with something fast,” he said.

  “She warned us this would happen. We didn’t pay attention.”

  “What are we supposed to do, Mac? Let a teenager run our foreign policy?”

  “We’re supposed to give the President the best advice we can.”

  The attorney general nodded. “Well, right now, my best advice is the same as the Joint Chiefs’. If we can’t resolve this by Monday, we go in.”

  He rushed off to follow his brother.

  II

  Bundy arrived back at his basement suite to find pudgy Esman waiting in the anteroom. He sent the young man in ahead of him, then whispered with Janet, giving her instructions to convey to GREENHILL.

  Inside, he shut the door and sat.

  “Be quick,” he said. “I can give you three minutes, no more.”

  “I think I’ve got a lead,” said Esman. He noticed his superior’s distracted expression. “On those leaks.”

  “Right. Okay. Where are we?”

  “It occurs to me that we might have set our parameters wrong. We’ve been looking at people who knew all of the identities involved. But we should be looking at the timing, too—when SANTA GREEN was conceived, who was involved in the process.”

  “Makes sense,” said Bundy, his mind still on the U-2.

  “And there’s something else. I was going over GREENHILL’s debriefing. You’ll remember how she said that Fomin knew about the operation in advance?”

  Bundy said he remembered.

  “Well, in the transcript, she says he called the operation QKPARCHMENT.” Behind the Coke-bottle glasses, Esman’s eyes glowed. “Not SANTA GREEN.”

  “QKPARCHMENT.”

  “Yes, sir. You’ll remember, that was the CIA’s cryptonym. The Agency only used it for a couple of days, until you gave the charter to State.”

  “And State never used that designation.”

  “That’s right, sir. State always called it SANTA GREEN. The White House calls it SANTA GREEN. Nowadays, even the Agency calls it SANTA GREEN.” Esman closed his folder. “And that tells us two things. First, that the leak came before you decided which department would run the operation. Second, that the leak probably came from Langley, or someone in contact with Langley.”

  “Wait,” said Bundy. He took off his glasses, pinched the bridge of his nose, and sank into thought. Esman knew his superior well enough not to interrupt.

  “Very well,” said Bundy after a momen
t. “Leave everything with me. All your notes. All the files. Everything.”

  “Do you want me to—”

  “The investigation is concluded.”

  Esman could be as pedantic as his boss. “Concluded in the sense that you know who the leak is, or concluded in the sense that we’re stopping?”

  “Concluded,” Bundy repeated. “Drop the investigation, and go back to whatever you were doing before. I have to get up to the President.”

  Bundy took the marble steps two at a time. He possessed certain facts that young Esman did not. And because of what he knew, he was worried. Very worried. Worried enough that he might have to warn the President.

  But when he reached the Oval Office to discuss tonight’s meeting with GREENHILL, he learned that his concern came too late.

  III

  On that same Saturday, for the first time since Borkland and Stilwell interrogated her in Niemeyer’s office, Margo slept late. Or at least stayed in bed. Her limbs were leaden and restless at the same time. The events of the past month had left her without energy or affect, but the events of last night in particular. And yet she woke smiling.

  She went out to the kitchen to get some breakfast, and that was when she saw Patsy.

  The Californian was sitting at the table in her bathrobe. Her face was splotchy and red. She was hunched over, hands covering her stomach protectively, staring into space.

  “What’s wrong?” Margo asked. She supposed the date must have gone bad. Maybe Patsy had been crying all night. “Hey. What is it?”

  Patsy’s head swiveled slowly. Her eyes narrowed. “You selfish bitch,” she hissed.

  Margo blinked. “What did you call me?”

  “A selfish bitch.” Enunciating sharply. “I got beaten up last night. Did you know that? Do you even care?”

  “Patsy, I’m so sorry. Did you call the—”

  The blond woman slapped Margo’s hand away. “You should be sorry. It was your fault.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The men who beat me up. They said it was a warning to you.” She turned away, shaking her head. “I don’t know why they knocked me around and not you. I don’t know whose husband you’re sleeping with, but these guys said for you to stop.” She stood up and headed for her bedroom, but paused to fire a final shot over her shoulder. “So—will you please think about somebody else for a change?”