*
George returned to downtown Washington in a state of high anxiety. Everyone had been working on the assumption that an invasion of Cuba was bound to succeed. The Frogs changed everything. US troops would now face battlefield nuclear weapons. Perhaps the Americans would still prevail, but the war would be harder and would cost more lives, and the result was no longer a foregone conclusion.
He got out of his taxi at the White House and stopped by the press office. Maria was at her desk. He was happy to see that she looked much better than she had three days earlier. ‘I’m fine, thank you,’ she said in answer to George’s enquiry. A small weight of worry lifted from his heart, leaving the larger still heavy on him. She was recovering physically, but he did not know what spiritual damage was being caused by her secret love affair.
He was not able to ask her more intimate questions because she had company. With her was a young black man in a tweed jacket. ‘Meet Leopold Montgomery,’ she said. ‘He’s with Reuters. He came by to pick up a press release.’
‘Call me Lee,’ the man said.
George said: ‘I guess there aren’t many coloured reporters covering Washington.’
‘I’m the only one,’ Lee said.
Maria said: ‘George Jakes works with Bobby Kennedy.’
Lee suddenly became more interested. ‘What’s he like?’
‘It’s a great job,’ George said, avoiding the question. ‘Mainly I advise on civil rights. We take legal action against Southern states that prevent Negroes voting.’
‘But we need a new civil rights act.’
‘Say that, brother.’ George turned to Maria. ‘I can’t stay. I’m glad you’re feeling better.’
Lee said: ‘I’ll walk with you, if you’re going over to Justice.’
George avoided the company of newsmen, but he felt a camaraderie with Lee, who was trying to make it in white Washington just as George was, so he said: ‘Okay.’
Maria said: ‘Thanks for dropping by, Lee. Please call me if you need any clarification on that release.’
‘Sure will,’ he said.
George and Lee left the building and went along Pennsylvania Avenue. George said: ‘What’s in your press release?’
‘Although the ships have turned around, the Soviets are still constructing missile launch sites in Cuba, and they’re doing it at top speed.’
George thought of the aerial reconnaissance photographs he had just seen. He was tempted to tell Lee about them. He would have liked to give a scoop to a young black reporter. However, it would have been a breach of security, and he resisted the impulse. ‘I guess that’s so,’ he said noncommittally.
Lee said: ‘The administration seems to be doing nothing.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The quarantine is clearly ineffective, and the President isn’t doing anything else.’
George was stung. He was part of the administration, albeit a small part, and he felt unjustly accused. ‘In his television speech on Monday, the President said the quarantine was just the beginning.’
‘So he will be taking further action?’
‘That’s obviously what he meant.’
‘But what will he do?’
George smiled, realizing he was being pumped. ‘Watch this space,’ he said.
When he got back to Justice, Bobby was in a rage. It was not Bobby’s way to yell and curse and throw objects across the room. His fury was cold and mean. People talked about his terrifying blue-eyed stare.
‘Who’s he mad at?’ George asked Dennis Wilson.
‘Tim Tedder. He’s sent three infiltration teams into Cuba, six men to a team. More are waiting to go.’
‘What? Why? Who told the CIA to do that?’
‘It’s part of Operation Mongoose, and apparently no one told them to stop.’
‘But they might start World War Three all on their own!’
‘That’s why Bobby’s spitting nails. Also, they sent in a two-man team to blow up a copper mine – and, unfortunately, they’ve lost contact.’
‘So those two guys are probably in jail now, drawing floor plans of the CIA station in Miami for their Soviet interrogators.’
‘Yeah.’
‘This is a stupid time to do that stuff for so many reasons,’ George said. ‘Cuba’s preparing for war. Castro’s security is always good, but right now it must be on high alert.’
‘Exactly. Bobby’s going to a Mongoose meeting at the Pentagon in a few minutes, and I expect he will nail Tedder to a cross.’
George did not go with Bobby to the Pentagon. He still was not invited to Mongoose meetings – somewhat to his relief: his trip to La Isabela had convinced him that the whole operation was criminal, and he wanted nothing more to do with it.
He sat at his desk, but found it difficult to concentrate. Civil rights had taken a back seat anyway: no one was thinking about equality for Negroes this week.
George felt the crisis was slipping out of President Kennedy’s control. Against his better judgement the President had ordered the Marucla to be boarded. The event had gone off without trouble, but what would happen next time? Now there were battlefield nuclear weapons in Cuba: America might still invade, but the price would be high. And just to add an extra element of risk, the CIA was playing its own games.
Everyone was desperate to cool the temperature, but the opposite kept happening: a nightmarish escalation of the crisis that no one wanted.
Later in the afternoon, Bobby came back from the Pentagon with a wire service report in his hand. ‘What the hell is this?’ he said to the aides. He began to read: ‘“In response to the speeded-up campaign to build missile launch sites in Cuba, fresh action by President Kennedy is expected imminently –”’ he held his hand in the air, finger pointing up – ‘“according to sources close to the Attorney General.”’ Bobby looked around the room. ‘Who blabbed?’
George said: ‘Oh, fuck.’
Everyone looked at him.
Bobby said: ‘Do you have something to tell me, George?’
George wanted to sink through the floor. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘All I did was quote the President’s speech, saying the quarantine was only the beginning.’
‘You can’t say that sort of thing to reporters! You’ve given him a new story.’
‘Oh, boy, I know that now.’
‘And you’ve escalated the crisis just when we were all trying to calm things down. The next story will speculate what action the President has in mind. Then if he does nothing they’ll say he’s dithering.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Why were you talking to him at all?’
‘He was introduced to me at the White House and he walked along Pennsylvania Avenue with me.’
Dennis Wilson said to Bobby: ‘Is that a Reuters report?’
‘Yes, why?’
‘It was probably written by Lee Montgomery.’
George groaned inwardly. He knew what was coming next. Wilson was deliberately making the incident look worse.
Bobby said: ‘What makes you say that, Dennis?’
Wilson hesitated, so George answered the question. ‘Montgomery is a Negro.’
Bobby said: ‘Is that why you talked to him, George?’
‘I guess I didn’t want to tell him to drop dead.’
‘Next time, that’s exactly what you say to him, and to any other reporter who tries to get a story out of you, no matter what his colour.’
George was relieved to hear the words ‘next time’. It meant that he was not going to be fired. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I’ll remember that.’
‘You’d better.’ Bobby went into his office.
‘You got away with it,’ Wilson said to George. ‘Lucky bastard.’
‘Yeah,’ said George. He added sarcastically: ‘Thanks for your help, Dennis.’
Everyone returned to their work. George could hardly believe what he had done. He, too, had inadvertently poured fuel on the flames.
He was still feeling depressed when the switchboard put through a long-distance call from Atlanta. ‘Hi, George, this is Verena Marquand.’
Her voice cheered him up. ‘How are you?’
‘Worried.’
‘You and the whole world.’
‘Dr King asked me to call you and find out what’s happening.’
‘You probably know as much as we do,’ George said. He was still smarting from Bobby’s reprimand, and he was not about to risk another indiscretion. ‘Pretty much everything is in the newspapers.’
‘Are we really going to invade Cuba?’
‘Only the President knows that.’
‘Will there be a nuclear war?’
‘Even the President doesn’t know that.’
‘I miss you, George. I wish I could sit down with you and just, you know, talk.’
That surprised him. He had not known her well at Harvard, and he had not seen her for half a year. He was not aware that she was fond enough of him to miss him. He did not know what to say.
She said: ‘What am I going to tell Dr King?’
‘Tell him . . .’ George paused. He thought of all the people around President Kennedy: the hot-headed generals who wanted war now, the CIA men trying to be James Bond, the reporters who complained of inaction when the President was being cautious. ‘Tell him the smartest man in the United States is in charge, and we can’t ask for better than that.’
‘Okay,’ said Verena, and she hung up.
George asked himself if he believed what he had said. He wanted to hate Jack Kennedy for the way he had treated Maria. But could anyone else handle this crisis better than Kennedy? No. George could not think of another man with the right combination of courage, wisdom, restraint, and calm.
Late in the afternoon, Wilson took a phone call, then said to everyone in the room: ‘We’re getting a letter from Khrushchev. It’s coming through to the State Department.’
Someone asked: ‘What does it say?’
‘Not much, so far,’ Wilson said. He looked at his notebook. ‘We don’t have it all yet. “You are threatening us with war, but you well know that the least you would receive in reply would be to experience the same consequences . . .” It was delivered to our embassy in Moscow just before ten this morning, our time.’
George said: ‘Ten o’clock! It’s six in the evening now. What’s taking so long?’
Wilson answered with weary condescension, as if tired of explaining elementary procedures to beginners. ‘Our people in Moscow have to translate the letter into English, then encrypt it, then key it. After it’s received here in Washington, State Department officials must decrypt it and then type it. And every word must be triple-checked before the President acts. It’s a long process.’
‘Thank you,’ said George. Wilson was a smug prick. However, he knew a lot.
It was Friday night, but no one was going home.