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 grey 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 US Intelligence might somehow learn of this order; but despite his reservations the proposal was agreed, to Dimka’s great relief, and the message was sent. The danger of a nuclear holocaust still loomed, but at least the Presidium was focussed on avoiding a war rather than fighting it.
Soon afterwards, 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 1.15 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 build-up 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 build-up, 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 US 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 centre 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 US.’
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 favourite 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.’
George thought of another possibility. ‘Maybe he’s white.’
‘Married and white too, I’ll bet. What is that press officer like, Pierre Salinger?’
‘An affable guy in his thirties, good French clothes, a little heavy. He’s married, and I hear he’s up to no good with his secretary, so I’m not sure he has time for another girlfriend.’
‘He might, if he’s French.’
George grinned. ‘Have you ever met a French person?’
‘No, but they have a reputation.’
‘And Negroes have a reputation for being lazy.’
‘You’re right, I shouldn’t talk that way; people are individuals.’
‘That’s what you always taught me.’
George had only half his mind on the conversation. The news about the missiles in Cuba had been kept secret from the American people for a week, but it was about to be revealed. It had been a week of intense debate within the small circle who knew, but little had been resolved. Looking back, George realized that when he had first heard he had under-reacted. He had thought mainly of the imminent midterm elections and their effect on the civil rights campaign. For a moment he had even relished the prospect of American retaliation. Only later had the truth sunk in: that civil rights would no longer matter, and no more elections would ever be held, if there was a nuclear war.
Jacky changed the subject. ‘The chef where I work has a lovely daughter.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Cindy Bell.’
‘What is Cindy short for, Cinderella?’
‘Lucinda. She graduated this year from Georgetown University.’