"Comrade Khrushchev has a solution," he said.
They all looked at him in surprise.
He went on: "At this morning's meeting, the first secretary will propose making an offer to the United States." There was dead silence. "We will dismantle our missiles in Cuba--"
He was interrupted by a chorus of reaction around the table, from gasps of surprise to cries of protest. He held up a hand for quiet.
"We will dismantle our missiles in exchange for a guarantee of what we have wanted all along. The Americans must promise not to invade Cuba."
They took a few moments to digest this.
Natalya was the quickest to get it. "This is brilliant," she said. "How can Kennedy refuse? He would be admitting his intention to invade a poor Third World country. He would be universally condemned for colonialism. And he would be proving our point that Cuba needs nuclear missiles to defend itself." She was the smartest person at the table, as well as the prettiest.
Filipov said: "But if Kennedy accepts, we have to bring the missiles home."
"They will no longer be necessary!" Natalya said. "The Cuban revolution will be safe."
Dimka could see that Filipov wanted to argue against this but could not. Khrushchev had got the Soviet Union into a fix, but he had devised an honorable way out.
When the meeting broke up, Dimka at last managed to grab Natalya. "We need a minute to discuss the wording of Khrushchev's offer to Kennedy," he said.
They retreated to a corner of the room and sat down. He gazed at the front of her dress, remembering her little breasts with their pointed nipples.
She said: "You have to stop staring at me."
He felt foolish. "I wasn't staring at you," he said, though it was obviously not true.
She ignored that. "If you keep it up even the men will notice."
"I'm sorry, I can't help it." Dimka was downcast. This was not the intimate, happy conversation he had foreseen.
"No one must know what we did." She looked scared.
Dimka felt as if he were talking to a different person from the cheerfully sexy girl who had seduced him only the day before yesterday. He said: "Well, I'm not planning to go around telling people, but I didn't know it was a state secret."
"I'm married!"
"Are you planning to stay with Nik?"
"What kind of question is that?"
"Do you have any children?"
"No."
"People get divorced."
"My husband would never agree to a divorce."
Dimka stared at her. Obviously that was not the end of the matter: a woman might get a divorce against her husband's will. But this discussion was not really about the legal situation. Natalya was in some kind of panic. Dimka said: "Why did you do it, anyway?"
"I thought we were all going to die!"
"And now you regret it?"
"I'm married!" she said again.
That did not answer his question, but he guessed he was not going to get any more from her.
Boris Kozlov, another of Khrushchev's aides, called across the canteen: "Dimka! Come on!"
Dimka stood up. "Can we talk again soon?" he murmured.
Natalya looked down and said nothing.
Boris said: "Dimka, let's go!"
He left.
The Presidium discussed Khrushchev's proposal for most of the day. There were complications. Would the Americans insist on inspecting the launch sites to verify that they had been deactivated? Would Castro accept inspection? Would Castro promise not to accept nuclear weapons from any other source, for example China? Still Dimka thought it represented the best yet hope of peace.
Meanwhile, Dimka thought about Nina and Natalya. Before this morning's conversation, he had thought it was up to him which of the two women he wanted. He now realized he had deluded himself into thinking the choice was his to make.
Natalya was not going to leave her husband.
He realized he was crazy for Natalya in a way he had never been for Nina. Every time there was a tap on his office door he hoped it was Natalya. In his memory he replayed their time together over and over, obsessively hearing again everything she said, up to the unforgettable words: "Oh, Dimka, I adore you."
It was not I love you but it was close.
But she would not get a divorce.
All the same, Natalya was the one he wanted.
That meant he had to tell Nina their affair was over. He could not carry on an affair with a girl he liked second best: it would be dishonest. In his imagination he could hear Valentin mocking his scruples, but he could not help them.
But Natalya intended to stay with her husband. So Dimka would have no one.
He would tell Nina tonight. The four were due to meet at the girls' apartment. He would take Nina aside and tell her . . . what? It seemed more difficult when he tried to think of the actual words. Come on, he told himself; you've written speeches for Khrushchev, you can write one for yourself.
Our affair is over . . . I don't want to see you anymore . . . I thought I was in love with you, but I've realized I'm not . . . It was fun while it lasted . . .
Everything he thought of sounded cruel. Was there no kind way to say this? Perhaps not. What about the naked truth? I've met someone else, and I really love her . . .
That sounded worst of all.
At the end of the afternoon, Khrushchev decided the Presidium should put on a public display of international goodwill by going en masse to the Bolshoi Theater, where the American Jerome Hines was singing Boris Godunov, the most popular of Russian operas. Aides were invited too. Dimka thought it was a stupid idea. Who was going to be fooled? On the other hand, he found himself relieved to have to call off his date with Nina, which he was now dreading.
He phoned her place of work and caught her just before she left. "I can't make it tonight," he said. "I've got to go to the Bolshoi with the boss."
"Can't you get out of it?" she said.
"Are you joking?" A man who worked for the first secretary would miss his mother's funeral rather than disobey.
"I want to see you."
"It's out of the question."
"Come after the opera."
"It will be late."
"No matter how late it is, come to my place. I'll be up, if I have to wait all night."
He was puzzled. She was not normally so insistent. She almost sounded needy, and that was not like her. "Is anything wrong?"
"There's something we have to discuss."
"What?"
"I'll tell you tonight."
"Tell me now."
Nina hung up.
Dimka put on his overcoat and walked to the theater, which was only a few steps from the Kremlin.
Jerome Hines was six foot six, and wore a crown with a cross on top: his presence was immense. His astonishingly powerful bass filled the theater and made its echoing spaces seem small. Yet Dimka sat through Mussorgsky's opera without hearing much. He ignored the spectacle onstage. He spent the evening worrying alternately about how the Americans would respond to Khrushchev's peace proposal and how Nina would respond to his ending their affair.
When at last Khrushchev said good night, Dimka walked to the girls' apartment, which was a mile or so from the theater. On the way he tried to guess what Nina wanted to talk about. Perhaps she was going to end their relationship: that would be a relief. She might have been offered a promotion that required her to move to Leningrad. She might even have met someone else, as he had, and decided the new man was Mr. Right. Or she could be ill: a fatal disease, perhaps connected with the mysterious reasons why she could not get pregnant. All these possibilities offered Dimka an easy way out, and he realized he would be gladdened by any one, perhaps even--to his shame--the fatal illness.
No, he thought, I don't really wish her dead.
As promised, Nina was waiting for him.
She was wearing a green silk robe, as if about to go to bed, but her hair was perfect and she wore a little light makeup. She kissed him on the lips, an
d he kissed her back with shame in his heart. He was betraying Natalya by relishing the kiss, and betraying Nina by thinking of Natalya. The double guilt gave him a pain in his stomach.
Nina poured a glass of beer and he drank half of it quickly, eager for some Dutch courage.
She sat beside him on the couch. He was pretty sure she had nothing on under the robe. Desire stirred in him, and the picture of Natalya in his mind began to fade a little.
"We're not at war yet," he said. "That's my news. What's yours?"
Nina took the beer from him and set it on the coffee table, then she held his hand. "I'm pregnant," she said.
Dimka felt as if he had been punched. He stared at her in uncomprehending shock. "Pregnant," he said stupidly.
"Two months and a bit."
"Are you sure?"
"I've missed two consecutive periods."
"Even so . . ."
"Look." She opened her robe to show him her breasts. "They're bigger."
They were, he saw, feeling a mixture of desire and dismay.
"And they hurt." She closed the robe, but not very tight. "And smoking makes me sick to my stomach. Damn it, I feel pregnant."
This could not be true. "But you said . . ."
"That I couldn't have children." She looked away. "That's what my doctor told me."
"Have you seen him?"
"Yes. It's confirmed."
Incredulously, Dimka said: "What does he say now?"
"That it's a miracle."
"Doctors don't believe in miracles."
"That's what I thought."
Dimka tried to stop the room spinning around him. He swallowed hard and struggled to get over the shock. He had to be practical. "You don't want to get married, and I sure as hell don't," he said. "What are you going to do about it?"
"You have to give me the money for an abortion."
Dimka swallowed. "All right." Abortions were readily available in Moscow, but they were not free. Dimka considered how he would get the money. He had been planning to trade in his motorcycle and buy a used car. If he postponed that he could probably manage it. He might borrow from his grandparents. "I can do that," he said.
She immediately relented. "We should pay half each. We made this baby together."
Suddenly Dimka felt different. It was her use of the word baby. He found himself conflicted. He pictured himself holding a baby, watching a child take its first steps, teaching it to read, taking it to school. He said: "Are you sure an abortion is what you want?"
"How do you feel?"
"Uncomfortable." He asked himself why he felt this way. "I don't think it's a sin, or anything like that. I just started imagining, you know, a little baby." He was not sure where these feelings had come from. "Could we have the child adopted?"
"Give birth, and then hand the baby over to strangers?"
"I know, I don't like it either. But it's hard, to raise a child on your own. I'd help you, though."
"Why?"
"It will be my child, too."
She took his hand. "Thank you for saying that." She looked very vulnerable suddenly, and his heart lurched. She said: "We love each other, don't we?"
"Yes." At that moment he did. He thought of Natalya, but somehow his picture of her was vague and distant, whereas Nina was here--in the flesh, he thought, and that phrase seemed more vivid than usual.
"We'll both love the child, won't we?"
"Yes."
"Well, then . . ."
"But you don't want to get married."
"I didn't."
"Past tense."
"I felt that way when I wasn't pregnant."
"Have you changed your mind?"
"Everything feels different now."
Dimka was bewildered. Were they talking about getting married? Desperate for something to say, he tried a joke. "If you're proposing to me, where's the bread and salt?" The traditional betrothal ceremony required the exchange of gifts of bread and salt.
To his astonishment, she burst into tears.
His heart melted. He put his arms around her. At first she resisted, but after a moment she allowed herself to be hugged. Her tears wet his shirt. He stroked her hair.
She lifted her head to be kissed. After a minute she broke away. "Will you make love to me, before I get too fat and hideous?" Her robe gaped, and he could see one soft breast, charmingly freckled.
"Yes," he said recklessly, pushing the picture of Natalya even farther back in his mind.
Nina kissed him again. He grasped her breast: it felt even heavier than before.
She pulled away again. "You didn't mean what you said at the start, did you?"
"What did I say?"
"That you sure as hell didn't want to get married."
He smiled, still holding her breast. "No," he said. "I didn't mean it."
*
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 III 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 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 colorless 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, southwest of Havana. The first photograph shows the area in late August 1962; it was then only peacef
ul countryside."
Delegates and others were crowding around the easels, 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 made 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, sulfur, 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 were 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 made 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.