Back Channel

by Stephen L Carter

  “Don’t interfere, Viktor Borisovich. You don’t want to get in my way.”

  “Nor you in mine.”

  The man in the gold-rimmed glasses hung up the phone and hurried to the waiting taxi. “Send people to site one and site two. Tell them to watch out for Americans. You and I will cover site three.”

  As the cab turned left and raced across Rock Creek Park, Viktor gave himself over to his thoughts. Ziegler was not merely uncultured. He was a barbarian, and, worse, drunk with power. He actually wanted to kill the young woman, when all that was necessary was to detain her long enough to prevent her from delivering her last message. But it was obvious, too, that his faction and Jack Ziegler’s no longer possessed the common interest that had bound them for the past month. Viktor wanted to stop the back-channel negotiations because of the strategic importance of Operation Anadyr. If the General Secretary showed fortitude, he believed, the Americans and their weak President would back down from the final confrontation. And once the Cuban missiles were operational, able to reach Washington in mere minutes, the time when the capitalists could dictate terms would come crashing to its end, once and for all.

  Whereas Ziegler, it was becoming clear, had a very different motive. He actually wanted a war, a nuclear war, preferring to fight now, when he thought his country would prevail. That such a man had been his partner in this enterprise chilled his soul.

  “Drive faster,” he commanded.

  FIFTY-THREE

  The Night Visitor

  I

  Later, Miles Madison would tell investigators that it was only the sheerest luck that he was home that night. Until recently, he had pulled the three-to-eleven shift in the Pod two weeks out of every three, and Sunday, October 28, fell smack in the middle of his fortnight. But with the nation’s military now at DEFCON 2, the Pod personnel were doubled, and he had been moved to eleven-to-seven. So, when the doorbell rang at a quarter past nine, he was at home, dressing for his shift, rather than bunkered in a Pentagon subbasement, manning three tele-printers and six telephones. He was not expecting any visitors at this hour, but he had learned long ago not to allow his expectations to limit his perceptions. When he opened the door and found a trembling and disheveled Margo Jensen on the front step, he didn’t waste time with silly questions. He swept her inside with one heavy hand, even as his gaze raked the street for danger.

  Why did you let her in? asked the investigators.

  “I’m a Marine. We help people.”

  But couldn’t you see she was on the run?

  “All I knew was, she was scared. She was the granddaughter of a dear friend, and I was supposed to be watching out for her, and she was frightened out of her wits.”

  So what did you do?

  “I let her in. Sat her down. Made her a cup of coffee.”

  And did you call the police?

  “I didn’t call anybody. Not at first. I wanted to hear her story.”

  II

  Doris Harrington was at her front window, watching the blue car across the street. It had pulled up ten minutes ago, and the driver was still behind the wheel. One of ours or one of theirs? she wondered, not at all facetiously, because the lessons of Vienna were never far away. If she had learned anything in her months behind enemy lines, it was that everybody belonged to somebody. She had just decided to open the safe and take out her gun when the telephone rang.

  “Dr. Harrington?”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Mac Bundy. We have a small problem. I was hoping you could come down and give us a little help.”

  “What kind of problem, Mr. Bundy?”

  “I’d rather not say over an open line.”

  She parted the curtain again. “Does this blue car belong to you?”

  “Yes. The driver’s name is Parke, with an ‘e.’ He’ll knock in five minutes. Can you be ready?”

  She looked down at her housecoat. “I’ll be ready,” she said.

  “Thank you, Doctor. See you shortly.”

  In the event, he was kind enough to give her ten minutes. The knock came as she was fixing her makeup. The man at the door looked sheepish. He was tall and blond, and his nose looked as if it had once been broken, and had a bad mend. “Sorry to call you out so late, ma’am. But it’s the White House.”

  “I understand, Mr.…?”

  “Parke, ma’am. With the ‘e’ at the end.”

  III

  “That’s quite a story, Margo.”

  “I’m not making it up.”

  The Major was trimming his cigar with a shiny gold cutter. “I didn’t say you were. As a matter of fact, most of it makes sense. The factions, all that. I was on the Joint Staff. I know all about the infighting, the jealousy, the way good men chafe at taking orders from civilians who don’t know the first thing about what we do.”

  He held the cigar in front of his nose, rolled it back and forth. Margo said nothing. She sensed that Miles Madison had a point to make.

  “I’m retiring in a couple of years. I don’t suppose your grandmother told you. I’ll be a lieutenant colonel by then. Haven’t decided if I’m going to try to make full bird. Anyway, when I’ve put in my twenty, a couple of partners and I are going into real-estate investing. Here and down in Florida.” Still he wasn’t satisfied with the cigar. He was using a slim metal tool with a perpendicular wooden handle to unplug the middle. “But the plan won’t work if Washington is blown to smithereens. And Florida—well, the Reds would have pretty much the whole state on their target list. Not because of Cuba. Because we have so many bases and ports and harbors down there.” His tone grew somber. “My point is, Margo, I have as much to lose as anybody. I don’t want this war. Nobody I know in the military wants it. It’s never the military who rattles America’s sabers. It’s the civilians who run the place. Have you noticed that?”

  “I don’t know. I guess so.”

  Another long draw on the cigar.

  “And as for the spies—well, I’m in 7th Comm, as you know. I’ve been handling communications for a lot of their people for years. In Europe and Asia in the fifties. Here. A lot of the Agency people are a little crazy, and most of their schemes are half nuts. More than half. Like sending some college kid to Varna. Still. They’re not bad people.”

  Margo wasn’t sure which of them he was trying to persuade. “Somebody shot at me tonight,” she said.

  Still Miles Madison worked on his cigar, now brushing the leaves with some sort of steel comb. “But you don’t actually know that. In combat, you can’t always tell who’s shooting at whom.” He waved away her objection. “I know. I know. And a Secret Service agent got shot, except it’s not on the news, because they’re hushing it up, right?” His laugh was hearty, but, to her ear, a little forced. “Look. Let’s say I believe you. My best advice is to get in touch with the people who recruited you. You must have emergency codes and so on.”

  “I can’t use them.” Margo studied the brown rug, its complex pattern marred by dozens of burnt spots from fallen ash. “There’s a leak somewhere.”

  He hunched forward, put the unlit cigar in the obsidian tray, made a bucket of his large hands. “Then what exactly do you want me to do? Hide you? The wife and girls are in Cincinnati. My offer to send you to join them still stands, but you’ll have trouble now getting a seat. All the trains and buses out of Washington are booked solid. I might be able to get you on one of the shuttles the military’s running for families, but I suspect you won’t want to risk official transport. Of course, you can always go back to your grandmother’s house, but you’ll have the same problem getting there.”

  “I don’t want to run away, Major Madison. That’s not why I’m asking for your help.”

  Satisfied at last, he struck a long match and lit the cigar. “Then why?”

  “You used to work in the White House Signals Office.”

  “So?”

  “So … I was hoping you could get me in.”

  “Into where?”

  “The W
hite House.”

  IV

  Miles Madison laughed. “You don’t want much, do you?”

  Margo was long past embarrassment. “I have a message for the President,” she said tartly. “The White House is where he lives.”

  The sharp eyes were still merry. He was puffing regularly on the cigar now. “You know, Margo, a few years ago, I was stationed in—it doesn’t matter where I was stationed. Somewhere in Europe. I was deputy military attaché at one of our embassies. Part of my job was transmitting secure messages. We had a spy out there—an agent, a foreign national—and he had information for us. He only trusted his control. Nobody else. The trouble was, his control got captured. We traded for him later. The point is, our agent didn’t dare come by the embassy. He wasn’t sure which of us he could trust. So—you know how he got the message in?”

  She didn’t.

  “He chalked it on the building across the street. Just a couple of code words. He figured that everybody would see them, so if there was a traitor in the embassy, he wouldn’t be able to stop a bunch of people from sending urgent telexes to Washington to find out if anybody knew what the words meant. And that’s exactly what happened. It took a little longer, but the message wound up in the right hands.”

  Margo was tempted. The story was warm and reassuring, and even made her feel safe. She could write the message somewhere and flee to Garrison and Nana; or Ithaca and Tom. Only—

  “It wouldn’t work,” she said. “I can’t take the chance that the message doesn’t get through. I don’t know how Ziegler and his friends found out about what I’m doing. That means I don’t know whom I can trust. Even in the White House. I have to give the message to the President in person. That’s the only way to be sure it gets where it’s supposed to go.” She rubbed her eyes. She had been so happy. “And it’s not just that. The President told me there’s a deadline.”

  The major’s voice went dry. “I do military communications, Margo. I transmit the orders. I know about the deadline.”

  “Then you know I only have until two p.m. to get the message to the President.”

  “Actually, you only have until noon. They moved it up.” Again he was examining his cigar. “Margo, look. I admire your dedication. But I can’t get you into the White House. I don’t have the contacts to do that. Those Signals Office rotations are very short. It’s not like you meet a lot of people.” He lifted a powerful finger to forestall her objection. “But I’ll tell you what I can do. I have a friend in military intelligence. Name of Tillmon. I trust him, Margo. He’ll have better contacts than I do, and he’ll figure something out.” He had pulled a small spiral notebook from his desk and was flipping pages. “He’s even stationed at Langley just now.”

  “I don’t trust the CIA.”

  “I’m not asking you to. Tillmon isn’t Agency. He’s military. He’s assigned to Langley for an eighteen-month rotation. He told me about some very odd goings-on over there: a tiny group of people inside the Agency trying to run their own foreign policy. He didn’t like the idea much. He didn’t give me any names—he wasn’t ready for that, he said—but he was planning to ask some questions.” He saw her expression. “He’s a good man, Margo. He might refuse to help, but once he knows who’s after you, he won’t turn you in. Anyway, there’s no harm in getting him over here and having a talk. I’ll call him.”

  “What if his phone’s tapped?”

  “Or mine. Right. It doesn’t matter. Our friendship is on the record. Relax. Read a book. Watch television. I’ll be back in a bit.”

  The Major vanished on those silent feet, heading for another part of the house.

  Margo let her head sag backward until it rested atop the cushion. She studied the plaster ceiling, following a faint crack along its jagged path outward from the light fixture until it vanished beneath the dentil molding. She was deathly tired, but another part of her feared she would never sleep again. Nothing could prepare you for being shot at. Nothing. Miles Madison’s self-assurance, his easy command of the situation, had calmed her, even made her believe that she might be able to deliver Khrushchev’s reply after all—although, twenty-four hours ago, she had felt the same way about Jericho Ainsley. Nevertheless, she had to succeed. Had to. The fact that people were trying so hard to stop her only increased her determination not to let them win. Any more than her father would have—

  Margo’s eyes snapped open.

  A footfall told her that the Major had returned. She looked up expectantly, then went very still.

  “What is it? What’s wrong? Did you reach your friend?” But the ashen face told her all she needed to know. “Something happened.”

  “I didn’t reach him. I couldn’t.” The lively voice was flat. “Tillmon was shot and killed in a holdup this afternoon. He’s dead.”

  FIFTY-FOUR

  The Kitchen

  I

  Margo felt her already slim range of options narrowing further. While she was still trying to decide what to say, Major Madison was planning.

  “I’ve been ordered to talk to an investigative team from the Office of Naval Intelligence before my duty shift begins at eleven. It’s quarter of ten. To make the Pentagon by ten-thirty, I have to be on the road in fifteen minutes. If I’m late, they’ll want to know why. I won’t tell them you’ve been here, but if I’m late, they’ll guess.”

  “You don’t have to do that for me—”

  “So this is what we’re going to do.” He was standing near the desk, turning a snow globe over and over in his hands. Inside, white powder flurried across a Christmas scene. “Sooner or later, whoever is looking for you will get to this point in the list. So you have to get moving. I can drop you wherever you have to go. Then we can rejoin when I get off duty at seven and figure out how to get you into the White—”

  “No. That’s not a good idea.”

  “The deadline isn’t until noon. We’ll have plenty of time, I promise you.”

  “I meant, no, I don’t think you should do any more for me.” She was already on her feet, reaching for her coat. “This changes everything.”

  “It doesn’t change anything, Margo. The bastards killed my friend. All the more reason for me to help. What’s that look mean? You’re worried it’s dangerous? I’m a Marine, honey.”

  “You have a family.”

  “Vera understands what it means to be the wife of a Marine officer. If anything ever happens to me, she’ll know how to carry on.”

  “It’s not you I was thinking of. It’s them. Mrs. Madison. Kimberly. Marilyn. They’re not volunteers, Major. They’re bystanders. And these people—I don’t think they’d hesitate.”

  “Even so—”

  “I couldn’t carry that on my conscience,” she said softly. “I don’t think you could, either.”

  Margo could almost hear his teeth grinding. His hand squeezed the snow globe so hard she feared it might shatter. For a full minute he stood there, mouth working wordlessly. Then the powerful shoulders slumped. “I see your point. Okay. Look. There are still a couple of things I can do for you. Number one, I won’t tell the folks from ONI you’ve been here. Number two, at least let me get you safely to wherever you’re going next.”

  Margo was touched; and, in her neediness, tempted; but she knew she had to be firm.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she said. “It’s very kind of you, but I think it’s best if you have no knowledge of where I’m heading.” A flash of her former wit, before he could contradict her: “I think I’d be grateful, though, if you’d drive me halfway.”

  In the car, he had one last question for her: “I don’t mean to offend you, but are you armed?”

  “Of course not,” Margo answered, even as her fingers touched the steel of Ainsley’s gun in her purse.

  II

  “Any luck?” asked Bundy. He stood in the door to his office, a stack of files under his arm, on his way up to see the President.

  Janet shook her head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Bundy. Th
ere’s no answer at Dr. Harrington’s home. Signals says Perry Parke isn’t picking up the car radio, either.” She hesitated. “They say he could just be in an area with bad reception, sir.”

  “I’m sure that’s it.”

  Bundy took the elevator this time. Two other staffers were aboard, so he kept his face placid. But inside he was aching. Parke wasn’t an agent. He was just about the junior-most of Bundy’s own national security staff, and happened to be spare when somebody was needed to bring Harrington in. It had never occurred to McGeorge Bundy that the task might present the smallest danger.

  III

  She had Major Madison drop her on the campus of George Washington University, near Foggy Bottom, and she walked slowly south until his taillights vanished in the mist. Then she spun around and hurried up to Pennsylvania Avenue. Fortunately, the D.C. Transit bus was just trundling along. She flagged it down, paid her dime, and rode into Georgetown, where she disembarked next to the stately columns of the Riggs National Bank. She remembered Harrington telling her about the ten thousand dollars, payment for Varna, on deposit at the Riggs branch a block from the White House, to be hers upon her twenty-first birthday. She wondered whether she would ever have the chance to spend it.

  Remembering the dream, Margo lifted her eyes involuntarily to the sky. There was only a gauzy moon, sallow and distant.

  Harrington. She was down to Dr. Harrington. Somehow she had always known that it would come to this. Approaching the house was bound to be tricky, because the White House, as well as Ziegler’s people and whoever the man in the gold-rimmed glasses might have been, would all be expecting her to turn up there.

  On the other hand, she had very little time.

  From Miles Madison, Margo had borrowed a hooded raincoat and a cane. The house was on the north side of P Street. She passed on the south side, leaning hard on the cane, never slowing, her head tucked so far down into the coat that in this fog nobody could notice at a glance whether she was even black or white. Lights were on in the first-floor windows. No way to tell whether she was home. Margo catalogued the blue sedan across the street, and the driver with his head cleverly down on the dashboard, as if asleep. Farther down the block, she passed a battered van that she supposed could have been stuffed full of fancy surveillance equipment. But there was nobody in the cab, and she wondered.