*
On Thursday afternoon George Jakes felt a faint optimism.
The pot was boiling, but the lid was still on. The quarantine was in force, the Soviet missile ships had turned back, and there had been no showdown on the high seas. The United States had not invaded Cuba and no one had fired any nuclear weapons. Perhaps World War Three could be averted after all.
The feeling lasted just a little longer.
Bobby Kennedy’s aides had a television set in their office at the Justice Department, and at five o’clock they watched a broadcast from the United Nations headquarters in New York. The Security Council was in session, twenty chairs around a horseshoe table. Inside the horseshoe sat interpreters wearing headphones. The rest of the room was crowded with aides and other observers, watching the head-to-head confrontation between the two superpowers.
The American ambassador to the UN was Adlai Stevenson, a bald intellectual who had sought the Democratic presidential nomination in 1960 and had been defeated by the more telegenic Jack Kennedy.
The Soviet representative, the colourless Valerian Zorin, was speaking in his usual drone, denying that there were any nuclear weapons in Cuba.
Watching on television in Washington, George said in exasperation: ‘He’s a goddamn liar! Stevenson should just produce the photographs.’
‘That’s what the President told him to do.’
‘Then why doesn’t he?’
Wilson shrugged. ‘Men like Stevenson always think they know best.’
On screen, Stevenson stood up. ‘Let me ask one simple question,’ he said. ‘Do you, Ambassador Zorin, deny that the USSR has placed and is placing medium-and intermediate-range missiles and sites in Cuba? Yes or no?’
George said: ‘Attaboy, Adlai,’ and there was a murmur of agreement from the men watching TV with him.
In New York, Stevenson looked at Zorin, who was sitting just a few seats away from him around the horseshoe. Zorin continued to write notes on his pad.
Impatiently, Stevenson said: ‘Don’t wait for the translation – yes or no?’
The aides in Washington laughed.
Eventually, Zorin replied in Russian, and the interpreter translated: ‘Mr Stevenson, continue your statement, please, you will receive the answer in due course, do not worry.’
‘I am prepared to wait for my answer until hell freezes over,’ said Stevenson.
Bobby Kennedy’s aides cheered. At last, America was giving them what for!
Then Stevenson said: ‘And I’m also prepared to present the evidence in this room.’
George said: ‘Yes!’ and punched the air.
‘If you will indulge me for a moment,’ Stevenson went on, ‘we will set up an easel here at the back of the room where I hope it will be visible to everyone.’
The camera moved in to focus on half a dozen men in suits who were swiftly mounting a display of large blow-up photographs.
‘Now we’ve got the bastards!’ said George.
Stevenson’s voice continued measured and dry, but somehow infused with aggression. ‘The first of these exhibits shows an area north of the village of Candelaria, near San Cristobal, south-west of Havana. The first photograph shows the area in late August 1962; it was then only peaceful countryside.’
Delegates and others were crowding around the easel, trying to see what Stevenson was referring to.
‘The second photograph shows the same area one day last week. A few tents and vehicles had come into the area, new spur roads had appeared, and the main road had been improved.’
Stevenson paused, and the room was quiet. ‘The third photograph, taken only twenty-four hours later, shows facilities for a medium-range missile battalion,’ he said.
Exclamations from the delegates combined into a hum of surprise.
Stevenson went on. More photographs were put up. Until this moment some national leaders had believed the Soviet ambassador’s denial. Now everyone knew the truth.
Zorin sat stone-faced, saying nothing.
George glanced up from the TV to see Larry Mawhinney enter the room. George looked askance at him: the one time they had talked, Larry had got angry with him. But now he seemed friendly. ‘Hi, George,’ he said, as if they had never exchanged harsh words.
George said neutrally: ‘What’s the news from the Pentagon?’
‘I came to warn you that we’re going to board a Soviet ship,’ Larry said. ‘The President took the decision a few minutes ago.’
George’s heartbeat quickened. ‘Shit,’ he said. ‘Just when I thought things might be calming down.’
Mawhinney went on: ‘Apparently, he thinks the quarantine means nothing if we don’t intercept and inspect at least one suspicious vessel. He’s already getting flak because we let an oil tanker through.’
‘What kind of ship are we going to arrest?’
‘The Marucla, a Lebanese freighter with a Greek crew, under charter to the Soviet government. She left from Riga, ostensibly carrying paper, sulphur and spare parts for Soviet trucks.’
‘I can’t imagine the Soviets entrusting their missiles to a Greek crew.’
‘If you’re right, there’ll be no trouble.’
George looked at his watch. ‘When will it happen?’
‘It’s dark in the Atlantic now. They’ll have to wait until morning.’
Larry left, and George wondered how dangerous this was. It was hard to know. If the Marucla was as innocent as she pretended to be, perhaps the interception would go off without violence. But if she were carrying nuclear weapons, what would happen? President Kennedy had taken another knife-edge decision.
And he had seduced Maria Summers.
George was not very surprised that Kennedy was having an affair with a black girl. If half the gossip were true, the President was not in any way picky about his women. Quite the contrary: he liked mature women and teenagers, blondes and brunettes, socialites who were his equal and empty-headed typists.
George wondered for a moment whether Maria had any idea that she was one among so many.
President Kennedy had no strong feelings about race, always considering it as a purely political issue. Although he had not wanted to be photographed with Percy Marquand and Babe Lee, fearing it would lose him votes, George had seen him cheerfully shaking hands with black men and women, chatting and laughing, relaxed and comfortable. George had also been told that Kennedy attended parties where there were prostitutes of all colours, though he did not know whether those rumours were true.
But the President’s callousness had shocked George. It was not the procedure she had undergone – though that was unpleasant enough – but the fact that she had been alone. The man who made her pregnant should have picked her up after the operation and driven her home and stayed with her until he was sure she was okay. A phone call was not enough. His being President was not a sufficient excuse. Jack Kennedy had fallen a long way in George’s estimation.
Just as he was thinking about men who irresponsibly get girls pregnant, his own father walked in.
George was startled. Greg had never before visited this office.
‘Hello, George,’ he said, and they shook hands just as if they were not father and son. Greg was wearing a rumpled suit made of a soft blue pinstripe fabric that looked as if it had some cashmere in the mix. If I could afford a suit like that, George thought, I’d keep it pressed. He often thought that when he looked at Greg.
George said: ‘This is unexpected. How are you?’
‘I was just passing your door. Do you want to get a cup of coffee?’
They went to the cafeteria. Greg ordered tea and George got a bottle of Coke and a straw. As they sat down, George said: ‘Someone was asking after you the other day. A lady in the press office.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Nell something. I’m trying to remember. Nelly Ford?’
‘Nelly Fordham.’ Greg looked into the distance, his expression showing nostalgia for half-forgotten delights.
George was amused. ‘A girlfriend, evidently.’
‘More than that. We were engaged.’
‘But you didn’t get married.’
‘She broke it off.’
George hesitated. ‘This may be none of my business, but why?’
‘Well, if you want to know the truth, she found out about you, and she said she didn’t want to marry a man who already had a family.’
George was fascinated. His father rarely opened up about those days.
Greg looked thoughtful. ‘Nelly was probably right,’ he said: ‘You and your mother were my family. But I couldn’t marry your mom – I couldn’t have a career in politics and a black wife. So I chose the career. I can’t say it’s made me happy.’
‘You’ve never talked to me about this.’
‘I know. It’s taken the threat of World War Three to make me tell you the truth. How do you think things are going, anyway?’
‘Wait a minute. Was it ever really on the cards that you might marry Mom?’
‘When I was fifteen I wanted to, more than anything else in the world. But my father made damn sure it didn’t happen. I had another chance, a decade later, but at that point I was old enough to see what a crazy idea it was. Listen, mixed-race couples have a hard enough time of it now, in the sixties. Imagine what it would have been like in the forties. All three of us would probably have been miserable.’ He looked sad. ‘Besides, I didn’t have the guts – and that’s the truth. Now tell me about the crisis.’
With an effort, George turned his mind to the Cuban missiles. ‘An hour ago I was beginning to believe we might get through this – but now the President has ordered the navy to intercept a Soviet ship tomorrow morning.’ He told Greg about the Marucla.
Greg said: ‘If she’s genuine, there should be no problem.’
‘Correct. Our people will go aboard and look at the cargo, then give out some candy bars and leave.’
‘Candy?’
‘Each interception vessel has been allocated two hundred dollars for “people-to-people materials” – that means candy, magazines, and cheap cigarette lighters.’
‘God bless America. But—’
‘But if the crew are Soviet military and the cargo is nuclear warheads, the ship probably won’t stop when requested. Then the shooting starts.’
‘I’d better let you get back to saving the world.’
They got up and left the cafeteria. In the hall they shook hands again. Greg said: ‘The reason I came by . . .’
George waited.
‘We may all die this weekend, and before we do there’s something I want you to know.’
‘Okay.’ George wondered what was coming.
‘You are the best thing that ever happened to me.’
‘Wow,’ George said quietly.
‘I haven’t been much of a father, and I wasn’t kind to your mother, and . . . you know all that. But I’m proud of you, George. I don’t deserve any credit, I know, but, my God, I’m proud.’ He had tears in his eyes.
George had had no idea Greg felt so strongly. He was stunned. He did not know what to say in response to such unexpected emotions. In the end he just said: ‘Thank you.’
‘Goodbye, George.’
‘Goodbye.’
‘God bless and keep you,’ said Greg, and he walked away.