Edge of Eternity

CHAPTER ONE

Rebecca Hoffmann was summoned by the secret police on a rainy Monday in 1961.

It began as an ordinary morning. Her husband drove her to work in his tan Trabant 500. The graceful old streets of central Berlin still had gaps from wartime bombing, except where new concrete buildings stood up like ill-matched false teeth. Hans was thinking about his job as he drove. “The courts serve the judges, the lawyers, the police, the government—everyone except the victims of crime,” he said. “This is to be expected in Western capitalist countries, but under Communism the courts ought surely to serve the people. My colleagues don’t seem to realize that.” Hans worked for the Ministry of Justice.

“We’ve been married almost a year, and I’ve known you for two, but I’ve never met one of your colleagues,” Rebecca said.

“They would bore you,” he said immediately. “They’re all lawyers.”

“Any women among them?”

“No. Not in my section, anyway.” Hans’s job was administration: appointing judges, scheduling trials, managing courthouses.

“I’d like to meet them, all the same.”

Hans was a strong man who had learned to rein himself in. Watching him, Rebecca saw in his eyes a familiar flash of anger at her insistence. He controlled it by an effort of will. “I’ll arrange something,” he said. “Perhaps we’ll all go to a bar one evening.”

Hans had been the first man Rebecca met who matched up to her father. He was confident and authoritative, but he always listened to her. He had a good job—not many people had a car of their own in East Germany—and men who worked in the government were usually hard-line Communists, but Hans, surprisingly, shared Rebecca’s political skepticism. Like her father he was tall, handsome, and well dressed. He was the man she had been waiting for.

Only once during their courtship had she doubted him, briefly. They had been in a minor car crash. It had been wholly the fault of the other driver, who had come out of a side street without stopping. Such things happened every day, but Hans had been mad with rage. Although the damage to the two cars was minimal, he had called the police, shown them his Ministry of Justice identity card, and had the other driver arrested for dangerous driving and taken off to jail.

Afterward he had apologized to Rebecca for losing his temper. She had been scared by his vindictiveness, and had come close to ending their relationship. But he had explained that he had not been his normal self, due to pressure at work, and she had believed him. Her faith had been justified: he had never done such a thing again.

When they had been dating for a year, and sleeping together most weekends for six months, Rebecca wondered why he did not ask her to marry him. They were not kids: she had then been twenty-eight, he thirty-three. So she had proposed to him. He had been startled, but said yes.

Now he pulled up outside her school. It was a modern building, and well equipped: the Communists were serious about education. Outside the gates, five or six older boys were standing under a tree, smoking cigarettes. Ignoring their stares, Rebecca kissed Hans on the lips. Then she got out.

The boys greeted her politely, but she felt their yearning adolescent eyes on her figure as she splashed through the puddles in the school yard.

Rebecca came from a political family. Her grandfather had been a Social Democrat member of the Reichstag, the national parliament, until Hitler came to power. Her mother had been a city councilor, also for the Social Democrats, during East Berlin’s brief postwar period of democracy. But East Germany was a Communist tyranny now, and Rebecca saw no point in engaging in politics. So she channeled her idealism into teaching, and hoped that the next generation would be less dogmatic, more compassionate, smarter.

In the staff room she checked the emergency timetable on the notice board. Most of her classes were doubled today, two groups of pupils crammed into one room. Her subject was Russian, but she also had to teach an English class. She did not speak English, though she had picked up a smattering from her British grandmother, Maud, still feisty at seventy.

This was the second time Rebecca had been asked to teach an English class, and she began to think about a text. The first time, she had used a leaflet handed out to American soldiers, telling them how to get on with Germans: the pupils had found it hilarious, and they had learned a lot too. Today perhaps she would write on the blackboard the words of a song they knew, such as “The Twist”—played all the time on American Forces Network radio—and get them to translate it into German. It would not be a conventional lesson, but it was the best she could do.

The school was desperately short of teachers because half the staff had emigrated to West Germany, where salaries were three hundred marks a month higher and people were free. The story was the same in most schools in East Germany. And it was not just teachers. Doctors could double their earnings by moving west. Rebecca’s mother, Carla, was head of nursing at a large East Berlin hospital, and she was tearing her hair out at the scarcity of both nurses and doctors. The story was the same in industry and even the armed forces. It was a national crisis.

As Rebecca was scribbling the lyrics of “The Twist” in a notebook, trying to remember the line about “my little sis,” the deputy head came into the staff room. Bernd Held was probably Rebecca’s best friend outside her family. He was a slim, dark-haired man of forty, with a livid scar across his forehead where a shard of flying shrapnel had struck him while he was defending the Seelow Heights in the last days of the war. He taught physics, but he shared Rebecca’s interest in Russian literature, and they ate their lunchtime sandwiches together a couple of times a week. “Listen, everybody,” Bernd said. “Bad news, I’m afraid. Anselm has left us.”

There was a murmur of surprise. Anselm Weber was the head teacher. He was a loyal Communist—heads had to be. But it seemed his principles had been overcome by the appeal of West German prosperity and liberty.

Bernd went on: “I will be taking his place until a new head can be appointed.” Rebecca and every other teacher in the school knew that Bernd himself should have got the job, if ability had been what counted; but Bernd was ruled out because he would not join the Socialist Unity Party, the SED—the Communist Party in all but name.

For the same reason, Rebecca would never be a head teacher. Anselm had pleaded with her to join the party, but it was out of the question. For her it would be like checking herself into a lunatic asylum and pretending all the other inmates were sane.

As Bernd detailed the emergency arrangements, Rebecca wondered when the school would get its new head. A year from now? How long would this crisis go on? No one knew.

Before the first lesson she glanced into her pigeonhole, but it was empty. The mail had not yet arrived. Perhaps the postman had gone to West Germany, too.

The letter that would turn her life upside down was still on its way.

She taught her first class, discussing the Russian poem “The Bronze Horseman” with a large group seventeen and eighteen years old. This was a lesson she had given every year since she started teaching. As always, she guided the pupils to the orthodox Soviet analysis, explaining that the conflict between personal interest and public duty was resolved, by Pushkin, in favor of the public.

At lunchtime she took her sandwich to the head’s office and sat down across the big desk from Bernd. She looked at the shelf of cheap pottery busts: Marx, Lenin, and East German Communist leader Walter Ulbricht. Bernd followed her gaze and smiled. “Anselm is a sly one,” he said. “For years he pretended to be a true believer, and now—zoom, he’s off.”

“Aren’t you tempted to leave?” Rebecca asked Bernd. “You’re divorced, no children—you have no ties.”

He looked around, as if wondering whether someone might be listening; then he shrugged. “I’ve thought about it—who hasn’t?” he said. “How about you? Your father works in West Berlin anyway, doesn’t he?”

“Yes. He has a factory making television sets. But my mother is determined to stay in the East. She says we must solve our problems, not run away from them.”

“I’ve met her. She’s a tiger.”

“That’s the truth. And the house we live in has been in her family for generations.”

“What about your husband?”

“He’s dedicated to his job.”

“So I don’t have to worry about losing you. Good.”

Rebecca said: “Bernd—” Then she hesitated.

“Spit it out.”

“Can I ask you a personal question?”

“Of course.”

“You left your wife because she was having an affair.”

Bernd stiffened, but he answered: “That’s right.”

“How did you find out?”

Bernd winced, as if at a sudden pain.

“Do you mind me asking?” Rebecca said anxiously. “Is it too personal?”

“I don’t mind telling you,” he said. “I confronted her, and she admitted it.”

“But what made you suspicious?”

“A lot of little things—”

Rebecca interrupted him. “The phone rings, you pick it up, there’s a silence for a few seconds, then the person at the other end hangs up.”

He nodded.

She went on: “Your spouse tears a note up small and flushes the shreds down the toilet. At the weekend he’s called to an unexpected meeting. In the evening he spends two hours writing something he won’t show you.”

“Oh, dear,” said Bernd sadly. “You’re talking about Hans.”

“He’s got a lover, hasn’t he?” She put down her sandwich: she had no appetite. “Tell me honestly what you think.”

“I’m so sorry.”

Bernd had kissed her once, four months ago, on the last day of the autumn term. They had been saying good-bye, and wishing one another a happy Christmas, and he had lightly grasped her arm, and bent his head, and kissed her lips. She had asked him not to do it again, ever, and said she would still like to be his friend; and when they had returned to school in January both had pretended it had never happened. He had even told her, a few weeks later, that he had a date with a widow his own age.

Rebecca did not want to encourage hopeless aspirations, but Bernd was the only person she could talk to, except for her family, and she did not want to worry them, not yet. “I was so sure that Hans loved me,” she said, and tears came to her eyes. “And I love him.”

“Perhaps he does love you. Some men just can’t resist temptation.”

Rebecca did not know whether Hans found their sex life satisfactory. He never complained, but they made love only about once a week, which she believed to be infrequent for newlyweds. “All I want is a family of my own, just like my mother’s, in which everyone is loved and supported and protected,” she said. “I thought I could have that with Hans.”

“Perhaps you still can,” said Bernd. “An affair isn’t necessarily the end of the marriage.”

“In the first year?”

“It’s bad, I agree.”

“What should I do?”

“You must ask him about it. He may admit it, he may deny it; but he’ll know that you know.”

“And then what?”

“What do you want? Would you divorce him?”

She shook her head. “I would never leave. Marriage is a promise. You can’t keep a promise only when it suits you. You have to keep it against your inclination. That’s what it means.”

“I did the opposite. You must disapprove of me.”

“I don’t judge you or anyone else. I’m just talking about myself. I love my husband and I want him to be faithful.”

Bernd’s smile was admiring but regretful. “I hope you get your wish.”

“You’re a good friend.”

The bell rang for the first lesson of the afternoon. Rebecca stood up and put her sandwich back in its paper wrapping. She was not going to eat it, now or later, but she had a horror of throwing food away, like most people who had lived through the war. She touched her damp eyes with a handkerchief. “Thank you for listening,” she said.

“I wasn’t much comfort.”

“Yes, you were.” She went out.

As she approached the classroom for the English lesson, she realized she had not worked out the lyrics to “The Twist.” However, she had been a teacher long enough to improvise. “Who’s heard a record called ‘The Twist’?” she asked loudly as she walked through the door.

They all had.

She went to the blackboard and picked up a stub of chalk. “What are the words?”

They all began to shout at once.

On the board she wrote: “Come on, baby, let’s do the Twist.” Then she said: “What’s that in German?”

For a while she forgot about her troubles.

She found the letter in her pigeonhole at the midafternoon break. She carried it with her into the staff room and made a cup of instant coffee before opening it. When she read it she dropped her coffee.

The single sheet of paper was headed: “Ministry for State Security.” This was the official name for the secret police: the unofficial name was the Stasi. The letter came from a Sergeant Scholz, and it ordered her to present herself at his headquarters office for questioning.

Rebecca mopped up her spilled drink, apologized to her colleagues, pretended nothing was wrong, and went to the ladies’ room, where she locked herself in a cubicle. She needed to think before confiding in anyone.

Everyone in East Germany knew about these letters, and everyone dreaded receiving one. It meant she had done something wrong—perhaps something trivial, but it had come to the attention of the watchers. She knew, from what other people said, that there was no point protesting innocence. The police attitude would be that she must be guilty of something, or why would they be questioning her? To suggest they might have made a mistake was to insult their competence, which was another crime.

Looking again, she saw that her appointment was for five this afternoon.

What had she done? Her family was deeply suspect, of course. Her father, Werner, was a capitalist, with a factory that the East German government could not touch because it was in West Berlin. Her mother, Carla, was a well-known Social Democrat. Her grandmother, Maud, was the sister of an English earl.

However, the authorities had not bothered the family for a couple of years, and Rebecca had imagined that her marriage to an official in the Justice Ministry might have gained them a ticket of respectability. Obviously not.

Had she committed any crimes? She owned a copy of George Orwell’s anti-Communist allegory Animal Farm, which was illegal. Her kid brother, Walli, who was fifteen, played the guitar and sang American protest songs such as “This Land Is Your Land.” Rebecca sometimes went to West Berlin to see exhibitions of abstract painting. Communists were as conservative about art as Victorian matrons.

Washing her hands, she glanced in the mirror. She did not look scared. She had a straight nose and a strong chin and intense brown eyes. Her unruly dark hair was sharply pulled back. She was tall and statuesque, and some people found her intimidating. She could face a classroom full of boisterous eighteen-year-olds and silence them with a word.

But she was scared. What frightened her was the knowledge that the Stasi could do anything. There were no real restraints on them: complaining about them was a crime in itself. And that reminded her of the Red Army at the end of the war. The Soviet soldiers had been free to rob, rape, and murder Germans, and they had used their freedom in an orgy of unspeakable barbarism.

Rebecca’s last class of the day was on the construction of the passive voice in Russian grammar, and it was a shambles, easily the worst lesson she had given since she qualified as a teacher. The pupils could not fail to know that something was wrong and, touchingly, they gave her an easy ride, even making helpful suggestions when she found herself lost for the right word. With their indulgence she got through it.

When school ended, Bernd was closeted in the head’s office with officials from the Education Ministry, presumably discussing how to keep the school open with half the staff gone. Rebecca did not want to go to Stasi headquarters without telling anyone, just in case they decided to keep her there, so she wrote him a note telling him of the summons.

Then she caught a bus through the wet streets to Normannen Strasse in the suburb of Lichtenberg.

The Stasi headquarters there was an ugly new office block. It was not finished, and there were bulldozers in the car park and scaffolding at one end. It showed a grim face in the rain, and would not look much more cheerful in sunshine.

When she went through the door she wondered if she would ever come out.

She crossed the vast atrium, presented her letter at a reception desk, and was escorted upstairs in an elevator. Her fear rose with the lift. She emerged into a corridor painted a nightmarish shade of mustard yellow. She was shown into a small bare room with a plastic-topped table and two uncomfortable chairs made of metal tubing. There was a pungent smell of paint. Her escort left.

She sat alone for five minutes, shaking. She wished she smoked: it might steady her. She struggled not to cry.

Sergeant Scholz came in. He was a little younger than Rebecca—about twenty-five, she guessed. He carried a thin file. He sat down, cleared his throat, opened the file, and frowned. Rebecca thought he was trying to seem important, and she wondered whether this was his first interrogation.

“You are a teacher at Friedrich Engels Polytechnic Secondary School,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Where do you live?”

She answered him, but she was puzzled. Did the secret police not know her address? That might explain why the letter had come to her at school rather than at home.

She had to give the names and ages of her parents and grandparents. “You’re lying to me!” Scholz said triumphantly. “You say your mother is thirty-nine and you are twenty-nine. How could she have given birth to you when she was ten years old?”

“I’m adopted,” Rebecca said, relieved to be able to give an innocent explanation. “My real parents were killed at the end of the war, when our house suffered a direct hit.” She had been thirteen. Red Army shells were falling and the city was in ruins and she was alone, bewildered, terrified. A plump adolescent, she had been singled out for rape by a group of soldiers. She had been saved by Carla, who had offered herself instead. Nevertheless that terrifying experience had left Rebecca hesitant and nervous about sex. If Hans was dissatisfied, she felt sure it must be her fault.

She shuddered and tried to put the memory away. “Carla Franck saved me from . . .” Just in time, Rebecca stopped herself. The Communists denied that Red Army soldiers had committed rape, even though every woman who had been in East Germany in 1945 knew the horrible truth. “Carla saved me,” she said, skipping the contentious details. “Later, she and Werner legally adopted me.”

Scholz was writing everything down. There could not be much in that file, Rebecca thought. But there must be something. If he knew little about her family, what was it that had attracted his interest?

“You are an English teacher,” he said.

“No, I’m not. I teach Russian.”

“You are lying again.”

“I’m not lying, and I have not lied previously,” she said crisply. She was surprised to find herself speaking to him in this challenging way. She was no longer as frightened as she had been. Perhaps this was foolhardy. He may be young and inexperienced, she told herself, but he still has the power to ruin my life. “My degree is in Russian language and literature,” she went on, and she tried a friendly smile. “I’m head of the department of Russian at my school. But half our teachers have gone to the West, and we have to improvise. So, in the past week, I have given two English lessons.”

“So, I was right! And in your lessons you poison the children’s minds with American propaganda.”

“Oh, hell,” she groaned. “Is this about the advice to American soldiers?”

He read from a sheet of notes. “It says here: ‘Bear in mind that there is no freedom of speech in East Germany.’ Is that not American propaganda?”

“I explained to the pupils that Americans have a naïve pre-Marxist concept of freedom,” she said. “I suppose your informant failed to mention that.” She wondered who the snitch was. It must be a pupil, or perhaps a parent who had been told about the lesson. The Stasi had more spies than the Nazis.

“It also says: ‘When in East Berlin, do not ask police officers for directions. Unlike American policemen, they are not there to help you.’ What do you say to that?”

“Isn’t it true?” Rebecca said. “When you were a teenager, did you ever ask a Vopo to tell you the way to a U-Bahn station?” The Vopos were the Volkspolizei, the East German police.

“Couldn’t you find something more appropriate for teaching children?”

“Why don’t you come to our school and give an English lesson?”

“I don’t speak English!”

“Nor do I!” Rebecca shouted. She immediately regretted raising her voice. But Scholz was not angry. In fact he seemed a little cowed. He was definitely inexperienced. But she should not get careless. “Nor do I,” she said more quietly. “So I’m making it up as I go along, and using whatever English-language materials come to hand.” It was time for some phony humility, she thought. “I’ve obviously made a mistake, and I’m very sorry, Sergeant.”

“You seem like an intelligent woman,” he said.

She narrowed her eyes. Was this a trap? “Thank you for the compliment,” she said neutrally.

“We need intelligent people, especially women.”

Rebecca was mystified. “What for?”

“To keep their eyes open, see what’s happening, let us know when things are going wrong.”

Rebecca was flabbergasted. After a moment she said incredulously: “Are you asking me to be a Stasi informant?”

“It’s important, public-spirited work,” he said. “And vital in schools, where young people’s attitudes are formed.”

“I see that.” What Rebecca saw was that this young secret policeman had blundered. He had checked her out at her place of work, but he knew nothing about her notorious family. If Scholz had looked into Rebecca’s background he would never have approached her.

She could imagine how it had happened. “Hoffmann” was one of the commonest surnames, and “Rebecca” was not unusual. A raw beginner could easily make the mistake of investigating the wrong Rebecca Hoffmann.

He went on: “But the people who do this work must be completely honest and trustworthy.”

That was so paradoxical that she almost laughed. “Honest and trustworthy?” she repeated. “To spy on your friends?”

“Absolutely.” He seemed unaware of the irony. “And there are advantages.” He lowered his voice. “You would become one of us.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to decide now. Go home and think about it. But don’t discuss it with anyone. It must be secret, obviously.”

“Obviously.” She was beginning to feel relieved. Scholz would soon find out that she was unsuitable for his purpose, and he would withdraw his proposal. But at that point he could hardly go back to pretending that she was a propagandist for capitalist imperialism. Perhaps she might come out of this unscathed.

Scholz stood up, and Rebecca followed suit. Was it possible that her visit to Stasi headquarters could end so well? It seemed too good to be true.

He held the door for her politely, then escorted her along the yellow corridor. A group of five or six Stasi men stood near the elevator doors, talking animatedly. One was startlingly familiar: a tall, broad-shouldered man with a slight stoop, wearing a light-gray flannel suit that Rebecca knew well. She stared at him uncomprehendingly as she walked up to the elevator.

It was her husband, Hans.

Why was he here? Her first frightened thought was that he, too, was under interrogation. But a moment later she realized, from the way they were all standing, that he was not being treated as a suspect.

What, then? Her heart pounded with fear, but what was she afraid of?

Perhaps his job at the Ministry of Justice brought him here from time to time, she thought. Then she heard one of the other men say to him: “But, with all due respect, Lieutenant . . .” She did not hear the rest of the sentence. Lieutenant? Civil servants did not hold military ranks—unless they were in the police . . .

Then Hans saw Rebecca.

She watched the emotions cross his face: men were easy to read. At first he had the baffled frown of one who sees a familiar sight in an alien context, such as a turnip in a library. Then his eyes widened in shock as he accepted the reality of what he was seeing, and his mouth opened a fraction. But it was the next expression that struck her hardest: his cheeks darkened with shame and his eyes shifted away from her in an unmistakable look of guilt.

Rebecca was silent for a long moment, trying to take this in. Still not understanding what she was seeing, she said: “Good afternoon, Lieutenant Hoffmann.”

Scholz looked puzzled and scared. “Do you know the lieutenant?”

“Quite well,” she said, struggling to keep her composure as a dreadful suspicion began to dawn on her. “I’m beginning to wonder whether he has had me under surveillance for some time.” But it was not possible—was it?

“Really?” said Scholz, stupidly.

Rebecca stared hard at Hans, watching for his reaction to her surmise, hoping he would laugh it off and immediately come out with the true, innocent explanation. His mouth was open, as if he were about to speak, but she could see that he was not intending to tell the truth: instead, she thought, he had the look of a man desperately trying to think of a story and failing to come up with something that would meet all the facts.

Scholz was on the brink of tears. “I didn’t know!”

Still watching Hans, Rebecca said: “I am Hans’s wife.”

Hans’s face changed again, and as guilt turned to anger his face became a mask of fury. He spoke at last, but not to Rebecca. “Shut your mouth, Scholz,” he said.

Then she knew, and her world crashed around her.

Scholz was too astonished to heed Hans’s warning. He said to Rebecca: “You’re that Frau Hoffmann?”

Hans moved with the speed of rage. He lashed out with a meaty right fist and punched Scholz in the face. The young man staggered back, lips bleeding. “You fucking fool,” Hans said. “You’ve just undone two years of painstaking undercover work.”

Rebecca muttered to herself: “The funny phone calls, the sudden meetings, the ripped-up notes . . .” Hans did not have a lover.

It was worse than that.

She was in a daze, but she knew this was the moment to find out the truth, while everyone was off balance, before they began to tell lies and concoct cover stories. With an effort she stayed focused. She said coolly: “Did you marry me just to spy on me, Hans?”

He stared at her without answering.

Scholz turned and staggered away along the corridor. Hans said: “Go after him.” The elevator came and Rebecca stepped in just as Hans called out: “Arrest the fool and throw him in a cell.” He turned to speak to Rebecca, but the elevator doors closed and she pressed the button for the ground floor.

She could hardly see through her tears as she crossed the atrium. No one spoke to her: doubtless it was commonplace to see people weeping here. She found her way across the rain-swept car park to the bus stop.

Her marriage was a sham. She could hardly take it in. She had slept with Hans, loved him, and married him, and all the time he had been deceiving her. Infidelity might be considered a temporary lapse, but Hans had been false to her from the start. He must have begun dating her in order to spy on her.

No doubt he had never intended actually to marry her. Originally, he had probably intended no more than a flirtation as a way of getting inside the house. The deception had worked too well. It must have come as a shock to him when she proposed marriage. Maybe he had been forced to make a decision: refuse her, and abandon the surveillance, or marry her and continue it. His bosses might even have ordered him to accept her. How could she have been so completely deceived?

A bus pulled up and she jumped on. She walked with lowered gaze to a seat near the back and covered her face with her hands.

She thought about their courtship. When she had raised the issues that had got in the way of her previous relationships—her feminism, her anti-Communism, her closeness to Carla—he had given all the right answers. She had believed that he and she were like-minded, almost miraculously so. It had never occurred to her that he was putting on an act.

The bus crawled through the landscape of old rubble and new concrete toward the central district of Mitte. Rebecca tried to think about her future but she could not. All she could do was run over the past in her mind. She remembered their wedding day, the honeymoon, and their year of marriage, seeing it all now as a play in which Hans had been performing. He had stolen two years from her, and it made her so angry that she stopped crying.

She recalled the evening when she had proposed. They had been strolling in the People’s Park at Friedrichshain, and they had stopped in front of the old Fairy Tale Fountain to look at the carved stone turtles. She had worn a navy blue dress, her best color. Hans had a new tweed jacket: he managed to find good clothes even though East Germany was a fashion desert. With his arm around her, Rebecca had felt safe, protected, cherished. She wanted one man, forever, and he was the man. “Let’s get married, Hans,” she had said with a smile, and he had kissed her and replied: “What a wonderful idea.”

I was a fool, she thought furiously; a stupid fool.

One thing was explained. Hans had not wanted to have children yet. He had said he wanted to get another promotion and a home of their own, first. He had not mentioned this before the wedding, and Rebecca had been surprised, given their ages: she was now twenty-nine and he thirty-four. Now she knew the real reason.

By the time she got off the bus she was in a rage. She walked quickly through the wind and rain to the tall old town house where she lived. From the hall she could see, through the open door of the front room, her mother deep in conversation with Heinrich von Kessel, who had been a Social Democrat city councilor with her after the war. Rebecca walked quickly past without speaking. Her twelve-year-old sister, Lili, was doing homework at the kitchen table. She could hear the grand piano in the drawing room: her brother, Walli, was playing a blues. Rebecca went upstairs to the two rooms she and Hans shared.

The first thing she saw when she walked into the room was Hans’s model. He had been working on this throughout their year of marriage. He was making a scale model of the Brandenburg Gate out of matchsticks and glue. Everyone he knew had to save their spent matches. The model was almost done, and stood on the small table in the middle of the room. He had made the central arch and its wings, and was working on the quadriga, the four-horse chariot on the top, which was much more difficult.

He must have been bored, Rebecca thought bitterly. No doubt the project was a way of passing the evenings he was obliged to spend with a woman he did not love. Their marriage was like the model, a flimsy copy of the real thing.

She went to the window and stared out at the rain. After a minute, a tan Trabant 500 pulled up at the curb, and Hans got out.

How dare he come here now?

Rebecca flung open the window, heedless of the rain blowing in, and yelled: “Go away!”

He stopped on the wet sidewalk and looked up.

Rebecca’s eye lit on a pair of his shoes on the floor beside her. They had been hand-made by an old shoemaker Hans had found. She picked one up and threw it at him. It was a good shot and, although he dodged, it hit the top of his head.

“You mad cow!” he yelled.

Walli and Lili came into the room. They stood in the doorway, staring at their grown-up sister as if she had become a different person, which she probably had.

“You got married on the orders of the Stasi!” Rebecca shouted out of the window. “Which of us is mad?” She threw the other shoe and missed.

Lili said in awestruck tones: “What are you doing?”

Walli grinned and said: “This is crazy, man.”

Outside, two passersby stopped to watch, and a neighbor appeared on a doorstep, gazing in fascination. Hans glared at them. He was proud, and it was agony for him to be made a fool of in public.

Rebecca looked around for something else to throw at him, and her gaze fell on the matchstick model of the Brandenburg Gate.

It stood on a plywood board. She picked it up. It was heavy, but she could manage.

Walli said: “Oh, wow.”

Rebecca carried the model to the window.

Hans shouted: “Don’t you dare! That belongs to me!”

She rested the plywood base on the windowsill. “You ruined my life, you Stasi bully!” she shouted.

One of the women bystanders laughed, a scornful, jeering cackle that rang out over the sound of the rain. Hans flushed with rage and looked around, trying to identify its source, but he could not. To be laughed at was the worst form of torture for him.

He roared: “Put that model back, you bitch! I worked on it for a year!”

“That’s how long I worked on our marriage,” Rebecca replied, and she lifted the model.

Hans yelled: “I’m ordering you!”

Rebecca heaved the model through the window and let it go.

It turned over in midair, so that the board was uppermost and the quadriga below. It seemed to take a long time to drop, and Rebecca felt suspended in a moment of time. Then it hit the paved front yard with a sound like paper being crumpled. The model exploded and the matchsticks scatted outward in a spray, then came down on the wet stones and stuck, forming a sunburst of destruction. The board lay flat, everything on it crushed to nothing.

Hans stared at it for a long moment, his mouth open in shock.

He recovered himself and pointed a finger up at Rebecca. “You listen to me,” he said, and his voice was so cold that suddenly she felt afraid. “You’ll regret this, I tell you,” he said. “You and your family. You’ll regret it for the rest of your lives. And that’s a promise.”

Then he got back into his car and drove away.

CHAPTER TWO

For breakfast, George Jakes’s mother made him blueberry pancakes and bacon with grits on the side. “If I eat all this I’ll have to wrestle heavyweight,” he said. George weighed a hundred and seventy pounds and had been the welterweight star of the Harvard wrestling team.

“Eat hearty, and give up that wrestling,” she said. “I didn’t raise you to be a dumb jock.” She sat opposite him at the kitchen table and poured cornflakes into a dish.

George was not dumb, and she knew it. He was about to graduate from Harvard Law School. He had finished his final exams, and was as sure as he could be that he had passed. Now he was here at his mother’s modest suburban home in Prince George’s County, Maryland, outside Washington, DC. “I want to stay fit,” he said. “Maybe I’ll coach a high school wrestling team.”

“Now that would be worth doing.”

He looked at her fondly. Jacky Jakes had once been pretty, he knew: he had seen photographs of her as a teenager, when she had aspired to be a movie star. She still looked young: she had the kind of dark-chocolate-colored skin that did not wrinkle. “Good black don’t crack,” the Negro women said. But the wide mouth that smiled so broadly in those old photos was now turned down at the corners in an expression of grim determination. She had never become an actress. Perhaps she had never had a chance: the few roles for Negro women generally went to light-skinned beauties. Anyway, her career had ended before it began when, at the age of sixteen, she had become pregnant with George. She had gained that careworn face raising him alone for the first six years of his life, working as a waitress and living in a tiny house at the back of Union Station, and drilling him in the need for hard work and education and respectability.

He said: “I love you, Mom, but I’m still going on the Freedom Ride.”

She pressed her lips together disapprovingly. “You’re twenty-five years old,” she said. “You please yourself.”

“No, I don’t. Every important decision I’ve ever made, I’ve discussed with you. I probably always will.”

“You don’t do what I say.”

“Not always. But you’re still the smartest person I’ve ever met, and that includes everyone at Harvard.”

“Now you’re just buttering me up,” she said, but she was pleased, he could tell.

“Mom, the Supreme Court has ruled that segregation on interstate buses and bus stations is unconstitutional—but those Southerners just defy the law. We have to do something!”

“How do you think it’s going to help, this bus ride?”

“We’re going to board here in Washington and travel south. We’ll sit at the front, use the whites-only waiting rooms, and ask to be served in the whites-only diners; and when people object we’re going to tell them that the law is on our side, and they are the criminals and troublemakers.”

“Son, I know you’re right. You don’t have to tell me that. I understand the Constitution. But what do you think will happen?”

“I guess we’ll get arrested sooner or later. Then there’ll be a trial, and we’ll argue our case in front of the world.”

She shook her head. “I sure hope you get off that easy.”

“What do you mean?”

“You grew up privileged,” she said. “At least, you did after your white father came back into our lives when you were six years old. You don’t know what the world is like for most colored folk.”

“I wish you wouldn’t say that.” George was stung: he got this accusation from black activists, and it annoyed him. “Having a rich white grandfather pay for my education doesn’t make me blind. I know what goes on.”

“Then maybe you know that getting arrested might be the least bad thing that could happen to you. What if things get rough?”

George knew she was right. The Freedom Riders might be risking worse than jail. But he wanted to reassure his mother. “I’ve had lessons in passive resistance,” he said. All those chosen for the Freedom Ride were experienced civil rights activists, and they had been put through a special training program that included role-playing exercises. “A white man pretending to be a redneck called me nigger, pushed and shoved me, and dragged me out of the room by my heels—and I let him, even though I could have thrown him out the window with one arm.”

“Who was he?”

“A civil rights campaigner.”

“Not the real thing.”

“Of course not. He was acting a part.”

“Okay,” she said, and he knew from her tone that she meant the opposite.

“It’s going to be all right, Mom.”

“I’m not saying any more. Are you going to eat those pancakes?”

“Look at me,” George said. “Mohair suit, narrow tie, hair close-cropped, and shoes shined so bright I could use the toe caps for a shaving mirror.” He usually dressed smartly anyway, but the Riders had been instructed to look ultra-respectable.

“You look fine, except for that cauliflower ear.” George’s right ear was deformed from wrestling.

“Who would want to hurt such a nice colored boy?”

“You have no idea,” she said with sudden anger. “Those Southern whites, they—” To his dismay, tears came to her eyes. “Oh, God, I’m just so afraid they’ll kill you.”

He reached across the table and took her hand. “I’ll be careful, Mom, I promise.”

She dried her eyes on her apron. George ate some bacon, to please her, but he had little appetite. He was more anxious than he pretended. His mother was not exaggerating. Some civil rights activists had argued against the Freedom Ride idea on the grounds that it would provoke violence.

“You’re going to be a long time on that bus,” she said.

“Thirteen days, here to New Orleans. We’re stopping every night for meetings and rallies.”

“What have you got to read?”

“The autobiography of Mahatma Gandhi.” George felt he ought to know more about Gandhi, whose philosophy had inspired the civil rights movement’s nonviolent protest tactics.

She took a book from on top of the refrigerator. “You might find this a little more entertaining. It’s a bestseller.”

They had always shared books. Her father had been a literature professor at a Negro college, and she had been a reader from childhood. When George was a boy he and his mother had read the Bobbsey Twins and the Hardy Boys together, even though all the heroes were white. Now they regularly passed each other books they had enjoyed. He looked at the volume in his hand. Its transparent plastic cover told him it was borrowed from the local public library. “To Kill a Mockingbird,” he read. “This just won a Pulitzer Prize, didn’t it?”

“And it’s set in Alabama, where you’re going.”

“Thanks.”

A few minutes later he kissed his mother good-bye, left the house with a small suitcase in his hand, and caught a bus to Washington. He got off at the downtown Greyhound station. A small group of civil rights activists had gathered in the coffee shop. George knew some of them from the training sessions. They were a mixture of black and white, male and female, old and young. As well as a dozen or so Riders, there were some organizers from the Congress of Racial Equality, a couple of journalists from the Negro press, and a few supporters. CORE had decided to split the group in two, and half would leave from the Trailways bus station across the street. There were no placards and no television cameras: it was all reassuringly low-key.

George greeted Joseph Hugo, a fellow law student, a white guy with prominent blue eyes. Together they had organized a boycott of the Woolworth’s lunch counter in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Woolworth’s was integrated in most states but segregated in the South, like the bus service. But Joe had a way of disappearing just before a confrontation, and George had him pegged as a well-meaning coward. “Are you coming with us, Joe?” he asked, trying to keep the skepticism out of his voice.

Joe shook his head. “I just came by to say good luck.” He smoked long mentholated cigarettes with white filter tips, and he was twitchily tapping one on the edge of a tin ashtray.

“Pity. You’re from the South, aren’t you?”

“Birmingham, Alabama.”

“They’re going to call us outside agitators. It would have been useful to have a Southerner on the bus to prove them wrong.”

“I can’t, I have stuff to do.”

George did not press Joe. He was scared enough himself. If he started to discuss the dangers he might talk himself out of going. He looked around the group. He was pleased to see John Lewis, a quietly impressive theology student who was a founding member of the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee, the most radical of the civil rights groups.

Their leader called for attention and began a short statement to the press. While he was speaking George saw, slipping into the coffee shop, a tall white man of forty in a crumpled linen suit. He was handsome though heavy, his face showing the flush of a drinker. He looked like a bus passenger, and no one paid him any attention. He sat next to George and, putting one arm around his shoulders, gave him a brief hug.

This was Senator Greg Peshkov, George’s father.

Their relationship was an open secret, known to Washington insiders but never publicly acknowledged. Greg was not the only politician to have such a secret. Senator Strom Thurmond had paid for the college education of a daughter of his family’s maid: the girl was rumored to be his child—which did not stop Thurmond being a rabid segregationist. When Greg had appeared, a total stranger to his six-year-old son, he had asked George to call him Uncle Greg, and they had never found a better euphemism.

Greg was selfish and unreliable but, in his own way, he cared for George. As a teenager George had gone through a long phase of anger with his father, but then he had come to accept him for what he was, figuring that half a father was better than none.

“George,” Greg said now in a low voice, “I’m worried.”

“You and Mom too.”

“What did she say?”

“She thinks those Southern racists are going to kill us all.”

“I don’t think that’ll happen, but you could lose your job.”

“Has Mr. Renshaw said something?”

“Heck, no, he doesn’t know anything about this, yet. But he’ll find out soon enough if you get arrested.”

Renshaw, who was from Buffalo, was a childhood friend of Greg’s, and senior partner in a prestigious Washington law firm, Fawcett Renshaw. Last summer Greg had got George a vacation job as a law clerk at the firm and, as they both had hoped, the temporary post had led to the offer of a full-time job after graduation. It was a coup: George would be the first Negro to work there as anything other than a cleaner.

George said with a touch of irritation: “The Freedom Riders are not lawbreakers. We’re trying to get the law enforced. The segregationists are the criminals. I would have expected a lawyer such as Renshaw to understand that.”

“He understands it. But all the same he can’t hire a man who has been in trouble with the police. Believe me, it would be the same if you were white.”

“But we’re on the side of the law!”

“Life is unfair. Student days are over—welcome to the real world.”

The leader called out: “Everybody, get your tickets and check your bags, please.”

George stood up.

Greg said: “I can’t talk you out of this, can I?”

He looked so forlorn that George longed to be able to give in, but he could not. “No, I’ve made up my mind,” he said.

“Then please just try to be careful.”

George was touched. “I’m lucky to have people who worry about me,” he said. “I know that.”

Greg squeezed his arm and left quietly.

George stood in line with the others at the window and bought a ticket to New Orleans. He walked to the blue-and-gray bus and handed over his bag to be loaded in the luggage compartment. Painted on the side of the bus were a large greyhound and the slogan: IT’S SUCH A COMFORT TO TAKE THE BUS . . . AND LEAVE THE DRIVING TO US. George got on board.

An organizer directed him to a seat near the front. Others were told to sit in interracial pairs. The driver paid no attention to the Riders, and the regular passengers seemed no more than mildly curious. George opened the book his mother had given him and read the first line.

A moment later the organizer directed one of the women to sit next to George. He nodded to her, pleased. He had met her a couple of times before and liked her. Her name was Maria Summers. She was demurely dressed in a pale gray cotton frock with a high neckline and a full skirt. She had skin the deep, dark color of George’s mother’s, a cute flat nose, and lips that made him think about kissing. He knew she was at the University of Chicago Law School, and like him was about to graduate, so they were probably the same age. He guessed she was not only smart but determined: she would have to be, to get into Chicago Law with two strikes against her, being both female and black.

He closed his book as the driver started the engine and pulled away. Maria looked down and said: “To Kill a Mockingbird. I was in Montgomery, Alabama, last summer.”

Montgomery was the state capital. “What were you doing there?” George said.

“My father’s a lawyer, and he had a client who sued the state. I was working for Daddy during the vacation.”

“Did you win?”

“No. But don’t let me keep you from reading.”

“Are you kidding? I can read anytime. How often does a guy on a bus have a girl as pretty as you sit down next to him?”

“Oh, my,” she said. “Someone warned me you were a smooth talker.”

“I’ll tell you my secret, if you want.”

“Okay, what is it?”

“I’m sincere.”

She laughed.

He said: “But please don’t spread that around. It would spoil my reputation.”

The bus crossed the Potomac and headed into Virginia on Route 1. “You’re in the South, now, George,” said Maria. “Are you scared yet?”

“You bet I am.”

“Me, too.”

The highway was a straight, narrow slash across miles of spring-green forest. They passed through small towns where the men had so little to do that they stopped to watch the bus go by. George did not look out of the window much. He learned that Maria had been brought up in a strict churchgoing family, her grandfather a preacher. George said he went to church mainly to please his mother, and Maria confessed that she was the same. They talked all the way to Fredericksburg, fifty miles along the route.

The Riders went quiet as the bus entered the small historic town, where white supremacy still reigned. The Greyhound terminal was between two red-brick churches with white doors, but Christianity was not necessarily a good indication in the South. As the bus came to a halt, George saw the restrooms, and was surprised that there were no signs over the doors saying WHITES ONLY and COLORED ONLY.

The passengers got off the bus and stood blinking in the sunshine. Looking more closely, George saw light-colored patches over the toilet doors, and deduced that the segregation signs had been removed recently.

The Riders put their plan into operation anyway. First, a white organizer went into the scruffy restroom at the back, clearly intended for Negroes. He came out unharmed, but that was the easier part. George had already volunteered to be the black person who defied the rules. “Here goes,” he said to Maria, and he walked into the clean, freshly painted restroom that had undoubtedly just had its WHITES ONLY sign removed.

There was a young white man inside, combing his pompadour. He glanced at George in the mirror, but said nothing. George was too scared to pee, but he could not just walk out again, so he washed his hands. The young man left and an older man came in and entered a cubicle. George dried his hands on the roller towel. Then there was nothing else to do, so he went out.

The others were waiting. He shrugged and said: “Nothing. Nobody tried to stop me, no one said anything.”

Maria said: “I asked for a Coke at the counter and the waitress sold me one. I think someone here has decided to avoid trouble.”

“Is this how it’s going to be, all the way to New Orleans?” said George. “Will they just act as if nothing has happened? Then, when we’ve gone, impose segregation again? That would kind of cut the ground from under our feet!”

“Don’t worry,” said Maria. “I’ve met the people who run Alabama. Believe me, they’re not that smart.”

CHAPTER THREE

Walli Franck was playing the piano in the upstairs drawing room. The instrument was a full-size Steinway grand, and Walli’s father kept it tuned for Grandma Maud to play. Walli was remembering the riff to Elvis Presley’s record “A Mess of Blues.” It was in the key of C, which made it easier.

His grandmother sat reading the obituaries in the Berliner Zeitung. She was seventy, a slim, straight figure in a dark-blue cashmere dress. “You can play that sort of thing well,” she said without looking up from the paper. “You’ve got my ear, as well as my green eyes. Your grandfather Walter, after whom you were named, never could play ragtime, rest his soul. I tried to teach him, but it was hopeless.”

“You played ragtime?” Walli was surprised. “I’ve never heard you do anything but classical music.”

“Ragtime saved us from starving when your mother was a baby. After the First World War, I played in a club called Nachtleben right here in Berlin. I was paid billions of marks a night, which was barely enough to buy bread; but sometimes I’d get tips in foreign currency, and we could live well for a week on two dollars.”

“Wow.” Walli could not imagine his silver-haired grandmother playing the piano for tips in a nightclub.

Walli’s sister came into the room. Lili was almost three years younger, and these days he was not sure how to treat her. For as long as he could remember she had been a pain in the neck, like a younger boy but sillier. However, lately she had become more sensible and, to complicate matters, some of her friends had breasts.

He turned from the piano and picked up his guitar. He had bought it a year ago in a pawnshop in West Berlin. It had probably been pledged by an American soldier against a loan that was never repaid. The brand name was Martin and, although it had been cheap, it seemed to Walli a very good instrument. He guessed that neither the pawnbroker nor the soldier had realized its worth.

“Listen to this,” he said to Lili, and he began to sing a Bahamian tune called “All My Trials” with lyrics in English. He had heard it on Western radio stations: it was popular with American folk groups. The minor chords made it a melancholy song, and he was pleased with the plaintive fingerpicking accompaniment he had devised.

When he had finished, Grandma Maud looked over the top of the newspaper and said in English: “Your accent is perfectly dreadful, Walli, dear.”

“Sorry.”

She reverted to German. “But you sing nicely.”

“Thank you.” Walli turned to Lili. “What do you think of the song?”

“It’s a bit dreary,” she said. “Maybe I’ll like it more when I’ve heard it a few times.”

“That’s no good,” he said. “I want to play it tonight at the Minnesänger.” This was a folk club just off the Kurfürstendamm in West Berlin. The name meant “troubadour.”

Lili was impressed. “You’re playing at the Minnesänger?”

“It’s a special night. They’re having a contest. Anybody can play. The winner gets a chance of a regular gig.”

“I didn’t know clubs did that.”

“They don’t usually. This is a one-off.”

Grandma Maud said: “Don’t you have to be older to go to such a place?”

“Yes, but I’ve got in before.”

Lili said: “Walli looks older than he is.”

“Hmm.”

Lili said to Walli: “You’ve never sung in public. Are you nervous?”

“You bet.”

“You should play something more cheerful.”

“I guess you’re right.”

“How about ‘This Land Is Your Land’? I love that one.”

Walli played it, and Lili sang along.

While they were singing, their older sister, Rebecca, came in. Walli adored Rebecca. After the war, when their parents had been desperately working all hours to feed the family, Rebecca had often been left in charge of Walli and Lili. She was like a second mother, but not so strict.

And she had such guts! He had watched with awe as she threw her husband’s matchstick model out of the window. Walli had never liked Hans, and was secretly glad to see him go.

All the neighbors were talking about how Rebecca had unknowingly married a Stasi officer. It had given Walli status in school: no one had previously imagined there was anything special about the Francks. Girls especially were fascinated by the thought that everything said and done in his house had been reported to the police for almost a year.

Even though Rebecca was his sister, Walli could see that she was gorgeous. She had a fabulous figure and a lovely face that showed both kindness and strength. But now he noticed that she looked as if someone had died. He stopped playing and said: “What’s the matter?”

“I’ve been fired,” she said.

Grandma Maud put down the newspaper.

“That’s crazy!” Walli said. “The boys in your school say you’re their best teacher!”

“I know.”

“Why did they sack you?”

“I think it was Hans’s revenge.”

Walli recalled Hans’s reaction when he had seen his model smashed, thousands of little matchsticks scattered across the wet pavement. “You’ll regret this,” Hans had yelled, looking up through the rain. Walli had regarded that as bluster, but a moment’s thought would have told him that an agent of the secret police had the power to carry out such a threat. “You and your family,” Hans had screamed, and Walli was included in the curse. He shivered.

Grandma Maud said: “Aren’t they desperate for teachers?”

“Bernd Held is frantic,” Rebecca said. “But he was given orders from above.”

Lili said: “What will you do?”

“Get another job. It shouldn’t be difficult. Bernd has given me a glowing reference. And every school in East Germany is short of teachers, because so many have moved to the West.”

“You should move west,” said Lili.

“We should all move west,” said Walli.

“Mother won’t, you know that,” said Rebecca. “She says we must solve our problems, not run away from them.”

Walli’s father came in, dressed in a dark-blue suit with a waistcoat, old-fashioned but elegant. Grandma Maud said: “Good evening, Werner, dear. Rebecca needs a drink. She’s been fired.” Grandma often suggested that someone needed a drink. Then she would have one, too.

“I know about Rebecca,” Father said shortly. “I’ve talked to her.”

He was in a bad mood: he had to be, to speak ungraciously to his mother-in-law, whom he loved and admired. Walli wondered what had happened to upset the old man.

He soon found out.

“Come into my study, Walli,” said Father. “I want a word.” He went through the double doors into the smaller drawing room, which he used as his home office. Walli followed him. Father sat behind the desk. Walli knew he was to remain standing. “We had a conversation a month ago about smoking,” Father said.

Walli immediately felt guilty. He had started smoking to look older, but he had grown to like it, and now it was a habit.

“You promised to give it up,” his father said.

In Walli’s opinion it was none of his father’s business whether he smoked or not.

“Did you give it up?”

“Yes,” Walli lied.

“Don’t you know that it smells?”

“I suppose I do.”

“I could smell it on you as soon as I walked into the drawing room.”

Now Walli felt a fool. He had been caught out in a childish lie. This did not make him feel any more friendly toward his father.

“So I know you haven’t given it up.”

“Why did you ask me the question, then?” Walli hated the petulant note he heard in his own voice.

“I was hoping you’d tell the truth.”

“You were hoping to catch me out.”

“Believe that if you wish. I suppose you’ve got a pack in your pocket now.”

“Yes.”

“Put it on my desk.”

Walli took the pack from his trouser pocket and angrily threw it onto the desk. His father picked up the pack and casually tossed it into a drawer. They were Lucky Strikes, not the inferior East German brand called f6, and it was almost a full packet, too.

“You’ll stay in every evening for a month,” his father said. “At least you won’t be visiting bars where people play the banjo and smoke all the time.”

Panic made Walli’s stomach cramp. He struggled to remain calm and reasonable. “It’s not a banjo, it’s a guitar. And I can’t possibly stay in for a month.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’ll do as I say.”

“All right,” Walli said desperately. “But not starting tonight.”

“Starting now.”

“But I have to go to the Minnesänger club tonight.”

“That’s just the kind of place I want you to keep away from.”

The old man was impossible! “I’ll stay in every night for a month from tomorrow, okay?”

“Your quarantine will not be adjusted to suit your plans. That would defeat the purpose. It is intended to inconvenience you.”

In this mood Father could not be shaken from his resolution, but Walli was mad with frustration, and he tried anyway. “You don’t understand! Tonight I’m entering a contest at the Minnesänger—it’s a unique opportunity.”

“I’m not postponing your punishment to permit you to play the banjo!”

“It’s a guitar, you stupid old fool! A guitar!” Walli stormed out.

The three women in the next room had obviously heard everything, and they stared at him. Rebecca said: “Oh, Walli . . .”

He picked up his guitar and left the room.

Until he got downstairs he had no plan, just rage; but when he saw the front door he knew what to do. With his guitar in his hand he walked out of the house and slammed the door so hard the house shook.

An upstairs window was thrown up and he heard his father shout: “Come back, do you hear me? Come back this minute, or you’ll be in even worse trouble.”

Walli walked on.

At first he was just angry, but after a while he felt exhilarated. He had defied his father and even called him a stupid old fool! He headed west, walking with a jaunty step. But soon his euphoria faded and he began to wonder what the consequences would be. His father did not take disobedience lightly. He commanded his children and his employees, and he expected them to comply. But what would he do? For two or three years now Walli had been too big to be spanked. Today Father had tried to keep him in the house as if it were a jail, but that had failed. Sometimes Father threatened to take him out of school and make him work in the business, but Walli considered that an empty threat: his father would not be comfortable with a resentful adolescent roaming around his precious factory. All the same, Walli had a feeling the old man would think of something.

The street he was on passed from East Berlin to West Berlin at a crossroads. Lounging on the corner, smoking, were three Vopos, East German cops. They had the right to challenge anyone crossing the invisible border. They could not possibly speak to everyone, because so many thousands of people went over every day, including many Grenzgänger, East Berliners who worked in the West for higher wages paid in valuable deutschmarks. Walli’s father was a Grenzgänger, though he worked for profits, not wages. Walli himself crossed over at least once a week, usually to go with his friends to West Berlin cinemas, which showed sexy, violent American films that were more exciting than the preachy fables in Communist movie houses.

In practice the Vopos stopped anyone who caught their eye. Entire families crossing together, parents and children, were almost certain to be challenged on suspicion of trying to leave the East permanently, especially if they had luggage. The other types the Vopos liked to harass were adolescents, particularly those wearing Western fashions. Many East Berlin boys belonged to antiestablishment gangs: the Texas Gang, the Jeans Gang, the Elvis Presley Appreciation Society, and others. They hated the police and the police hated them.

Walli was wearing plain black pants, a white T-shirt, and a tan windbreaker. He looked cool, he thought, a little like James Dean, but not a gang member. However, the guitar might get him noticed. It was the ultimate symbol of what they called “American unculture”—even worse than a Superman comic.

He crossed the road, careful not to look at the Vopos. Out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw one staring at him. But nothing was said, and he passed without stopping into the free world.

He caught a tram along the south side of the park to the Ku’damm. The best thing about West Berlin, he thought, was that all the girls wore stockings.

He made his way to the Minnesänger club, a cellar in a side street off the Ku’damm where they sold weak beer and frankfurter sausages. He was early, but the place was already filling up. Walli spoke to the club’s young owner, Danni Hausmann, and put his name down on the list of competitors. He bought a beer without being questioned about his age. There were lots of boys like himself carrying guitars, almost as many girls, and a few older people.

An hour later the contest began. Each act did two songs. Some of the competitors were hopeless beginners strumming simple chords but, to Walli’s consternation, several guitarists were more accomplished than he. Most looked like the American artists whose material they copied. Three men dressed like the Kingston Trio sang “Tom Dooley,” and a girl with long black hair and a guitar sang “The House of the Rising Sun” just like Joan Baez, and got loud applause and cheers.

An older couple in corduroys got up and did a song about farming called “Im Märzen der Bauer” to the accompaniment of a piano-accordion. It was folk music, but not the kind this audience wanted. They got an ironic cheer, but they were out of date.

While Walli was waiting his turn, getting impatient, he was approached by a pretty girl. This happened to him a lot. He thought he had a peculiar face, with high cheekbones and almond eyes, as if he might be half Japanese; but many girls thought he was dishy. The girl introduced herself as Karolin. She looked a year or two older than Walli. She had long, straight fair hair parted in the middle, framing an oval face. At first he thought she was like all the other folkie girls, but she had a big wide smile that made his heart misfire. She said: “I was going to enter this contest with my brother playing guitar, but he’s let me down—I don’t suppose you’d care to team up with me?”

Walli’s first impulse was to refuse. He had a repertoire of songs and none were duets. But Karolin was enchanting, and he wanted a reason to continue to talk to her. “We’d have to rehearse,” he said doubtfully.

“We could step outside. What songs were you thinking of?”

“I was going to do ‘All My Trials,’ then ‘This Land Is Your Land.’”

“How about ‘Noch Einen Tanz’?”

It was not part of Walli’s repertoire, but he knew the tune and it was easy to play. “I never thought of doing a comic song,” he said.

“The audience would love it. You could sing the man’s part, where he tells her to go home to her sick husband, then I’d sing, ‘Just one more dance,’ and we could do the last line together.”

“Let’s try it.”

They went outside. It was early summer, and still light. They sat on a doorstep and tried out the song. They sounded good together, and Walli improvised a harmony on the last line.

Karolin had a pure contralto voice that he thought could sound thrilling, and he suggested that their second number could be a sad song, for contrast. She rejected “All My Trials” as too depressing, but she liked “Nobody’s Fault but Mine,” a slow spiritual. When they ran through it, the hairs stood up on the back of Walli’s neck.

An American soldier entering the club smiled at them and said in English: “My God, it’s the Bobbsey Twins.”

Karolin laughed and said to Walli: “I guess we do look alike—fair hair and green eyes. Who are the Bobbsey Twins?”

Walli had not noticed the color of her eyes, and he was flattered that she was aware of his. “I’ve never heard of them,” he said.

“All the same, it sounds like a good name for a duo. Like the Everly Brothers.”

“Do we need a name?”

“We do if we win.”

“Okay. Let’s go back in. It must be almost our turn.”

“One more thing,” she said. “When we do ‘Noch Einen Tanz,’ we should look at one another now and again, and smile.”

“Okay.”

“Almost as if we’re boyfriend and girlfriend, you know? It will look good onstage.”

“Sure.” It would not be difficult to smile at Karolin as if she were his girlfriend.

Back inside, a blond girl was strumming a guitar and singing “Freight Train.” She was not as beautiful as Karolin, but she was pretty in a more obvious way. Next, a virtuoso guitarist played a complicated fingerpicking blues. Then Danni Hausmann called Walli’s name.

He felt tense as he faced the audience. Most of the guitarists had fancy leather straps, but Walli had never bothered to get one, and his instrument was held around his neck by a piece of string. Now, suddenly, he wished he had a strap.

Karolin said: “Good evening, we’re the Bobbsey Twins.”

Walli played a chord and began to sing, and found he no longer cared about a strap. The song was a waltz, and he strummed it jauntily. Karolin pretended to be a wanton strumpet, and Walli responded by becoming a stiff Prussian lieutenant.

The audience laughed.

Something happened to Walli then. There were only a hundred or so people in the place, and the sound they made was no more than an appreciative collective chuckle, but it gave him a feeling that he had not experienced before, a feeling a bit like the kick from the first puff of a cigarette.

They laughed several more times, and at the end of the song they applauded loudly.

Walli liked that even better.

“They love us!” Karolin said in an excited whisper.

Walli began to play “Nobody’s Fault but Mine,” plucking the steel strings with his fingernails to sharpen the drama of the plangent sevenths, and the crowd went quiet. Karolin changed and became a fallen woman in despair. Walli watched the audience. No one was talking. One woman had tears in her eyes, and he wondered if she had lived through what Karolin was singing about.

Their hushed concentration was even better than the laughter.

At the end they cheered and called for more.

The rule was two numbers each, so Walli and Karolin came down off the stage, ignoring the cries for an encore, but Hausmann told them to go back. They had not rehearsed a third song, and they looked at one another in panic. Then Walli said: “Do you know ‘This Land Is Your Land’?” and Karolin nodded.

The audience joined in, which made Karolin sing louder, and Walli was surprised by the power of her voice. He sang a high harmony, and their two voices soared above the sound of the crowd.

When finally they left the stage he felt exhilarated. Karolin’s eyes were shining. “We were really good!” she said. “You’re better than my brother.”

Walli said: “Have you got any cigarettes?”

They sat through another hour of the contest, smoking. “I think we were the best,” Walli said.

Karolin was more cautious. “They liked the blond girl who sang ‘Freight Train,’” she said.

At last the result was announced.

The Bobbsey Twins came second.

The winner was the Joan Baez look-alike.

Walli was angry. “She could hardly play!” he said.

Karolin was more philosophical. “People love Joan Baez.”

The club began to empty, and Walli and Karolin headed for the door. Walli felt dejected. As they were leaving, Danni Hausmann stopped them. He was in his early twenties, and dressed in modern casual clothes, a black roll-neck sweater and jeans. “Could you two do half an hour next Monday?” he said.

Walli was too surprised to reply, but Karolin quickly said: “Sure!”

“But the Joan Baez imitator won,” said Walli, then he thought: Why am I arguing?

Danni said: “You two seem to have the range to keep an audience happy for more than one or two numbers. Have you got enough songs for a set?”

Once again Walli hesitated, and again Karolin jumped in. “We will by Monday,” she said.

Walli remembered that his father planned to imprison him in the house for a month of evenings, but he decided not to mention that.

“Thanks,” said Danni. “You get the early slot, eight thirty. Be here by seven thirty.”

They were elated as they walked out into the lamplit street. Walli had no idea what he would do about his father, but he felt optimistic that everything would work out.

It turned out that Karolin, too, lived in East Berlin. They caught a bus and began to talk about which numbers they would do next week. There were lots of folk songs they both knew.

They got off the bus and headed into the park. Karolin frowned and said: “The guy behind.”

Walli looked back. There was a man in a cap thirty or forty yards behind them, smoking as he walked. “What about him?”

“Wasn’t he in the Minnesänger?”

The man did not meet Walli’s eye, even though Walli stared at him. “I don’t think so,” said Walli. “Do you like the Everly Brothers?”

“Yes!”

As they walked, Walli started to play “All I Have to Do Is Dream,” strumming the guitar that hung around his neck on its string. Karolin joined in eagerly. They sang together as they crossed the park. He played the Chuck Berry hit “Back in the USA.”

They were belting out the refrain, “I’m so glad I’m living in the USA,” when Karolin halted suddenly and said: “Hush!” Walli realized they had reached the border, and saw three Vopos under a streetlight glaring at them malevolently.

He shut up immediately, and hoped they had stopped soon enough.

One of the cops was a sergeant, and he looked past Walli. Walli glanced back and saw the man in the cap give a curt nod. The sergeant took a step toward Walli and Karolin and said: “Papers.” The man in the cap spoke into a walkie-talkie.

Walli frowned. It seemed Karolin had been right, and they had been followed.

It occurred to him that Hans might be behind this.

Could he possibly be so petty and vengeful?

Yes, he could.

The sergeant looked at Walli’s identity card and said: “You’re only fifteen. You shouldn’t be out this late.”

Walli bit his tongue. There was no point in arguing with them.

The sergeant looked at Karolin’s card and said: “You’re seventeen! What are you doing with this child?”

This made Walli recall the row with his father, and he said angrily: “I’m not a child.”

The sergeant ignored him. “You could go out with me,” he said to Karolin. “I’m a real man.” The other two Vopos laughed appreciatively.

Karolin said nothing, but the sergeant persisted. “How about it?” he said.

“You must be out of your mind,” Karolin said quietly.

The man was stung. “Now that’s just rude,” he said.

Walli had noticed this about some men. If a girl gave them the brush-off they became indignant, but any other response was taken as encouragement. What were women supposed to do?

Karolin said: “Give me back my card, please.”

The sergeant said: “Are you a virgin?”

Karolin blushed.

Once again the other two cops sniggered.

“They ought to put that on women’s identity cards,” said the man. “Virgin, or not.”

“Knock it off,” Walli said.

“I’m gentle with virgins.”

Walli was boiling. “That uniform doesn’t give you the right to pester girls!”

“Oh, doesn’t it?” The sergeant did not give back their identity cards.

A tan Trabant 500 pulled up and Hans Hoffmann got out. Walli began to feel frightened. How could he be in this much trouble? All he had done was sing in the park.

Hans approached and said: “Show me that thing you have around your neck.”

Walli summoned up the nerve to say: “Why?”

“Because I suspect it is being used to smuggle capitalist-imperialist propaganda into the German Democratic Republic. Give it here.”

The guitar was so precious that Walli still did not comply, scared as he was. “What if I don’t?” he said. “Will I be arrested?”

The sergeant rubbed the knuckles of his right hand with the palm of his left.

Hans said: “Yes, eventually.”

Walli ran out of courage. He pulled the string over his head and gave Hans the guitar.

Hans held the guitar as if to play it, hit the strings, and sang in English: “You ain’t nothing but a hound dog.” The Vopos laughed hysterically.

Even the cops listened to pop radio, it seemed.

Hans pushed his hand under the strings and tried to feel inside the sound hole.

Walli said: “Be careful!”

The top E string broke with a ping.

“It’s a delicate musical instrument!” Walli said despairingly.

Hans’s reach was constrained by the strings. He said: “Anyone got a knife?”

The sergeant put his hand inside his jacket and pulled out a knife with a wide blade—not part of his standard-issue gear, Walli felt sure.

Hans tried to cut the strings with the blade, but they were tougher than he thought. He managed to snap the B and the G, but could not saw through the thicker ones.

“There’s nothing inside,” Walli said pleadingly. “You can tell by the weight.”

Hans looked at him, smiled, then brought the knife down hard, point first, on the soundboard near the bridge.

The blade went straight through the wood, and Walli cried out in pain.

Pleased by this response, Hans repeated the action, smashing holes in the guitar. With the surface weakened, the tension in the strings pulled the bridge and the wood surrounding it away from the body of the instrument. He prized away the rest of it, revealing the inside like an empty coffin.

“No propaganda,” he said. “Congratulations—you are innocent.” He handed Walli the wrecked guitar, and Walli took it.

The sergeant handed back their identity cards with a grin.

Karolin took Walli’s arm and drew him away. “Come on,” she said in a low voice. “Let’s get out of here.”

Walli let her lead him. He could hardly see where he was going. He could not stop crying.

CHAPTER FOUR

George Jakes boarded a Greyhound bus in Atlanta, Georgia, on Sunday, May 14, 1961. It was Mother’s Day.

He was scared.

Maria Summers sat next to him. They always sat together. It had become a regular thing: everyone assumed that the empty seat next to George was reserved for Maria.

To hide his nervousness, he made conversation with Maria. “So, what did you think of Martin Luther King?”

King was head of the Southern Christian Leadership Conference, one of the more important civil rights groups. They had met him last night at a dinner in one of Atlanta’s black-owned restaurants.

“He’s an amazing man,” said Maria.

George was not so sure. “He said wonderful things about the Freedom Riders, but he’s not here on the bus with us.”

“Put yourself in his place,” Maria said reasonably. “He’s the leader of a different civil rights group. A general can’t become a foot soldier in someone else’s regiment.”

George had not looked at it that way. Maria was very smart.

George was half in love with her. He was desperate for an opportunity to be alone with her, but the people in whose homes the Riders stayed were solid respectable black citizens, many of them devout Christians, who would not have allowed their guest rooms to be used for smooching. And Maria, alluring though she was, did nothing more than sit next to George and talk to him and laugh at his wisecracks. She never did the little physical things that said a woman wanted to be more than friends: she did not touch his arm, or take his hand getting off the bus, or press close to him in a crowd. She did not flirt. She might even be a virgin at twenty-five.

“You talked to King for a long time,” he said.

“If he wasn’t a preacher, I’d say he was coming on to me,” she said.

George was not sure how to respond to that. It would be no surprise to him if a preacher made a pass at a girl as enchanting as Maria. But she was naïve about men, he thought. “I talked to King a bit.”

“What did he say to you?”

George hesitated. It was King’s words that had scared George. He decided to tell Maria anyway: she had a right to know. “He says we’re not going to make it through Alabama.”

Maria blanched. “Did he really say that?”

“He said exactly that.”

Now they were both scared.

The Greyhound pulled out of the bus station.

For the first few days George had feared that the Freedom Ride would be too peaceful. Regular bus passengers did not react to the black people sitting in the wrong seats, and sometimes joined in their songs. Nothing had happened when the Riders defied WHITES ONLY and COLORED notices in bus stations. Some towns had even painted over the signs. George feared the segregationists had devised the perfect strategy. There was no trouble and no publicity, and colored Riders were served politely in the white restaurants. Every evening they got off the buses and attended meetings unmolested, usually in churches, then stayed overnight with sympathizers. But George felt sure that as they left each town the signs would be restored, and segregation would return; and the Freedom Ride would have been a waste of time.

The irony was striking. For as long as he could remember, George had been wounded and infuriated by the repeated message, sometimes implicit but often spoken aloud, that he was inferior. It made no difference that he was smarter than 99 percent of white Americans. Nor that he was hardworking, polite, and well dressed. He was looked down upon by ugly white people too stupid or too lazy to do anything harder than pour drinks or pump gas. He could not walk into a department store, sit down in a restaurant, or apply for a job without wondering whether he would be ignored, asked to leave, or rejected because of his color. It made him burn with resentment. But now, paradoxically, he was disappointed that it was not happening.

Meanwhile the White House dithered. On the third day of the Ride the attorney general, Robert Kennedy, had made a speech at the University of Georgia promising to enforce civil rights in the South. Then, three days later, his brother the president had backtracked, withdrawing support from two civil rights bills.

Was this how the segregationists would win, George had wondered? By avoiding confrontation, then carrying on as usual?

It was not. Peace had lasted just four days.

On the fifth day of the Ride one of their number had been jailed for insisting on his right to a shoeshine.

Violence had broken out on the sixth.

The victim had been John Lewis, the theology student. He had been attacked by thugs in a white restroom in Rock Hill, South Carolina. Lewis had allowed himself to be punched and kicked without retaliation. George had not seen the incident, which was probably a good thing, for he was not sure he could have matched Lewis’s Gandhian self-restraint.

George had read short reports of the violence in the next day’s papers, but he was disappointed to see the story overshadowed by the rocket flight of Alan Shepard, the first American in space. Who cares? George thought sourly. The Soviet cosmonaut Yuri Gagarin had been the first man in space, less than a month ago. The Russians beat us to it. A white American can orbit the earth, but a black American can’t enter a restroom.

Then, in Atlanta, the Riders had been cheered by a welcoming crowd as they got off the bus, and George’s spirits had lifted again.

But that was Georgia, and now they were headed for Alabama.

“Why did King say we’re not going to make it through Alabama?” Maria asked.

“There’s a rumor the Ku Klux Klan are planning something in Birmingham,” George said grimly. “Apparently the FBI knows all about it but they haven’t done anything to stop it.”

“And the local police?”

“The police are in the damn Klan.”

“What about those two?” With a jerk of her head Maria indicated the seats across the aisle and a row back.

George looked over his shoulder at two burly white men sitting together. “What about them?”

“Don’t you smell cop?”

He saw what she meant. “Do you think they’re FBI?”

“Their clothes are too cheap for the Bureau. My guess is they’re Alabama Highway Patrol, undercover.”

George was impressed. “How did you get to be so smart?”

“My mother made me eat my vegetables. And my father’s a lawyer in Chicago, the gangster capital of the USA.”

“So what do you think those two are doing?”

“I’m not sure, but I don’t think they’re here to defend our civil rights, do you?”

George glanced out of the window and saw a sign that read ENTERING ALABAMA. He checked his wristwatch. It was one P.M. The sun was shining out of a blue sky. It’s a beautiful day to die, he thought.

Maria wanted to work in politics or public service. “Protesters can have a big impact, but in the end it’s governments that reshape the world,” she said. George thought about that, wondering whether he agreed. Maria had applied for a job in the White House press office, and had been called for an interview, but she had not got the job. “They don’t hire many black lawyers in Washington,” she had said ruefully to George. “I’ll probably stay in Chicago and join my father’s law firm.”

Across the aisle from George was a middle-aged white woman in a coat and hat, holding on her lap a large white plastic handbag. George smiled at her and said: “Lovely weather for a bus ride.”

“I’m going to visit my daughter in Birmingham,” she said, though he had not asked.

“That’s nice. I’m George Jakes.”

“Cora Jones. Mrs. Jones. My daughter’s baby is due in a week.”

“Her first?”

“Third.”

“Well, you seem too young to be a grandmother, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

She purred a little. “I’m forty-nine years old.”

“I would never have guessed that!”

A Greyhound coming in the opposite direction flashed its lights, and the Riders’ bus slowed to a halt. A white man came to the driver’s window and George heard him say: “There’s a crowd gathered at the bus station in Anniston.” The driver said something in reply that George could not hear. “Just be careful,” said the man at the window.

The bus pulled away.

“What does that mean, a crowd?” said Maria anxiously. “It could be twenty people or a thousand. They could be a welcoming committee or an angry mob. Why didn’t he tell us more?”

George guessed her irritation masked fear.

He recalled his mother’s words: “I’m just so afraid they’ll kill you.” Some people in the movement said they were ready to die in the cause of freedom. George was not sure he was willing to be a martyr. There were too many other things he wanted to do; like maybe sleep with Maria.

A minute later they entered Anniston, a small town like any other in the South: low buildings, streets in a grid, dusty and hot. The roadside was lined with people as if for a parade. Many were dressed up, the women in hats, the children scrubbed, no doubt having been to church. “What are they expecting to see, people with horns?” George said. “Here we are, folks, real Northern Negroes, wearing shoes and all.” He spoke as if addressing them, although only Maria could hear. “We’ve come to take away your guns and teach you Communism. Where do the white girls go swimming?”

Maria giggled. “If they could hear you, they wouldn’t know you were joking.”

He wasn’t really joking, it was more like whistling past the graveyard. He was trying to ignore the spasm of fear in his guts.

The bus turned into the station, which was strangely deserted. The buildings looked shut up and locked. To George it felt creepy.

The driver opened the door of the bus.

George did not see where the mob came from. Suddenly they were all around the bus. They were white men, some in work clothes, others in Sunday suits. They carried baseball bats, metal pipes, and lengths of iron chain. And they were screaming. Most of it was inchoate, but George heard some words of hate, including Sieg heil!

George stood up, his first impulse to close the bus door; but the two men Maria had identified as state troopers were faster, and they slammed it shut. Perhaps they are here to defend us, George thought; or maybe they’re just defending themselves.

He looked through the windows all around him. There were no police outside. How could the local police not know that an armed mob had gathered at the bus station? They had to be in collusion with the Klan. No surprise there.

A second later the men attacked the bus with their weapons. There was a frightening cacophony as chains and crowbars dented the bodywork. Glass shattered, and Mrs. Jones screamed. The driver started the bus, but one of the mob lay down in front of it. George thought the driver might just roll over the man, but he stopped.

A rock came through the window, smashing it, and George felt a sharp pain in his cheek like a bee sting. He had been hit by a flying shard. Maria was sitting by a window: she was in danger. George grabbed her arm, pulling her toward him. “Kneel down in the aisle!” he shouted.

A grinning man wearing knuckle-dusters put his fist through the window next to Mrs. Jones. “Get down here with me!” Maria shouted, and she pulled Mrs. Jones down next to her and wrapped her arms protectively around the older woman.

The yelling got louder. “Communists!” they screamed. “Cowards!”

Maria said: “Duck, George!”

George could not bring himself to cower before these hooligans.

Suddenly the noise diminished. The banging on the bus sides stopped and there was no more breaking glass. George spotted a police officer.

About time, he thought.

The cop was swinging a nightstick but talking amiably to the grinning man with the knuckle-dusters.

Then George saw three more cops. They had calmed the crowd but, to George’s indignation, they were doing no more. They acted as if no crime had been committed. They chatted casually to the rioters, who seemed to be their friends.

The two highway patrolmen were sitting back in their seats, looking bewildered. George guessed their assignment was to spy on the Riders, and they had not reckoned on becoming victims of mob violence. They had been forced to join the Riders’ side in self-defense. They might learn to see things from a new point of view.

The bus moved. George saw, through the windshield, that a cop was urging men out of the way and another was waving the driver forward. Outside the station, a patrol car moved in front of the bus and led it onto the road out of town.

George began to feel better. “I think we got away,” he said.

Maria got to her feet, apparently unhurt. She took the handkerchief out of the breast pocket of George’s suit coat and mopped his face gently. The white cotton came away red with blood. “It’s a nasty little gash,” she said.

“I’ll live.”

“You won’t be so pretty, though.”

“I’m pretty?”

“You used to be, but now . . .”

The moment of normality did not last. George glanced behind and saw a long line of pickup trucks and cars following the bus. They seemed to be full of shouting men. He groaned. “We didn’t get away,” he said.

Maria said: “Back in Washington, before we got on the bus, you were talking to a young white guy.”

“Joseph Hugo,” George said. “He’s at Harvard Law. Why?”

“I thought I saw him in the mob back there.”

“Joseph Hugo? No. He’s on our side. You must be mistaken.” But Hugo was from Alabama, George recalled.

Maria said: “He had bulging blue eyes.”

“If he’s with the mob, that would mean that all this time he’s been pretending to support civil rights . . . while spying on us. He can’t be a snitch.”

“Can’t he?”

George looked behind again.

The police escort turned back at the city line, but the other vehicles did not.

The men in the cars were shrieking so loud they could be heard over the sound of all the engines.

Beyond the suburbs, on a long lonely stretch of Highway 202, two cars overtook the bus, then slowed down, forcing the driver to brake. He tried to pass, but they swerved from side to side, blocking his way.

Cora Jones was white-faced and shaking, and she clutched her plastic handbag like a life preserver. George said: “I’m sorry we got you into this, Mrs. Jones.”

“So am I,” she replied.

The cars ahead pulled aside at last and the bus passed them. But the ordeal was not ended: the convoy was still behind. Then George heard a familiar popping sound. When the bus began to weave all over the road he realized it was a burst tire. The driver slowed to a halt near a roadside grocery store. George read the name: Forsyth & Son.

The driver jumped out. George heard him say: “Two flats?” Then he went into the store, presumably to phone for help.

George was as tense as a bowstring. One flat tire was just a puncture; two was an ambush.

Sure enough, the cars in the convoy were stopping and a dozen white men in their Sunday suits were piling out, yelling curses and waving their weapons, savages on the warpath. George’s stomach cramped again as he saw them running toward the bus, ugly faces twisted with hatred, and he knew why his mother’s eyes had filled with tears when she talked about Southern whites.

At the head of the pack was an adolescent boy who raised a crowbar and gleefully smashed a window.

The next man tried to enter the bus. One of the two burly white passengers stood at the top of the steps and drew a revolver, confirming Maria’s theory that they were state troopers in plain clothes. The intruder backed off and the trooper locked the door.

George feared that might be a mistake. What if the Riders needed to get out in a hurry?

The men outside began to rock the bus, as if trying to turn it over, all the while yelling: “Kill the niggers! Kill the niggers!” Women passengers were screaming. Maria clung to George in a way that might have pleased him if he had not been in fear of his life.

Outside, he saw two uniformed patrolmen arrive, and his hopes lifted; but, to his fury, they did nothing to restrain the mob. He looked at the two plainclothesmen on the bus: they looked foolish and scared. Obviously the uniformed men did not know about their undercover colleagues. The Alabama Highway Patrol was evidently disorganized as well as racist.

George cast around desperately for something he could do to protect Maria and himself. Get out of the bus and run? Lie down on the floor? Grab a gun from a state trooper and shoot some white men? Every possibility seemed even worse than doing nothing.

He stared in fury at the two highway patrolmen outside, watching as if nothing wrong was happening. They were cops, for Christ’s sake! What did they think they were doing? If they would not enforce the law, what right did they have to wear that uniform?

Then he saw Joseph Hugo. There was no possibility of mistake: George knew well those bulging blue eyes. Hugo approached a patrolman and spoke to him, then the two of them laughed.

He was a snitch.

If I get out of here alive, George thought, that creep is going to be sorry.

The men outside shouted at the Riders to get off. George heard: “Come out here and get what’s coming to you, nigger lovers!” That made him think he was safer on the bus.

But not for long.

One of the mob had returned to his car and opened the trunk, and now the man came running toward the bus with something burning in his hands. He hurled a blazing bundle through a smashed window. Seconds later the bundle exploded in gray smoke. But the weapon was not just a smoke bomb. It set fire to the upholstery, and in moments thick black fumes began to choke the passengers. A woman screamed: “Is there any air up front?”

From outside, George heard: “Burn the niggers! Fry them!”

Everyone tried to get out of the door. The aisle was jammed with gasping people. Some were pressing forward, but there seemed to be a blockage. George yelled: “Get off the bus! Everybody get off!”

From the front, someone shouted back: “The door won’t open!”

George recalled that the state trooper with the gun had locked the door to keep the mob out. “We’ll have to jump out the windows!” he yelled. “Come on!”

He stood on a seat and kicked most of the remaining glass out of the window. Then he pulled off his suit coat and draped it over the sill, to provide some protection from the jagged shards still remaining stuck in the window frame.

Maria was coughing helplessly. George said: “I’ll go first and catch you as you jump.” Grasping the back of the seat for balance, he stood on the sill, bent double, and jumped. He heard his shirt tear on a snag, but felt no pain, and concluded that he had escaped injury. He landed on the roadside grass. The mob had backed off from the burning bus in fear. George turned and held his arms up to Maria. “Climb through, like I did!” he shouted.

Her pumps were flimsy compared with his toe-capped oxfords, and he was glad he had sacrificed his jacket when he saw her small feet on the sill. She was shorter than he, but her womanly figure made her wider. He winced when her hip brushed a shard of glass as she squeezed through, but it did not tear the fabric of her dress, and a moment later she fell into his arms.

He held her easily. She was not heavy, and he was in good shape. He set her on her feet, but she dropped to her knees, gasping for air.

He glanced around. The thugs were still keeping their distance. He looked inside the bus. Cora Jones was standing in the aisle, coughing, turning round and round, too shocked and bewildered to save herself. “Cora, come here!” he yelled. She heard her name and looked at him. “Come through the window, like we did!” he shouted. “I’ll help you!” She seemed to understand. With difficulty, she stood on the seat, still clutching her handbag. She hesitated, looking at the jagged bits of glass all around the window frame; but she had on a thick coat, and she seemed to decide a cut was a better risk than choking to death. She put one foot on the sill. George reached through the window, grabbed her arm, and pulled. She tore her coat but did no harm to herself, and he lifted her down. She staggered away, calling for water.

“We have to get away from the bus!” he yelled to Maria. “The fuel tank might explode.” But Maria was so racked by coughing that she seemed helpless to move. He put one arm around her back and the other behind her knees and picked her up. He carried her toward the grocery store and set her down when he thought they were at a safe distance.

He looked back and saw that the bus was now emptying rapidly. The door had at last been opened, and people were stumbling through as well as jumping from the windows.

The flames grew. As the last passengers got out, the inside of the vehicle became a furnace. George heard a man shout something about the fuel tank, and the mob took up the cry, shouting: “She’s gonna blow! She’s gonna blow!” Everyone scattered in fear, getting farther away. Then there was a deep thump and a sudden fierce gout of flame, and the vehicle rocked with the explosion.

George was pretty sure no one was left inside, and he thought: At least no one is dead—yet.

The detonation seemed to have sated the mob’s hunger for violence. They stood around watching the bus burn.

A small crowd of what appeared to be local people had gathered outside the grocery store, many cheering the mob; but now a young girl came out of the building with a pail of water and some plastic cups. She gave a drink to Mrs. Jones, then came to Maria, who gratefully downed a cup of water and asked for another.

A young white man approached with a look of concern. He had a face like a rodent, forehead and chin angling back from a sharp nose and buck teeth, red-brown hair slicked back with pomade. “How are you doing, darling?” he said to Maria. But he was concealing something, and as Maria started to reply he raised a crowbar high in the air and brought it down, aiming at the top of her head. George flung out an arm to protect her, and the bar came down hard on his left forearm. The pain was agonizing, and he roared. The man lifted the crowbar again. Despite his arm George lunged forward, leading with his right shoulder, and barged into the man so hard that he went flying.

George turned back to Maria and saw three more of the mob running at him, evidently bent on revenging their ratlike friend. George had been premature in thinking the segregationists had had their fill of violence.

He was used to combat. He had been on the Harvard wrestling team as an undergraduate, and had coached the team while getting his law degree. But this was not going to be a fair fight with rules. And he had only one working arm.

On the other hand, he had gone to grade school in a Washington slum, and he knew about fighting dirty.

They were coming at him three abreast, so he moved sideways. This not only took them away from Maria, but turned them so that they were now advancing in single file.

The first man swung an iron chain at him wildly.

George danced back, and the chain missed him. The momentum of the swing threw the man off balance. As he staggered, George kicked his legs from under him, and he crashed to the ground. He lost hold of his chain.

The second man stumbled over the first. George stepped forward, turned his back, and hit the man in the face with his right elbow, hoping to dislocate his jaw. The man gave a strangled scream and fell down, dropping his tire iron.

The third man stopped, suddenly scared. George stepped toward him and punched him in the face with all his might. George’s fist caught the man full on the nose. Bones crunched and blood spurted, and the man screamed in agony. It was the most satisfying blow George had ever struck in his life. To hell with Gandhi, he thought.

Two shots rang out. Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked toward the noise. One of the uniformed state troopers was holding a revolver high in the air. “Okay, boys, you’ve had your fun,” he said. “Let’s move out.”

George was furious. Fun? The cop had been a witness to attempted murder, and he called it fun? George was beginning to see that a police uniform did not mean much in Alabama.

The mob returned to their cars. George noticed angrily that none of the four police officers troubled to write down any license plates. Nor did they take any names, though they probably knew everyone anyway.

Joseph Hugo had vanished.

There was another explosion in the wreckage of the bus, and George guessed there must be a second fuel tank; but at this point no one was near enough to be in danger. The fire then seemed to burn itself out.

Several people lay on the ground, many still gasping for breath after inhaling smoke. Others were bleeding from various injuries. Some were Riders, some regular passengers, black and white. George himself was clutching his left arm with his right hand, holding it against his side, trying to keep it motionless because every movement was excruciatingly painful. The four men he had tangled with were helping one another limp back to their cars.

He managed to walk to where the patrolmen stood. “We need an ambulance,” he said. “Maybe two.”

The younger of the two uniformed men glared at him. “What did you say?”

“These people need medical attention,” George said. “Call an ambulance!”

The man looked furious, and George realized he had made the mistake of telling a white man what to do. But the older patrolman said to his colleague: “Leave it, leave it.” Then he said to George: “Ambulance is on its way, boy.”

A few minutes later, an ambulance the size of a small bus arrived, and the Riders began to help each other aboard. But when George and Maria approached, the driver said: “Not you.”

George stared at him in disbelief. “What?”

“This here’s a white folks’ ambulance,” the driver said. “It ain’t for nigras.”

“The hell you say.”

“Don’t you sass me, boy.”

A white Rider who was already on board came back out. “You have to take everyone to the hospital,” he said to the driver. “Black and white.”

“This ain’t a nigra ambulance,” the driver said stubbornly.

“Well, we’re not going without our friends.” With that the white Riders began to leave the ambulance one by one.

The driver was taken aback. He would look foolish, George guessed, if he returned from the scene with no patients.

The older patrolman came over and said: “Better take ’em, Roy.”

“If you say so,” said the driver.

George and Maria boarded the ambulance.

As they drove away, George looked back at the bus. Nothing remained but a drift of smoke and a blackened hulk, with a row of scorched roof struts sticking up like the ribs of a martyr burned at the stake.

CHAPTER FIVE

Tanya Dvorkin left Yakutsk, Siberia—the coldest city in the world—after an early breakfast. She flew to Moscow, a distance of a little over three thousand miles, in a Tupolev Tu-16 of the Red Air Force. The cabin was configured for half a dozen military men, and the designer had not wasted time thinking of their comfort: the seats were made of pierced aluminum and there was no soundproofing. The journey took eight hours with one refueling stop. Because Moscow was six hours behind Yakutsk, Tanya arrived in time for another breakfast.

It was summer in Moscow, and she carried her heavy coat and fur hat. She took a taxi to Government House, the apartment building for Moscow’s privileged elite. She shared a flat with her mother, Anya, and her twin brother, Dmitri, always called Dimka. It was a big place, with three bedrooms, though Mother said it was spacious only by Soviet standards: the Berlin apartment she had lived in as a child, when Grandfather Grigori had been a diplomat, had been much more grand.

This morning the place was silent and empty: Mother and Dimka had both left for work already. Their coats were hanging in the hall, on nails knocked in by Tanya’s father a quarter of a century ago: Dimka’s black raincoat and Mother’s brown tweed, left at home in the warm weather. Tanya hung up her own coat beside them and put her suitcase in her bedroom. She had not expected them to be in, but all the same she felt a twinge of regret that Mother was not here to make her tea, nor Dimka to listen to her adventures in Siberia. She thought of going to see her grandparents Grigori and Katerina Peshkov, who lived on another floor in the same building, but decided she did not really have the time.

She showered and changed her clothes, then took a bus to the headquarters of TASS, the Soviet news agency. She was one of more than a thousand reporters working for the agency, but not many were flown around in air force jets. She was a rising star, able to produce lively and interesting articles that appealed to young people but nevertheless adhered to the party line. It was a mixed blessing: she was often given difficult high-profile assignments.

In the canteen she had a bowl of buckwheat kasha with sour cream, then she went to the features department, where she worked. Although she was a star, she did not yet merit an office of her own. She greeted her colleagues, then sat at a desk, put paper and carbons into a typewriter, and began to write.

The flight had been too bumpy even to make notes, but she had planned her articles in her head, and now she was able to write fluently, referring occasionally to her notebook for details. Her brief was to encourage young Soviet families to migrate to Siberia to work in the boom industries of mining and drilling: not an easy task. The prison camps provided plenty of unskilled labor, but the region needed geologists, engineers, surveyors, architects, chemists, and managers. However, Tanya in her article ignored the men and wrote about their wives. She began with an attractive young mother called Klara who had talked with enthusiasm and humor about coping with life at sub-zero temperatures.

Halfway through the morning Tanya’s editor, Daniil Antonov, picked up the sheets of paper from her tray and began to read. He was a small man with a gentle manner that was unusual in the world of journalism. “This is great,” he said after a while. “When can I have the rest?”

“I’m typing as fast as I can.”

He lingered. “While you were in Siberia, did you hear anything about Ustin Bodian?” Bodian was an opera singer who had been caught smuggling in two copies of Doctor Zhivago he had obtained while singing in Italy. He was now in a labor camp.

Tanya’s heart raced guiltily. Did Daniil suspect her? He was unusually intuitive for a man. “No,” she lied. “Why do you ask? Have you heard something?”

“Nothing.” Daniil returned to his desk.

Tanya had almost finished the third article when Pyotr Opotkin stopped beside her desk and began to read her copy with a cigarette dangling from his lips. A stout man with bad skin, Opotkin was editor in chief for features. Unlike Daniil he was not a trained journalist but a commissar, a political appointee. His job was to make sure features did not violate Kremlin guidelines, and his only qualification for the job was rigid orthodoxy.

He read Tanya’s first few pages and said: “I told you not to write about the weather.” He came from a village north of Moscow and still had the north-Russian accent.

Tanya sighed. “Pyotr, the series is about Siberia. People already know it’s cold there. Nobody would be fooled.”

“But this is all about the weather.”

“It’s about how a resourceful young woman from Moscow is raising her family in challenging conditions—and having a great adventure.”

Daniil joined the conversation. “She’s right, Pyotr,” he said. “If we avoid all mention of the cold, people will know the article is shit, and they won’t believe a word of it.”

“I don’t like it,” Opotkin said stubbornly.

“You have to admit,” Daniil persisted, “Tanya makes it sound exciting.”

Opotkin looked thoughtful. “Maybe you’re right,” he said, and dropped the copy back into the tray. “I’m having a party at my house on Saturday night,” he said to Tanya. “My daughter graduated college. I was wondering if you and your brother would like to come?”

Opotkin was an unsuccessful social climber who gave agonizingly boring parties. Tanya knew she could speak for her brother. “I’d love to, and I’m sure Dimka would too, but it’s our mother’s birthday. I’m so sorry.”

Opotkin looked offended. “Too bad,” he said, and walked on.

When he was out of earshot Daniil said: “It’s not your mother’s birthday, is it?”

“No.”

“He’ll check.”

“Then he’ll realize I made a polite excuse because I didn’t want to go.”

“You should go to his parties.”

Tanya did not want to have this argument. There were more important things on her mind. She needed to write her articles, get out of there, and save the life of Ustin Bodian. But Daniil was a good boss and liberal minded, so she suppressed her impatience. “Pyotr doesn’t care whether I attend his party or not,” she said. “He wants my brother, who works for Khrushchev.” Tanya was used to people trying to befriend her because of her influential family. Her late father had been a colonel in the KGB, the secret police; and her uncle Volodya was a general in Red Army Intelligence.

Daniil had a journalist’s persistence. “Pyotr gave in to us over the Siberia articles. You should show that you’re grateful.”

“I hate his parties. His friends get drunk and paw each other’s wives.”

“I don’t want him to bear a grudge against you.”

“Why would he do that?”

“You’re very attractive.” Daniil was not coming on to Tanya. He lived with a male friend and she was sure he was one of those men not drawn to women. He spoke in a matter-of-fact tone. “Beautiful, and talented, and—worst of all—young. Pyotr won’t find it difficult to hate you. Try a little harder with him.” Daniil drifted away.

Tanya realized he was probably right, but she decided to think about it later, and returned her attention to her typewriter.

At midday she got a plate of potato salad with pickled herrings from the canteen and ate at her desk.

She finished her third article soon afterward. She handed the sheets of paper to Daniil. “I’m going home to bed,” she said. “Please don’t call.”

“Good work,” he said. “Sleep well.”

She put her notebook in her shoulder bag and left the building.

Now she had to make sure she was not being followed. She was tired, and that meant she was likely to make foolish mistakes. She felt worried.

She went past the bus stop, walked several blocks to the previous stop on the route, and caught the bus there. It made no sense, which meant that anyone who did the same had to be following her.

No one was.

She got off near a grand pre-revolutionary palace now converted to apartments. She walked around the block, but no one appeared to be watching the building. Anxiously she went around again to make sure. Then she entered the gloomy hall and climbed the cracked marble staircase to the apartment of Vasili Yenkov.

Just as she was about to put her key in the lock the door opened, and a slim blond girl of about eighteen stood there. Vasili was behind her. Tanya cursed inwardly. It was too late for her to run away or pretend she was going to a different apartment.

The blonde gave Tanya a hard, appraising stare, taking in her hairstyle, her figure, and her clothes. Then she kissed Vasili on the mouth, threw a triumphant look at Tanya, and went down the staircase.

Vasili was thirty but he liked girls young. They yielded to him because he was tall and dashing, with carved good looks and thick dark hair always a little too long and soft brown bedroom eyes. Tanya admired him for a completely different set of reasons: because he was bright, brave, and a world-class writer.

She walked into his study and dropped her bag on a chair. Vasili worked as a radio script editor and was a naturally untidy man. Papers covered his desk, and books were stacked on the floor. He seemed to be working on a radio adaptation of Maxim Gorky’s first play, The Philistines. His gray cat, Mademoiselle, was sleeping on the couch. Tanya pushed her off and sat down. “Who was that little tart?” she said.

“That was my mother.”

Tanya laughed despite her annoyance.

“I’m sorry she was here,” Vasili said, though he did not look very sad about it.

“You knew I was coming today.”

“I thought you’d be later.”

“She saw my face. No one is supposed to know there is a connection between you and me.”

“She works at the GUM department store. Her name is Varvara. She won’t suspect anything.”

“Please, Vasili, don’t let it happen again. What we’re doing is dangerous enough. We shouldn’t take additional risks. You can screw a teenager any day.”

“You’re right, and it won’t happen again. Let me make you some tea. You look tired.” Vasili busied himself at the samovar.

“I am tired. But Ustin Bodian is dying.”

“Hell. What of?”

“Pneumonia.”

Tanya did not know Bodian personally, but she had interviewed him, before he got into trouble. As well as being extraordinarily talented, he was a warm and kindhearted man. A Soviet artist admired all over the world, he had lived a life of great privilege, but he was still able to get publicly angry about injustice done to people less fortunate than himself—which was why they had sent him to Siberia.

Vasili said: “Are they still making him work?”

Tanya shook her head. “He can’t. But they won’t send him to hospital. He just lies on his bunk all day, getting worse.”

“Did you see him?”

“Hell, no. Asking about him was dangerous enough. If I’d gone to the prison camp they would have kept me there.”

Vasili handed her tea and sugar. “Is he getting any medical treatment at all?”

“No.”

“Did you get any idea of how long he might have to live?”

Tanya shook her head. “You now know everything I know.”

“We have to spread this news.”

Tanya agreed. “The only way to save his life is to publicize his illness and hope that the government will have the grace to be embarrassed.”

“Shall we put out a special edition?”

“Yes,” said Tanya. “Today.”

Vasili and Tanya together produced an illegal news sheet called Dissidence. They reported on censorship, demonstrations, trials, and political prisoners. In his office at Radio Moscow, Vasili had his own stencil duplicator, normally used for making multiple copies of scripts. Secretly he printed fifty copies of each issue of Dissidence. Most of the people who received one made more copies on their own typewriters, or even by hand, and circulation mushroomed. This self-publishing system was called samizdat in Russian and was widespread: whole novels had been distributed the same way.

“I’ll write it.” Tanya went to the cupboard and pulled out a large cardboard box full of dry cat food. Pushing her hands into the pellets, she drew out a typewriter in a cover. This was the one they used for Dissidence.

Typing was as unique as handwriting. Every machine had its own characteristics. The letters were never perfectly aligned: some were a little raised, some off center. Individual letters became worn or damaged in distinctive ways. In consequence, police experts could match a typewriter to its product. If Dissidence had been typed on the same machine as Vasili’s scripts, someone might have noticed. So Vasili had stolen an old machine from the scheduling department, brought it home, and buried it in the cat’s food to hide it from casual observation. A determined search would find it, but if there should be a determined search Vasili would be finished anyway.

Also in the box were sheets of the special waxed paper used in the duplicating machine. The typewriter had no ribbon: instead, its letters pierced the paper, and the duplicator worked by forcing ink through the letter-shaped holes.

Tanya wrote a report on Bodian, saying that General Secretary Nikita Khrushchev would be personally responsible if one of the USSR’s greatest tenors died in a prison camp. She recapitulated the main points of Bodian’s trial for anti-Soviet activity, including his impassioned defense of artistic freedom. To divert suspicion away from herself, she misleadingly credited the information about Bodian’s illness to an imaginary opera lover in the KGB.

When she had done, she handed two sheets of stencil paper to Vasili. “I’ve made it concise,” she said.

“Concision is the sister of talent. Chekov said that.” He read the report slowly, then nodded approval. “I’ll go in to Radio Moscow now and make copies,” he said. “Then we should take them to Mayakovsky Square.”

Tanya was not surprised, but she was uneasy. “Is it safe?”

“Of course not. It’s a cultural event that isn’t organized by the government. Which is why it suits our purpose.”

Earlier in the year, young Muscovites had started to gather informally around the statue of Bolshevik poet Vladimir Mayakovsky. Some would read poems aloud, attracting more people. A permanent rolling poetry festival had come into being, and some of the works declaimed from the monument were obliquely critical of the government.

Such a phenomenon would have lasted ten minutes under Stalin, but Khrushchev was a reformer. His program included a limited degree of cultural tolerance, and so far no action had been taken against the poetry readings. But liberalization proceeded by two steps forward and one back. Tanya’s brother said it depended on whether Khrushchev was doing well, and felt strong politically, or was suffering setbacks, and feared a coup by his conservative enemies within the Kremlin. Whatever the reason, there was no predicting what the authorities would do.

Tanya was too tired to think about this, and she guessed that any alternative location would be as dangerous. “While you’re at the radio station, I’m going to sleep.”

She went into the bedroom. The sheets were rumpled: she guessed Vasili and Varvara had spent the morning in bed. She pulled the coverlet over the top, removed her boots, and stretched out.

Her body was tired but her mind was busy. She was afraid, but she still wanted to go to Mayakovsky Square. Dissidence was an important publication, despite its amateurish production and small circulation. It proved the Communist government was not all-powerful. It showed dissidents they were not alone. Religious leaders struggling against persecution read about folksingers arrested for protest songs, and vice versa. Instead of feeling like a single voice in a monolithic society, the dissident realized that he or she was part of a great network, thousands of people who wanted a government that was different and better.

And it could save the life of Ustin Bodian.

At last Tanya fell asleep.

She was awakened by someone stroking her cheek. She opened her eyes to see Vasili stretched out beside her. “Get lost,” she said.

“It’s my bed.”

She sat upright. “I’m twenty-two—far too old to interest you.”

“For you, I’ll make an exception.”

“When I want to join a harem, I’ll let you know.”

“I’d give up all the others for you.”

“No, you wouldn’t.”

“I would, really.”

“For five minutes, maybe.”

“Forever.”

“Do it for six months, and I’ll reconsider.”

“Six months?”

“See? If you can’t be chaste for half a year, how can you promise forever? What the hell time is it?”

“You slept all afternoon. Don’t get up. I’ll just take off my clothes and slip into bed with you.”

Tanya stood up. “We have to leave now.”

Vasili gave up. He probably had not been serious. He felt compelled to proposition young women. Having gone through the motions he would now forget about it, for a while at least. He handed her a small bundle of about twenty-five sheets of paper, printed on both sides with slightly blurred letters: copies of the new issue of Dissidence. He wound a red cotton scarf around his neck, despite the fine weather. It made him look artistic. “Let’s go, then,” he said.

Tanya made him wait while she went to the bathroom. The face in the mirror looked at her with an intense blue-eyed stare framed by pale-blond hair in a short gamine crop. She put on sunglasses to hide her eyes and tied a nondescript brown scarf around her hair. Now she could have been any youngish woman.

She went into the kitchen, ignoring Vasili’s impatient foot-tapping, and drew a glass of water from the tap. She drank it all, then said: “I’m ready.”

They walked to the Metro station. The train was crowded with workers heading home. They went to Mayakovsky Station on the Garden Ring orbital road. They would not linger here: as soon as they had given out all fifty copies of their news sheet they would leave. “If there should be any trouble,” Vasili said, “just remember, we don’t know each other.” They separated and emerged aboveground a minute apart. The sun was low and the summer day was cooling.

Vladimir Mayakovsky had been a poet of international stature as well as a Bolshevik, and the Soviet Union was proud of him. His heroic statue stood twenty feet high in the middle of the square named after him. Several hundred people milled about on the grass, mostly young, some dressed in vaguely Western fashions, blue jeans and roll-neck sweaters. A boy in a cap was selling his own novel, carbon-copy pages hole-punched and tied with string. It was called Growing Up Backward. A long-haired girl carried a guitar but made no attempt to play it: perhaps it was an accessory, like a handbag. There was only one uniformed cop, but the secret policemen were comically obvious, wearing leather jackets in the mild air to conceal their guns. Tanya avoided their eyes, though: they were not that funny.

People were taking turns to stand up and speak one or two poems each. Most were men but there was a sprinkling of women. A boy with an impish grin read a piece about a clumsy farmer trying to herd a flock of geese, which the crowd quickly realized was a metaphor for the Communist Party organizing the nation. Soon everyone was roaring with laughter except the KGB men, who just looked puzzled.

Tanya drifted inconspicuously through the crowd, half-listening to a poem of adolescent angst in Mayakovsky’s futurist style, drawing the sheets of paper one at a time from her pocket and discreetly slipping them to anyone who looked friendly. She kept an eye on Vasili as he did the same. Right away she heard exclamations of shock and concern as people started to talk about Bodian: in a crowd such as this, most people would know who he was and why he had been imprisoned. She gave the sheets away as fast as she could, eager to get rid of them all before the police got wind of what was going on.

A man with short hair who looked ex-army stood at the front and, instead of reciting a poem, began to read aloud Tanya’s article about Bodian. Tanya was pleased: the news was getting around even faster than she had hoped. There were shouts of indignation as he got to the part about Bodian not getting medical attention. But the men in the leather jackets noticed the change in atmosphere and looked more alert. She spotted one speaking urgently into a walkie-talkie.

She had five sheets left and they were burning a hole in her pocket.

The secret police had been on the edges of the crowd, but now they moved in, converging on the speaker. He waved his copy of Dissidence defiantly, shouting about Bodian as the cops came closer. Some in the audience crowded the plinth, making it difficult for the police to get near. In response the KGB men got rough, shoving people out of the way. This was how riots started. Tanya nervously backed away toward the fringe of the crowd. She had one more copy of Dissidence. She dropped it on the ground.

Suddenly half a dozen uniformed police arrived. Wondering fearfully where they had come from, Tanya looked across the road to the nearest building and saw more running out through its door: they must have been concealed within, waiting in case they were needed. They drew their nightsticks and pushed through the crowd, hitting people indiscriminately. Tanya saw Vasili turn and walk away, moving through the throng as fast as he could, and she did the same. Then a panicking teenager cannoned into her, and she fell to the ground.

She was dazed for a moment. When her vision cleared she saw more people running. She got to her knees, but she felt dizzy. Someone tripped over her, knocking her flat again. Then suddenly Vasili was there, grabbing her with both hands, lifting her to her feet. She had a moment of surprise: she would not have expected him to risk his own safety to help her.

Then a cop hit Vasili over the head with a truncheon and he fell. The cop knelt down, pulled Vasili’s arms behind his back and handcuffed him with swift, practised movements. Vasili looked up, caught Tanya’s eye, and mouthed: “Run!”

She turned and ran but, an instant later, she collided with a uniformed policeman. He grabbed her by the arm. She tried to pull away, screaming: “Let me go!”

He tightened his grip and said: “You’re under arrest, bitch.”

CHAPTER SIX

The Nina Onilova Room in the Kremlin was named after a female machine-gunner killed at the Battle of Sevastopol. On the wall was a framed black-and-white photo of a Red Army general placing the Order of the Red Banner medal on her tombstone. The picture hung over a white marble fireplace that was stained like a smoker’s fingers. All around the room, elaborate plaster moldings framed squares of light paintwork where other pictures had once hung, suggesting that the walls had not been painted since the revolution. Perhaps the room had once been an elegant salon. Now it was furnished with canteen tables pushed together to form a long rectangle and twenty or so cheap chairs. On the tables were ceramic ashtrays that looked as if they were emptied daily but never wiped.

Dimka Dvorkin walked in with his mind in a whirl and his stomach in knots.

The room was the regular meeting place of aides to the ministers and secretaries who formed the Presidium of the Supreme Soviet, the governing body of the USSR.

Dimka was an aide to Nikita Khrushchev, first secretary and chairman of the Presidium, but all the same he felt he should not be here.

The Vienna Summit was a few weeks away. It would be the dramatic first encounter between Khrushchev and the new American president, John Kennedy. Tomorrow, at the most important Presidium of the year, the leaders of the USSR would decide strategy for the summit. Today, the aides were gathering to prepare for the Presidium. It was a planning meeting for a planning meeting.

Khrushchev’s representative had to present the leader’s thinking so that the other aides could prepare their bosses for tomorrow. His unspoken task was to uncover any latent opposition to Khrushchev’s ideas and, if possible, quash it. It was his solemn duty to ensure that tomorrow’s discussion went smoothly for the leader.

Dimka was familiar with Khrushchev’s thinking about the summit, but all the same he felt he could not possibly cope with this meeting. He was the youngest and most inexperienced of Khrushchev’s aides. He was only a year out of university. He had never been to the pre-Presidium meeting before: he was too junior. But ten minutes ago his secretary had informed him that one of the senior aides had called in sick and the other two had just been in a car crash, so he, Dimka, had to stand in.

Dimka had got a job working for Khrushchev for two reasons. One was that he had come top of every class he had ever attended, from nursery school through university. The other was that his uncle was a general. He did not know which factor was the more important.

The Kremlin presented a monolithic appearance to the outside world but, in truth, it was a battlefield. Khrushchev’s hold on power was not strong. He was a Communist heart and soul, but he was also a reformer who saw failings in the Soviet system and wanted to implement new ideas. But the old Stalinists in the Kremlin were not yet defeated. They were alert for any opportunity to weaken Khrushchev and roll back his reforms.

The meeting was informal, the aides drinking tea and smoking with their jackets off and their ties undone—most were men, though not all. Dimka spotted a friendly face: Natalya Smotrov, aide to Foreign Minister Andrei Gromyko. She was in her midtwenties, and attractive despite a drab black dress. Dimka did not know her well but he had spoken to her a few times. Now he sat down next to her. She looked surprised to see him. “Konstantinov and Pajari have been in a car crash,” he explained.

“Are they hurt?”

“Not badly.”

“What about Alkaev?”

“Off sick with shingles.”

“Nasty. So you’re the leader’s representative.”

“I’m terrified.”

“You’ll be fine.”

He looked around. They all seemed to be waiting for something. In a low voice he said to Natalya: “Who chairs this meeting?”

One of the others heard him. It was Yevgeny Filipov, who worked for conservative defense minister Rodion Malinovsky. Filipov was in his thirties but dressed older, in a baggy postwar suit and a gray flannel shirt. He repeated Dimka’s question loudly, in a scornful tone. “Who chairs this meeting? You do, of course. You’re aide to the chairman of the Presidium, aren’t you? Get on with it, college boy.”

Dimka felt himself redden. For a moment he was lost for words. Then inspiration struck, and he said: “Thanks to Major Yuri Gagarin’s remarkable space flight, Comrade Khrushchev will go to Vienna with the congratulations of the world ringing in his ears.” Last month Gagarin had been the first human being to travel into outer space in a rocket, beating the Americans by just a few weeks, in a stunning scientific and propaganda coup for the Soviet Union and for Nikita Khrushchev.

The aides around the table clapped, and Dimka began to feel better.

Then Filipov spoke again. “The first secretary might do better to have ringing in his ears the inaugural speech of President Kennedy,” he said. He seemed incapable of speaking without a sneer. “In case comrades around the table have forgotten, Kennedy accused us of planning world domination, and he vowed to pay any price to stop us. After all the friendly moves we have made—unwisely, in the opinion of some experienced comrades—Kennedy could hardly have made clearer his aggressive intentions.” He raised his arm with a finger in the air, like a schoolteacher. “Only one response is possible from us: increased military strength.”

Dimka was still thinking up a rejoinder when Natalya beat him to it. “That’s a race we can’t win,” she said with a brisk commonsense air. “The United States is richer than the Soviet Union, and they can easily match any increase in our military forces.”

She was more sensible than her conservative boss, Dimka inferred. He shot her a grateful look and followed up. “Hence Khrushchev’s policy of peaceful coexistence, which enables us to spend less on the army, and instead invest in agriculture and industry.” Kremlin conservatives hated peaceful coexistence. For them, the conflict with capitalist imperialism was a war to the death.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dimka saw his secretary, Vera, enter the room, a bright, nervy woman of forty. He waved her away.

Filipov was not so easily disposed of. “Let’s not permit a naïve view of world politics to encourage us to reduce our army too fast,” he said scornfully. “We can hardly claim to be winning on the international stage. Look at how the Chinese defy us. That weakens us at Vienna.”

Why was Filipov trying so hard to prove that Dimka was a fool? Dimka suddenly recalled that Filipov had wanted a job in Khrushchev’s office—the job that Dimka had got.

“As the Bay of Pigs weakened Kennedy,” Dimka replied. The American president had authorized a crackpot CIA plan for an invasion of Cuba at a place called the Bay of Pigs: the scheme had gone wrong and Kennedy had been humiliated. “I think our leader’s position is stronger.”

“All the same, Khrushchev has failed—” Filipov stopped, realizing he was going too far. These pre-meeting discussions were frank, but there were limits.

Dimka seized on the moment of weakness. “What has Khrushchev failed to do, comrade?” he said. “Please enlighten us all.”

Filipov amended quickly. “We have failed to achieve our main foreign policy objective: a permanent resolution of the Berlin situation. East Germany is our frontier post in Europe. Its borders secure the borders of Poland and Czechoslovakia. Its unresolved status is intolerable.”

“All right,” Dimka said, and he was surprised to hear a note of confidence in his own voice. “I think that’s enough discussion of general principles. Before I close the meeting I will explain the trend of the first secretary’s current thinking on the problem.”

Filipov opened his mouth to protest against this abrupt termination, but Dimka cut him off. “Comrades will speak when invited by the chair,” he said, deliberately making his voice a harsh grind; and they all went quiet.

“In Vienna, Khrushchev will tell Kennedy we can wait no longer. We have made reasonable proposals for regulating the situation in Berlin, and all we hear from the Americans is that they want no changes.” Around the table, several men nodded. “If they will not agree to a plan, Khrushchev will say, then we will take unilateral action; and if the Americans try to stop us, we will meet force with force.”

There was a long moment of silence. Dimka took advantage of it by standing up. “Thank you for your attendance,” he said.

Natalya said what everyone was thinking. “Does that mean we are willing to go to war with the Americans over Berlin?”

“The first secretary does not believe there will be a war,” said Dimka, giving them the evasive answer that Khrushchev had given him. “Kennedy is not mad.”

He caught a look of mingled surprise and admiration from Natalya as he walked away from the table. He could not believe he had been so tough. He had never been a pussycat, but this was a powerful and smart group of men, and he had bullied them. His position helped: new though he was, his desk in the first secretary’s suite of offices gave him power. And, paradoxically, Filipov’s hostility had helped. They could all sympathize with the need to come down hard on someone who was trying to undermine the leader.

Vera was hovering in the anteroom. She was an experienced political assistant who would not panic unnecessarily. Dimka had a flash of intuition. “It’s my sister, isn’t it?” he said.

Vera was spooked. Her eyes widened. “How do you do that?” she said in awe.

It was not supernatural. He had feared for some time that Tanya was heading for trouble. He said: “What has she done?”

“She’s been arrested.”

“Oh, hell.”

Vera pointed to a phone off the hook on a side table and Dimka picked it up. His mother, Anya, was on the line. “Tanya’s in the Lubyanka!” she said, using the shorthand name for KGB headquarters in Lubyanka Square. She was close to hysteria.

Dimka was not taken totally by surprise. His twin sister and he agreed that there was a lot wrong with the Soviet Union, but whereas he believed reform was needed, she thought Communism should be abolished. It was an intellectual disagreement that made no difference to their affection for one another. Each was the other’s best friend. It had always been that way.

You could be arrested for thinking as Tanya did—which was one of the things that was wrong. “Be calm, Mother, I can get her out of there,” Dimka said. He hoped he would be able to justify that assurance. “Do you know what happened?”

“There was a riot at some poetry meeting!”

“I bet she went to Mayakovsky Square. If that’s all . . .” He did not know everything his sister got up to, but he suspected her of worse than poetry.

“You have to do something, Dimka! Before they . . .”

“I know.” Before they start to interrogate her, Mother meant. A chill of fear passed over him like a shadow. The prospect of interrogation in the notorious basement cells of KGB headquarters terrified every Soviet citizen.

His first instinct had been to say he would get on the phone, but now he decided that would not be enough. He had to show up in person. He hesitated momentarily: it could harm his career, if people knew he had gone to the Lubyanka to spring his sister. But that thought barely gave him pause. She came before himself and Khrushchev and the entire Soviet Union. “I’m on my way, Mother,” he said. “Call Uncle Volodya and tell him what’s happened.”

“Oh, yes, good idea! My brother will know what to do.”

Dimka hung up. “Phone the Lubyanka,” he said to Vera. “Tell them very clearly that you’re calling from the office of the first secretary, who is concerned about the arrest of leading journalist Tanya Dvorkin. Tell them that Comrade Khrushchev’s aide is on his way to question them about it, and they should do nothing until he arrives.”

She was making notes. “Shall I order up a car?”

Lubyanka Square was less than a mile from the Kremlin compound. “I have my motorcycle downstairs. That will be quicker.” Dimka was privileged to own a Voskhod 175 bike with a five-speed gearbox and twin tailpipes.

He had known Tanya was heading for trouble because, paradoxically, she had ceased to tell him everything, he reflected as he rode. Normally they had no secrets from one another. Dimka had an intimacy with his twin that they shared with no one else. When Mother was away, and they were alone, Tanya would walk through the flat naked, to fetch clean underwear from the airing cupboard, and Dimka would pee without bothering to close the bathroom door. Occasionally Dimka’s male friends would sniggeringly suggest that their closeness was erotic, but in fact it was the opposite. They could be so intimate only because there was no sexual spark.

But for the past year he had known she was hiding something from him. He did not know what it was, but he could guess. Not a boyfriend, he felt sure: they told each other everything about their romantic lives, comparing notes, sympathizing. Almost certainly it was political, he thought. The only reason she might keep something from him would be to protect him.

He drew up outside the dreaded building, a yellow brick palace erected before the revolution as the headquarters of an insurance company. The thought of his sister imprisoned in this place made him feel ill. For a moment he was afraid he was going to puke.

He parked right in front of the main entrance, took a moment to recover his self-possession, and walked inside.

Tanya’s editor, Daniil Antonov, was already there, arguing with a KGB man in the lobby. Daniil was a small man, slightly built, and Dimka thought of him as harmless, but he was being assertive. “I want to see Tanya Dvorkin, and I want to see her right now,” he said.

The KGB man wore an expression of mulish obstinacy. “That may not be possible.”

Dimka butted in. “I’m from the office of the first secretary,” he said.

The KGB man refused to be impressed. “And what do you do there, son—make the tea?” he said rudely. “What’s your name?” It was an intimidating question: people were terrified to give their names to the KGB.

“Dmitri Dvorkin, and I’m here to tell you that Comrade Khrushchev is personally interested in this case.”

“Fuck off, Dvorkin,” said the man. “Comrade Khrushchev knows nothing about this case. You’re here to get your sister out of trouble.”

Dimka was taken aback by the man’s confident rudeness. He guessed that many people trying to spring family or friends from KGB arrest would claim personal connections with powerful people. But he renewed his attack. “What’s your name?”

“Captain Mets.”

“And what are you accusing Tanya Dvorkin of?”

“Assaulting an officer.”

“Did a girl beat up one of your goons in leather jackets?” Dimka said jeeringly. “She must have taken his gun from him first. Come off it, Mets, don’t be a prick.”

“She was attending a seditious meeting. Anti-Soviet literature was circulated.” Mets handed Dimka a crumpled sheet of paper. “The meeting became a riot.”

Dimka looked at the paper. It was headed Dissidence. He had heard of this subversive news sheet. Tanya might easily have something to do with it. This edition was about Ustin Bodian, the opera singer. Dimka was momentarily distracted by the shocking allegation that Bodian was dying of pneumonia in a Siberian labor camp. Then he recalled that Tanya had returned from Siberia today, and realized she must have written this. She could be in real trouble. “Are you alleging that Tanya had this paper in her possession?” he demanded. He saw Mets hesitate and said: “I thought not.”

“She should not have been there at all.”

Daniil put in: “She’s a reporter, you fool. She was observing the event, just as your officers were.”

“She’s not an officer.”

“All TASS reporters cooperate with the KGB, you know that.”

“You can’t prove she was there officially.”

“Yes, I can. I’m her editor. I sent her.”

Dimka wondered whether that was true. He doubted it. He felt grateful to Daniil for sticking his neck out in defense of Tanya.

Mets was losing confidence. “She was with a man called Vasili Yenkov, who had five copies of that sheet in his pocket.”

“She doesn’t know anyone called Vasili Yenkov,” said Dimka. It might have been true: certainly he had never heard the name. “If it was a riot, how could you tell who was with whom?”

“I’ll have to talk to my superiors,” said Mets, and he turned away.

Dimka made his voice harsh. “Don’t be long,” he barked. “The next person you see from the Kremlin may not be the boy who makes the tea.”

Mets went down a staircase. Dimka shuddered: everyone knew the basement contained the interrogation rooms.

A moment later Dimka and Daniil were joined in the lobby by an older man with a cigarette dangling from his mouth. He had an ugly, fleshy face with an aggressively jutting chin. Daniil did not seem pleased to see him. He introduced him as Pyotr Opotkin, features editor in chief.

Opotkin looked at Dimka with eyes screwed up to keep out the smoke. “So, your sister got herself arrested at a protest meeting,” he said. His tone was angry, but Dimka sensed that underneath it Opotkin was for some reason pleased.

“A poetry reading,” Dimka corrected him.

“Not much difference.”

Daniil put in: “I sent her there.”

“On the day she got back from Siberia?” said Opotkin skeptically.

“It wasn’t really an assignment. I suggested she drop by sometime to see what was going on, that’s all.”

“Don’t lie to me,” said Opotkin. “You’re just trying to protect her.”

Daniil raised his chin and gave a challenging look. “Isn’t that what you’re here to do?”

Before Opotkin could reply, Captain Mets returned. “The case is still under consideration,” he said.

Opotkin introduced himself and showed Mets his identity card. “The question is not whether Tanya Dvorkin should be punished, but how,” he said.

“Exactly, sir,” said Mets deferentially. “Would you like to come with me?”

Opotkin nodded and Mets led him down the stairs.

Dimka said in a quiet voice: “He won’t let them torture her, will he?”

“Opotkin was mad at Tanya already,” Daniil said worriedly.

“What for? I thought she was a good journalist.”

“She’s brilliant. But she turned down an invitation to a party at his house on Saturday. He wanted you to go, too. Pyotr loves important people. A snub really hurts him.”

“Oh, shit.”

“I told her she should have accepted.”

“Did you really send her to Mayakovsky Square?”

“No. We could never do a story about such an unofficial gathering.”

“Thanks for trying to protect her.”

“My privilege—but I don’t think it’s working.”

“What do you think will happen?”

“She might be fired. More likely, she’ll be posted somewhere disagreeable, such as Kazakhstan.” Daniil frowned. “I must think of some compromise that will satisfy Opotkin but not be too hard on Tanya.”

Dimka glanced at the entrance door and saw a man in his forties with a brutally short military haircut, wearing the uniform of a Red Army general. “At last, Uncle Volodya,” he said.

Volodya Peshkov had the same intense blue-eyed stare as Tanya. “What is this shit?” he said angrily.

Dimka filled him in. As he was finishing, Opotkin reappeared. He spoke obsequiously to Volodya. “General, I have discussed this problem of your niece with our friends in the KGB and they are content for me to deal with it as an internal TASS matter.”

Dimka slumped with relief. Then he wondered whether Opotkin’s entire approach had been to maneuver himself into a position where he could appear to do a favor for Volodya.

“Allow me to make a suggestion,” said Volodya. “You might mark the incident as serious, without attaching blame to anyone, simply by transferring Tanya to another post.”

That was the punishment Daniil had mentioned a moment ago.

Opotkin nodded thoughtfully, as if considering this idea; though Dimka was sure he would eagerly comply with any “suggestion” from General Peshkov.

Daniil said: “Perhaps a foreign posting. She speaks German and English.”

This was an exaggeration, Dimka knew. Tanya had studied both languages in school, but that was not the same as speaking them. Daniil was trying to save her from banishment to some remote Soviet region.

Daniil added: “And she could still write features for my department. I’d rather not lose her to news—she’s too good.”

Opotkin looked dubious. “We can’t send her to London or Bonn. That would seem like a reward.”

It was true. Assignments in the capitalist countries were prized. The living allowances were colossal and, even though they did not buy as much as in the USSR, Soviet citizens still lived much better in the West than at home.

Volodya said: “East Berlin, perhaps, or Warsaw.”

Opotkin nodded. A move to another Communist country was more like a punishment.

Volodya said: “I’m glad we’ve been able to resolve this.”

Opotkin said to Dimka: “I’m having a party on Saturday evening. Perhaps you would like to come?”

Dimka guessed this would seal the deal. He nodded. “Tanya told me about it,” he said with false enthusiasm. “We’ll both be there. Thank you.”

Opotkin beamed.

Daniil said: “I happen to know of a post in a Communist country that’s vacant right now. We need someone there urgently. She could go tomorrow.”

“Where’s that?” said Dimka.

“Cuba.”

Opotkin, now in a sunny frame of mind, said: “That might be acceptable.”

It was certainly better than Kazakhstan, Dimka thought.

Mets reappeared in the lobby with Tanya beside him. Dimka’s heart lurched: she looked pale and scared, but unharmed. Mets spoke with a mixture of deference and defiance, like a dog that barks because it is frightened. “Allow me to suggest that young Tanya stays away from poetry readings in future,” he said.

Uncle Volodya looked as if he could strangle the fool, but he put on a smile. “Very sound advice, I’m sure.”

They all went out. Darkness had fallen. Dimka said to Tanya: “I’ve got my bike—I’ll take you home.”

“Yes, please,” she said. She obviously wanted to talk to Dimka.

Uncle Volodya could not read her mind as Dimka could, and he said: “Let me take you in my car—you look too shaken for a motorcycle ride.”

To Volodya’s surprise, Tanya said: “Thank you, Uncle, but I’ll go with Dimka.”

Volodya shrugged and got into a waiting ZIL limousine. Daniil and Opotkin said good-bye.

As soon as they were all out of earshot, Tanya turned to Dimka with a frantic look. “Did they say anything about Vasili Yenkov?”

“Yes. They said you were with him. Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, shit. But he’s not your boyfriend, is he?”

“No. Do you know what happened to him?”

“He had five copies of Dissidence in his pocket, so he’s not getting out of the Lubyanka soon, even if he has friends in high places.”

“Hell! Do you think they will investigate him?”

“I’m sure of it. They’ll want to know whether he merely hands out Dissidence, or actually produces it, which would be much more serious.”

“Will they search his flat?”

“They would be remiss if they didn’t. Why—what will they find there?”

She looked around, but no one was near. All the same she lowered her voice. “The typewriter on which Dissidence is written.”

“Then I’m glad that Vasili isn’t your boyfriend, because he’s going to spend the next twenty-five years in Siberia.”

“Don’t say that!”

Dimka frowned. “You’re not in love with him, I can tell . . . but you’re not wholly indifferent to him, either.”

“Look, he’s a brave man, and a wonderful poet, but our relationship is not a romance. I’ve never even kissed him. He’s one of those men who has to have lots of different women.”

“Like my friend Valentin.” Dimka’s roommate at university, Valentin Lebedev, had been a real Lothario.

“Exactly like Valentin, yes.”

“So . . . how much do you care if they search Vasili’s apartment and find this typewriter?”

“A lot. We produced Dissidence together. I wrote today’s edition.”

“Shit. I was afraid of that.” Now Dimka knew the secret she had been keeping from him for the past year.

Tanya said: “We have to go to the apartment, now, and take that typewriter and get rid of it.”

Dimka took a step back from her. “Absolutely not. Forget it.”

“We must!”

“No. I’d risk anything for you, and I might risk a lot for someone you loved, but I’m not going to stick my neck out for this guy. We could all end up in fucking Siberia.”

“I’ll do it on my own, then.”

Dimka frowned, trying to evaluate the risks of different actions. “Who else knows about you and Vasili?”

“No one. We were careful. I made sure I wasn’t followed when I went to his place. We never met in public.”

“So the KGB investigation will not link you to him.”

She hesitated, and at that point he knew they were in deep trouble.

“What?” he said.

“It depends how thorough the KGB are.”

“Why?”

“This morning, when I went to Vasili’s flat, there was a girl there—Varvara.”

“Oh, fuck.”

“She was just going out. She doesn’t know my name.”

“But, if the KGB show her photographs of people arrested at Mayakovsky Square today, will she pick you out?”

Tanya looked distraught. “She gave me a real up-and-down look, assuming I might be a rival. Yes, she would know my face again.”

“Oh, God, then we have to get the typewriter. Without that, they’ll think Vasili is no more than a distributor of Dissidence, so they probably won’t track down his every casual girlfriend, especially as there seem to be a lot. You may get away with it. But if they find the typewriter, you’re finished.”

“I’ll do it alone. You’re right, I can’t put you in this much danger.”

“But I can’t leave you in this much danger,” he said. “What’s the address?”

She told him.

“Not too far,” he said. “Get on the bike.” He climbed on and kicked the engine into life.

Tanya hesitated, then got on behind him.

Dimka switched on the headlight and they pulled away.

As he drove, he wondered if the KGB might already be at Vasili’s place, searching the apartment. It was a possibility, he decided, but unlikely. Assuming they had arrested forty or fifty people, it would take them most of the night to do initial interviews, get names and addresses, and decide whom to prioritize. All the same, it would be wise to be cautious.

When he reached the address Tanya had given him he drove past it without slowing down. The streetlights showed a grand nineteenth-century house. All such buildings were now either converted to government offices or divided into apartments. There were no cars parked outside and no leather-coated KGB men lurking at the entrance. He drove all around the block without seeing anything suspicious. Then he parked a couple of hundred yards from the door.

They got off the bike. A woman walking a dog said: “Good evening,” and passed on. They went into the building.

Its lobby had once been an imposing hall. Now a lone electric bulb revealed a marble floor that was chipped and scratched, and a grand staircase with several balusters missing from the banister.

They went up the stairs. Tanya took out a key and opened the apartment door. They stepped inside and closed the door.

Tanya led the way into the living room. A gray cat observed them warily. Tanya took a large box from a cupboard. It was half full of cat food pellets. She rummaged inside and pulled out a typewriter in a cover. Then she withdrew some sheets of stencil paper.

She ripped up the sheets of paper, threw them in the fireplace, and put a match to them. Watching them burn, Dimka said angrily: “Why the hell do you risk everything for the sake of an empty protest?”

“We live in a brutal tyranny,” she said. “We have to do something to keep hope alive.”

“We live in a society that is developing Communism,” Dimka rejoined. “It’s difficult and we have problems. But you should help solve those problems instead of inflaming discontent.”

“How can you have solutions if no one is allowed to talk about the problems?”

“In the Kremlin we talk about the problems all the time.”

“And the same few narrow-minded men always decide not to make any major changes.”

“They’re not all narrow-minded. Some are working hard to change things. Give us time.”

“The revolution was forty years ago. How much time do you need before you finally admit that Communism is a failure?”

The sheets in the fireplace had quickly burned to black ashes. Dimka turned away in frustration. “We’ve had this argument so many times. We need to get out of here.” He picked up the typewriter.

Tanya scooped up the cat and they went out.

As they were leaving, a man with a briefcase came into the lobby. He nodded as he passed them on the stairs. Dimka hoped the light was too dim for him to have seen their faces properly.

Outside the door, Tanya put the cat down on the pavement. “You’re on your own, now, Mademoiselle,” she said.

The cat walked off disdainfully.

They hurried along the street to the corner, Dimka trying ineffectually to conceal the typewriter under his jacket. The moon had risen, to his dismay, and they were clearly visible. They reached the motorcycle.

Dimka handed her the typewriter. “How are we going to get rid of it?” he whispered.

“The river?”

He racked his brains, then recalled a spot on the riverbank where he and some fellow students had gone, a couple of times, to stay up all night drinking vodka. “I know somewhere.”

They got on the bike and Dimka drove out of the city center toward the south. The place he had in mind was on the outskirts of the city, but that was all to the good: they were less likely to be noticed.

He drove fast for twenty minutes and pulled up outside the Nikolo-Perervinsky Monastery.

The ancient institution, with its magnificent cathedral, was now a ruin, disused for decades and stripped of its treasures. It was located on a neck of land between the main southbound railway line and the Moskva River. The fields around it were being turned into building sites for new high-rise apartment buildings, but at night the neighborhood was deserted. There was no one in sight.

Dimka wheeled the bike off the road into a clump of trees and parked it on its stand. Then he led Tanya through the copse to the ruined monastery. The derelict buildings were eerily white in the moonlight. The onion domes of the cathedral were falling in, but the green tiled roofs of the monastery buildings were mostly intact. Dimka could not shake the feeling that the ghosts of generations of monks were watching him through the smashed windows.

He headed west across a swampy field to the river.

Tanya said: “How do you know about this place?”

“We came here when we were students. We used to get drunk and watch the sun rise over the water.”

They reached the edge of the river. This was a sluggish channel in a wide bend, and the water was placid in the moonlight. But Dimka knew it was deep enough for the purpose.

Tanya hesitated. “What a waste,” she said.

Dimka shrugged. “Typewriters are expensive.”

“It’s not just money. It’s a dissident voice, an alternative view of the world, a different way of thinking. A typewriter is freedom of speech.”

“Then you’re better off without it.”

She handed it to him.

He moved the roller rightward to its maximum extension, giving himself a handle by which to hold the machine. “Here goes,” he said. He swung his arm back, then with all his might he flung the typewriter out over the river. It did not go far, but it landed with a satisfying splash and immediately disappeared from sight.

They both stood and watched the ripples in the moonlight.

“Thank you,” said Tanya. “Especially as you don’t believe in what I’m doing.”

He put his arm around her shoulders, and together they walked away.

CHAPTER SEVEN

George Jakes was in a sour mood. His arm still hurt like hell although it was encased in plaster and supported by a sling around his neck. He had lost his coveted job before starting it: just as Greg had predicted, the law firm of Fawcett Renshaw had withdrawn its offer after he appeared in the newspapers as an injured Freedom Rider. Now he did not know what he was going to do with the rest of his life.

The graduation ceremony, called commencement, was held in Harvard University’s Old Yard, a grassy plaza surrounded by gracious red-brick university buildings. Members of the Board of Overseers wore top hats and cutaway tailcoats. Honorary degrees were presented to the British foreign secretary, a chinless aristocrat called Lord Home, and to the oddly named McGeorge Bundy, one of President Kennedy’s White House team. Despite his mood, George felt a mild sadness at leaving Harvard. He had been here seven years, first as an undergraduate, then as a law student. He had met some extraordinary people, and made a few good friends. He had passed every exam he took. He had dated many women and slept with three. He had got drunk once, and hated the feeling of being out of control.

But today he was too angry to indulge in nostalgia. After the mob violence in Anniston, he had expected a strong response from the Kennedy administration. Jack Kennedy had presented himself to the American people as a liberal, and had won the black vote. Bobby Kennedy was attorney general, the highest law enforcement officer in the land. George had expected Bobby to say, loud and clear, that the Constitution of the United States was in force in Alabama the same as everywhere else.

He had not.

No one had been arrested for attacking the Freedom Riders. Neither the local police nor the FBI had investigated any of the many violent crimes that had been committed. In America in 1961, while the police looked on, white racists could attack civil rights protesters, break their bones, try to burn them to death—and get away with it.

George had last seen Maria Summers in a doctor’s office. The wounded Freedom Riders had been turned away from the nearest hospital, but eventually they had found people willing to treat them. George had been with a nurse, having his broken arm treated, when Maria had come to say that she had got a flight to Chicago. He would have got up and thrown his arms around her if he could. As it was she had kissed his cheek and vanished.

He wondered if he would ever see her again. I could have fallen hard for her, he thought. Maybe I already did. In ten days of nonstop conversation he had never once felt bored: she was at least as smart as he was, maybe smarter. And although she seemed innocent, she had velvet brown eyes that made him picture her in candlelight.

The commencement ceremony came to an end at eleven thirty. Students, parents, and alumni began to drift away through the shadows of the tall elms, heading for the formal lunches at which graduating students would be given their degrees. George looked out for his family but did not at first see them.

However, he did see Joseph Hugo.

Hugo was alone, standing by the bronze statue of John Harvard, lighting one of his long cigarettes. In the black ceremonial robe his white skin looked even more pasty. George clenched his fists. He wanted to beat the crap out of that rat. But his left arm was useless and, anyway, if he and Hugo had a fistfight in the Old Yard, today of all days, there would be hell to pay. They might even lose their degrees. George was already in enough trouble. He would be wise to ignore Hugo and walk on.

Instead he said: “Hugo, you piece of shit.”

Hugo looked scared, despite George’s injured arm. He was the same size as George, and probably as strong, but George had rage on his side, and Joseph knew it. He looked away and tried to walk around George, muttering: “I don’t wish to speak to you.”

“I’m not surprised.” George moved to stand in his way. “You watched while a crazed mob attacked me. Those thugs broke my goddamned arm.”

Hugo took a step back. “You had no business going to Alabama.”

“And you had no business pretending to be a civil rights activist when all the time you were spying for the other side. Who was paying you, the Ku Klux Klan?”

Hugo lifted his chin defensively, and George wanted to punch it. “I volunteered to give information to the FBI,” Hugo said.

“So you did it without pay! I don’t know whether that makes it better or worse.”

“But I won’t be a volunteer much longer. I start work for the Bureau next week.” He said it in the half-embarrassed, half-defiant tone of someone admitting that he belongs to a religious sect.

“You were such a good snitch that they gave you a job.”

“I always wanted to work in law enforcement.”

“That’s not what you were doing in Anniston. You were on the side of the criminals there.”

“You people are Communists. I’ve heard you talking about Karl Marx.”

“And Hegel, and Voltaire, and Gandhi, and Jesus Christ. Come on, Hugo, even you aren’t that stupid.”

“I hate disorder.”

And that was the problem, George reflected bitterly. People hated disorder. Press coverage had blamed the Riders for stirring up trouble, not the segregationists with their baseball bats and their bombs. It drove him mad with frustration: did no one in America think about what was right?

Across the grass he spotted Verena Marquand, waving at him. He abruptly lost interest in Joseph Hugo.

Verena was graduating from the English Department. However, there were so few people of color at Harvard that they all knew one another. And she was so gorgeous that he would have noticed her if she had been one of a thousand colored girls at Harvard. She had green eyes and skin the color of toffee ice cream. Under her robe she was wearing a green dress with a short skirt that showed off long smooth legs. The mortarboard was perched on her head at a cute angle. She was dynamite.

People said she and George were a good match, but they had never dated. Whenever he had been unattached, she had been in a relationship, and vice versa. Now it was too late.

Verena was an ardent civil rights campaigner, and was going to work for Martin Luther King in Atlanta after graduation. Now she said enthusiastically: “You really started something with that Freedom Ride!”

It was true. After the firebombing at Anniston, George had left Alabama by plane with his arm in plaster; but others had taken up the challenge. Ten students from Nashville had caught a bus to Birmingham, where they had been arrested. New Riders had replaced the first group. There had been more mob violence by white racists. Freedom Riding had become a mass movement.

“But I lost my job,” George said.

“Come to Atlanta and work for King,” Verena said immediately.

George was startled. “Did he tell you to ask me?”

“No, but he needs a lawyer, and no one half as bright as you has applied.”

George was intrigued. He had almost fallen in love with Maria Summers, but he would do well to forget her: he would probably never see her again. He wondered whether Verena would go out with him if they were both working for King. “That’s an idea,” he said. But he wanted to think about it.

He changed the subject. “Are your folks here today?”

“Of course, come and meet them.”

Verena’s parents were celebrity supporters of Kennedy. George was hoping they would now come out and criticize the president for his feeble reaction to segregationist violence. Perhaps George and Verena together could persuade them to make a public statement. That would do a lot to ease the pain of his arm.

He walked across the lawn beside Verena.

“Mom, Dad, this is my friend George Jakes,” said Verena.

Her parents were a tall, well-dressed black man and a white woman with an elaborate blond coiffure. George had seen their photographs many times: they were a famous interracial couple. Percy Marquand was “the Negro Bing Crosby,” a movie star as well as a smooth crooner. Babe Lee was a theater actress specializing in gutsy female roles.

Percy spoke in a warm baritone familiar from a dozen hit records. “Mr. Jakes, down there in Alabama you took that broken arm for all of us. I’m honored to shake your hand.”

“Thank you, sir, but please call me George.”

Babe Lee held his hand and looked into his eyes as if she wanted to marry him. “We’re so grateful to you, George, and proud, too.” Her manner was so seductive that George glanced uneasily at her husband, thinking he might be angered, but neither Percy nor Verena showed any reaction, and George wondered whether Babe did this to every man she met.

As soon as he could free his hand from Babe’s grasp, George turned to Percy. “I know you campaigned for Kennedy in the presidential election last year,” he said. “Aren’t you angry now about his record on civil rights?”

“We’re all disappointed,” Percy said.

Verena broke in. “I should think so! Bobby Kennedy asked the Riders for a cooling-off period. Can you imagine? Of course CORE refused. America is ruled by laws, not mobs!”

“A point that should have been made by the attorney general,” George said.

Percy nodded, unperturbed by this two-person attack. “I hear the administration has made a deal with the Southern states,” he said. George pricked up his ears: this had not been in the newspapers. “The state governors have agreed to restrain the mobs, which is what the Kennedy brothers want.”

George knew that in politics no one ever gave something for nothing. “What was the quid pro quo?”

“The attorney general will turn a blind eye to the illegal arrest of Freedom Riders.”

Verena was outraged, and irritated with her father. “I wish you had told me about this before, Daddy,” she said sharply.

“I knew it would make you mad, honey.”

Verena’s face darkened at this condescension, and she looked away.

George concentrated on the key question: “Will you protest publicly, Mr. Marquand?”

“I’ve thought about it,” said Percy. “But I don’t think it would have much impact.”

“It might influence black voters against Kennedy in 1964.”

“Are we sure we want to do that? We’d all be worse off with someone like Dick Nixon in the White House.”

Verena said indignantly: “Then what can we do?”

“What’s happened in the South in the past month has proved, beyond doubt, that the law as it stands is too weak. We need a new civil rights bill.”

George said: “Amen to that.”

Percy went on: “I might be able to help make that happen. Right now I have a little influence in the White House. If I criticize the Kennedys I’ll have none.”

George felt Percy should speak out. Verena voiced the same thought. “You ought to say what’s right,” she said. “America is full of people being judicious. That’s how we got into this mess.”

Her mother was offended. “Your daddy is famous for saying what’s right,” she said indignantly. “He has stuck his neck out again and again.”

George saw that Percy was not to be persuaded. But perhaps he was right. A new civil rights bill, making it impossible for the Southern states to oppress Negroes, might be the only real solution.

“I’d better find my folks,” George said. “An honor to meet you both.”

“Think about working for Martin,” Verena called after him as he walked away.

He went to the park where law degrees would be presented. A temporary stage had been built, and trestle tables had been set up in tents for the lunch afterward. He found his parents right away.

His mother had a new yellow dress. She must have saved up for it: she was proud, and would not allow the rich Peshkovs to buy things for her, only for George. She looked him up and down, in his academic robe and mortarboard. “This is the happiest day of my life,” she said. Then, to his astonishment, she burst into tears.

George was surprised. This was unusual. She had spent the last twenty-five years refusing to show weakness. He put his arms around her and hugged her. “I’m so lucky to have you, Mom,” he said.

He detached himself gently from her embrace and blotted her tears with a clean white handkerchief. Then he turned to his father. Like most of the alumni, Greg was wearing a straw boater that had a hatband printed with the year of his graduation from Harvard—in his case, 1942. “Congratulations, my boy,” he said, shaking George’s hand. Well, George thought, he’s here, which is something.

George’s grandparents appeared a moment later. Both were Russian immigrants. His grandfather, Lev Peshkov, had started out running bars and nightclubs in Buffalo, and now owned a Hollywood studio. Grandfather had always been a dandy, and today he wore a white suit. George never knew what to think of him. People said he was a ruthless businessman with little respect for the law. On the other hand, he had been kind to his black grandson, giving him a generous allowance as well as paying his tuition.

Now he took George’s arm and said confidentially: “I have one piece of advice for you in your law career. Don’t represent criminals.”

“Why not?”

“Because they’re losers,” Grandfather chuckled.

Lev Peshkov was widely believed to have been a criminal himself, a bootlegger in the days of Prohibition. George said: “Are all criminals losers?”

“The ones who get caught are,” said Lev. “The rest don’t need lawyers.” He laughed heartily.

George’s grandmother, Marga, kissed him warmly. “Don’t you listen to your grandfather,” she said.

“I have to listen,” George said. “He paid for my education.”

Lev pointed a finger at George. “I’m glad you don’t forget that.”

Marga ignored him. “Just look at you,” she said to George in a voice full of affection. “So handsome, and a lawyer now!”

George was Marga’s only grandchild, and she doted on him. She would probably slip him fifty bucks before the end of the afternoon.

Marga had been a nightclub singer, and at sixty-five she still moved as if she were going onstage in a slinky dress. Her black hair was probably dyed that color nowadays. She was wearing more jewelry than was appropriate for an outdoor occasion, George knew; but he guessed that as the mistress, rather than the wife, she felt the need for status symbols.

Marga had been Lev’s lover for almost fifty years. Greg was the only child they had together.

Lev also had a wife, Olga, in Buffalo, and a daughter, Daisy, who was married to an Englishman and lived in London. So George had English cousins he had never met—white, he assumed.

Marga kissed Jacky, and George noticed people nearby giving them looks of surprise and disapproval. Even at liberal Harvard it was unusual to see a white person embrace a Negro. But George’s family always drew stares on the rare occasions when they all appeared in public together. Even in places where all races were accepted, a mixed family could still bring out white people’s latent prejudices. He knew that before the end of the day he would hear someone mutter the word mongrel. He would ignore the insult. His black grandparents were long dead, and this was his entire family. To have these four people bursting with pride at his graduation was worth any price.

Greg said: “I had lunch with old Renshaw yesterday. I talked him into renewing Fawcett Renshaw’s job offer.”

Marga said: “Oh, that’s wonderful! George, you’ll be a Washington lawyer after all!”

Jacky gave Greg a rare smile. “Thank you, Greg,” she said.

Greg lifted a warning finger. “There are conditions,” he said.

Marga said: “Oh, George will agree to anything reasonable. This is such a great opportunity for him.”

She meant for a black kid, George knew, but he did not protest. Anyway, she was right. “What conditions?” he said guardedly.

“Nothing that doesn’t apply to every lawyer in the world,” Greg replied. “You have to stay out of trouble, is all. A lawyer can’t get on the wrong side of the authorities.”

George was suspicious. “Stay out of trouble?”

“Just take no further part in any kind of protest movement, marches, demonstrations, like that. As a first-year associate, you’ll have no time for that stuff anyway.”

The proposal angered George. “So I would begin my working life by vowing never to do anything in the cause of freedom.”

“Don’t look at it that way,” said his father.

George bit back an irate retort. His family only wanted what was best for him, he knew. Trying to keep his voice neutral, he said: “Which way should I look at it?”

“Your role in the civil rights movement won’t be as a frontline soldier, that’s all. Be a supporter. Send a check once a year to the NAACP.” The National Association for the Advancement of Colored People was the oldest and most conservative civil rights group: they had opposed Freedom Rides as being too provocative. “Just keep your head down. Let someone else go on the bus.”

“There might be another way,” said George.

“What’s that?”

“I could work for Martin Luther King.”

“Has he offered you a job?”

“I’ve received an approach.”

“What would he pay you?”

“Not much, I’m guessing.”

Lev said: “Don’t think you can turn down a perfectly good job, then come to me for an allowance.”

“Okay, Grandfather,” said George, although that was exactly what he had been thinking. “But I believe I’ll take the job anyway.”

His mother joined the argument. “Oh, George, don’t,” she said. She was going to say more, but the graduating students were called to line up for their degrees. “Go,” she said. “We’ll talk more later.”

George left the family group and found his place in line. The ceremony began, and he shuffled forward. He recalled working at Fawcett Renshaw last summer. Mr. Renshaw had thought himself heroically liberal for hiring a black law clerk. But George had been given work that was demeaningly easy even for an intern. He had been patient and looked for an opportunity, and one had come. He had done a piece of legal research that won a case for the firm, and they had offered him a job on graduation.

This kind of thing happened to him a lot. The world assumed that a student at Harvard must be intelligent and capable—unless he was black, in which case all bets were off. All his life George had had to prove that he was not an idiot. It made him resentful. If he ever had children, his hope was that they would grow up in a different world.

His turn came to go onstage. As he mounted the short flight of steps, he was astonished to hear hissing.

Hissing was a Harvard tradition, normally used against professors who lectured badly or were rude to students. George was so horrified that he paused on the steps and looked back. He caught the eye of Joseph Hugo. Hugo was not the only one—the hissing was too loud for that—but George felt sure Hugo had orchestrated this.

George felt hated. He was too humiliated to mount the stage. He stood there, frozen, and the blood rushed to his face.

Then someone began clapping. Looking across the rows of seats, George saw a professor standing up. It was Merv West, one of the younger faculty. Others joined him in applauding, and they quickly drowned out the hissing. Several more people stood up. George imagined that even people who did not know him had guessed who he was by the plaster cast on his arm.

He found his courage again and walked onto the stage. A cheer went up as he was handed his certificate. He turned slowly to face the audience and acknowledged the applause with a modest bow of his head. Then he went off.

His heart was hammering as he joined the other students. Several men shook his hand silently. He was horrified by the hissing, and at the same time elated by the applause. He realized he was perspiring, and he wiped his face with a handkerchief. What an ordeal.

He watched the rest of the ceremony in a daze, glad to have time to recover. As the shock of the hissing wore off, he could see that it had been done by Hugo and a handful of right-wing lunatics, and the rest of liberal Harvard had honored him. He should feel proud, he told himself.

The students rejoined their families for lunch. George’s mother hugged him. “They cheered you,” she said.

“Yes,” Greg said. “Though for a moment there it looked as if it was going to be something else.”

George spread his hands in a gesture of appeal. “How can I not be part of this struggle?” he said. “I really want the job at Fawcett Renshaw, and I want to please the family that has supported me through all these years of education—but that’s not all. What if I have children?”

Marga put in: “That would be nice!”

“But, Grandmother, my children will be colored. What kind of world will they grow up in? Will they be second-class Americans?”

The conversation was interrupted by Merv West, who shook George’s hand and congratulated him on getting his degree. Professor West was a little underdressed in a tweed suit and a button-down collar.

George said: “Thank you for starting the applause, Professor.”

“Don’t thank me, you deserved it.”

George introduced his family. “We were just talking about my future.”

“I hope you haven’t made any final decisions.”

George’s curiosity was piqued. What did that mean? “Not yet,” he said. “Why?”

“I’ve been talking to the attorney general, Bobby Kennedy—a Harvard graduate, as you know.”

“I hope you told him that his handling of what happened in Alabama was a national disgrace.”

West smiled regretfully. “Not in those words, not quite. But he and I agreed that the administration’s response was inadequate.”

“Very. I can’t imagine he . . .” George trailed off as he was struck by a thought. “What does this have to do with decisions about my future?”

“Bobby has decided to hire a young black lawyer to give the attorney general’s team a Negro perspective on civil rights. And he asked me if there was anyone I could recommend.”

George was momentarily stunned. “Are you saying . . .”

West raised a warning hand. “I’m not offering you the job—only Bobby can do that. But I can get you an interview . . . if you want it.”

Jacky said: “George! A job with Bobby Kennedy! That would be fantastic.”

“Mother, the Kennedys have let us down so badly.”

“Then go to work for Bobby and change things!”

George hesitated. He looked at the eager faces around him: his mother, his father, his grandmother, his grandfather, and back to his mother again.

“Maybe I will,” he said at last.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Dimka Dvorkin was abashed to be a virgin at the age of twenty-two.

He had dated several girls while at university, but none of them had let him go all the way. Anyway, he was not sure he should. No one had actually told him that sex should be part of a long-term loving relationship, but he sort of felt it anyway. He had never been in a frantic hurry to do it, the way some boys were. However, his lack of experience was now becoming an embarrassment.

His friend Valentin Lebedev was the opposite. Tall and confident, he had black hair and blue eyes and buckets of charm. By the end of their first year at Moscow State University he had bedded most of the girl students in the Politics Department and one of the teachers.

Early on in their friendship, Dimka had said to him: “What do you do about, you know, avoiding pregnancy?”

“That’s the girl’s problem, isn’t it?” Valentin had said carelessly. “Worst comes to the worst, it’s not that difficult to get an abortion.”

Talking to others, Dimka found out that many Soviet boys took the same attitude. Men did not get pregnant, so it was not their problem. And abortion was available on demand during the first twelve weeks. But Dimka could not get comfortable with Valentin’s approach, perhaps because his sister was so scornful about it.

Sex was Valentin’s main interest, and studying took second place. With Dimka it had been the other way around—which was why Dimka was now an aide in the Kremlin and Valentin worked for the Moscow City Parks Department.

It was through his connections in Parks that Valentin had been able to arrange for the two of them to spend a week at the V. I. Lenin Holiday Camp for Young Communists in July 1961.

The camp was a bit military, with tents pitched in ruler-straight rows and a curfew at ten thirty, but it had a swimming pool and a boating lake and loads of girls, and a week there was a privilege much sought after.

Dimka felt he deserved a holiday. The Vienna Summit had been a victory for the Soviet Union, and he shared the credit.

Vienna had actually begun badly for Khrushchev. Kennedy and his dazzling wife had entered Vienna in a fleet of limousines flying dozens of stars-and-stripes flags. When the two leaders met, television viewers all over the world saw that Kennedy was several inches taller, towering over Khrushchev, looking down his patrician nose at the bald top of Khrushchev’s head. Kennedy’s tailored jackets and skinny ties made Khrushchev look like a farmer in his Sunday suit. America had won a glamour contest that the Soviet Union had not even known it was entering.

But once the talks began, Khrushchev had dominated. When Kennedy tried to have an amiable discussion, as between two reasonable men, Khrushchev became loudly aggressive. Kennedy suggested it was not logical for the Soviet Union to encourage Communism in Third World countries, then protest indignantly about American efforts to roll back Communism in the Soviet sphere. Khrushchev replied scornfully that the spread of Communism was a historic inevitability, and nothing that either leader did could stand in its way. Kennedy’s grasp of Marxist philosophy was weak, and he had not known what to say.

The strategy developed by Dimka and other advisers had triumphed. When Khrushchev returned to Moscow he ordered dozens of copies of the summit minutes to be distributed, not only to the Soviet bloc, but to the leaders of countries as far away as Cambodia and Mexico. Since then Kennedy had been silent, not even responding to Khrushchev’s threat to take over West Berlin. And Dimka went on holiday.

On the first day Dimka put on his new clothes, a checked short-sleeved shirt and a pair of shorts his mother had sewn from the trousers of a worn-out blue serge suit. “Are shorts like that fashionable in the West?” Valentin said.

Dimka laughed. “Not as far as I know.”

While Valentin was shaving, Dimka went for supplies.

When he emerged he was pleased to see, right next door, a young woman lighting the small portable stove that was provided with each tent. She was a little older than Dimka, he guessed twenty-seven. She had thick red-brown hair cut in a bob, and an attractive scatter of freckles. She looked alarmingly fashionable in an orange blouse and a pair of tight black pants that ended just below the knee.

“Hello!” Dimka said with a smile. She looked up at him. He said: “Do you need a hand with that?”

She lit the gas with a match, then went inside her tent without speaking.

Well, I’m not going to lose my virginity with her, Dimka thought, and he walked on.

He bought eggs and bread in the store next to the communal bathroom block. When he got back there were two girls outside the next tent: the one he had spoken to, and a pretty blonde with a trim figure. The blonde wore the same style of black pants, but with a pink blouse. Valentin was talking to them, and they were laughing.

He introduced them to Dimka. The redhead was called Nina, and she made no reference to their earlier encounter, though she still seemed reserved. The blonde was Anna, and she was obviously the outgoing one, smiling and pushing her hair back with a graceful gesture.

Dimka and Valentin had brought with them one iron saucepan in which they planned to do all the cooking, and Dimka had filled it with water to boil the eggs; but the girls were better equipped, and Nina took the eggs from him to make blinis.

Things were looking up, Dimka thought.

Dimka studied Nina while they ate. Her narrow nose, small mouth, and daintily protruding chin gave her a guarded look, as if she were perpetually weighing things up. But she was voluptuous, and when Dimka realized he might see her in a swimsuit, his throat went dry.

Valentin said: “Dimka and I are going to take a boat and row across to the other side of the lake.” This was the first Dimka had heard of such a plan, but he said nothing. “Why don’t the four of us go together?” Valentin went on. “We could take a picnic lunch.”

It could not possibly be that easy, Dimka thought. They had only just met!

The girls looked at one another for a telepathic moment, then Nina said briskly: “We’ll see. Let’s clear away.” She began to pick up plates and cutlery.

That was disappointing, but perhaps not the end of the matter.

Dimka volunteered to carry the dirty dishes to the bathroom block.

“Where did you get those shorts?” Nina asked while they were walking.

“My mother sewed them.”

She laughed. “Sweet.”

Dimka asked himself what his sister would have implied by calling a man sweet, and he decided it meant he was kind but not attractive.

A concrete blockhouse contained toilets, showers, and large communal sinks. Dimka watched while Nina washed the dishes. He tried to think of things to say, but nothing came. If she had asked him about the crisis in Berlin he could have talked all day. But he had no gift for the mildly amusing nonsense that Valentin produced in an effortless stream. Eventually he managed: “Have you and Anna been friends long?”

“We work together,” she said. “We’re both administrators at the steel union headquarters in Moscow. I got divorced a year ago, and Anna was looking for someone to share her apartment, so now we live together.”

Divorced, Dimka thought; that meant she was sexually experienced. He felt intimidated. “What was your husband like?”

“He’s a shit,” said Nina. “I don’t like talking about him.”

“Okay.” Dimka searched desperately for something bland to say. “Anna seems like a really nice person,” he tried.

“She’s well connected.”

That seemed an odd remark to make about your friend. “How so?”

“Her father got us this holiday. He’s Moscow district secretary of the union.” Nina seemed proud of this.

Dimka carried the clean dishes back to the tents. When they arrived, Valentin said cheerily: “We’ve made sandwiches—ham and cheese.” Anna looked at Nina and made a gesture of helplessness, as if to say that she had been unable to halt the Valentin steamroller; but it was clear to Dimka that she had not really wanted to. Nina shrugged, and so it was settled that they would picnic.

They had to stand in line an hour for a boat, but Muscovites were accustomed to queuing, and by late morning they were out on the clear cold water. Valentin and Dimka took turns rowing, and the girls soaked up the sun. No one seemed to feel the need for small talk.

On the far side of the lake they tied up the boat at a small beach. Valentin pulled off his shirt, and Dimka followed suit. Anna took off her blouse and pants. Underneath she was wearing a sky-blue two-piece swimsuit. Dimka knew it was called a bikini, and was fashionable in the West, but he had never actually seen one, and he was embarrassed by how aroused he felt. He could hardly take his eyes off her smooth flat stomach and her navel.

To his disappointment, Nina kept her clothes on.

They ate their sandwiches, and Valentin produced a bottle of vodka. No alcohol was sold in the camp store, Dimka knew. Valentin explained: “I bought it from the boat supervisor. He has a small capitalist enterprise going.” Dimka was not surprised: most things people really wanted were sold on the black market, from television sets to blue jeans.

They passed the bottle around, and both girls took a long swallow.

Nina wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. “So, you two work together in the Parks Department?”

“No,” Valentin laughed. “Dimka’s too clever for that.”

Dimka said: “I work at the Kremlin.”

Nina was impressed. “What do you do?”

Dimka did not really like to say, because it sounded like boasting. “I’m an assistant to the first secretary.”

“You mean to Comrade Khrushchev!” Nina said in astonishment.

“Yes.”

“How the hell did you get a job like that?”

Valentin put in: “I told you, he’s smart. He was top of every class.”

“You don’t land a job like that just by getting top marks,” Nina said crisply. “Who do you know?”

“My grandfather, Grigori Peshkov, stormed the Winter Palace in the October Revolution.”

“That doesn’t get you a good job.”

“Well, my father was in the KGB—he died last year. My uncle is a general. And I’m smart.”

“Modest, too,” she said, but her sarcasm was genial. “What’s your uncle’s name?”

“Vladimir Peshkov. We call him Volodya.”

“I’ve heard of General Peshkov. So he’s your uncle. With a family like that, how come you wear homemade shorts?”

Dimka was confused now. She was interested in him for the first time, but he could not make out whether she was admiring or scornful. Perhaps it was just her manner.

Valentin stood up. “Come and explore with me,” he said to Anna. “We’ll leave these two here to discuss Dimka’s shorts.” He held out his hand. Anna took it and let him pull her to her feet. Then they walked off into the woods, holding hands.

“Your friend doesn’t like me,” said Nina.

“He likes Anna, though.”

“She’s pretty.”

Dimka said quietly: “You’re beautiful.” He had not planned to say it: it just came out. But he meant it.

Nina looked at him thoughtfully, as if reappraising him. Then she said: “Do you want to swim?”

Dimka did not care much for water, but he was keen to see her in her swimsuit. He pulled off his clothes: he was wearing swimming trunks under his shorts.

Nina had on a brown nylon one-piece, rather than a bikini, but she filled it out so well that Dimka was not disappointed. She was the opposite of slim Anna. Nina had deep breasts and wide hips, and there were freckles on her throat. She saw his gaze on her body, and she turned away and ran into the water.

Dimka followed.

It was bitingly cold despite the sun, yet Dimka enjoyed the sensual feel of the water all over his body. They both swam energetically to keep warm. They went out into the lake, then returned more slowly to the shore. They stopped short of the beach, and Dimka let his feet drift to the bottom. The water came to their waists. Dimka looked at Nina’s breasts. The cold water made her nipples stick out, showing through her swimsuit.

“Stop staring,” she said, and playfully splashed his face.

He splashed her back.

“Right!” she said, and grabbed his head, trying to duck him.

Dimka struggled and caught her around the waist. They wrestled in the water. Nina’s body was heavy but firm, and he relished its solidity. He got both arms around her and lifted her feet off the bottom. When she thrashed, laughing and trying to free herself, he pulled her more firmly to him, and felt her soft breasts pressing against his face.

“I give in!” she yelled.

Reluctantly he put her down. For a moment they looked at one another. In her eyes he saw a gleam of desire. Something had changed her attitude to him: the vodka, the realization that he was a high-powered apparatchik, the exhilaration of horseplay in the water, or perhaps all three. He hardly cared. He saw the invitation in her smile, and kissed her mouth.

She kissed him back with enthusiasm.

He forgot the cold water, lost in the sensations of her lips and tongue, but after a few minutes she shivered and said: “Let’s get out.”

He held her hand as they waded through the shallows onto dry ground. They lay on the grass side by side and started kissing again. Dimka touched her breasts, and began to wonder whether this was the day he would lose his virginity.

Then they were interrupted by a harsh voice speaking through a megaphone: “Return your boat to the dock! Your time is up!”

Nina murmured: “It’s the sex police.”

Dimka chuckled, despite his disappointment.

He looked up to see a small rubber dinghy with an outboard motor passing a hundred yards offshore.

He waved acknowledgment. They were supposed to keep the boat for two hours. He guessed that a bribe to the supervisor would have secured an extension but he had not thought of it. Indeed, he had hardly dreamed that his relationship with Nina would progress so fast.

“We can’t go back without the others,” Nina said; but a moment later Valentin and Anna emerged from the woods. They had been only just out of sight, Dimka guessed, and had heard the megaphone summons.

The boys moved a little apart from the girls and they all put on their outer clothes over their swimsuits. Dimka heard Nina and Anna talking in low voices, Anna speaking urgently and Nina giggling and nodding agreement.

Then Anna gave Valentin a meaningful look. It seemed to be a prearranged signal. Valentin nodded and turned to Dimka. Quietly he said: “The four of us are going to the folk-dancing evening tonight. When we come back, Anna will come into our tent with me. You’re to go with Nina in their tent. Okay?”

It was more than okay, it was thrilling. Dimka said: “You’ve arranged it all with Anna?”

“Yes, and Nina has just agreed.”

Dimka could hardly believe it. He would be able to spend all night embracing Nina’s firm body. “She likes me!”

“Must be the shorts.”

They got into the boat and rowed back. The girls announced that they wanted to shower as soon as they returned. Dimka wondered how he could make the time pass quickly until evening.

When they reached the dock, they saw a man in a black suit waiting.

Dimka knew instinctively that this was a messenger for him. I might have known, he thought regretfully; things were going too well.

They all got out of the boat. Nina looked at the man sweating in his suit and said: “Are we going to be arrested for keeping the boat too long?” She was only half joking.

Dimka said: “Are you here for me? I’m Dmitri Dvorkin.”

“Yes, Dmitri Ilich,” the man said, respectfully using his patronymic. “I’m your driver. I’m here to take you to the airport.”

“What’s the emergency?”

The driver shrugged. “The first secretary wants you.”

“I’ll get my bag,” said Dimka regretfully.

By way of a small consolation, Nina looked awestruck.

The car took Dimka to Vnukovo airport, southwest of Moscow, where Vera Pletner was waiting with a large envelope and a ticket to Tbilisi, capital of the Georgian Soviet Socialist Republic.

Khrushchev was not in Moscow but at his dacha, or second home, in Pitsunda, a resort for top government officials on the Black Sea, and that was where Dimka was headed.

He had never flown before.

He was not the only aide whose holiday had been cut short. In the departure lounge, about to open the envelope, he was approached by Yevgeny Filipov, wearing a gray flannel shirt as usual despite the summer weather. Filipov looked pleased, which had to be a bad sign.

“Your strategy has failed,” he said to Dimka with evident satisfaction.

“What’s happened?”

“President Kennedy has made a television speech.”

Kennedy had said nothing for seven weeks, since the Vienna Summit. The United States had not responded to Khrushchev’s threat to sign a treaty with East Germany and take West Berlin back. Dimka had assumed that the American president was too cowed to stand up to Khrushchev. “What was the speech about?”

“He told the American people to prepare for war.”

So that was the emergency.

They were called to board. Dimka said to Filipov: “What did Kennedy say, exactly?”

“Speaking of Berlin, he said: ‘An attack upon that city will be regarded as an attack upon us all.’ The full transcript is in your envelope.”

They went on board, Dimka still wearing his holiday shorts. The plane was a Tupolev Tu-104 jetliner. Dimka looked out of the window as they took off. He knew how aircraft worked, the curved upper surface of the wing creating an air-pressure difference, but all the same it seemed like magic when the plane lifted into the air.

At last he tore his gaze away and opened the envelope.

Filipov had not exaggerated.

Kennedy was not merely making threatening noises. He proposed to triple the draft, call up reservists, and increase the American army to a million men. He was preparing a new Berlin airlift, moving six divisions to Europe, and planning economic sanctions on Warsaw Pact countries.

And he had increased the military budget by more than three billion dollars.

Dimka realized that the strategy Khrushchev and his advisers had mapped out had failed catastrophically. They had all underestimated the handsome young president. He could not be bullied, after all.

What could Khrushchev do?

He might have to resign. No Soviet leader had ever done that—both Lenin and Stalin had died in office—but there was a first time for everything in revolutionary politics.

Dimka read the speech twice and mulled it for the rest of the two-hour journey. There was only one alternative to Khrushchev’s resignation, he thought: the leader could sack all his aides, take on new advisers, and reshuffle the Presidium, giving his enemies more power, as an acknowledgment that he had been wrong and a promise to seek wiser counsel in the future.

Either way, Dimka’s short career in the Kremlin was over. Perhaps it had been too ambitious, he thought dismally. No doubt a more modest future awaited him.

He wondered whether the voluptuous Nina would still want to spend a night with him.

The flight landed at Tbilisi and a small military aircraft shuttled Dimka and Filipov to an airstrip on the coast.

Natalya Smotrov from the Foreign Ministry was waiting for them there. The humid seaside air had curled her hair, giving her a wanton air. “There’s bad news from Pervukhin,” she said as she drove them away from the plane. Mikhail Pervukhin was the Soviet ambassador to East Germany. “The flow of emigrants to the West has turned into a flood.”

Filipov looked annoyed, probably because he had not received this news before Natalya. “What numbers are we talking about?”

“It’s approaching a thousand people a day.”

Dimka was flabbergasted. “A thousand a day?”

Natalya nodded. “Pervukhin says the East German government is no longer stable. The country is approaching collapse. There could be a popular uprising.”

“You see?” Filipov said to Dimka. “This is what your policy has led to.”

Dimka had no answer.

Natalya drove along the coast road to a forested peninsula and turned in at a massive iron gate in a long stucco wall. Set amid immaculate lawns was a white villa with a long balcony on the upper floor. Beside the house was a full-size swimming pool. Dimka had never seen a home with its own pool.

“He’s down by the sea,” a guard told Dimka, jerking his head toward the far side of the house.

Dimka found his way through the trees to a shingle beach. A soldier with a submachine gun looked hard at him, then waved him on.

He found Khrushchev under a palm tree. The second-most powerful man in the world was short, fat, bald, and ugly. He wore the trousers of a suit, held up by suspenders, and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled. He was sitting on a wicker beach chair, and on a small table in front of him were a jug of water and a glass tumbler. He seemed to be doing nothing.

He looked at Dimka and said: “Where did you get those shorts?”

“My mother made them.”

“I should have a pair of shorts.”

Dimka said the words he had rehearsed. “Comrade First Secretary, I offer you my immediate resignation.”

Khrushchev ignored that. “We will overtake the United States, in military might and economic prosperity, within the next twenty years,” he said, as if he were continuing an ongoing discussion. “But, meanwhile, how do we prevent the stronger power from dominating global politics and holding back the spread of world Communism?”

“I don’t know,” said Dimka.

“Watch this,” said Khrushchev. “I am the Soviet Union.” He picked up the jug and poured water slowly into the glass until it was full to the brim. Then he handed the jug to Dimka. “You are the United States,” he said. “Now you pour water into the glass.”

Dimka did as he was told. The glass overflowed, and water soaked into the white tablecloth.

“You see?” said Khrushchev as if he had proved a point. “When the glass is full, no more can be added without making a mess.”

Dimka was mystified. He asked the expected question. “What’s the significance of this, Nikita Sergeyevich?”

“International politics is like a glass. Aggressive moves by either side pour water in. The overflow is war.”

Dimka saw the point. “When tension is at its maximum, no one can make a move without causing a war.”

“Well done. And the Americans do not want war, any more than we do. So, if we maintain international tension at the maximum—full to the brim—the American president is helpless. He cannot do anything without causing war, so he must do nothing!”

Dimka realized this was brilliant. It showed how the weaker power could dominate. “So Kennedy is now powerless?” he said.

“Because his next move is war!”

Had this been Khrushchev’s long-term plan, Dimka wondered? Or had he just made it up as a hindsight justification? He was nothing if not an improviser. But it hardly mattered. “So, what are we going to do about the crisis in Berlin?” he said.

“We’re going to build a wall,” said Khrushchev.

CHAPTER NINE

George Jakes took Verena Marquand to the Jockey Club for lunch. It was not a club, but a swanky new restaurant in the Fairfax Hotel that had found favor with the Kennedy crowd. George and Verena were the best-dressed couple in the room, she ravishing in a gingham check frock with a wide red belt, he in a tailored dark-blue linen blazer with a striped tie. Nevertheless, they were given a table by the kitchen door. Washington was integrated, but not unprejudiced. George did not let it get to him.

Verena was in town with her parents. They had been invited to the White House later today for a cocktail party being given to thank high-profile supporters such as the Marquands—and, George knew, to keep their goodwill for the next campaign.

Verena looked around appreciatively. “It’s a long time since I was in a decent restaurant,” she said. “Atlanta is a desert.” With parents who were Hollywood stars, she had been raised to think lavish was normal.

“You should move here,” George told her, looking into her startling green eyes. The sleeveless dress showed off the perfection of her café-au-lait skin, and she surely knew it. If she were to move to Washington, he would ask her for a date.

George was trying to forget Maria Summers. He was dating Norine Latimer, a history graduate who worked as a secretary at the National Museum of American History. She was attractive and intelligent, but it was not working: he still thought about Maria all the time. Perhaps Verena might be a more effective cure.

He kept all that to himself, naturally. “You’re out of the swim, all the way down there in Georgia,” he said.

“Don’t be so sure,” she said. “I’m working for Martin Luther King. He’s going to change America more than John F. Kennedy.”

“That’s because Dr. King has only one issue, civil rights. The president has a hundred. He’s the defender of the free world. Right now his major worry is Berlin.”

“Curious, isn’t it?” she said. “He believes in freedom and democracy for German people in East Berlin, but not for American Negroes in the South.”

George smiled. She was always combative. “It’s not just about what he believes,” he said. “It’s what he can achieve.”

She shrugged. “So how much difference can you make?”

“The Justice Department employs nine hundred and fifty lawyers. Before I arrived, only ten were black. Already I’m a ten percent improvement.”

“So what have you achieved?”

“Justice is taking a tough line with the Interstate Commerce Commission. Bobby has asked them to ban segregation in the bus service.”

“And what makes you think this ruling will be enforced any better than all the previous ones?”

“Not much, so far.” George was frustrated, but he wanted to hide the full extent of that from Verena. “There’s a guy called Dennis Wilson, a young white lawyer on Bobby’s personal team, who sees me as a threat, and keeps me out of the really important meetings.”

“How can he do that? You were hired by Robert Kennedy—doesn’t he want your input?”

“I need to win Bobby’s confidence.”

“You’re cosmetic,” she said scornfully. “With you there, Bobby can tell the world he’s got a Negro advising him on civil rights. He doesn’t have to listen to you.”

George feared she might be right, but he did not admit it. “That depends on me. I have to make him listen.”

“Come to Atlanta,” she said. “The job with Dr. King is still open.”

George shook his head. “My career is here.” He remembered what Maria had said, and repeated it. “Protesters can have a big impact but, in the end, it’s governments that reshape the world.”

“Some do, some don’t,” said Verena.

When they left, they found George’s mother waiting in the hotel lobby. George had arranged to meet her here, but had not expected her to wait outside the restaurant. “Why didn’t you join us?” he asked.

She ignored his question and spoke to Verena. “We met briefly at the Harvard commencement,” she said. “How are you, Verena?” She was going out of her way to be polite, which was a sign, George knew, that she did not really like Verena.

George saw Verena to a taxi and kissed her cheek. “It was great to see you again,” he said.

He and his mother went on foot, heading for the Justice Department. Jacky Jakes wanted to see where her son worked. George had arranged for her to visit on a quiet day, when Bobby Kennedy was at CIA headquarters at Langley, Virginia, seven or eight miles out of town.

Jacky had taken a day off work. She was dressed for the occasion in a hat and gloves, as if she were going to church. As they walked he said: “What do you think of Verena?”

“She’s a beautiful girl,” Jacky replied promptly.

“You’d like her politics,” George said. “You and Khrushchev.” He was exaggerating, but both Verena and Jacky were ultra-liberal. “She thinks the Cubans have the right to be Communists if they want.”

“And so they do,” Jacky said, proving his point.

“So what don’t you like?”

“Nothing.”

“Mom, we men aren’t very intuitive, but I’ve been studying you all my life, and I know when you have reservations.”

She smiled and touched his arm affectionately. “You’re attracted to her, and I can see why. She’s irresistible. I don’t want to badmouth a girl you like, but . . .”

“But what?”

“It might be difficult to be married to Verena. I get the feeling she considers her own inclinations first, last, and in between.”

“You think she’s selfish.”

“We’re all selfish. I think she’s spoiled.”

George nodded and tried not to be offended. His mother was probably right. “You don’t need to worry,” he said. “She’s determined to stay down there in Atlanta.”

“Well, perhaps that’s for the best. I only want you to be happy.”

The Department of Justice was housed in a grand classical building across the street from the White House. Jacky seemed to swell a little with pride as they walked in. It pleased her that her son worked in such a prestigious place. George enjoyed her reaction. She was entitled: she had devoted her life to him, and this was her reward.

They entered the Great Hall. Jacky liked the famous murals showing scenes of American life, but she looked askance at the aluminum statue Spirit of Justice, which depicted a woman showing one breast. “I’m not a prude, but I don’t see why Justice has to have her bosom uncovered,” she said. “What’s the reason for that?”

George considered. “To show that Justice has nothing to hide?”

She laughed. “Nice try.”

They went up in the elevator. “How is your arm?” Jacky asked.

The plaster was off, and George no longer needed a sling. “It still hurts,” he said. “I find it helps to keep my left hand in my pocket. Gives the arm a little support.”

They got off at the fifth floor. George took Jacky to the room he shared with Dennis Wilson and several others. The attorney general’s office was next door.

Dennis was at his desk near the door. He was a pale man whose blond hair was receding prematurely. George said to him: “When’s he coming back?”

Dennis knew he meant Bobby. “Not for an hour, at least.”

George said to his mother: “Come and see Bobby Kennedy’s office.”

“Are you sure it’s okay?”

“He’s not there. He wouldn’t mind.”

George led Jacky through an anteroom, nodding to two secretaries, and into the attorney general’s office. It looked more like the drawing room of a large country house, with walnut paneling, a massive stone fireplace, patterned carpet and curtains, and lamps on occasional tables. It was a huge room, but Bobby had managed to make it look cluttered. The furnishings included an aquarium and a stuffed tiger. His enormous desk was a litter of papers, ashtrays, and family photographs. On a shelf behind the desk chair were four telephones.

Jacky said: “Remember that place by Union Station where we lived when you were a little boy?”

“Of course I do.”

“You could fit the whole house in here.”

George looked around. “You could, I guess.”

“And that desk is bigger than the bed where you and I used to sleep until you were four.”

“Both of us and the dog, too.”

On the desk was a green beret, headgear of the U.S. Army Special Forces that Bobby admired so much. But Jacky was more interested in the photographs. George picked up a framed picture of Bobby and Ethel sitting on a lawn in front of a big house, surrounded by their seven children. “This is taken outside Hickory Hill, their home in McLean, Virginia.” He handed it to her.

“I like that,” she said, studying the photo. “He cares for his family.”

A confident voice with a Boston accent said: “Who cares for his family?”

George spun round to see Bobby Kennedy walking into the room. He wore a crumpled light-gray summer suit. His tie was loose and his shirt collar unbuttoned. He was not as handsome as his older brother, mainly because of his large rabbity front teeth.

George was flustered. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “I thought you were out for the afternoon.”

“That’s all right,” said Bobby, though George was not sure he meant it. “This place is owned by the American people—they can look at it if they like.”

“This is my mother, Jacky Jakes,” George said.

Bobby shook her hand vigorously. “Mrs. Jakes, you have a fine son,” he said, turning on the charm, as he did whenever talking to a voter.

Jacky’s face had darkened with embarrassment, but she spoke without hesitation. “Thank you,” she said. “You have several—I was looking at them in this picture.”

“Four sons and three daughters. They’re all wonderful, and I speak with complete objectivity.”

They all laughed.

Bobby said: “It was a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Jakes. Come and see us anytime.”

Though gracious, that was clearly a dismissal, and George and his mother left the room.

They walked along the corridor to the elevator. Jacky said: “That was embarrassing, but Bobby was kind.”

“It was also planned,” George said angrily. “Bobby’s never early for anything. Dennis deliberately misled us. He wanted to make me look uppity.”

His mother patted his arm. “If that’s the worst thing that happens today, we’ll be in good shape.”

“I don’t know.” George recalled Verena’s accusation, that his job was cosmetic. “Do you think my role here could be just to make Bobby look like he’s listening to Negroes when he’s not?”

Jacky considered. “Maybe.”

“I might do more good working for Martin Luther King in Atlanta.”

“I understand how you feel, but I think you should stay here.”

“I knew you’d say that.”

He saw her out of the building. “How is your apartment?” she said. “I have to see that next.”

“It’s great.” George had rented the top floor of a high, narrow Victorian row house in the Capitol Hill neighborhood. “Come over on Sunday.”

“So I can cook you dinner in your kitchen?”

“What a kind offer.”

“Will I meet your girlfriend?”

“I’ll invite Norine.”

They kissed good-bye. Jacky would get a commuter train to her home in Prince George’s County. Before she walked away she said: “Remember this. There are a thousand smart young men willing to work for Martin Luther King. But there’s only one Negro sitting in the office next to Bobby Kennedy’s.”

She was right, he thought. She usually was.

When he returned to the office he said nothing to Dennis, but sat at his desk and wrote a summary for Bobby of a report on school integration.

At five o’clock Bobby and his aides jumped into limousines for the short ride to the White House, where Bobby was scheduled to meet with the president. This was the first time George had been taken along to a White House meeting, and he wondered whether that was a sign that he was becoming more trusted—or just that the meeting was less important.

They entered the West Wing and went to the Cabinet Room. It was a long room with four tall windows on one side. Twenty or so dark-blue leather chairs stood around a coffin-shaped table. World-shaking decisions were made in this room, George thought solemnly.

After fifteen minutes there was no sign of President Kennedy. Dennis said to George: “Go and make certain Dave Powers knows where we are, will you?” Powers was the president’s personal assistant.

“Sure,” said George. Seven years at Harvard and I’m a messenger boy, he thought.

Before the meeting with Bobby, the president had been due to drop in on a cocktail party for celebrity supporters. George made his way to the main house and followed the noise. Under the massive chandeliers in the East Room, a hundred people were into their second hour of drinking. George waved to Verena’s parents, Percy Marquand and Babe Lee, who were talking to someone from the Democratic National Committee.

The president was not in the room.

George looked around and spotted a kitchen entrance. He had learned that the president often used staff doors and back corridors, to avoid constantly being buttonholed and delayed.

He went through the staff door and found the presidential party right outside. The handsome, tanned president, only forty-four years old, wore a navy blue suit with a white shirt and a skinny tie. He looked tired and edgy. “I can’t be photographed with an interracial couple!” he said in a frustrated tone, as if forced to repeat himself. “I’d lose ten million votes!”

George had seen only one interracial couple in the ballroom: Percy Marquand and Babe Lee. He felt outraged. So the liberal president was scared to be photographed with them!

Dave Powers was an amiable middle-aged man with a big nose and a bald head, about as different from his boss as could be imagined. He said to the president: “What am I supposed to do?”

“Get them out of there!”

Dave was a personal friend, and not scared to let Kennedy know when he was irritated. “What am I going to tell them, for Christ’s sake?”

Suddenly George stopped being angry and started to think. Was this an opportunity for him? Without forming any definite plan, he said: “Mr. President, I’m George Jakes, I work for the attorney general. May I take care of this problem for you?”

He watched their faces and knew what they were thinking. If Percy Marquand was going to be insulted in the White House, how much better it would be if the offender were black.

“Hell, yes,” said Kennedy. “I’d appreciate that, George.”

“Yes, sir,” said George, and he went back into the ballroom.

But what was he going to do? He racked his brains as he crossed the polished floor toward where Percy and Babe stood. He had to get them out of the room for fifteen or twenty minutes, that was all. What could he tell them?

Anything but the truth, he guessed.

When he reached the conversational group, and touched Percy Marquand gently on the arm, he still didn’t know what he was going to say.

Percy turned, recognized him, smiled, and shook his hand. “Everybody!” he said to the people around him. “Meet a Freedom Rider!”

Babe Lee grabbed his arm with both hands, as if afraid someone was going to steal him. “You’re a hero, George,” she said.

At that moment George realized what he had to say. “Mr. Marquand, Miss Lee, I work for Bobby Kennedy now, and he would like to talk to you for a few minutes about civil rights. May I take you to him?”

“Of course,” said Percy, and a few seconds later they were out of the room.

George regretted his words immediately. His heart thumped as he walked them to the West Wing. How was Bobby going to take this? He might say Hell, no, I don’t have time. If an embarrassing incident resulted, George would be to blame. Why had he not kept his mouth shut?

“I had lunch with Verena,” he said, making small talk.

Babe Lee said: “She loves her job in Atlanta. The Southern Christian Leadership Conference has a small headquarters organization, but they’re doing great things.”

Percy said: “Dr. King is a great man. Of all the civil rights leaders I’ve met, he’s the most impressive.”

They reached the Cabinet Room and went in. The half-dozen men there were sitting at one end of the long table, chatting, some smoking. They looked in surprise at the newcomers. George located Bobby and watched his face. He looked puzzled and irritated. George said: “Bobby, you know Percy Marquand and Babe Lee. They would be happy to talk to us about civil rights for a few minutes.”

For a moment Bobby’s face darkened with rage. George realized this was the second time today he had surprised his boss with an uninvited guest. Then Bobby smiled. “What a privilege!” he said. “Sit down, folks, and thank you for supporting my brother’s election campaign.”

George was relieved, for the moment. There would be no embarrassment. Bobby had switched to automatic charm. He asked Percy and Babe their views, and talked candidly about the difficulties the Kennedys were having with Southern Democrats in Congress. The guests were flattered.

A few minutes later the president came in. He shook hands with Percy and Babe, then asked Dave Powers to take them back to the party.

As soon as the door closed behind them, Bobby rounded on George. “Never do that to me again!” he said. His face showed the strength of his pent-up fury.

George saw Dennis Wilson smother a grin.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” Bobby stormed.

George thought Bobby was going to hit him. He balanced on the balls of his feet, ready to dodge a blow. He said desperately: “The president wanted them out of the room! He didn’t want to be photographed with Percy and Babe.”

Bobby looked at his brother, who nodded.

George said: “I had thirty seconds to think of a pretext that wouldn’t insult them. I told them you wanted to meet them. And it worked, didn’t it? They’re not offended—in fact they think they got VIP treatment!”

The president said: “It’s true, Bob. George here got us out of a tight situation.”

George said: “I wanted to make sure we didn’t lose their support for the reelection campaign.”

Bobby looked blank for a moment, taking it in. “So,” he said, “you told them I wanted to talk to them, just as a way of keeping them out of the presidential photographs.”

“Yes,” said George.

The president said: “That was quick thinking.”

Bobby’s face changed. After a moment he started to laugh. His brother joined in, then the other men in the room followed suit.

Bobby put his arm around George’s shoulders.

George still felt shaky. He had feared he would be fired.

Bobby said: “Georgie boy, you’re one of us!”

George realized he had been accepted into the inner circle. He slumped with relief.

He was not as proud as he might have been. He had carried out a shabby little deception, and helped the president to pander to racial prejudice. He wanted to wash his hands.

Then he saw the look of rage on Dennis Wilson’s face, and he felt better.

CHAPTER TEN

That August, Rebecca was summoned to secret police headquarters for a second time.

She wondered fearfully what the Stasi wanted now. They had already ruined her life. She had been tricked into a sham marriage, and now she could not get a job, no doubt because they were ordering schools not to hire her. What else could they do to her? Surely they could not put her in jail just because she had been their victim?

But they could do anything they liked.

She took the bus across town on a hot Berlin day. The new headquarters building was as ugly as the organization it represented, a rectilinear concrete box for people whose minds were all straight edges. Once again she was escorted up in the lift and along the sickly-yellow corridors, but this time she was taken to a different office. Waiting for her there she found her husband, Hans. When she saw him, her fear was displaced by even stronger rage. Even though he had the power to hurt her, she was too angry to kowtow to him.

He was wearing a new blue-gray suit that she had not seen before. He had a large room with two windows and new modern furniture: he was more senior than she had thought.

Needing time to gather her wits, she said: “I was expecting to see Sergeant Scholz.”

Hans looked away. “He was not suitable for security work.”

Rebecca could see that Hans was hiding something. Presumably Scholz had been fired, or perhaps demoted to the traffic police. “I suppose he made a mistake in interviewing me here, rather than at the local police station.”

“He should not have interviewed you at all. Sit there.” He pointed to a chair in front of his big, ugly desk.

The chair was made of metal tubing and hard orange plastic—designed to make his victims even more uncomfortable, Rebecca guessed. Her suppressed fury gave her the strength to defy him. Instead of sitting, she went to the window and looked out over the car park. “You wasted your time, didn’t you?” she said. “You went to all that trouble to watch my family, and you didn’t find a single spy or saboteur.” She turned to look at him. “Your bosses must be angry with you.”

“On the contrary,” he said. “This is considered one of the most successful operations the Stasi has ever conducted.”

Rebecca could not imagine how that could be possible. “You can’t have learned anything very interesting.”

“My team has produced a chart showing every Social Democrat in East Germany, and the links between them,” he said proudly. “And the key information was obtained in your house. Your parents know all the most important reactionaries, and many came to visit.”

Rebecca frowned. It was true that most of the people who came to the house were former Social Democrats: that was only natural. “But they’re just friends,” she said.

Hans let out a mocking hoot of laughter. “Just friends!” he jeered. “Please, I know you think we’re not very bright—you said so, many times, when I was living with you—but we’re not completely brainless.”

It occurred to Rebecca that Hans and all secret policemen were obliged to believe—or at least, to pretend to believe—in fantastic conspiracies against the government. Otherwise their work was a waste of time. So Hans had constructed an imaginary network of Social Democrats based on the Franck family house, all plotting to bring down the Communist government.

If only it were true.

Hans said: “Of course, it was never intended that I should marry you. A flirtation, just enough to get me into the house, was all that we planned.”

“My proposal of marriage must have presented you with a problem.”

“Our project was going so well. The information I was getting was crucial. Each person I saw at your house led us to more Social Democrats. If I declined your proposal the tap would have been turned off.”

“How brave you were,” Rebecca said. “You must be proud.”

He stared at her. For a moment she could not read him. Something was going on in his mind, and she did not know what it was. It crossed her mind that he might want to touch her or kiss her. The thought made her flesh creep. Then he shook his head as if to clear it. “We’re not here to talk about the marriage,” he said with irritation.

“Why are we here?”

“You caused an incident at the employment exchange.”

“An incident? I asked the man standing in front of me in the line how long he had been unemployed. The woman behind the counter stood up and yelled at me. ‘There is no unemployment in Communist countries!’ she screeched. I looked at the queue in front of me and behind, and I laughed. That’s an incident?”

“You laughed hysterically and refused to stop, and you were ejected from the building.”

“It’s true that I couldn’t stop laughing. What she said was so absurd.”

“It was not absurd!” Hans fumbled a cigarette from a packet of f6. Like all bullies, he became nervous when someone stood up to him. “She was right,” he said. “No one is out of work in East Germany. Communism has solved the problem of unemployment.”

“Don’t, please,” said Rebecca. “You’ll make me laugh again, and then I’ll have to be ejected from this building as well.”

“Sarcasm will do you no good.”

She looked at a framed photograph on the wall showing Hans shaking hands with Walter Ulbricht, the East German leader. Ulbricht had a bald dome, and he cultivated a Vandyke beard and mustache: the resemblance to Lenin was faintly comic. Rebecca asked: “What did Ulbricht say to you?”

“He congratulated me on my promotion to captain.”

“Also part of your reward for cruelly misleading your wife. So, tell me, if I’m not unemployed, what am I?”

“You are under investigation as a social parasite.”

“That’s outrageous! I have worked continuously since graduating. Eight years without a day of sick leave. I’ve been promoted and given extra responsibilities, including the supervision of new teachers. And then one day I discovered my husband was a Stasi spy, and soon afterward I was fired. Since then I have been to six job interviews. Each time, the school was desperate for me to start as soon as possible. And yet—for no reason they could give me—each time they wrote afterward telling me they were not able to offer me the post. Do you know why?”

“No one wants you.”

“Everyone wants me. I am a good teacher.”

“You are ideologically unreliable. You would be a bad influence on impressionable youngsters.”

“I have a glowing reference from my last employer.”

“From Bernd Held, you mean. He, too, is under investigation for ideological unreliability.”

Rebecca felt a chill of dread deep in her chest. She tried to keep her face expressionless. How terrible it would be if kind, capable Bernd were to get into trouble on her account. I must warn him, she thought.

She failed to hide her feelings from Hans. “That’s rocked you, hasn’t it?” he said. “I always had my suspicions about him. You were fond of him.”

“He wanted to have an affair with me,” Rebecca said. “But I was unwilling to deceive you. Just fancy that.”

“I would have found you out.”

“Instead of which, I found you out.”

“I was doing my duty.”

“So, you’re making sure I can’t get a job, and accusing me of social parasitism. What do you expect me to do—go west?”

“Emigration without permission is a crime.”

“And yet so many people do it! I hear the number has risen to almost a thousand a day. Teachers, doctors, engineers—even police officers. Oh!” She was struck by an insight. “Is that what happened to Sergeant Scholz?”

Hans looked shifty. “None of your business.”

“I can tell by your face. So Scholz went west. Why do all these respectable people turn criminal, do you suppose? Is it because they want to live in a country that has free elections, and so on?”

Hans raised his voice angrily. “Free elections gave us Hitler—is that what they want?”

“Perhaps they don’t like living in a place where the secret police can do anything they like. You can imagine how uneasy that makes people.”

“Only those who have guilty secrets!”

“And what’s my secret, Hans? Come on, you must know.”

“You are a social parasite.”

“So you prevent my getting a job, then you threaten to jail me for not having a job. I suppose I’d be sent to a work camp, would I? Then I would have a job, except that I wouldn’t be paid. I love Communism, it’s so logical! Why are people so desperate to escape from it, I wonder?”

“Your mother told me many times that she would never emigrate to the West. She would consider it running away.”

Rebecca wondered what he was getting at. “So . . . ?”

“If you commit the crime of illegal emigration, you will never be able to come back.”

Rebecca saw what was coming, and she was filled with despair.

Hans said triumphantly: “You would never see your family again.”

Rebecca was crushed. She left the building and stood at the bus stop. Whichever way she looked at it, she was forced to either lose her family or lose her freedom.

Despondent, she took the bus to the school where she used to work. She was unprepared for the nostalgia that struck her like a blow when she walked in: the sound of young people’s chatter, the smell of chalk dust and cleaning fluid, the notice boards and football boots and signs saying: NO RUNNING. She realized how happy she had been as a teacher. It was vitally important work, and she was good at it. She could not bear the thought of giving it up.

Bernd was in the head teacher’s office, wearing a black corduroy suit. The cloth was worn but the color flattered him. He beamed happily when she opened the door. “Have they made you head?” she asked, although she could guess the answer.

“That will never happen,” he replied. “But I’m doing the job anyway, and loving it. Meanwhile our old boss, Anselm, is head of a big school in Hamburg—and making double the salary. How about you? Take a seat.”

She sat down and told him about her job interviews. “It’s Hans’s revenge,” she said. “I never should have thrown his damn matchstick model out of the window.”

“It may not be that,” Bernd said. “I’ve seen this before. A man hates the person he has wronged, paradoxically. I think it’s because the victim is a perpetual reminder that he behaved shamefully.”

Bernd was very smart. She missed him. “I’m afraid Hans may hate you, too,” she said. “He told me you’re being investigated for ideological unreliability, because you wrote me a reference.”

“Oh, hell.” He rubbed the scar on his forehead, always a sign that he was worried. Involvement with the Stasi never had a happy ending.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’m glad I wrote that reference. I’d do it again. Someone has to tell the truth in this damn country.”

“Hans also figured out, somehow, that you were . . . attracted to me.”

“And he’s jealous?”

“Hard to imagine, isn’t it?”

“Not in the least. Even a spy couldn’t fail to fall for you.”

“Don’t be absurd.”

“Is that why you came?” Bernd said. “To warn me?”

“And to say . . .” She had to be discreet, even with Bernd. “To say that I probably won’t see you for some time.”

“Ah.” He nodded understanding.

People rarely said they were going to the West. You could be arrested just for planning it. And someone who found out that you were intending to go was committing a crime if he failed to inform the police. So no one but your immediate family wanted the guilty knowledge.

Rebecca stood up. “So, thank you for your friendship.”

He came around the desk and took both her hands. “No, thank you. And good luck.”

“To you, too.”

She realized that in her unconscious mind she had already made the decision to go west; and she was thinking of that, with surprise and anxiety, when unexpectedly Bernd bent his head and kissed her.

She was not expecting this. It was a gentle kiss. He let his lips linger on hers, but did not open his mouth. She closed her eyes. After a year of fake marriage it was good to know that someone genuinely found her desirable, even lovable. She felt an urge to throw her arms around him, but suppressed it. It would be madness now to start a doomed relationship. After a few moments she broke away.

She felt herself near to tears. She did not want Bernd to see her cry. She managed to say: “Good-bye.” Then she turned away and quickly left the room.

She decided she would leave two days later, early on Sunday morning.

Everyone got up to see her off.

She could not eat any breakfast. She was too upset. “I’ll probably go to Hamburg,” she said, faking good spirits. “Anselm Weber is head of a school there now, and I’m sure he’ll hire me.”

Her grandmother Maud, in a purple silk robe, said: “You could get a job anywhere in West Germany.”

“But it will be nice to know at least one person in the city,” Rebecca said forlornly.

Walli chipped in: “There’s supposed to be a great music scene in Hamburg. I’m going to join you as soon as I can leave school.”

“If you leave school, you’ll have to work,” their father said to Walli in a sarcastic tone. “That will be a new experience for you.”

“No quarreling this morning,” said Rebecca.

Father gave her an envelope of money. “As soon as you’re on the other side, get a taxi,” he said. “Go straight to Marienfelde.” There was a refugee center at Marienfelde, in the south of the city near Tempelhof airport. “Start the process of emigration. I’m sure you’ll have to wait in line for hours, maybe days. As soon as you have everything in order, come to the factory. I’ll set you up with a West German bank account, and so on.”

Her mother was in tears. “We will see you,” she said. “You can fly to West Berlin any time you want, and we can just walk across the border and meet you. We’ll have picnics on the beach at the Wannsee.”

Rebecca was trying not to cry. She put the money in a small shoulder bag that was all she was taking. Anything more in the way of luggage might get her arrested by the Vopos at the border. She wanted to linger, but she was afraid she might lose her nerve altogether. She kissed and hugged each of them: Grandmother Maud; her adoptive father, Werner; her adoptive brother and sister, Lili and Walli; and last of all Carla, the woman who had saved her life, the mother who was not her mother, and was for that reason even the more precious.

Then, her eyes full of tears, she left the house.

It was a bright summer morning, the sky blue and cloudless. She tried to feel optimistic: she was beginning a new life, away from the grim repression of a Communist regime. And she would see her family again, one way or another.

She walked briskly, threading through the streets of the old city center. She passed the sprawling campus of the Charité hospital and turned on to Invaliden Strasse. To her left was the Sandkrug Bridge, which carried traffic over the Berlin-Spandau Ship Canal to West Berlin.

Except that today it did not.

At first Rebecca was not sure what she was looking at. There was a line of cars that stopped short of the bridge. Beyond the cars, a crowd of people stood looking at something. Perhaps there had been a crash on the bridge. But to her right, in the Platz vor dem Neuen Tor, twenty or thirty East German soldiers stood around doing nothing. Behind them were two Soviet tanks.

It was puzzling and frightening.

She pushed through the crowd. Now she could see the problem. A crude barbed-wire fence had been erected across the near end of the bridge. A small gap in the fence was manned by police who seemed to be refusing to let anyone through.

Rebecca was tempted to ask what was going on, but she did not want to draw attention to herself. She was not far from Friedrich Strasse Station: from there she could go by subway directly to Marienfelde.

She turned south, walking faster now, and took a zigzag course around a series of university buildings to the station.

There was something wrong here, too.

Several dozen people were crowded around the entrance. Rebecca fought her way to the front and read a notice pasted to the wall that said only what was obvious: the station was closed. At the top of the steps, a line of police with guns formed a barrier. No one was being admitted to the platforms.

Rebecca began to be fearful. Perhaps it was a coincidence that the first two crossing places she had chosen were blocked. And perhaps not.

There were eighty-one places where people could cross from East to West Berlin. The next nearest was the Brandenburg Gate, where the broad Unter den Linden passed through the monumental arch into the Tiergarten. She walked south on Friedrich Strasse.

As soon as she turned west on Unter den Linden she knew she was in trouble. Here again there were tanks and soldiers. Hundreds of people were gathered in front of the famous gateway. When she got to the front of the crowd, Rebecca saw another barbed-wire fence. It was strung across wooden sawhorses and guarded by East German police.

Young men who looked like Walli—leather jackets, narrow trousers, Elvis hairstyles—were shouting insults from a safe distance. On the West Berlin side, similar types were yelling angrily, and occasionally throwing stones at the police.

Looking more closely, Rebecca saw that the various policemen—Vopos, border police, and factory militia—were making holes in the road, planting tall concrete posts, and stringing barbed wire from post to post in a more permanent arrangement.

Permanent, she thought, and her spirits sank into an abyss.

She spoke to a man next to her. “Is it everywhere?” she said. “This fence?”

“Everywhere,” he said. “The bastards.”

The East German regime had done what everyone said could not be done: they had built a wall across the middle of Berlin.

And Rebecca was on the wrong side.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

George felt wary when he went to lunch with Larry Mawhinney at the Electric Diner. George was not sure why Larry had suggested this, but he agreed out of curiosity. He and Larry were the same age and had similar jobs: Larry was an aide in the office of air force chief of staff General Curtis LeMay. But their bosses were at loggerheads: the Kennedy brothers mistrusted the military.

Larry wore the uniform of an air force lieutenant. He was all soldier: clean shaven, with buzz-cut fair hair, his tie knotted tightly, his shoes shiny. “The Pentagon hates segregation,” he said.

George raised his eyebrows. “Really? I thought the army was traditionally reluctant to trust Negroes with guns.”

Mawhinney lifted a placatory hand. “I know what you mean. But, one, that attitude was always overtaken by necessity: Negroes have fought in every conflict since the War of Independence. And two, it’s history. The Pentagon today needs men of color in the military. And we don’t want the expense and inefficiency of segregation: two sets of bathrooms, two sets of barracks, prejudice and hatred between men who are supposed to be fighting side by side.”

“Okay, I buy that,” said George.

Larry cut into his grilled-cheese sandwich and George took a forkful of chili con carne. Larry said: “So, Khrushchev got what he wanted in Berlin.”

George sensed that this was the real subject of the lunch. “Thank God we don’t have to go to war with the Soviets,” he said.

“Kennedy chickened out,” Larry said. “The East German regime was close to collapse. There might have been a counterrevolution, if the president had taken a tougher line. But the Wall has stopped the flood of refugees to the West, and now the Soviets can do anything they like in East Berlin. Our West German allies are mad as hell about it.”

George bristled. “The president avoided World War Three!”

“At the cost of letting the Soviets tighten their grip. It’s not exactly a triumph.”

“Is that the Pentagon’s view?”

“Pretty much.”

Of course it was, George thought irritably. He now understood: Mawhinney was here to argue the Pentagon’s line, in the hope of winning George as a supporter. I should be flattered, he told himself: it shows that people now see me as part of Bobby’s inner circle.

But he was not going to listen to an attack on President Kennedy without hitting back. “I suppose I should expect nothing less of General LeMay. Don’t they call him ‘Bombs Away’ LeMay?”

Mawhinney frowned. If he found his boss’s nickname funny, he was not going to show it.

George thought the overbearing, cigar-chewing LeMay deserved mockery. “I believe he once said that if there’s a nuclear war, and at the end of it there are two Americans and one Russian left, then we’ve won.”

“I never heard him say anything like that.”

“Apparently President Kennedy told him: ‘You better hope the Americans are a man and a woman.’”

“We have to be strong!” Mawhinney said, beginning to get riled. “We’ve lost Cuba and Laos and East Berlin, and we’re in danger of losing Vietnam.”

“What do you imagine we can do about Vietnam?”

“Send in the army,” Larry said promptly.

“Don’t we already have thousands of military advisers there?”

“It’s not enough. The Pentagon has asked the president again and again to send in ground combat troops. It seems he doesn’t have the guts.”

That annoyed George because it was so unfair. “President Kennedy does not lack courage,” he snapped.

“Then why won’t he attack the Communists in Vietnam?”

“He doesn’t believe we can win.”

“He should listen to experienced and knowledgeable generals.”

“Should he? They told him to back the stupid Bay of Pigs invasion. If the Joint Chiefs are experienced and knowledgeable, how come they didn’t tell the president that an invasion by Cuban exiles was bound to fail?”

“We told him to send air cover—”

“Excuse me, Larry, but the whole idea was to avoid involving Americans. Yet as soon as it went wrong, the Pentagon wanted to send in the marines. The Kennedy brothers suspect you people of a sucker punch. You led him into a doomed invasion by exiles because you wanted to force him to send in U.S. troops.”

“That’s not true.”

“Maybe, but he thinks that now you’re trying to lure him into Vietnam by the same method. And he’s determined not to be fooled a second time.”

“Okay, so he’s got a grudge against us because of the Bay of Pigs. Seriously, George, is that a good enough reason to let Vietnam go Communist?”

“We’ll have to agree to disagree.”

Mawhinney put down his knife and fork. “Do you want dessert?” He had realized he was wasting his time: George was never going to be a Pentagon ally.

“No dessert, thanks,” George said. He was in Bobby’s office to fight for justice, so that his children could grow up as American citizens with equal rights. Someone else would have to fight Communism in Asia.

Mawhinney’s face changed and he waved across the restaurant. George glanced back over his own shoulder and got a shock.

The person Mawhinney was waving at was Maria Summers.

She did not see him. She was already turning back to her companion, a white girl of about the same age.

“Is that Maria Summers?” he said incredulously.

“Yeah.”

“You know her.”

“Sure. We were at Chicago Law together.”

“What’s she doing in Washington?”

“Funny story. She was originally turned down for a job in the White House press office. Then the person they appointed didn’t work out, and she was the second choice.”

George was thrilled. Maria was in Washington—permanently! He made up his mind to speak to her before leaving the restaurant.

It occurred to him that he might find out more about her from Mawhinney. “Did you date her at law school?”

“No. She only went out with colored guys, and not many of them. She was known as an iceberg.”

George did not take that remark at face value. Any girl who said no was an iceberg, to some men. “Did she have anyone special?”

“There was one guy she was seeing for about a year, but he dumped her because she wouldn’t put out.”

“I’m not surprised,” George said. “She comes from a strict family.”

“How do you know that?”

“We were on the first Freedom Ride together. I talked to her a bit.”

“She’s pretty.”

“That’s the truth.”

They got the check and split it. On the way out George stopped at Maria’s table. “Welcome to Washington,” he said.

She smiled warmly. “Hello, George. I’ve been wondering how soon I’d run into you.”

Larry said: “Hi, Maria. I was just telling George how you were known as an iceberg at Chicago Law.” Larry laughed.

It was a typical male jibe, nothing unusual, but Maria flushed.

Larry walked out of the restaurant, but George stayed behind. “I’m sorry he said that, Maria. And I’m embarrassed that I heard it. It was really crass.”

“Thank you.” She gestured toward the other woman. “This is Antonia Capel. She’s a lawyer, too.”

Antonia was a thin, intense woman with hair severely drawn back. “Good to know you,” George said.

Maria said to Antonia: “George got a broken arm protecting me from an Alabama segregationist with a crowbar.”

Antonia was impressed. “George, you’re a real gentleman,” she said.

George saw that the girls were ready to leave: their check was on the table in a saucer, covered with a few bills. He said to Maria: “Can I walk you back to the White House?”

“Sure,” she said.

Antonia said: “I have to run to the drugstore.”

They stepped out into the mild air of a Washington autumn. Antonia waved good-bye. George and Maria headed for the White House.

George studied her out of the corner of his eye as they crossed Pennsylvania Avenue. She wore a smart black raincoat over a white turtleneck, clothing for a serious political operator, but she could not cover up her warm smile. She was pretty, with a small nose and chin, and her big brown eyes and soft lips were sexy.

“I was arguing with Mawhinney about Vietnam,” George said. “I think he hoped to persuade me as a way of indirectly getting to Bobby.”

“I’m sure of it,” said Maria. “But the president isn’t going to give in to the Pentagon on this.”

“How do you know?”

“He’s making a speech tonight saying that there are limits to what we can achieve in foreign policy. We cannot right every wrong or reverse every adversity. I’ve just written the press release for the speech.”

“I’m glad he’s going to stand firm.”

“George, you didn’t hear what I said. I wrote a press release! Don’t you understand how unusual that is? Normally the men write them. The women just type them out.”

George grinned. “Congratulations.” He was happy to be with her, and they had quickly slipped back into their friendly relationship.

“Mind you, I’ll find out what they think of it when I get back to the office. What’s happening at Justice?”

“It looks like our Freedom Ride really achieved something,” George said eagerly. “Soon all interstate buses will have a sign saying: ‘Seating aboard this vehicle is without regard to race, color, creed, or national origin.’ The same words have to be printed on bus tickets.” He was proud of this achievement. “How about that?”

“Well done.” But Maria asked the key question. “Will the ruling be enforced?”

“That’s up to us in Justice, and we’re trying harder than ever before. We’ve already acted several times to oppose the authorities in Mississippi and Alabama. And a surprising number of towns in other states are just giving in.”

“It’s hard to believe we’re really winning. The segregationists always seem to have another dirty trick in reserve.”

“Voter registration is our next campaign. Martin Luther King wants to double the number of black voters in the South by the end of the year.”

Maria said thoughtfully: “What we really need is a new civil rights bill that makes it difficult for Southern states to defy the law.”

“We’re working on that.”

“So you’re telling me Bobby Kennedy is a civil rights supporter?”

“Hell, no. A year ago the issue wasn’t even on his agenda. But Bobby and the president hated those photographs of white mob violence in the South. They made the Kennedys look bad on the front pages of newspapers all over the world.”

“And global politics is what they really care about.”

“Exactly.”

George wanted to ask her for a date, but he held back. He was going to break up with Norine Latimer as soon as possible: that was inevitable, now that Maria was here. But he felt he had to tell Norine their romance was over before he asked Maria out. Anything else would seem dishonest. And the delay would not be long: he would see Norine within a few days.

They entered the West Wing. Black faces in the White House were unusual enough for people to stare at them. They went to the press office. George was surprised to find it a small room jammed with desks. Half a dozen people worked intently with gray Remington typewriters and phones with rows of flashing lights. From an adjoining room came the chatter of teletype machines, punctuated by the bells they rang to herald particularly important messages. There was an inner office that George presumed must belong to press secretary Pierre Salinger.

Everyone seemed to be concentrating hard, no one chatting or looking out of the window.

Maria showed him her desk and introduced the woman at the next typewriter, an attractive redhead in her midthirties. “George, this is my friend Miss Fordham. Nelly, why is everyone so quiet?”

Before Nelly could answer, Salinger came out of his office, a small, chubby man in a tailored European-style suit. With him was President Kennedy.

The president smiled at everyone, nodded to George, and spoke to Maria. “You must be Maria Summers,” he said. “You’ve written a good press release—clear and emphatic. Well done.”

Maria flushed with pleasure. “Thank you, Mr. President.”

He seemed in no hurry. “What were you doing before you came here?” He asked the question as if there was nothing in the world more interesting.

“I was at Chicago Law.”

“Do you like it in the press office?”

“Oh, yes, it’s exciting.”

“Well, I appreciate your good work. Keep it up.”

“I’ll do my very best.”

The president went out, and Salinger followed.

George looked at Maria with amusement. She seemed dazed.

After a moment, Nelly Fordham spoke. “Yeah, it takes you like that,” she said. “For a minute there, you were the most beautiful woman in the world.”

Maria looked at her. “Yes,” she said. “That’s exactly how I felt.”

Maria was a little lonely, but otherwise happy.

She loved working at the White House, surrounded by bright, sincere people who wanted only to make the world a better place. She felt she could achieve a lot in government. She knew she would have to struggle with prejudice—against women and against Negroes—but she believed she could overcome that with intelligence and determination.

Her family had a history of prevailing against the odds. Her grandfather, Saul Summers, had walked to Chicago from his hometown of Golgotha, Alabama. On the way he had been arrested for “vagrancy” and sentenced to thirty days’ labor in a coal mine. While there, he saw a man clubbed to death by guards for trying to escape. After thirty days he was not released, and when he complained he was flogged. He risked his life, escaped, and made it to Chicago. There he eventually became pastor of the Bethlehem Full Gospel Church. Now eighty years old, he was semiretired, still preaching occasionally.

Maria’s father, Daniel, had gone to a Negro college and law school. In 1930, in the Depression, he had opened a storefront law firm in the South Side neighborhood, where no one could afford a postage stamp, let alone a lawyer. Maria had often heard him reminisce about how his clients had paid him in kind: homemade cakes, eggs from their backyard hens, a free haircut, some carpentry around his office. By the time Roosevelt’s New Deal kicked in and the economy improved, he was the most popular black lawyer in Chicago.

So Maria was not afraid of adversity. But she was lonely. Everyone around her was white. Grandfather Summers often said: “There’s nothing wrong with white people. They just ain’t black.” She knew what he meant. White people did not know about “vagrancy.” Somehow it slipped their minds that Alabama had continued to send Negroes to forced labor camps until 1927. If she spoke about such things, they looked sad for a moment, then turned away, and she knew they thought she was exaggerating. Black people who talked about prejudice were boring to whites, like sick people who recited their symptoms.

She had been delighted to see George Jakes again. She would have sought him out as soon as she got to Washington, except that a modest girl did not chase after a man, no matter how charming he was; and anyway she would not have known what to say. She liked George more than any man she had met since she broke up with Frank Baker two years ago. She would have married Frank if he had asked her, but he wanted sex without marriage, a proposal she had rejected. When George had walked her back to the press office, she had felt sure he was about to ask her for a date, and she had been disappointed when he had not.

She shared an apartment with two black girls, but did not have much in common with them. Both were secretaries, and mainly interested in fashions and movies.

Maria was used to being exceptional. There had not been many black women at her college, and at law school she had been the only one. Now she was the only black woman in the White House, not counting cleaners and cooks. She had no complaints: everyone was friendly. But she was lonely.

On the morning after she met George she was studying a speech by Fidel Castro, looking for nuggets the press office could use, when her phone rang and a man said: “Would you like to go swimming?”

The flat Boston accent was familiar, but she could not identify it for a moment. “Who is this?”

“Dave.”

It was Dave Powers, the president’s personal aide, sometimes called the First Friend. Maria had spoken to him two or three times. Like most people in the White House, he was amiable and charming.

But now Maria was taken by surprise. “Where?” she said.

He laughed. “Here in the White House, of course.”

She recalled that there was a pool in the west gallery, between the White House and the West Wing. She had never seen it, but she knew it had been built for President Roosevelt. She had heard that President Kennedy liked to swim at least once a day because the water relieved the pressure on his bad back.

Dave added: “There will be some other girls.”

Maria’s first thought was of her hair. Just about every black woman in an office job wore a hairpiece or a wig to work. Blacks and whites alike felt that the natural look of black hair just was not businesslike. Today Maria had a beehive, with a hairpiece carefully braided into her own hair, which itself had been relaxed with chemicals to mimic the smooth, straight texture of white women’s hair. It was not a secret: it would be obvious to every black woman who glanced at her. But a white man such as Dave would never even notice.

How could she go swimming? If she got her hair wet it would turn into a mess that she would not be able to rescue.

She was too embarrassed to say what the problem was, but she quickly thought of an excuse. “I don’t have a swimsuit.”

“We have swimsuits,” Dave replied. “I’ll pick you up at noon.” He hung up.

Maria looked at her watch. It was ten to twelve.

What was she going to do? Would she be allowed to ease herself carefully into the water at the shallow end, and keep her hair dry?

She had asked all the wrong questions, she realized. She really needed to know why she had been invited and what might be expected of her—and whether the president would be there.

She looked at the woman at the next desk. Nelly Fordham was a single woman who had worked at the White House for a decade. She hinted that years ago she had been disappointed in love. She had been helpful to Maria from the start. Now she was looking curious. “‘I don’t have a swimsuit’?” she quoted.

“I’m invited to the president’s pool,” Maria said. “Should I go?”

“Of course! Just as long as you tell me all about it when you come back.”

Maria lowered her voice. “He said there will be some other girls. Do you think the president will be there?”

Nelly looked around, but no one was listening. “Does Jack Kennedy like to swim surrounded by pretty girls?” she said. “No prizes for answering that one.”

Maria still was not sure whether to go. Then she remembered Larry Mawhinney calling her an iceberg. That had stung. She was not an iceberg. She was a virgin at twenty-five because she had never met a man to whom she wanted to give herself body and soul, but she was not frigid.

Dave Powers appeared at the door and said: “Coming?”

“Heck, yes,” said Maria.

Dave walked her along the arcade at the edge of the Rose Garden to the pool entrance. Two other girls arrived at the same time. Maria had seen them before, always together: both were White House secretaries. Dave introduced them. “Meet Jennifer and Geraldine, known as Jenny and Jerry,” he said.

The girls led Maria into a changing room where a dozen or more swimsuits hung on hooks. Jenny and Jerry stripped off quickly. Maria noticed that both had superb figures. She did not often see white girls naked. Although blondes, both had dark pubic hair in a neat triangle. Maria wondered whether they trimmed it with scissors. She had never thought of doing that.

The swimsuits were all one-pieces and made of cotton. Maria rejected the more flamboyant colors and picked a modest dark navy. Then she followed Jenny and Jerry to the pool.

The walls on three sides were painted with Caribbean scenes, palm trees and sailing ships. The fourth wall was mirrored, and Maria checked her reflection. She was not too fat, she thought, except for her ass, which was too big. The navy blue looked good against her dark-brown skin.

She noticed a table of drinks and sandwiches to one side. She was too nervous to eat.

Dave was sitting on the edge, barefoot with his pants rolled up, paddling his feet in the water. Jenny and Jerry were bobbing around, talking and laughing. Maria sat opposite Dave and put her feet in. The pool was as warm as a bath.

A minute later, President Kennedy appeared, and Maria’s heart beat faster.

He was wearing the usual dark suit, white shirt, and narrow tie. He stood at the edge, smiling at the girls. Maria caught a lemon whiff of his 4711 cologne. He said: “Mind if I join you?” just as if it was their pool, not his.

Jenny said: “Please do!” She and Jerry were not surprised to see him, and Maria deduced that this was not the first time they had swum with the president.

He went into the dressing room and came out again wearing blue swimming trunks. He was lean and tanned, in great shape for a man of forty-four, probably on account of all the sailing he did at Hyannis Port on Cape Cod, where he had a holiday home. He sat on the edge, then eased himself into the water with a sigh.

He swam for a few minutes. Maria wondered what her mother would say. Ma would disapprove of her daughter going swimming with a married man if he were anyone other than the president. But surely nothing bad could happen here, in the White House, in front of Dave Powers and Jenny and Jerry?

The president swam over to where she sat. “How are you getting on in the press office, Maria?” He asked this as if it were the most important question in the world.

“Fine, thank you, sir.”

“Is Pierre a good boss?”

“Very good. Everyone likes him.”

“I like him, too.”

This close, Maria could see the faint wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and mouth, and the touch of gray in his thick red-brown hair. His eyes were not quite blue, she saw; more like hazel.

He knew she was scrutinizing him, she thought, and he did not mind. Perhaps he was used to it. Perhaps he liked it. He smiled and said: “What kind of work are you doing?”

“A mixture.” She was overwhelmingly flattered. Maybe he was just being nice, but he seemed genuinely interested in her. “Mostly I do research for Pierre. This morning I’ve been combing through a speech by Castro.”

“Rather you than me. His speeches are long!”

Maria laughed. In the back of her mind a voice said, The president is joking with me about Fidel Castro! In a swimming pool! She said: “Sometimes Pierre asks me to write a press release, which is the part I like best.”

“Tell him to give you more releases to write. You’re good at it.”

“Thank you, Mr. President. I can’t tell you how much that means to me.”

“You’re from Chicago, is that right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where are you living now?”

“In Georgetown. I share an apartment with two girls who work in the State Department.”

“Sounds good. Well, I’m glad you’re settled. I value your work, and I know Pierre does too.”

He turned and talked to Jenny, but Maria did not hear what he said. She was too excited. The president remembered her name; he knew she was from Chicago; he thought highly of her work. And he was so attractive. She felt light enough to float up to the moon.

Dave looked at his watch and said: “Twelve thirty, Mr. President.”

Maria could not believe she had been here for half an hour. It seemed like two minutes. But the president got out of the pool and went into the changing room.

The three girls got out. “Have a sandwich,” Dave said. They all went to the table. Maria tried to eat something—this was her lunch break—but her stomach seemed to have shrunk to nothing. She drank a bottle of sugary soda pop.

Dave left, and the three girls changed back into their work clothes. Maria looked in the mirror. Her hair was a little damp, from the humidity, but it was still perfectly in place.

She said good-bye to Jenny and Jerry, then went back to the press office. On her desk was a thick report on health care and a note from Salinger asking for a two-page summary in an hour.

She caught the eye of Nelly, who said: “Well? What was that all about?”

Maria thought for a moment, then said: “I have no idea.”

George Jakes got a message asking him to drop in on Joseph Hugo at FBI headquarters. Hugo was now working as personal assistant to FBI director J. Edgar Hoover. The message said that the Bureau had important information about Martin Luther King that Hugo wished to share with the attorney general’s staff.

Hoover hated Martin Luther King. Not a single FBI agent was black. Hoover hated Bobby Kennedy, too. He hated a lot of people.

George considered refusing to go. The last thing he wanted was to speak to that creep Hugo, who had betrayed the civil rights movement and George personally. George’s arm still hurt occasionally from the injury he had received in Anniston while Hugo looked on, chatting to the police and smoking.

On the other hand, if it was bad news George wanted to hear it first. Perhaps the FBI had caught King out in an extramarital affair, or something of that kind. George would welcome the chance to manage the dissemination of any negative information about the civil rights movement. He did not want someone such as Dennis Wilson spreading the word. For that reason he would have to see Hugo, and probably suffer his gloating.

FBI headquarters was on another floor of the Justice Department building. George found Hugo in a small office near the director’s suite of rooms. Hugo had a short FBI haircut and wore a plain midgray suit with a white nylon shirt and a navy blue tie. On his desk was a pack of menthol cigarettes and a file folder.

“What do you want?” said George.

Hugo grinned. He could not conceal his pleasure. He said: “One of Martin Luther King’s advisers is a Communist.”

George was shocked. This accusation could blight the entire civil rights movement. He felt cold with worry. You could never prove that someone was not a Communist—and anyway, the truth hardly mattered: just the suggestion was deadly. Like the accusation of witchcraft in the Middle Ages, it was an easy way to stir up hatred among stupid and ignorant people.

“Who is this adviser?” George asked Hugo.

Hugo looked at a file, as if he had to refresh his memory. “Stanley Levison,” he said.

“That doesn’t sound like a Negro name.”

“He’s a Jew.” Hugo took a photograph from the file and handed it over.

George saw an undistinguished white face with receding hair and large spectacles. The man was wearing a bow tie. George had met King and his people in Atlanta, and none of them looked like this. “Are you sure he works for the Southern Christian Leadership Conference?”

“I didn’t say he worked for King. He’s a New York attorney. Also a successful businessman.”

“So in what sense is he an ‘adviser’ to Dr. King?”

“He helped King get his book published, and defended him from a tax-evasion lawsuit in Alabama. They don’t meet often, but they talk on the phone.”

George sat upright. “How would you know a thing like that?”

“Sources,” Hugo said smugly.

“So, you claim that Dr. King sometimes telephones a New York attorney and gets advice on tax and publishing matters.”

“From a Communist.”

“How do you know he’s a Communist?”

“Sources.”

“What sources?”

“We can’t reveal the identities of informants.”

“You can to the attorney general.”

“You’re not the attorney general.”

“Do you know Levison’s card number?”

“What?” Hugo was momentarily flustered.

“Communist Party members have a card, as you know. Each card has a number. What’s Levison’s card number?”

Hugo pretended to search for it. “I don’t think that’s in this file.”

“So you can’t prove Levison is a Communist.”

“We don’t need proof,” Hugo said, showing irritation. “We’re not going to prosecute him. We’re simply informing the attorney general of our suspicions, as is our duty.”

George’s voice rose. “You’re blackening Dr. King’s name by claiming that a lawyer he consulted is a Communist—and you offer no evidence whatsoever?”

“You’re right,” said Hugo, surprising George. “We need more evidence. That’s why we’ll be asking for a wiretap on Levison’s phone.” The attorney general had to authorize wiretaps. “The file is for you.” He proffered it.

George did not take it. “If you wiretap Levison you’ll be listening to some of Dr. King’s calls.”

Hugo shrugged. “People who talk to Communists take the risk of being wiretapped. Anything wrong with that?”

George thought there was something wrong with that, in a free country, but he did not say so. “We don’t know that Levison is a Communist.”

“So we need to find out.”

George took the file, stood up, and opened the door.

Hugo said: “Hoover will undoubtedly mention this next time he meets with Bobby. So don’t try to keep it to yourself.”

That thought had crossed George’s mind, but now he said: “Of course not.” It had been a bad idea anyway.

“So what will you do?”

“I’ll tell Bobby,” George said. “He’ll decide.” He left the room.

He went up in the elevator to the fifth floor. Several Justice Department officials were just coming out of Bobby’s office. George looked in. As usual, Bobby had his jacket off, his shirtsleeves rolled, and his glasses on. He had evidently just finished a meeting. George checked his watch: he had a few minutes before his next meeting. He walked in.

Bobby greeted him warmly. “Hi, George, how are things with you?”

It had been like this ever since the day George had imagined Bobby was about to hit him. Bobby treated him like a bosom pal. George wondered if that was a pattern. Maybe Bobby had to quarrel with someone before becoming close.

“Bad news,” George said.

“Sit down and tell me.”

George closed the door. “Hoover says he’s found a Communist in Martin Luther King’s circle.”

“Hoover is a troublemaking cocksucker,” said Bobby.

George was startled. Did Bobby mean that Hoover was queer? It seemed impossible. Maybe Bobby was just being insulting. “Name of Stanley Levison,” George said.

“Who is he?”

“A lawyer Dr. King has consulted about tax and other matters.”

“In Atlanta?”

“No, Levison is based in New York.”

“It doesn’t sound like he’s really close to King.”

“I don’t believe he is.”

“But that hardly matters,” Bobby said wearily. “Hoover can always make it sound worse than it is.”

“The FBI says Levison is a Communist, but they won’t tell me what evidence they have, though they might tell you.”

“I don’t want to know anything about their sources of information.” Bobby held up his hands, palms outward, in a defensive gesture. “I’d be blamed for every goddamn leak forever after.”

“They don’t even have Levison’s party card number.”

“They don’t fucking know,” Bobby said. “They’re just guessing. But it makes no difference. People will believe it.”

“What are we going to do?”

“King has to break with Levison,” Bobby said decisively. “Otherwise Hoover will leak this, King will be damaged, and the whole civil rights mess will just get worse.”

George did not think of the civil rights campaign as a “mess,” but the Kennedy brothers did. However, that was not the point. Hoover’s accusation was a threat that had to be dealt with, and Bobby was right: the simplest solution was for King to break with Levison. “But how are we going to get Dr. King to do that?” George asked.

Bobby said: “You’re going to fly down to Atlanta and tell him to.”

George was daunted. Martin Luther King was famous for defying authority, and George knew from Verena that in private as well as in public King could not easily be talked into anything. But George hid his apprehension behind a calm veneer. “I’ll call now and make an appointment.” He went to the door.

“Thank you, George,” Bobby said with evident relief. “It’s so great to be able to rely on you.”

The day after she went swimming with the president, Maria picked up the phone and heard the voice of Dave Powers again. “There’s a staff get-together at five thirty,” he said. “Would you like to come?”

Maria and her flatmates had plans to see Audrey Hepburn and the dishy George Peppard in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. But junior White House staffers did not say no to Dave Powers. The girls would have to drool over Peppard without her. “Where do I go?” she said.

“Upstairs.”

“Upstairs?” That usually meant the president’s private residence.

“I’ll pick you up.” Dave hung up.

Maria immediately wished she had put on a more fancy outfit today. She was wearing a plaid pleated skirt and a plain white blouse with little gold-colored buttons. Her hairpiece was a simple bob, short in the back with long scimitars of hair either side of her chin, in the current fashion. She feared she looked like every other office girl in Washington.

She spoke to Nelly. “Have you been invited to a staff get-together this evening?”

“Not me,” said Nelly. “Where is it?”

“Upstairs.”

“Lucky you.”

At five fifteen, Maria went to the ladies’ room to adjust her hair and makeup. She noticed that none of the other women were making any special effort, and she deduced that they had not been invited. Perhaps the get-together was for the newest recruits.

At five thirty, Nelly picked up her handbag to leave. “You take care of yourself, now,” she said to Maria.

“You, too.”

“No, I mean it,” said Nelly, and she walked out before Maria could ask what she meant by that.

Dave Powers appeared a minute later. He led her out of doors, along the West Colonnade, past the entrance to the pool, then back inside and up in an elevator.

The doors opened on a grand hallway with two chandeliers. The walls were painted a color between blue and green that Maria thought might be called eau de nil. She hardly had time to take it in. “We’re in the West Sitting Hall,” Dave said, and led her through an open doorway into an informal room with a scatter of comfortable couches and a large arched window facing the sunset.

The same two secretaries were here, Jenny and Jerry, but no one else. Maria sat down, wondering whether others were going to join them. On the coffee table was a tray with cocktail glasses and a jug. “Have a daiquiri,” Dave said, and poured it without waiting for her answer. Maria did not drink alcohol often, but she sipped it and liked it. She took a cheese puff from the tray of snacks. What was this all about?

“Will the First Lady be joining us?” she asked. “I’m longing to meet her.”

There was a moment of silence, making her feel as if she had said something tactless; then Dave said: “Jackie’s gone to Glen Ora.”

Glen Ora was a farm in Middleburg, Virginia, where Jackie Kennedy kept horses and rode with the Orange County Hunt. It was about an hour from Washington.

Jenny said: “She’s taken Caroline and John John.”

Caroline Kennedy was four and John John was one.

If I were married to him, Maria thought, I wouldn’t leave him to ride my horse.

Suddenly he walked in, and they all stood up.

He looked tired and strained, but his smile was as warm as ever. He took off his jacket, threw it over the back of a chair, sat on the couch, leaned back, and put his feet on the coffee table.

Maria felt she had been admitted to the most exclusive social group in the world. She was in the president’s home, having drinks and snacks while he put his feet up. Whatever else happened, she would always have the memory of this.

She drained her glass, and Dave topped it up.

Why was she thinking, Whatever else happened? There was something off here. She was just a researcher, hoping for an early promotion to assistant press officer. The atmosphere was relaxed, but she was not really among friends. None of these people knew anything about her. What was she doing here?

The president stood up and said: “Maria, would you like a tour of the residence?”

A tour of the residence? From the president himself? Who would say no?

“Of course.” She stood up. The daiquiri went to her head, and for a moment she felt dizzy, but it passed.

The president went through a side door, and she followed.

“This used to be a guest bedroom, but Mrs. Kennedy has converted it into a dining room,” he said. The room was papered with battle scenes from the American Revolution. The square table in the middle looked too small for the room, Maria thought, and the chandelier too big for the table. But mostly she thought: I’m alone with the president in the White House residence—me! Maria Summers!

He smiled and looked into her eyes. “What do you think?” he said, as if he could not make up his own mind until he had heard her opinion.

“I love it,” she said, wishing she could think of a more intelligent compliment.

“This way.” He led her back across the West Sitting Hall and through the opposite door. “This is Mrs. Kennedy’s bedroom,” he said, and he closed the door behind them.

“It’s beautiful,” Maria breathed.

Opposite the door were two long windows with light-blue drapes. To Maria’s left was a fireplace with a couch placed on a rug patterned with the same blue. Over the mantel was a collection of framed drawings that looked tasteful and highbrow, just like Jackie. At the other end, the bedcovers and the canopy also matched, as did the cloth that covered the round occasional table in the corner. Maria had never seen a room like it, even in magazines.

But she was thinking: Why did he call it “Mrs. Kennedy’s bedroom”? Did he not sleep here? The big double bed was made up in two separate halves, and Maria recalled that the president had to have a hard mattress because of his back.

He led her to the window and they looked out. The evening light was soft over the South Lawn and the fountain where the Kennedy children sometimes paddled. “So beautiful,” Maria said.

He put a hand on her shoulder. It was the first time he had touched her, and she trembled a little with the thrill. She smelled his cologne, close enough now to pick up the rosemary and musk under the citrus. He looked at her with the faint smile that was so alluring. “This is a very private room,” he murmured.

She looked into his eyes. “Yes,” she whispered. She felt a deep sense of intimacy with him, as if she had known him all her life, as if she knew beyond doubt that she could trust and love him without limit. She had a momentary guilty thought about George Jakes. But George had not even asked her for a date. She put him out of her mind.

The president put his other hand on the opposite shoulder and gently pushed her back. When her legs touched the bed she sat down.

He pushed her farther back, until she had to lean on her elbows. Still gazing into her eyes, he began to undo her blouse. For a moment she felt ashamed of those cheap gold-colored buttons, here in this unspeakably elegant room. Then he put his hands on her breasts.

Suddenly she hated the nylon brassiere that came between his skin and hers. Swiftly she undid the rest of the buttons, slipped her blouse off, reached behind her back to undo her bra, and threw that aside too. He gazed adoringly at her breasts, then took them in his soft hands, stroking them gently at first, then grasping them firmly.

He reached under her plaid skirt and pulled down her panties. She wished she had remembered to trim her pubic hair, as Jenny and Jerry did.

He was breathing hard, and so was she. He unfastened his suit pants and dropped them, then he lay on top of her.

Was it always this quick? She did not know.

He entered her smoothly. Then, feeling resistance, he stopped. “Haven’t you done this before?” he said with surprise.

“No.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yes.” She was more than okay. She was happy, eager, yearning.

He pushed more gently. Something gave way, and she felt a sharp pain. She could not suppress a soft cry.

“Are you okay?” he repeated.

“Yes.” She did not want him to stop.

He continued with closed eyes. She studied his face, the look of concentration, the smile of pleasure. Then he gave a sigh of satisfaction, and it was over.

He stood upright and pulled up his pants.

Smiling, he said: “The bathroom is through there.” He pointed to a door in the corner, then did up his fly.

Suddenly Maria felt embarrassed, lying on the bed with her nakedness exposed to view. She stood up quickly. She grabbed her blouse and bra, stooped to pick up her panties, and ran into the bathroom.

She looked in the mirror and said: “What just happened?”

I lost my virginity, she thought. I had intercourse with a wonderful man. He happens to be the president of the United States. I enjoyed it.

She put her clothes on, then adjusted her makeup. Fortunately he had not mussed her hair.

This is Jackie’s bathroom, she thought guiltily; and suddenly she wanted to leave.

The bedroom was empty. She went to the door, then turned and looked back at the bed.

She realized he had not once kissed her.

She went into the West Sitting Hall. The president sat there alone, his feet up on the coffee table. Dave and the girls had gone, leaving behind a tray of used glasses and the remains of the snacks. Kennedy seemed relaxed, as if nothing momentous had happened. Was this an everyday occurrence for him?

“Would you like something to eat?” he said. “The kitchen’s right here.”

“No, thank you, Mr. President.”

She thought: He just fucked me, and I’m still calling him Mr. President.

He stood up. “There’s a car at the South Portico waiting to take you home,” he said. He walked her out into the main hall. “Are you okay?” he said for the third time.

“Yes.”

The elevator came. She wondered if he would kiss her good night.

He did not. She got into the elevator.

“Good night, Maria,” he said.

“Good night,” she said, and the doors closed.

It took a while for George to tell Norine Latimer that their affair was over.

He was dreading it.

He had broken up with girls before, of course. After one or two dates it was easy: you just didn’t call. After a longer relationship, in his experience, the feeling was usually mutual: both of you knew that the thrill had gone. But Norine fell between the two extremes. He had been seeing her only for a few months, and they were getting on fine. He had been hoping that they would spend a night together soon. She would not be expecting the brush-off.

He met her for lunch. She asked to be taken to the restaurant in the basement of the White House, known as the mess, but women were not allowed in. George did not want to take her somewhere swanky such as the Jockey Club, for fear she would imagine he was about to propose. In the end they went to Old Ebbitt’s, a traditional politicians’ restaurant that had seen better days.

Norine looked more Arabic than African. She was dramatically handsome, with wavy black hair and olive skin and a curved nose. She wore a fluffy sweater that really did not suit her: George guessed she was trying not to intimidate her boss. Men were uncomfortable with authoritative-looking women in their offices.

“I’m really sorry about canceling last night,” he said when they had ordered. “I was summoned to a meeting with the president.”

“Well, I can’t compete with the president,” she said.

That struck him as kind of a dumb thing to say. Of course she couldn’t compete with the president; no one could. But he did not want to get into that discussion. He went right to the point. “Something’s happened,” he said. “Before I met you, there was another girl.”

“I know,” said Norine.

“What do you mean?”

“I like you, George,” Norine said: “You’re smart and funny and kind. And you’re handsome, apart from that ear.”

“But . . .”

“But I can tell when a man is carrying a torch for someone else.”

“You can?”

“I guess it’s Maria,” said Norine.

George was astonished. “How the heck did you know that?”

“You’ve mentioned the name four or five times. And you’ve never talked about any other girl from your past. So it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that she’s still important to you. But she’s in Chicago, so I thought maybe I could win you away from her.” Norine suddenly looked sad.

George said: “She’s come to Washington.”

“Smart girl.”

“Not for me. For a job.”

“Whichever, you’re dumping me for her.”

He could hardly say yes to that. But it was true, so he said nothing.

Their food came, but Norine did not pick up her fork. “I wish you well, George,” she said. “Take care of yourself.”

It seemed very sudden. “Uh . . . you too.”

She stood up. “Good-bye.”

There was only one thing to say. “Good-bye, Norine.”

“You can have my salad,” she said, and she walked out.

George toyed with his food for a few minutes, feeling bad. Norine had been gracious, in her own way. She had made it easy for him. He hoped she was okay. She did not deserve to be hurt.

He went from the restaurant to the White House. He had to attend the President’s Committee on Equal Employment Opportunity, chaired by Vice President Lyndon Johnson. George had formed an alliance with one of Johnson’s advisers, Skip Dickerson. But he had half an hour to spare before the meeting started, so he went to the press office in search of Maria.

Today she was wearing a polka-dot dress with a matching hair band. The band was probably holding in place a wig: Maria’s cute bob was definitely not natural.

When she asked him how he was, he did not know how to answer. He felt guilty about Norine; but now he could ask Maria out with a good conscience. “Pretty good, on balance,” he said. “You?”

She lowered her voice. “Some days I just hate white people.”

“What brought this on?”

“You haven’t met my grandfather.”

“Never met any of your family.”

“Grandpa still preaches in Chicago now and again, but he spends most of his time in his hometown, Golgotha, Alabama. Says he never really got used to the cold wind in the Midwest. But he’s still feisty. He put on his best suit and went down to the Golgotha courthouse to register to vote.”

“What happened?”

“They humiliated him.” She shook her head. “You know their tricks. They give people a literacy test: you have to read part of the state constitution aloud, explain it, then write it down. The registrar picks which clause you have to read. He gives whites a simple sentence, like: ‘No person shall be imprisoned for debt.’ But Negroes get a long complicated paragraph that only a lawyer could understand. Then it’s up to the registrar to say whether you’re literate or not, and of course he always decides the whites are literate and the Negroes aren’t.”

“Sons of bitches.”

“That’s not all. Negroes who try to register get fired from their jobs, as a punishment, but they couldn’t do that to Grandpa because he’s retired. So, as he was leaving the courthouse, they arrested him for loitering. He spent the night in jail—no picnic when you’re eighty.” There were tears in her eyes.

The story hardened George’s resolve. What did he have to complain about? So, some of the things he had to do made him want to wash his hands. Working for Bobby was still the most effective thing he could do for people like Grandpa Summers. One day those Southern racists would be smashed.

He looked at his watch. “I have a meeting with Lyndon.”

“Tell him about my grandpa.”

“Maybe I will.” The time George spent with Maria always seemed too short. “I’m sorry to hurry away, but do you want to meet up after work?” he said. “We could have drinks, maybe go for dinner somewhere?”

She smiled. “Thank you, George, but I have a date tonight.”

“Oh.” George was taken aback. Somehow it had not occurred to him that she might already be dating. “Uh, I have to go to Atlanta tomorrow, but I’ll be back in two or three days. Maybe over the weekend?”

“No, thanks.” She hesitated, then explained: “I’m kind of going steady.”

George was devastated—which was stupid: why would a girl as attractive as Maria not have a steady date? He had been a fool. He felt disoriented, as if he had lost his footing. He managed to say: “Lucky guy.”

She smiled. “It’s nice of you to say so.”

George wanted to know about the competition. “Who is he?”

“You don’t know him.”

No, but I will as soon as I can learn his name. “Try me.”

She shook her head. “I prefer not to say.”

George was frustrated beyond measure. He had a rival and did not even know the man’s name. He wanted to press her, but he was wary of acting like a bully: girls hated that. “Okay,” he said reluctantly. With massive insincerity he added: “Have a great evening.”

“I sure will.”

They separated, Maria heading for the press office and George toward the vice president’s rooms.

George was heartsick. He liked Maria more than any girl he had ever met, and he had lost her to someone else.

He thought: I wonder who he is?

Maria took off her clothes and got into the bath with President Kennedy.

Jack Kennedy took pills all day but nothing relieved his back pain like being in water. He even shaved in the tub in the mornings. He would have slept in a pool if he could.

This was his bathtub, in his bathroom, with his turquoise-and-gold bottle of 4711 cologne on the shelf over the washbasin. Since the first time, Maria had never been back inside Jackie’s quarters. The president had a separate bedroom and bathroom, connected to Jackie’s suite by a short corridor where—for some reason—the record player was housed.

Jackie was out of town, again. Maria had learned not to torture herself with thoughts of her lover’s wife. Maria knew she was cruelly betraying a decent woman, and it grieved her, so she did not think about it.

Maria loved the bathroom, which was luxurious beyond dreams, with soft towels and white bathrobes and expensive soap—and a family of yellow rubber ducks.

They had slipped into a routine. Whenever Dave Powers invited her, which was about once a week, she would take the elevator up to the residence after work. There was always a pitcher of daiquiris and a tray of snacks waiting in the West Sitting Hall. Sometimes Dave was there, sometimes Jenny and Jerry, sometimes no one. Maria would pour a drink and wait, eager but patient, until the president arrived.

Soon afterward they would move to the bedroom. It was Maria’s favorite place in the world. It had a four-poster bed with a blue canopy, two chairs in front of a real fire, and piles of books, magazines, and newspapers everywhere. She felt she could cheerfully live in this room for the rest of her life.

He had gently taught her to give oral sex. She had been an eager pupil. That was usually what he wanted when he arrived. He was often in a hurry for it, almost desperate; and there was something arousing about his urgency. But she liked him best afterward, when he would relax and become warmer, more affectionate.

Sometimes he put a record on. He liked Sinatra and Tony Bennett and Percy Marquand. He had never heard of the Miracles or the Shirelles.

There was always a cold supper in the kitchen: chicken, shrimp, sandwiches, salad. After they ate they would undress and get into the bath.

She sat at the opposite end of the tub. He put two ducks in the water and said: “Bet you a quarter my duck can go faster than yours.” In his Boston accent he said quarter like an Englishman, not pronouncing the letter r.

She picked up a duck. She loved him most when he was like this: playful, silly, childish. “Okay, Mr. President,” she said. “But make it a dollar, if you got the moxie.”

She still called him Mr. President most of the time. His wife called him Jack; his brothers sometimes called him Johnny. Maria called him Johnny only at moments of great passion.

“I can’t afford to lose a dollar,” he said, laughing. But he was sensitive, and he could tell she was not in the right mood. “What’s the matter?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “I don’t usually talk to you about politics.”

“Why not? Politics is my life, and yours, too.”

“You get pestered all day. Our time together is about relaxing and having fun.”

“Make an exception.” He picked up her foot, lying alongside his thigh in the water, and stroked her toes. She had beautiful feet, she knew; and she always put varnish on her toenails. “Something has upset you,” he said quietly. “Tell me what it is.”

When he looked at her so intensely, with his hazel eyes and his wry smile, she was helpless. She said: “The day before yesterday, my grandfather was jailed for trying to register to vote.”

“Jailed? They can’t do that. What was the charge?”

“Loitering.”

“Oh. This happened somewhere in the South.”

“Golgotha, Alabama; his hometown.” She hesitated, but decided to tell him the whole truth, although he would not like it. “Do you want to know what he said when he came out of jail?”

“What?”

“He said: ‘With President Kennedy in the White House, I thought I could vote, but I guess I was wrong.’ That’s what Grandma told me.”

“Hell,” said the president. “He believed in me, and I failed him.”

“That’s what he thinks, I guess.”

“What do you think, Maria?” He was still stroking her toes.

She hesitated again, looking at her dark foot in his white hands. She feared that this discussion could become acrimonious. He was touchy about the least suggestion that he was insincere or untrustworthy, or that he failed to keep his promises as a politician. If she pushed him too hard, he might end their relationship. And then she would die.

But she had to be honest. She took a deep breath and tried to remain calm. “Far as I can see, the issue is not complicated,” she began. “Southerners do this because they can. The law, as it stands, lets them get away with it, despite the Constitution.”

“Not entirely,” he interrupted. “My brother Bob has stepped up the number of lawsuits brought by the Justice Department for voting rights violations. He has a bright young Negro lawyer working with him.”

She nodded. “George Jakes. I know him. But what they’re doing isn’t enough.”

He shrugged. “I can’t deny that.”

She pressed on. “Everyone agrees that we have to change the law by bringing in a new civil rights act. A lot of people thought you promised that in your election campaign. And . . . nobody understands why you haven’t done it yet.” She bit her lip, then risked the ultimate. “Including me.”

His face hardened.

She immediately regretted being so candid. “Don’t be mad,” she pleaded. “I wouldn’t upset you for the world—but you asked me the question, and I wanted to be honest.” Tears came to her eyes. “And my poor grandpa spent all night in jail, in his best suit.”

He forced a smile. “I’m not mad, Maria. Not at you, anyway.”

“You can tell me anything,” she said. “I adore you. I would never sit in judgment on you, you must know that. Just say how you feel.”

“I’m angry because I’m weak, I guess,” he said. “We have a majority in Congress only if we include conservative Southern Democrats. If I bring in a civil rights bill, they’ll sabotage it—and that’s not all. In revenge, they’ll vote against all the rest of my domestic legislation program, including Medicare. Now, Medicare could improve the lives of colored Americans even more than civil rights legislation.”

“Does that mean you’ve given up on civil rights?”

“No. We have midterm elections next November. I’ll be asking the American people to send more Democrats to Congress so that I can fulfill my campaign promises.”

“Will they?”

“Probably not. The Republicans are attacking me on foreign policy. We’ve lost Cuba, we’ve lost Laos, and we’re losing Vietnam. I had to let Khrushchev put up a barbed-wire fence right across the middle of Berlin. Right now my back is up against the goddamn wall.”

“How strange,” Maria reflected. “You can’t let Southern Negroes vote because you’re vulnerable on foreign policy.”

“Every leader has to look strong on the world stage, otherwise he can’t get anything done.”

“Couldn’t you just try? Bring in a civil rights bill, even though you’ll probably lose it. At least then people would know how sincere you are.”

He shook his head. “If I bring in a bill and get defeated I’ll look weak, and that will jeopardize everything else. And I’d never get a second chance on civil rights.”

“So what should I tell Grandpa?”

“That doing the right thing is not as easy as it looks, even when you’re president.”

He stood up, and she did the same. They toweled each other dry, then went into his bedroom. Maria put on one of his soft blue cotton nightshirts.

They made love again. If he was tired, it was brief, like the very first time; but tonight he was at ease. He reverted to a playful mood, and they lay back on the bed, toying with one another, as if nothing else in the world mattered.

Afterward he went to sleep quickly. She lay beside him, blissfully happy. She did not want the morning to come, when she would have to get dressed and go to the press office and begin her day’s work. She lived in the real world as if it were a dream, waiting only for the call from Dave Powers that meant she could wake up and come back to the only reality that mattered.

She knew that some of her colleagues must have guessed what she was doing. She knew he was never going to leave his wife for her. She knew she should be worried about getting pregnant. She knew that everything she was doing was foolish and wrong and could not possibly have a happy ending.

And she was too much in love to care.

George understood why Bobby was so pleased to be able to send him to talk to King. When Bobby needed to put pressure on the civil rights movement, he had more chance of success using a black messenger. George thought Bobby was right about Levison but, nevertheless, he was not entirely comfortable with his role—a feeling that was beginning to be familiar.

Atlanta was cold and rainy. Verena met George at the airport, wearing a tan coat with a black fur collar. She looked beautiful, but George was still hurting too much from Maria’s rejection to be attracted. “I know Stanley Levison,” Verena said, driving George through the urban sprawl of the city. “A very sincere guy.”

“He’s a lawyer, right?”

“More than that. He helped Martin with the writing of Stride Toward Freedom. They’re close.”

“The FBI says Levison is a Communist.”

“Anyone who disagrees with J. Edgar Hoover is a Communist, according to the FBI.”

“Bobby referred to Hoover as a cocksucker.”

Verena laughed. “Do you think he meant it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Hoover, a powder puff?” She shook her head in disbelief. “It’s too good to be true. Real life is never that funny.”

She drove through the rain to the Old Fourth Ward neighborhood, where there were hundreds of black-owned businesses. There seemed to be a church on every block. Auburn Avenue had once been called the most prosperous Negro street in America. The Southern Christian Leadership Conference had its headquarters at number 320. Verena pulled up at a long two-story building of red brick.

George said: “Bobby thinks Dr. King is arrogant.”

Verena shrugged. “Martin thinks Bobby is arrogant.”

“What do you think?”

“They’re both right.”

George laughed. He liked Verena’s sharp wit.

They hurried across the wet sidewalk and went inside. They waited outside King’s office for fifteen minutes, then they were called.

Martin Luther King was a handsome man of thirty-three, with a mustache and prematurely receding black hair. He was short, George guessed about five foot six, and a little plump. He wore a well-pressed dark-gray suit with a white shirt and a narrow black satin tie. There was a white silk handkerchief in his breast pocket, and he had large cuff links. George caught a whiff of cologne. He got the impression of a man whose dignity was important to him. George sympathized: he felt the same.

King shook George’s hand and said: “Last time we met, you were on the Freedom Ride, heading for Anniston. How’s the arm?”

“It’s completely healed, thank you,” George said. “I’ve given up competitive wrestling, but I was ready to do that anyway. Now I coach a high school team in Ivy City.” Ivy City was a black neighborhood in Washington.

“That’s a good thing,” King said. “To teach Negro boys to use their strength in a disciplined sport, with rules. Please have a seat.” He waved at a chair and retreated behind his desk. “Tell me why the attorney general has sent you to speak to me.” There was a hint of injured pride in his voice. Perhaps King thought Bobby should have come himself. George recalled that King’s nickname within the civil rights movement was De Lawd.

George outlined the Stanley Levison problem briskly, leaving out nothing but the wiretap request. “Bobby sent me here to urge you, as strongly as I can, to break all ties with Mr. Levison,” he said in conclusion. “It’s the only way to protect yourself from the charge of being a fellow traveler with the Communists—an accusation that can do untold harm to the movement that you and I both believe in.”

When he had finished, King said: “Stanley Levison is not a Communist.”

George opened his mouth to ask a question.

King held up a hand to silence him: he was not a man to tolerate interruption. “Stanley has never been a member of the Communist Party. Communism is atheistical, and I as a follower of the Lord Jesus Christ would find it impossible to be the close friend of an atheist. But—” He leaned forward across the desk. “That is not the whole truth.”

He was silent for a few moments, but George knew that he was not supposed to speak.

“Let me tell you the whole truth about Stanley Levison,” King went on at last, and George felt he was about to hear a sermon. “Stanley is good at making money. This embarrasses him. He feels he should spend his life helping others. So, when he was young, he became . . . entranced. Yes, that’s the word. He was entranced by the ideals of Communism. Although he never joined, he used his remarkable talents to help the Communist Party of the USA in various ways. Soon he saw how wrong he was, broke the association, and gave his support to the cause of freedom and equality for the Negro. And so he became my friend.”

George waited until he was sure King had finished, then he said: “I’m deeply sorry to hear this, Reverend. If Levison has been a financial adviser to the Communist Party, he is forever tainted.”

“But he has changed.”

“I believe you, but others will not. By continuing a relationship with Levison you will be giving ammunition to our enemies.”

“So be it,” said King.

George was flabbergasted. “What do you mean?”

“Moral rules must be obeyed when it doesn’t suit us. Otherwise, why would we need rules?”

“But if you balance—”

“We don’t balance,” King said. “Stanley did wrong to help the Communists. He has repented and is making amends. I’m a preacher in the service of the Lord. I must forgive as Jesus does and welcome Stanley with open arms. Joy shall be in heaven over one sinner that repenteth, more than over ninety and nine just persons. I myself am too often in need of God’s grace to refuse mercy to another.”

“But the cost—”

“I’m a Christian pastor, George. The doctrine of forgiveness goes deep into my soul, deeper even than freedom and justice. I could not go back on it for any prize.”

George realized his mission was doomed. King was completely sincere. There was no prospect of changing his mind.

George stood up. “Thank you for taking the time to explain your point of view. I appreciate it, and so does the attorney general.”

“God bless you,” said King.

George and Verena left the office and walked outside. Without speaking, they got into Verena’s car. “I’ll drop you at your hotel,” she said.

George nodded. He was thinking about King’s words. He did not want to talk.

They drove in silence until she pulled up at the hotel entrance. Then she said: “Well?”

He said: “King made me ashamed of myself.”

“That’s what preachers do,” said his mother. “It’s their job. It’s good for you.” She poured a glass of milk for George and gave him a slice of cake. He did not want either.

He had told her the whole thing, sitting in her kitchen. “He was so strong,” George said. “Once he knew what was right, he was going to do it, no matter what.”

“Don’t set him up too high,” Jacky said. “No one’s an angel—especially if he’s a man.” It was late afternoon, and she was still wearing her work clothes, a plain black dress and flat shoes.

“I know that. But there I was, trying to persuade him to break with a loyal friend for cynical political reasons, and he just talked about right and wrong.”

“How was Verena?”

“I wish you could have seen her, in that coat with a black fur collar.”

“Did you take her out?”

“We had dinner.” He had not kissed her good night.

Out of the blue, Jacky said: “I like that Maria Summers.”

George was startled. “How do you know her?”

“She belongs to the club.” Jacky was supervisor of the colored staff at the University Women’s Club. “It doesn’t have many black members, so of course we talk. She mentioned she worked at the White House, I told her about you, and we realized you two already know each other. She has a nice family.”

George was amused. “How do you know that?”

“She brought her parents in for lunch. Her father’s a big lawyer in Chicago. He knows Mayor Daley there.” Daley was a big Kennedy supporter.

“You know more about her than I do!”

“Women listen. Men talk.”

“I like Maria, too.”

“Good.” Jacky frowned, remembering the original topic of conversation. “What did Bobby Kennedy say when you got back from Atlanta?”

“He’s going to okay the wiretap on Levison. That means the FBI will be listening to some of Dr. King’s phone calls.”

“How much does that matter? Everything King does is intended to be publicized.”

“They may find out, in advance, what King is going to do next. If they do, they’ll tip off the segregationists, who will be able to plan ahead, and may find ways to undermine what King does.”

“It’s bad, but it’s not the end of the world.”

“I could tip King off about the wiretap. Tell Verena to warn King to be careful what he says on the phone to Levison.”

“You’d be betraying the trust of your work colleagues.”

“That’s what bothers me.”

“In fact, you’d probably have to resign.”

“Exactly. Because I’d feel a traitor.”

“Besides, they might find out about the tip-off, and when they looked around for the culprit they’d see one black face in the room—yours.”

“Maybe I should do it anyway, if it’s the right thing.”

“If you leave, George, there’s no black face in Bobby Kennedy’s inner circle.”

“I knew you’d say I should shut up and stay.”

“It’s hard, but yes, I think you should.”

“So do I,” said George.

CHAPTER TWELVE

You live in an amazing house,” Beep Dewar said to Dave Williams.

Dave was thirteen years old; he had lived here as long as he could remember; and he had never really noticed the house. He looked up at the brick façade of the garden front, with its regular rows of Georgian windows. “Amazing?” he said.

“It’s so old.”

“It’s eighteenth century, I think. So it’s only about two hundred years old.”

“Only!” She laughed. “In San Francisco, nothing is two hundred years old!”

The house was in Great Peter Street, London, a couple of minutes’ walk from Parliament. Most of the houses in the neighborhood were eighteenth century, and Dave knew vaguely that they had been built for members of Parliament and peers who had to attend the House of Commons and the House of Lords. Dave’s father, Lloyd Williams, was an M.P.

“Do you smoke cigarettes?” said Beep, taking out a packet.

“Only when I get the chance.”

She gave him one and they both lit up.

Ursula Dewar, known as Beep, was also thirteen, but she seemed older than Dave. She wore nifty American clothes, tight sweaters and narrow jeans and boots. She claimed she could drive. She said British radio was square: only three stations, none playing rock and roll—and they went off the air at midnight! When she caught Dave staring at the small bumps her breasts made in the front of her black turtleneck, she was not even embarrassed; she just smiled. But she never quite gave him an opportunity to kiss her.

She would not be the first girl he had kissed. He would have liked to let her know that, just in case she thought he was inexperienced. She would be the third, counting Linda Robertson, whom he did count even though she had not actually kissed him back. The point was, he knew what to do.

But he had not managed it with Beep, not yet.

He had come close. He had discreetly put his arm around her shoulders in the back of his father’s Humber Hawk, but she had turned her face away and looked out at the lamplit streets. She did not giggle when tickled. They had jived to the Dansette record player in the bedroom of his fifteen-year-old sister, Evie; but Beep had declined to slow-dance when Dave put on Elvis singing “Are You Lonesome Tonight?”

Still he lived in hope. Sadly, this was not the moment, standing in the small garden on a winter afternoon, Beep hugging herself to keep warm, both of them stiffly dressed in their best clothes. They were off to a formal family occasion. But there would be a party later. Beep had a quarter bottle of vodka in her handbag to spike the soft drinks they would be given while their parents hypocritically glugged whisky and gin. And then anything might happen. He stared at her pink lips closing around the filter tip of her Chesterfield, and imagined yearningly what it would be like.

His mother’s American accent called from the house: “Get in here, you kids—we’re leaving!” They dropped their cigarettes into the flower bed and went inside.

The two families were assembling in the hall. Dave’s grandmother, Eth Leckwith, was to be “introduced” to the House of Lords. This meant she would become a baroness, be addressed as Lady Leckwith, and sit as a Labour peer in the upper chamber of Parliament. Dave’s parents, Lloyd and Daisy, were waiting, with his sister, Evie, and a young family friend, Jasper Murray. The Dewars, wartime friends, were here too. Woody Dewar was a photographer on a one-year assignment in London, and had brought his wife, Bella, and their children, Cameron and Beep. All Americans seemed fascinated by the pantomime of British public life, so the Dewars were joining in the celebration. They formed a large group as they left the house and headed for Parliament Square.

Walking through the misty London streets, Beep transferred her attention from Dave to Jasper Murray. He was eighteen and a Viking, tall and broad with blond hair. He wore a heavy tweed jacket. Dave longed to be so grown-up and masculine, and to have Beep look up at him with that expression of admiration and desire.

Dave treated Jasper like an older brother, and asked his advice. He had confessed to Jasper that he adored Beep and could not figure out how to win her heart. “Keep trying,” Jasper had said. “Sometimes sheer persistence works.”

Dave could hear their conversation. “So you’re Dave’s cousin?” Beep said to Jasper as they crossed Parliament Square.

“Not really,” Jasper replied. “We’re no relation.”

“So how come you live here rent-free and everything?”

“My mother was at school with Dave’s mother in Buffalo. That’s where they met your father. Since then they’ve all been friends.”

There was more to it than that, Dave knew. Jasper’s mother, Eva, had been a refugee from Nazi Germany and Dave’s mother, Daisy, had taken her in, with characteristic generosity. But Jasper preferred to underplay the extent to which his family was indebted to the Williamses.

Beep said: “What are you studying?”

“French and German. I’m at St. Julian’s, which is one of the larger colleges of London University. But mostly I write for the student newspaper. I’m going to be a journalist.”

Dave was envious. He would never learn French or go to university. He was bottom of the class at everything. His father despaired.

Beep said to Jasper: “Where are your parents?”

“Germany. They move around the world with the army. My father’s a colonel.”

“A colonel!” said Beep admiringly.

Dave’s sister, Evie, muttered in his ear: “Little tart, what does she think she’s doing? First she flutters her eyelashes at you, then she flirts with a man five years older!”

Dave made no comment. He knew that his sister had a massive crush on Jasper. He could have taunted her, but he refrained. He liked Evie and, besides, it was better to save up stuff like this and use it next time she was mean to him.

“Don’t you have to be born an aristocrat?” Beep was saying.

“Even in the oldest families there has to be a first one,” Jasper said. “But nowadays we have life peers, who don’t pass the title to their heirs. Mrs. Leckwith will be a life peer.”

“Will we have to curtsey to her?”

Jasper laughed. “No, idiot.”

“Will the queen be there for the ceremony?”

“No.”

“How disappointing!”

Evie whispered: “Stupid bitch.”

They went into the Palace of Westminster by the Lords Entrance. They were greeted by a man in court dress, including knee breeches and silk stockings. Dave heard his grandmother say in her lilting Welsh accent: “Obsolete uniforms are a sure sign of an institution in need of reform.”

Dave and Evie had been coming to the Parliament building all their lives, but it was a new experience for the Dewars, and they marveled. Beep forgot to be charmingly dizzy and said: “Every surface is decorated! Floor tiles, patterned carpets, wallpaper, wood paneling, stained glass, and carved stone!”

Jasper looked at her with more interest. “It’s typical Victorian Gothic.”

“Oh, really?”

Dave was beginning to get irritated with the way Jasper was impressing Beep.

The party split, most of them following an usher up several flights to a gallery overlooking the debating chamber. Ethel’s friends were already there. Beep sat next to Jasper, but Dave managed to sit the other side of her, and Evie slid in beside him. Dave had often visited the House of Commons, at the other end of the same palace, but this was more ornate, and had red leather benches instead of green.

After a long wait there was a stir of activity below and his grandmother came in, walking in line with four other people, all dressed in funny hats and extremely silly robes with fur trimmings. Beep said: “This is amazing!” but Dave and Evie giggled.

The procession stopped in front of a throne, and Grandmam knelt down, not without difficulty—she was sixty-eight. There was a lot of passing round of scrolls that had to be read aloud. Dave’s mother, Daisy, was explaining the ceremony in a low voice to Beep’s parents, tall Woody and plump Bella, but Dave tuned her out. It was all bollocks really.

After a while Ethel and two of her escorts went and sat on one of the benches. Then followed the funniest part of all.

They sat down, then immediately stood up again. They took off their hats and bowed. They sat down and put their hats back on again. Then they went through the whole thing again, looking for all the world like three marionettes on strings: stand up, hats off, bow, sit down, hats on. By this time Dave and Evie were helpless with suppressed laughter. Then they did it a third time. Dave heard his sister splutter: “Stop, please stop!” which made him giggle even more. Daisy directed a stern blue-eyed glare at them, but she was too full of fun herself not to see the funny side, and in the end she grinned too.

At last it was over and Ethel left the chamber. Her family and friends stood up. Dave’s mother led them through a maze of corridors and staircases to a basement room for the party. Dave checked that his guitar was safe in a corner. He and Evie were going to perform, though she was the star: he was merely her accompanist.

Within a few minutes there were about a hundred people in the room.

Evie buttonholed Jasper and started asking him about the student newspaper. The subject was close to his heart, and he answered with enthusiasm, but Dave was sure Evie was onto a loser. Jasper was a boy who knew how to look after his own interests. Right now he had luxurious lodgings, rent-free, a short bus ride from his college. He was not likely to destabilize that comfortable situation by beginning a romance with the daughter of the house, in Dave’s cynical opinion.

However, Evie took Jasper’s attention away from Beep, leaving the field clear for Dave. He got her a ginger beer and asked her what she thought of the ceremony. Surreptitiously, she poured vodka into their soft drinks. A minute later everyone applauded as Ethel came in, dressed now in normal clothes, a red dress and matching coat with a small hat perched on her silver curls. Beep whispered: “She must have been drop-dead gorgeous, once upon a time.”

Dave found it creepy to think about his grandmother as an attractive woman.

Ethel began to speak. “It’s such a pleasure to share this occasion with all of you,” she said. “I’m only sorry my beloved Bernie didn’t live to see this day. He was the wisest man I ever knew.”

Granddad Bernie had died a year ago.

“It is strange to be addressed as ‘my lady,’ especially for a lifelong socialist,” she went on, and everyone laughed. “Bernie would ask me whether I had beaten my enemies or just joined them. So let me assure you that I have joined the peerage in order to abolish it.”

They applauded.

“Seriously, comrades, I gave up being the member of Parliament for Aldgate because I felt it was time to let someone younger take over, but I haven’t retired. There is too much injustice in our society, too much bad housing and poverty, too much hunger in the world—and I may have only twenty or thirty campaigning years left!”

That got another laugh.

“I’ve been advised that here in the House of Lords it’s wise to take up one issue and make it your own, and I’ve decided what my issue will be.”

They went quiet. People were always keen to know what Eth Leckwith would do next.

“Last week my dear old friend Robert von Ulrich died. He fought in the First World War, got in trouble with the Nazis in the thirties, and ended up running the best restaurant in Cambridge. Once, when I was a young seamstress working in a sweatshop in the East End, he bought me a new dress and took me to dinner at the Ritz. And . . .” She lifted her chin defiantly. “And he was a homosexual.”

There was an audible susurration of surprise in the room.

Dave muttered: “Blimey!”

Beep said: “I like your grandmother.”

People were not used to hearing this subject discussed so openly, especially by a woman. Dave grinned. Good old Grandmam, still making trouble after all these years.

“Don’t mutter, you’re not really shocked,” she said crisply. “You all know there are men who love men. Such people do no harm to anyone—in fact, in my experience they tend to be gentler than other men—yet what they do is a crime according to the laws of our country. Even worse, plainclothes police detectives pretending to be men of the same sort entrap them, arrest them, and put them in jail. In my opinion this is as bad as persecuting people for being Jewish or pacifist or Catholic. So my main campaign here in the House of Lords will be homosexual law reform. I hope you will all wish me luck. Thank you.”

She got an enthusiastic round of applause. Dave figured that almost everyone in the room genuinely did wish her luck. He was impressed. He thought jailing queers was stupid. The House of Lords went up in his estimation: if you could campaign for that sort of change here, maybe the place was not completely ludicrous.

Finally Ethel said: “And now, in honor of our American relatives and friends, a song.”

Evie went to the front and Dave followed her. “Trust Grandmam to give them something to think about,” Evie murmured to Dave. “I bet she’ll succeed, too.”

“She generally gets what she wants.” He picked up his guitar and strummed the chord of G.

Evie began immediately:

O say can you see, by the dawn’s early light,

Most of the people in the room were British, not American, but Evie’s voice made them all listen.

What so proudly we hail’d at the twilight’s last gleaming,

Dave thought nationalist pride was bollocks, really, but despite himself he felt a little choked up. It was the song.

Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight

O’er the ramparts we’d watch’d were so gallantly streaming?

The room was so quiet that Dave could hear his own breathing. Evie could do this. When she was onstage, everyone watched.

And the rocket’s red glare, the bombs bursting in air,

Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there,

Dave looked at his mother and saw her wipe away a tear.

O say does that star-spangled banner yet wave

O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave?

They clapped and cheered. Dave had to give his sister credit: she was a pain in the neck at times, but she could hold an audience spellbound.

He got another ginger beer, then looked around for Beep, but she was not in the room. He saw her older brother, Cameron, who was a creep. “Hey, Cam, where did Beep go?”

“Out for a smoke, I guess,” he said.

Dave wondered if he could find her. He decided to go and look. He put down his drink.

He approached the exit at the same time as his grandmother, so he held the door for her. She was probably heading for the ladies’ room: he had a vague notion that old women had to go a lot. She smiled at him and turned up a red-carpeted staircase. He had no idea where he was so he followed her.

On the half landing she was stopped by an elderly man leaning on a cane. Dave noticed that he was wearing an elegant suit in a pale gray material with a chalk stripe. A patterned silk handkerchief spilled out of the breast pocket. His face was mottled and his hair was white, but obviously he had once been a good-looking man. He said: “Congratulations, Ethel,” and shook her hand.

“Thank you, Fitz.” They seemed to know each other well.

He held on to her hand. “So you’re a baroness now.”

She smiled. “Isn’t life strange?”

“Baffles me.”

They were blocking the way, and Dave hovered, waiting. Although their words were trivial, their conversation had an undertone of passion. Dave could not put his finger on what it was.

Ethel said: “You don’t mind that your housekeeper has been elevated to the peerage?”

Housekeeper? Dave knew that Ethel had started out as a maid in a big house in Wales. This man must have been her employer.

“I stopped minding that sort of thing a long time ago,” the man said. He patted her hand and released it. “During the Attlee government, to be precise.”

She laughed. Clearly she liked talking to him. There was a powerful undertone to their conversation, neither love nor hate, but something else. If they had not been so old, Dave would have thought it was sex.

Getting impatient, Dave coughed.

Ethel said: “This is my grandson, David Williams. If you really have stopped minding, you might shake his hand. Dave, this is Earl Fitzherbert.”

The earl hesitated, and for a moment Dave thought he was going to refuse to shake; then he seemed to make up his mind, and stuck out his hand. Dave shook it and said: “How do you do?”

Ethel said: “Thank you, Fitz.” Or, rather, she almost said it, but seemed to choke before finishing the sentence. Without saying anything more, she walked on. Dave nodded politely at the old earl and followed.

A moment later Ethel disappeared through a door marked LADIES.

Dave guessed there was some history between Ethel and Fitz. He decided to ask his mother about it. Then he spotted an exit that might lead outside, and forgot all about the old folk.

He stepped through the door and found himself in an irregular-shaped internal courtyard with rubbish bins. This would be the perfect place for a surreptitious smooch, he thought. It was not a thoroughfare, no windows overlooked it, and there were odd little corners. His hopes rose.

There was no sign of Beep, but he smelled tobacco smoke.

He stepped past the bins and looked around the corner.

She was there, as he had hoped, and there was a cigarette in her left hand. But she was with Jasper, and they were locked in an embrace. Dave stared at them. Their bodies seemed glued together, and they were kissing passionately, her right hand in his hair, his right hand on her breast.

“You’re a treacherous bastard, Jasper Murray,” said Dave, then he turned and went back into the building.

In the school production of Hamlet, Evie Williams proposed to play Ophelia’s mad scene in the nude.

Just the idea made Cameron Dewar feel uncomfortably warm.

Cameron adored Evie. He just hated her views. She joined every bleeding-heart cause in the news, from animal cruelty to nuclear disarmament, and she talked as if people who did not do the same must be brutal and stupid. But Cameron was used to this: he disagreed with most people his age, and all of his family. His parents were hopelessly liberal, and his grandmother had once been editor of a newspaper with the unlikely title The Buffalo Anarchist.

The Williamses were just as bad, leftists every one. The only halfway sensible resident of the house in Great Peter Street was the sponger Jasper Murray, who was more or less cynical about everything. London was a nest of subversives, even worse than Cameron’s hometown of San Francisco. He would be glad when his father’s assignment was over and they could go back to America.

Except that he would miss Evie. Cameron was fifteen years old and in love for the first time. He did not want a romance: he had too much to do. But as he sat at his school desk trying to memorize French and Latin vocabulary, he found himself remembering Evie singing “The Star-Spangled Banner.”

She liked him, he felt sure. She realized he was clever, and asked him earnest questions: How did nuclear power stations work? Was Hollywood an actual place? How were Negroes treated in California? Better still, she listened attentively to his answers. She was not making small talk: like him, she had no interest in chitchat. They would be a well-known intellectual couple, in Cameron’s fantasy.

For this year Cameron and Beep were going to the school Evie and Dave attended, a progressive London establishment where—as far as Cameron could see—most of the teachers were Communists. The controversy about Evie’s mad scene went all around the school in a flash. The drama teacher, Jeremy Faulkner, a beardie in a striped college scarf, actually approved of the idea. However, the head teacher was not so foolish, and he stamped on it decisively.

This was one instance in which Cameron would have been glad to see liberal decadence prevail.

The Williams and Dewar families went together to see the play. Cameron hated Shakespeare but he was looking forward eagerly to seeing what Evie would do onstage. She had an air of intensity that seemed to be brought out by an audience. She was like her great-grandfather Dai Williams, the pioneering trade unionist and evangelical preacher, according to Ethel, Dai’s daughter. Ethel had said: “My father had the same bound-for-glory light in his eyes.”

Cameron had studied Hamlet conscientiously—the way he studied everything, in order to get good marks—and he knew that Ophelia was a notoriously difficult part. Supposedly pathetic, she could easily become comic, with her obscene songs. How was a fifteen-year-old going to play this role and carry an audience with her? Cameron did not want to see her fall on her face (although there was, in the back of his mind, a little fantasy in which he put his arms around her delicate shoulders and comforted her as she wept for her humiliating failure).

With his parents and his kid sister, Beep, he filed into the school hall, which doubled as the gym, so that it smelled equally of dusty hymn books and sweaty sneakers. They took their seats next to the Williams family: Lloyd Williams, the Labour M.P.; his American wife, Daisy; Eth Leckwith, the grandmother; and Jasper Murray, the lodger. Young Dave, Evie’s kid brother, was somewhere else, organizing an intermission bar.

Several times in the past few months Cameron had heard the story of how his mother and father had first met here in London, during the war, at a party given by Daisy. Papa had walked Mama home: when he told the story, a strange light came into his eye, and Mama gave him a look that said Shut the hell up right now, and he said no more. Cameron and Beep wondered pruriently what their parents had done on the walk home.

A few days later Papa had parachuted into Normandy, and Mama had thought she would never see him again; but all the same she had broken off her engagement to another man. “My mother was furious,” Mama said. “She never forgave me.”

Cameron found the school hall seats uncomfortable even for the half hour of morning assembly. Tonight was going to be purgatory. He knew all too well that the full play was five hours long. Evie had assured him that this was a shortened version. Cameron wondered how short.

He spoke to Jasper, sitting next to him. “What’s Evie going to wear for the mad scene?”

“I don’t know,” said Jasper. “She won’t tell anyone.”

The lights went down and the curtain rose on the battlements of Elsinore.

The painted backdrops that formed the scenery were Cameron’s work. He had a strong visual sense, presumably inherited from his father, the photographer. He was particularly pleased with the way the painted moon concealed a spotlight that picked out the sentry.

There was not much else to like. Every school play Cameron had ever seen had been dreadful, and this was no exception. The seventeen-year-old boy playing Hamlet tried to seem enigmatic but succeeded only in being wooden. However, Evie was something else.

In her first scene Ophelia had little to do other than listen to her condescending brother and her pompous father, until at the end she cautioned her brother against hypocrisy in a short speech that Evie delivered with waspish delight. But in her second scene, telling her father about Hamlet’s crazy invasion of her private room, she blossomed. At the start she was frantic, then she became calmer, quieter, and more concentrated, until it seemed the audience hardly dared to breathe while she said: “He raised a sigh so piteous and profound.” And then, in her next scene, when the enraged Hamlet raved at her about joining a nunnery, she seemed so bewildered and hurt that Cameron wanted to leap onstage and punch him out. Jeremy Faulkner had wisely decided to end the first half at that point, and the applause was tremendous.

Dave was presiding over an intermission bar selling soft drinks and candy. He had a dozen friends serving as fast as they could. Cameron was impressed: he had never seen school pupils work so hard. “Did you give them pep pills?” he asked Dave as he got a glass of cherry pop.

“Nope,” said Dave. “Just twenty percent commission on everything they sell.”

Cameron was hoping Evie might come and talk to her family during the intermission, but she still had not appeared when the bell rang for the second half, and he returned to his seat, disappointed but eager to see what she would do next.

Hamlet improved when he had to badger Ophelia with dirty jokes in front of everyone. Perhaps it came naturally to the actor, Cameron thought unkindly. Ophelia’s embarrassment and distress increased until it bordered on hysteria.

But it was her mad scene that brought the house down.

She entered looking like an inmate of an asylum, in a stained and torn nightdress of thin cotton that reached only to midthigh. So far from being pitiable, she was jeering and aggressive, like a drunk whore on the street. When she said: “The owl was a baker’s daughter,” a sentence that in Cameron’s opinion meant nothing at all, she made it sound like a vile taunt.

Cameron heard his mother murmur to his father: “I can’t believe that girl is only fifteen.”

On the line “Young men may do it if they come to it, by cock they are to blame,” Ophelia made a grab for the king’s genitals that provoked a nervous titter from the audience.

Then came a sudden change. Tears rolled down her cheeks, and her voice sank almost to a whisper as she spoke of her dead father. The audience fell silent. She was a child again as she said: “I cannot choose but weep, to think they should lay him in the cold ground.”

Cameron wanted to cry too.

Then she rolled her eyes, staggered, and cackled like an old witch. “Come, my coach!” she cried insanely. She put both hands to the neckline of her dress and ripped it down the front. The audience gasped. “Good night, ladies!” she cried, letting the garment fall to the floor. Stark naked, she cried: “Good night, good night, good night!” Then she ran off.

After that the play was dead. The gravedigger was not funny and the sword fight at the end so artificial as to be boring. Cameron could think of nothing but the naked Ophelia raving at the front of the stage, her small breasts proud, the hair at her groin a flaming auburn; a beautiful girl driven insane. He guessed every man in the audience felt the same. No one cared about Hamlet.

At the curtain call the biggest applause was for Evie. But the head teacher did not come onstage to offer the lavish praise and extensive thanks normally given to the most hopeless of amateur dramatic productions.

As they left the hall, everyone looked at Evie’s family. Daisy chatted brightly to other parents, putting a brave face on it. Lloyd, in a severe dark-gray suit with a waistcoat, said nothing but looked grim. Evie’s grandmother, Eth Leckwith, smiled faintly: perhaps she had reservations, but she was not going to complain.

Cameron’s family also had mixed reactions. His mother’s lips were pursed in disapproval. His father wore a smile of tolerant amusement. Beep was bursting with admiration.

Cameron said to Dave: “Your sister’s brilliant.”

“I like yours, too,” said Dave with a grin.

“Ophelia stole the show from Hamlet!”

“Evie’s a genius,” Dave replied. “Drives our parents up the wall.”

“Why?”

“They don’t believe show business is serious work. They want us both to go into politics.” He rolled his eyes.

Cameron’s father, Woody Dewar, overheard. “I had the same problem,” he said. “My father was a United States senator, and so was my grandfather. They couldn’t understand why I wanted to be a photographer. It just didn’t seem like a real job to them.” Woody worked for Life magazine, probably the best photo journal in the world after Paris Match.

Both families went backstage. Evie emerged from the girls’ dressing room looking demure in a twinset and a below-the-knee skirt, an outfit obviously chosen to say I am not a sexual exhibitionist, that was Ophelia. But she also wore an expression of quiet triumph. Whatever people said about her nudity, no one could deny that her acting had captivated the audience.

Her father was the first to speak. Lloyd said: “I just hope you don’t get arrested for indecent exposure.”

“I didn’t really plan it,” Evie said as if he had paid her a compliment. “It was kind of a last-minute thing. I wasn’t even sure the nightdress would rip.”

Crap, thought Cameron.

Jeremy Faulkner appeared in his trademark college scarf. He was the only teacher who allowed pupils to call him by his first name. “That was fabulous!” he raved. “A peak moment!” His eyes were bright with excitement. The thought occurred to Cameron that Jeremy, too, was in love with Evie.

Evie said: “Jerry, these are my parents, Lloyd and Daisy Williams.”

For a moment the teacher looked scared, but he recovered quickly. “Mr. and Mrs. Williams, you must be even more surprised than I was,” he said, deftly disclaiming responsibility. “You should know that Evie is the most brilliant pupil I have ever taught.” He shook hands with Daisy, then with a visibly reluctant Lloyd.

Evie spoke to Jasper. “You’re invited to the cast party,” she said. “My special guest.”

Lloyd frowned. “Party?” he said. “After that?” Clearly he felt a celebration was not appropriate.

Daisy touched his arm. “It’s okay,” she said.

Lloyd shrugged.

Jeremy said brightly: “Just for an hour. School in the morning!”

Jasper said: “I’m too old. I’d feel out of place.”

Evie protested: “You’re only a year older than the sixth-formers.”

Cameron wondered why the hell she wanted him there. He was too old. He was a university student: he did not belong at a high school party.

Fortunately, Jasper agreed. “I’ll see you back at the house,” he said firmly.

Daisy put in: “No later than eleven o’clock, please.”

The parents left. Cameron said: “My God, you got away with it!”

Evie grinned. “I know.”

They celebrated with coffee and cake. Cameron wished Beep was there to put some vodka into the coffee, but she had not taken part in the production so she had gone home, as had Dave.

Evie was the center of attention. Even the boy playing Hamlet admitted she was the star of the evening. Jeremy Faulkner could not stop talking about how her nakedness had expressed Ophelia’s vulnerability. His praise for Evie became embarrassing and eventually kind of creepy.

Cameron waited patiently, letting them monopolize her, knowing that he had the ultimate advantage: he would be taking her home.

At ten thirty they left. “I’m glad my father got this assignment in London,” Cameron said as they zigzagged through the back streets. “I hated leaving San Francisco, but it’s pretty cool here.”

“That’s good,” she said without enthusiasm.

“The best part is getting to know you.”

“How sweet. Thank you.”

“It’s really changed my life.”

“Surely not.”

This was not going the way Cameron had imagined. They were alone in the deserted streets, speaking in low voices as they walked close together through circles of lamplight and pools of darkness, but there was no feeling of intimacy. They were more like people making small talk. All the same he was not giving up. “I want us to be close friends,” he said.

“We already are,” she replied with a touch of impatience.

They reached Great Peter Street and still he had not said what he wanted to say. As they approached the house he stopped. She took another step forward, so he grabbed her arm and held her back. “Evie,” he said, “I’m in love with you.”

“Oh, Cam, don’t be ridiculous.”

Cameron felt as if he had been punched.

Evie tried to walk on. Cameron gripped her arm more tightly, not caring now if he hurt her. “Ridiculous?” he said. There was an embarrassing quaver in his voice, and he spoke again more firmly. “Why should it be ridiculous?”

“You don’t know anything,” she said in a tone of exasperation.

This was a particularly hurtful reproach. Cameron prided himself on knowing a great deal, and he had imagined she liked him for that. “What don’t I know?” he said.

She pulled her arm out of his grasp with a vigorous jerk. “I’m in love with Jasper, you idiot,” she said, and she went into the house.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

In the morning, while it was still dark, Rebecca and Bernd made love again.

They had been living together three months, in the old town house in Berlin-Mitte. It was a big house, which was fortunate, for they shared it with her parents, Werner and Carla, plus her brother, Walli, and her sister, Lili, and Grandmother Maud.

For a while, love had consoled them for all they had lost. Both were out of work, prevented from getting jobs by the secret police—despite East Germany’s desperate shortage of schoolteachers.

But both were under investigation for social parasitism, the crime of being unemployed in a Communist country. Sooner or later they would be convicted and jailed. Bernd would go to a prison labor camp, where he would probably die.

So they were going to escape.

Today was their last full day in East Berlin.

When Bernd slid his hand gently up Rebecca’s nightdress, she said: “I’m too nervous.”

“We may not have many more chances,” he said.

She grabbed him and clung to him. She knew he was right. They might both die attempting to flee.

Worse, one might die and one might live.

Bernd reached for a condom. They had agreed that they would marry when they reached the free world, and avoid pregnancy until then. If their plans should go wrong, Rebecca did not want to raise a child in East Germany.

Despite all the fears that troubled her, Rebecca was overcome by desire, and responded energetically to Bernd’s touch. Passion was a recent discovery for her. She had mildly enjoyed sex with Hans, most of the time, and with two previous lovers, but she had never before been flooded with desire, possessed by it so completely that for a while she forgot everything else. Now the thought that this could be the last time made her desire even more intense.

After it was over he said: “You’re a tiger.”

She laughed. “I never was before. It’s you.”

“It’s us,” he said. “We’re right.”

When she had caught her breath, she said: “People escape every day.”

“No one knows how many.”

Escapers swam across canals and rivers, they climbed barbed wire, they hid in cars and trucks. West Germans, who were allowed into East Berlin, brought forged West German passports for their relatives. Allied troops could go anywhere, so one East German man bought a U.S. army uniform at a theatrical costume shop and walked through a checkpoint unchallenged.

Rebecca said: “And many die.”

The border guards showed no mercy and no shame. They shot to kill. They sometimes left the wounded to bleed to death in no-man’s-land, as a lesson to others. Death was the penalty for trying to leave the Communist paradise.

Rebecca and Bernd were planning to escape via Bernauer Strasse.

One of the grim ironies of the Wall was that in some streets the buildings were in East Berlin but the sidewalk was in the West. Residents of the east side of Bernauer Strasse had opened their front doors on Sunday, August 13, 1961, to find a barbed-wire fence preventing them from stepping outside. At first, many leaped from upstairs windows to freedom—some injuring themselves, others jumping onto a blanket held by West Berlin firemen. Now all those buildings had been evacuated, their doors and windows boarded up.

Rebecca and Bernd had a different plan.

They got dressed and went down to breakfast with the family—probably their last for a long time. It was a tense repeat of the same meal on August 13 last year. On that occasion the family had been sad and anxious: Rebecca had been planning to leave, but not at the risk of her life. This time they were scared.

Rebecca tried to be cheerful. “Maybe you’ll all follow us across the border one day,” she said.

Carla said: “You know we aren’t going to do that. You must go—you have no life left here. But we’re staying.”

“What about Father’s work?”

“For now, I carry on,” Werner said. He was no longer able to go to the factory he owned because it was in West Berlin. He was trying to manage it remotely, but that was nearly impossible. There was no telephone service between the two Berlins, so he had to do everything by mail, which was always liable to be delayed by the censors.

This was agony for Rebecca. Her family was the most important thing in the world to her, but she was being forced to leave them. “Well, no wall lasts forever,” she said. “One day Berlin will be reunited, and then we can be together again.”

There was a ring at the doorbell, and Lili jumped up from the table. Werner said: “I hope that’s the postman with the factory accounts.”

Walli said: “I’m going to cross the Wall as soon as I can. I’m not going to spend my life in the East, with some old Communist telling me what music to play.”

Carla said: “You can make your own decision—as soon as you’re an adult.”

Lili came back into the kitchen looking scared. “It’s not the postman,” she said. “It’s Hans.”

Rebecca let out a small scream. Surely her estranged husband could not know about her escape plan?

Werner said: “Is he alone?”

“I think so.”

Grandma Maud said to Carla: “Remember how we dealt with Joachim Koch?”

Carla looked at the children. Obviously they were not supposed to know how Joachim Koch had been dealt with.

Werner went to the kitchen cupboard and opened the bottom drawer. It contained heavy pans. He pulled the drawer all the way out and set it on the floor. Then he reached deep into the cavity and brought out a black pistol with a brown grip and a small box of ammunition.

Bernd said: “Jesus.”

Rebecca did not know much about guns, but she thought it was a Walther P38. Werner must have kept it after the war.

What had happened to Joachim Koch, Rebecca wondered? Had he been killed?

By Mother? And Grandma?

Werner said to Rebecca: “If Hans Hoffmann takes you out of this house we will never see you again.” Then he began to load the gun.

Carla said: “He may not be here to arrest Rebecca.”

“True,” said Werner. He said to Rebecca: “Talk to him. Find out what he wants. Scream if you need to.”

Rebecca stood up. Bernd did the same. “Not you,” Werner said to Bernd. “The sight of you might anger him.”

“But—”

Rebecca said: “Father’s right. Just be ready to come if I call.”

“All right.”

Rebecca took a deep breath, made herself calm, and went into the hall.

Hans stood there in his new blue-gray suit, wearing a striped tie that Rebecca had given him for his last birthday. He said: “I got the divorce papers.”

Rebecca nodded. “You were expecting them, of course.”

“Can we talk about it?”

“Is there anything to say?”

“Perhaps.”

She opened the door of the dining room, used occasionally for formal dinners and otherwise for doing homework. They went in and sat down. Rebecca did not close the door.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Hans said.

Rebecca was scared. Did he mean escape? Did he know? She managed to say: “Do what?”

“Get divorced,” he said.

She was confused. “Why not?” she said. “It’s what you want, too.”

“Is it?”

“Hans, what are you trying to say?”

“That we don’t have to be divorced. We could start again. This time there would be no deceptions. Now that you know I am an officer of the Stasi, there would be no need for lies.”

This felt like a stupid dream in which impossible things happen. “But why?” she said.

Hans leaned forward across the table. “Don’t you know? Can’t you at least guess?”

“No, I can’t!” she said, although she had the glimmering of a creepy suspicion.

“I love you,” said Hans.

“For God’s sake!” Rebecca shouted. “How can you say such a thing? After all you’ve done!”

“I mean it,” he said. “I was faking it at first. But I realized after a while what a wonderful woman you are. I wanted to marry you, that wasn’t just work. You’re beautiful, and smart, and dedicated to teaching—I admire dedication. I’ve never met a woman like you. Come back to me, Rebecca—please.”

“No!” she shouted.

“Think about it. Take a day. Take a week.”

“No!”

She was yelling her refusal at the top of her voice, but he acted as if she were coyly pretending reluctance. “We’ll talk again,” he said with a smile.

“No!” she yelled. “Never! Never! Never!” And she ran from the room.

They were all at the open door of the kitchen, looking scared. Bernd said: “What? What happened?”

“He doesn’t want a divorce,” Rebecca wailed. “He says he loves me. He wants to start again—give it another chance!”

Bernd said: “I’m going to fucking strangle him.”

But there was no need to restrain Bernd. At that moment they heard the front door slam.

“He’s gone,” Rebecca said. “Thank God.”

Bernd put his arms around her and she buried her face in his shoulder.

“Well,” said Carla in a shaky voice, “I wasn’t expecting that.”

Werner unloaded the pistol.

Grandma Maud said: “That’s not the end of it. Hans will come back. Stasi officers do not believe that ordinary people can say no to them.”

“And they’re right,” said Werner. “Rebecca, you have to leave today.”

She detached herself from Bernd’s embrace. “Oh, no—today?”

“Now,” her father said. “You’re in terrible danger.”

Bernd said: “He’s right. Hans may come back with reinforcements. We have to do now what we planned to do tomorrow morning.”

“All right,” said Rebecca.

Rebecca and Bernd ran upstairs to their room. Bernd put on his black corduroy suit with a white shirt and a black tie, as if going to a funeral. Rebecca, too, dressed all in black. They both put on black gym shoes. From under the bed Bernd took a coiled washing line he had bought last week. He slung it across his body like a bandolier, then put on a brown leather jacket to hide it. Rebecca donned a dark short coat over her black roll-neck sweater and black pants.

They were ready in a few short minutes.

The family were waiting in the hall. Rebecca hugged and kissed them all. Lili was crying. “Don’t get killed,” she sobbed.

Bernd and Rebecca put on leather gloves and went to the door.

They waved to the family one more time, then they went out.

Walli followed them at a distance.

He wanted to see how they did it. They had not told anyone their plan, not even the family. Mother said the only way to keep a secret was to tell nobody. She and Father were ardent about this, leading Walli to suspect that it came from those mysterious wartime experiences that they never explained.

Walli had told the family he was going to play the guitar in his room. He had an electric instrument now. Hearing no noise, his parents would assume he was practising without plugging in.

He slipped out through the back door.

Rebecca and Bernd walked arm in arm. Their pace was brisk, but not hurried enough to attract attention. It was half past eight, and the morning mist was beginning to lift. Walli could easily follow the two figures, the washing line making a bulge on Bernd’s shoulder. They did not look back, and his sneakers made no sound as he walked. He noticed that they, too, were wearing sneakers, and he wondered why.

Walli was excited and scared. What an amazing morning. He had almost fallen over when Father pulled out that drawer and revealed a damn pistol. The old man had been ready to shoot Hans Hoffmann! Maybe Father was not such a doddery old fool after all.

Walli was frightened for his beloved sister. She might be killed within the next few minutes. But he was also thrilled. If she could escape, so could he.

Walli was still determined to escape. After he had defied his father by going to the Minnesänger club against orders, he had not after all got into trouble: his father had said that the destruction of his guitar was punishment enough. But all the same he was suffering under two tyrants, Werner Franck and General Secretary Walter Ulbricht, and he intended to be free of both at the first opportunity.

Rebecca and Bernd came to a street that led directly to the Wall. Two border guards were visible at the far end, stamping their boots in the morning chill. Slung from their shoulders they had Soviet PPSh-41 submachine guns with drum magazines. Walli saw no chance of anyone getting over the barbed wire with those two watching.

But Rebecca and Bernd turned off the street and entered a cemetery.

Walli could not follow them along the paths through the graves: he would be too conspicuous in that open space. He walked quickly at a right angle to their route until he was behind the chapel in the middle of the cemetery. He peeped around the corner of the building. They evidently had not seen him.

He watched them walk to the northwest corner of the graveyard.

There was a chicken-wire fence and, beyond that, the backyard of a house.

Rebecca and Bernd climbed over the fence.

That explains the sneakers, Walli thought.

What about the washing line?

The buildings on Bernauer Strasse were derelict, but the side streets were still occupied normally. Rebecca and Bernd, tense and fearful, crept across the backyard of a row house on such a side street, five doors from the end of the road where the Wall blocked it off. They climbed a second fence, then a third, each time moving closer to the Wall. Rebecca was thirty years of age, and agile. Bernd was older at forty, but he was in good shape: he had coached the school soccer team. They reached the back of the house third from the end.

They had visited the cemetery once before, again dressed in black to pose as mourners, their true purpose to study these houses. Their view had not been perfect—and they could not risk using binoculars—but they were fairly sure the third house offered a possible route up to the roof.

One roof led to another, eventually connecting with the empty buildings on Bernauer Strasse.

Now that Rebecca was closer, she was even more apprehensive.

They had planned their ascent by way of a low coal bunker, then an outhouse with a flat roof, and finally a gable end with a jutting windowsill. But all the heights had looked smaller from the cemetery. Close up, the climb appeared formidable.

They could not go inside the house. The occupants might raise the alarm: if they did not, they would be punished severely later.

The roofs were damp with mist, and would be slippery, but at least it was not raining.

Bernd said: “Are you ready?”

She was not. She was terrified. “Hell, yes,” she said.

“You’re a tiger,” he said.

The coal bunker was chest height. They climbed onto it. Their soft shoes made little sound.

From there, Bernd got both elbows over the edge of the flat outhouse roof and scrambled up. Lying on his belly, he reached down and hauled Rebecca up. They both stood on the roof. Rebecca felt dizzyingly conspicuous, but when she looked around she saw no one but a single distant figure back in the cemetery.

The next part was forbidding. Bernd got one knee up on the window ledge, but it was narrow. Fortunately the curtains were drawn, so that if there were people in the room they would not see anything—unless they heard a noise and came to investigate. With some difficulty he got his other knee on the sill. Leaning on Rebecca’s shoulder for support, he contrived to stand upright. With his feet now firmly planted, albeit on a narrow footing, he helped Rebecca up.

She knelt on the ledge and tried not to look down.

Bernd reached out to the sloping edge of the pitched roof, their next step up. He could not climb onto the roof from where he was: there was nothing to grab but the edge of a slate. They had already discussed this problem. Still kneeling, Rebecca braced herself. Bernd put one foot on her right shoulder. Holding the roof edge for balance, he put all his weight on her. It hurt, but she took the strain. A moment later his left foot was on her left shoulder. Evenly balanced, she could hold him—for a few moments.

A second later he cocked his leg over the edge of the slates and rolled up onto the roof.

He splayed his body out, for maximum traction, then reached down. With one gloved hand he grabbed the collar of Rebecca’s coat, and she grasped his upper arm.

The curtains were suddenly pulled apart, and a woman’s face stared at Rebecca from a distance of a few inches.

The woman screamed.

With an effort, Bernd lifted Rebecca until she was able to get her leg over the sloping edge of the roof; then he pulled her toward him until she was safe.

But they both lost control and started to slide down.

Rebecca spread her arms and pressed the palms of her gloved hands to the slates, trying to brake her slide. Bernd did the same. But they continued to slip, slowly but relentlessly—then Rebecca’s sneakers touched an iron gutter. It did not feel sturdy, but it held, and they both came to a stop.

“What was that scream?” Bernd asked urgently.

“A woman in the bedroom saw me. I don’t think she could have been heard on the street, though.”

“But she might raise the alarm.”

“Nothing we can do. Let’s keep going.”

They edged crabwise across the pitched roof. The houses were old and some of the roof slates were broken. Rebecca tried not to put weight on the gutter that her feet were touching. Their progress was painfully slow.

She imagined the woman at the window talking to her husband. “If we do nothing we’ll be accused of collaborating. We could say we were fast asleep and didn’t hear anything, but they’ll probably arrest us anyway. And even if we call the police they might arrest us on suspicion. When things go wrong they arrest everyone in sight. Best just to keep our heads down. I’ll draw the curtains again.”

Ordinary people avoided any contact with the police—but the woman at the window might not be ordinary. If she or her husband was a party member, with a soft job and privileges, they would have a degree of immunity from police harassment, and in those circumstances they would undoubtedly raise a hue and cry.

But the seconds ticked by, and Rebecca heard no sound of a commotion. Perhaps she and Bernd had got away with it.

They came to an angle in the roof. Bracing his feet on the opposing sides, Bernd was able to crawl upward until he got his hands over the roof ridge. Now he had a safer grip, though he ran the risk that his dark-gloved fingertips might be noticed by the police on the street.

He turned the angle and crawled on, every second getting nearer to Bernauer Strasse and freedom.

Rebecca followed. She glanced over her shoulder, wondering if anyone could see her and Bernd. Their dark clothing was inconspicuous against the gray slates, but they were not invisible. Was anyone watching? She could see the backyards and the cemetery. The dark figure she had noticed a minute ago was now running from the chapel toward the cemetery gate. A leaden fear made her stomach cold. Had he seen them, and was he hurrying to warn the police?

She suffered a moment of panic, then she realized the figure was familiar.

“Walli?” she said.

What the hell was he up to? Obviously he had followed her and Bernd. But to what end? And where was he heading in such a hurry?

There was nothing she could do but worry.

They came to the back wall of the apartment building on Bernauer Strasse.

The windows were boarded up. Bernd and Rebecca had talked about breaking through the boards to get in, then breaking through another set at the front to get out, but they had decided it would be too noisy, time-consuming, and difficult. Easier, they guessed, to go over the top.

The ridge of the roof they were on was at the level of the gutters of the high adjacent building, so they could easily step from one roof to the next.

From then on they would be clearly visible to the guards with the machine guns on the side street below.

This was their most vulnerable moment.

Bernd crawled up the house roof to the ridge, straddled it, then scrambled up onto the higher roof of the apartment building, heading for the top.

Rebecca followed. She was breathing hard now. Her knees were bruised and her shoulders ached where Bernd had stood on them.

When she was straddling the lower roof she took a look down. She was alarmingly close to the policemen on the street. They were lighting cigarettes: if one should glance upward, all would be lost. Both she and Bernd would be easy targets for their submachine guns.

But they were only a few steps from freedom.

She braced herself to wriggle onto the roof in front of her. Beneath her left foot something moved. Her sneaker slipped, and she fell. She was still astride the ridge, and the impact hurt her groin. She gave a muffled cry, leaned vertiginously sideways for a horrifying moment, then regained her balance.

Unfortunately the cause of her stumble, a loose slate, slipped down the roof, tumbled over the gutter, and fell to the street, where it shattered noisily.

The cops heard the sound and looked at the fragments on the pavement.

Rebecca froze.

The police looked around. Any second now it would occur to them that the slate must have fallen from the roof, and they would look up. But, before they did, one was hit by a flung stone. A second later, Rebecca heard her brother’s voice yelling: “All cops are cunts!”

Walli picked up another stone and threw it at the police. This one missed.

Baiting East German policemen was suicidally stupid, he knew that. He was likely to be arrested, beaten up, and jailed. But he had to do it.

He could see that Bernd and Rebecca were hopelessly exposed. The police would spot them any second now. They never hesitated to shoot escapers. The range was short, about fifty feet. Both fugitives would be riddled with machine-gun bullets in a few seconds.

Unless the cops could be distracted.

They were not much older than Walli. He was sixteen, they seemed about twenty. They were looking around in confusion, their newly lit cigarettes between their lips, unable to figure out why a slate had shattered and two stones had been thrown.

“Pig-faces!” Walli yelled. “Shitheads! Your mothers are whores!”

They saw him then. He was a hundred yards away, visible despite the mist. As soon as they set eyes on him they started to move toward him.

He backed away.

They started to run.

Walli turned and fled.

At the cemetery gate he looked back. One of the men had stopped, no doubt realizing they should not both leave their post at the Wall to chase someone who had merely thrown stones. They had not yet got around to wondering why anyone would do something so rash.

The second cop knelt down and aimed his gun.

Walli slipped into the cemetery.

Bernd looped the clothesline around a brick chimney, pulled it tight, and tied a secure knot.

Rebecca lay flat on the roof ridge, looking down, panting. She could see one cop pounding along the street after Walli, and Walli running across the cemetery. The second cop was returning to his post, but—luckily—he kept looking back, watching his colleague. Rebecca did not know whether to be relieved or horrified that her brother was risking his life to divert the attention of the police for the next few crucial seconds.

She looked the other way, into the free world. In Bernauer Strasse, on the far side of the street, a man and a woman stood watching her and talking excitedly.

Holding the rope, Bernd sat down, then slid on his bottom down the west slope of the roof to the edge. Next he wound the rope twice around his chest under his arms, leaving a long tail of fifty or so feet. He could now lean out over the edge, supported by the rope tied to the chimney.

He returned to Rebecca and straddled the ridge. “Sit upright,” he said. He tied the free end of the clothesline around her and tied a knot. He held the rope firmly in his leather-gloved hands.

Rebecca took a last look into East Berlin. She saw Walli nimbly scaling the fence at the far end of the cemetery. His figure crossed a road and vanished into a side street. The cop gave up and turned back.

Then the man happened to look up, toward the roof of the apartment building, and his jaw dropped in astonishment.

Rebecca was in no doubt about what he had seen. She and Bernd were perched on top of the roof, clear against the skyline.

The cop shouted and pointed, then broke into a run.

Rebecca rolled off the ridge and slowly slid down the slope of the roof until her sneakers touched the gutter at the front.

She heard a burst of machine-gun fire.

Bernd stood upright beside her, bracing himself with the rope tied to the chimney.

Rebecca felt him take her weight.

Here goes, she thought.

She rolled over the gutter and slid into thin air.

The rope pulled painfully around her chest, above her breasts. She dangled in the air for a moment, then Bernd played out the rope and she began to descend in short jerks.

They had practised this at her parents’ house. Bernd had let her down from the highest window all the way to the backyard. It hurt his hands, he said, but he could do it, if he had good gloves. All the same, she was instructed to pause briefly any time she could rest her weight on a window surround to give him a moment’s respite.

She heard shouts of encouragement, and guessed that a crowd had now gathered down on Bernauer Strasse, on the west side of the Wall.

Below her she could see the pavement and the barbed wire that ran along the façade of the building. Was she in West Berlin yet? The frontier police would shoot anyone on the east side, but they had strict instructions not to fire into the West, for the Soviets did not want any diplomatic incidents. But she was dangling immediately above the barbed wire, neither in one country nor the other.

She heard another burst of machine-gun fire. Where were the cops, and who were they shooting at? She guessed they would try to get up on the roof and shoot her and Bernd before it was too late. If they followed the same laborious route as their quarry they would not catch up in time. But they could probably save time by entering the building and simply running up the stairs.

She was almost there. Her feet touched the barbed wire. She pushed away from the building, but her legs did not quite clear the wire. She felt the barbs rip her trousers and tear her skin painfully. Then a crowd gathered around and helped her, taking her weight, disentangling her from the barbed wire, unwinding the rope around her chest, and setting her on the ground.

As soon as she was steady on her feet, she looked up. Bernd was on the edge of the roof, loosening the rope around his chest. She stepped backward across the road so that she could see better. The policemen had not yet reached the roof.

Bernd got the rope firmly in both hands, then stepped backward off the roof. He rappelled slowly down the wall, slipping the rope through his hands as he went. This was extremely difficult, because all his weight was supported by his grip on the rope. He had practised at home, walking down the back wall of the town house at night when he would not be seen. But this building was taller.

The crowd in the street cheered him.

Then a cop appeared on the roof.

Bernd came down faster, risking his grip on the rope for more speed.

Someone shouted: “Get a blanket!”

Rebecca knew there was not enough time for that.

The cop aimed his submachine gun at Bernd, but hesitated. He could not fire into West Germany. He might well hit people other than the escapers. It was the kind of incident that could start a war.

The man turned and looked at the rope around the chimney. He might have untied it, but Bernd would reach the ground first.

Did the cop have a knife?

Apparently not.

Then he was inspired. He put the barrel of his gun against the taut rope and fired a single round.

Rebecca screamed.

The rope split, its end flying into the air over Bernauer Strasse.

Bernd fell like a stone.

The crowd scattered.

Bernd hit the sidewalk with a sickening thump.

Then he lay still.

Three days later Bernd opened his eyes, looked at Rebecca, and said: “Hello.”

Rebecca said: “Oh, thank God.”

She had been out of her mind with worry. The doctors had told her that he would recover consciousness, but she had not been able to believe it until she saw it. He had undergone several operations, and in between he had been heavily drugged. This was the first time she had seen the light of intelligence in his face.

Trying not to cry, she leaned over the hospital bed and kissed his lips. “You’re back,” she said. “I’m so glad.”

He said: “What happened?”

“You fell.”

He nodded. “The roof. I remember. But . . .”

“The policeman broke your rope.”

He looked along the length of his body. “Am I in plaster?”

She had been longing for him to come round, but she had also been dreading this moment. “From the waist down,” she said.

“I . . . I can’t move my legs. I can’t feel them.” He looked panicky. “Have my legs been amputated?”

“No.” Rebecca took a deep breath. “You’ve broken most of the bones in your legs, but you can’t feel them because your spinal cord is partially severed.”

He was thoughtful for a long moment. Then he said: “Will it heal?”

“The doctors say that nerves may heal, albeit slowly.”

“So . . .”

“So you may get some below-the-waist functions back, eventually. But you will be in a wheelchair when you leave this hospital.”

“Do they say how long?”

“They say . . .” She had to make an effort not to cry. “You must prepare for the possibility that it may be permanent.”

He looked away. “I’m a cripple.”

“But we’re free. You’re in West Berlin. We’ve escaped.”

“Escaped to a wheelchair.”

“Don’t think of it that way.”

“What the hell am I going to do?”

“I’ve thought about this.” She made her voice firm and confident, more so than she felt. “You’re going to marry me and return to teaching.”

“That’s not likely.”

“I’ve already phoned Anselm Weber. You’ll remember that he’s now head of a school in Hamburg. He has jobs for both of us, starting in September.”

“A teacher in a wheelchair?”

“What difference will that make? You’ll still be able to explain physics so that the dullest child in the class understands. You don’t need legs for that.”

“You don’t want to marry a cripple.”

“No,” she said. “But I want to marry you. And I will.”

His tone became bitter. “You can’t marry a man with no below-the-waist functions.”

“Listen to me,” she said fiercely. “Three months ago I didn’t know what love was. I’ve only just found you, and I’m not going to lose you. We’ve escaped, we’ve survived, and we’re going to live. We’ll get married, we’ll teach school, and we’ll love each other.”

“I don’t know.”

“I want only one thing from you,” she said. “You must not lose hope. We’ll confront all difficulties together, and we’ll solve all problems together. I can put up with any hardship as long as I’ve got you. Promise me, now, Bernd Held, that you’ll never give up. Never.”

There was a long pause.

“Promise,” she said.

He smiled. “You’re a tiger,” he said.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Dimka and Valentin rode the Ferris wheel in Gorky Park with Nina and Anna.

After Dimka had been called away from the holiday camp, Nina had taken up with an engineer and had dated him for several months, but then they broke up, so now she was free again. Meanwhile, Valentin and Anna had become a couple: he slept over at the girls’ apartment most weekends. Also, significantly, Valentin had told Dimka a couple of times that having sex with one woman after another was just a phase men went through when they were young.

I should be so lucky, Dimka thought.

On the first warm weekend of the short Moscow summer, Valentin proposed a double date. Dimka agreed eagerly. Nina was smart and strong-minded, and she challenged him: he liked that. But mainly she was sexy. He often thought about how enthusiastically she had kissed him. He wanted very much to do that again. He recalled how her nipples had stuck out in the cold water. He wondered whether she ever thought about that day on the lake.

His problem was that he could not share Valentin’s cheerfully exploitative attitude to girls. Valentin, at least until he met Anna, would say anything to get a girl into bed. Dimka felt it was wrong to manipulate or bully people. He also believed that if someone said no, you should accept it, whereas Valentin always took no to mean “Maybe not yet.”

Gorky Park was an oasis in the desert of earnest Communism, a place Muscovites could go simply to have fun. People put on their best clothes, bought ice cream and candy, flirted with strangers, and kissed in the bushes.

Anna pretended to be scared on the Ferris wheel, and Valentin went along with the charade, putting his arm around her and telling her it was perfectly safe. Nina looked comfortable and unworried, which Dimka preferred to phony terror, but it gave him no chance to get intimate.

Nina looked good in a cotton shirtwaist dress with orange and green stripes. The back view was particularly alluring, Dimka thought as they climbed off the wheel. For this date he had managed to get a pair of American jeans and a blue checked shirt. In exchange he had given two ballet tickets that Khrushchev did not want: Romeo and Juliet at the Bolshoi.

“What have you been doing since I saw you last?” Nina asked him as they strolled around the park, drinking lukewarm orange cordial bought from a stall.

“Working,” he said.

“Is that all?”

“I usually get to the office an hour before Khrushchev, to make sure everything is ready for him: the documents he needs, the foreign newspapers, any files he might want. He often works until late into the evening, and I rarely go home before he does.” He wished he could make his job sound as exciting as it really was. “I don’t have much time for anything else.”

Valentin said: “Dimka was the same at university—work, work, work.”

Happily, Nina did not seem to think that Dimka’s life was dull. “You’re really with Comrade Khrushchev every day?”

“Most days.”

“Where do you live?”

“Government House.” It was an elite apartment building not far from the Kremlin.

“Very nice.”

“With my mother,” he added.

“I’d live with my mother for the sake of a place in that building.”

“My twin sister normally lives with us, also, but she’s gone to Cuba—she’s a reporter with TASS.”

“I’d like to go to Cuba,” Nina said wistfully.

“It’s a poor country.”

“I could live with that, in a climate where there’s no winter. Imagine dancing on the beach in January.”

Dimka nodded. He was thrilled by Cuba in a different way. Castro’s revolution showed that rigid Soviet orthodoxy was not the only possible form of Communism. Castro had new, different ideas. “I hope Castro survives,” he said.

“Why shouldn’t he?”

“The Americans have invaded once already. The Bay of Pigs was a disaster, but they will try again, with a bigger army—probably in 1964, while President Kennedy is running for reelection.”

“That’s terrible! Can’t something be done?”

“Castro is trying to make peace with Kennedy.”

“Will he succeed?”

“The Pentagon is against it, and conservative congressmen are making a fuss, so the whole idea is getting nowhere.”

“We have to support the Cuban revolution!”

“I agree—but our conservatives don’t like Castro either. They’re not sure he’s a real Communist.”

“What will happen?”

“It depends on the Americans. They may leave Cuba alone. But I don’t think they’re that smart. My guess is they’ll keep harassing Castro until he feels the only place he can look for help is the Soviet Union. So he’ll end up asking us for protection, sooner or later.”

“What can we do?”

“Good question.”

Valentin interrupted them. “I’m hungry. Have you girls got any food at home?”

“Of course,” said Nina. “I bought a knuckle of bacon for a stew.”

“Then what are we waiting for? Dimka and I will buy some beer on the way.”

They took the Metro. The girls had an apartment in a building controlled by the steel union, their employer. Their place was small: a bedroom with two single beds, a living room with a couch in front of a television set, a kitchen with a tiny dining table, and a bathroom. Dimka guessed that Anna was responsible for the lacy cushions on the couch and the plastic flowers in the vase on top of the TV, and Nina had bought the striped curtains and the posters on the wall showing mountain scenery.

Dimka worried about the shared bedroom. If Nina wanted to sleep with him, would the two couples make love in the same room? Such arrangements had not been unknown when Dimka was a university student in crowded accommodations. All the same he did not like the idea. Apart from anything else, he did not want Valentin to know just how inexpert he was.

He wondered where Nina slept when Valentin stayed over. Then he noticed a small stack of blankets on the living room floor, and he deduced that she slept on the couch.

Nina put the joint in a big saucepan; Anna chopped up a large turnip; Valentin put out cutlery and plates; and Dimka poured the beer. Everyone but Dimka seemed to know what was going to happen next. He was a little unnerved, but he went along.

Nina made a tray of snacks: pickled mushrooms, blinis, sausage, and cheese. While the stew was cooking they went into the living room. Nina sat on the couch and patted the place beside her to indicate that Dimka should sit there. Valentin took the easy chair and Anna sat on the floor at his feet. They listened to music on the radio while they drank their beer. Nina had put some herbs in the pot, and the aroma from the kitchen made Dimka hungry.

They talked about their parents. Nina’s were divorced, Valentin’s were separated, and Anna’s hated one another. “My mother didn’t like my father,” said Dimka. “Nor did I. Nobody likes a KGB man.”

“I’ve been married once—never again,” Nina said. “Do you know anyone who is happily married?”

“Yes,” said Dimka. “My uncle Volodya. Mind you, my aunt Zoya is gorgeous. She’s a physicist, but she looks like a film star. When I was little I called her Magazine Auntie, because she resembled the impossibly beautiful women in magazine photos.”

Valentin stroked Anna’s hair, and she laid her head on his thigh in a way Dimka found sexy. He wanted to touch Nina, and surely she would not mind—why else had she invited him to her apartment?—but he felt awkward and embarrassed. He wished she would do something: she was the experienced one. But she seemed content to listen to the music and sip beer, a faint smile on her face.

At last supper was ready. The stew was delicious: Nina was a good cook. They ate it with black bread.

When they had finished and cleared away, Valentin and Anna went into the bedroom and closed the door.

Dimka went to the bathroom. The face in the mirror over the washbasin was not handsome. His best feature was a pair of large blue eyes. His dark-brown hair was cut short in the military style approved for young apparatchiks. He looked like a serious young man whose thoughts were far above sex.

He checked the condom in his pocket. Such things were in short supply and he had gone to a lot of trouble to get some. However, he did not agree with Valentin’s contention that pregnancy was the woman’s problem. He felt sure he would not enjoy sex if he felt he might be forcing the girl to go through either childbirth or abortion.

He returned to the living room. To his surprise, Nina had her coat on.

“I thought I’d walk you to the Metro station,” she said.

Dimka was baffled. “Why?”

“I don’t think you know this neighborhood—I wouldn’t like you to get lost.”

“I mean, why do you want me to leave?”

“What else would you do?”

“I’d like to stay here and kiss you,” he said.

Nina laughed. “What you lack in sophistication, you make up for in enthusiasm.” She took off her coat and sat down.

Dimka sat beside her and kissed her hesitantly.

She kissed him back with reassuring enthusiasm. He realized with mounting excitement that she did not care if he was inexpert. Soon he was eagerly fumbling with the buttons of her shirtwaist. She had wonderfully large breasts. They were encased in a formidable utilitarian brassiere, but she took that off, then offered them to be kissed.

Things moved quickly after that.

When the big moment arrived, she lay on the couch with her head on the armrest and one foot on the floor, a position she assumed so readily that Dimka thought she must have done it before.

He hastily took out his condom and fumbled it out of the packet, but she said: “No need for that.”

He was startled. “What do you mean?”

“I can’t bear children. I’ve been told by doctors. It’s why my husband divorced me.”

He dropped the condom on the floor and lay on top of her.

“Easy does it,” she said, guiding him inside.

I’ve done it, Dimka thought; I’ve lost my virginity at last.

The speedboat was the kind once known as a rumrunner: long and narrow, extremely fast, and painfully uncomfortable to ride in. It crossed the Straits of Florida at eighty knots, hitting every wave with the impact of a car knocking down a wooden fence. The six men aboard were strapped in, the only way to be halfway safe in an open boat at such a speed. In the small cargo hold they had M3 submachine guns, pistols, and incendiary bombs. They were going to Cuba.

George Jakes really should not have been with them.

He stared across the moonlit water, feeling seasick. Four of the men were Cubans living in exile in Miami: George knew only their first names. They hated Communism, hated Castro, and hated everyone who did not agree with them. The sixth man was Tim Tedder.

It had started when Tedder walked into the office at the Justice Department. He was vaguely familiar, and George had placed him as a CIA man, although he was officially “retired” and working as a freelance security consultant.

George had been on his own in the room. “Help you?” he had said politely.

“I’m here for the Mongoose meeting.”

George had heard of Operation Mongoose, a project that the untrustworthy Dennis Wilson was involved in, but he did not know the full details. “Come in,” he had said, waving at a chair. Tedder had walked in with a cardboard folder under his arm. He was about ten years older than George, but looked as if he had got dressed in the 1940s: he wore a double-breasted suit and his wavy hair was brilliantined with a high side parting. George said: “Dennis will be back any second.”

“Thanks.”

“How’s it going? Mongoose, I mean.”

Tedder looked guarded and said: “I’ll report at the meeting.”

“I won’t be there.” George looked at his wristwatch. He was deceitfully implying that he had been invited, which he had not; but he was curious. “I have a meeting at the White House.”

“Too bad.”

George recalled a fragment of information. “According to the original plan, you should now be in phase two, the buildup.”

Tedder’s face cleared as he inferred that George was in the loop. “Here’s the report,” he said, opening the cardboard folder.

George was pretending to know more than he did. Mongoose was a project to help anti-Communist Cubans foment a counterrevolution. The plan had a timetable whose climax was the overthrow of Castro in October of this year, just before the midterm congressional elections. CIA-trained infiltration teams were supposed to undertake political organization and anti-Castro propaganda.

Tedder handed George two sheets of paper. Pretending to be less interested than he was, George said: “Are we keeping to our timetable?”

Tedder avoided the question. “It’s time to pile on the pressure,” he said. “Furtively circulating leaflets that poke fun at Castro is not achieving what we want.”

“How can we increase the pressure?”

“It’s all in there,” Tedder said, pointing at the paper.

George looked down. What he read was worse than he expected. The CIA was proposing to sabotage bridges, oil refineries, power plants, sugar mills, and shipping.

At that moment Dennis Wilson walked in. He had his shirt collar undone, his tie loose, and his sleeves rolled, just like Bobby, George noticed; although his receding hairline would never rival Bobby’s vigorous thatch. When Wilson saw Tedder talking to George he looked surprised, then anxious.

George said to Tedder: “If you blow up an oil refinery, and people are killed, then anyone here in Washington who approved the project is guilty of murder.”

Dennis Wilson spoke angrily to Tedder. “What have you told him?”

“I thought he was cleared!” said Tedder.

“I am cleared,” said George. “My security clearance is the same as Dennis’s.” He turned to Wilson. “So why have you been so careful to keep this from me?”

“Because I knew you’d make a fuss.”

“And you were right. We’re not at war with Cuba. Killing Cubans is murder.”

“We are at war,” said Tedder.

“Oh?” said George. “So, if Castro sent agents here to Washington, and they bombed a factory and killed your wife, that wouldn’t be a crime?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Apart from the fact that it’s murder, can’t you imagine the stink if this gets out? There would be an international scandal! Picture Khrushchev at the United Nations, calling on our president to stop financing international terrorism. Think of the articles in The New York Times. Bobby might have to resign. And what about the president’s reelection campaign? Has no one even thought about the politics of all this?”

“Of course we have. That’s why it’s top secret.”

“And how’s that working out?” George turned a page. “Am I really reading this?” he said. “We’re trying to assassinate Fidel Castro with poisoned cigars?”

“You’re not on the team for this project,” said Wilson. “So just forget about it, okay?”

“Hell, no. I’m going straight to Bobby with this.”

Wilson laughed. “You asshole. Don’t you realize? Bobby’s in charge of it!”

George was flattened.

All the same, he had gone to Bobby, who had said calmly: “Go down to Miami and take a look at the operation, George. Have Tedder show you around. Come back and tell me what you think.”

So George had visited the large new CIA camp in Florida where Cuban exiles were trained for their infiltration missions. Then Tedder had said: “Maybe you should come on a mission. See for yourself.”

It was a dare, and Tedder had not expected George to accept it. But George felt that if he refused he would be putting himself in a weak position. Right now he had the high ground: he was against Mongoose on moral and political grounds. If he refused to go on a raid, he would be seen as timid. And perhaps there was a part of him that could not resist the challenge of proving his courage. So, foolishly, he had said: “Yes. Will you be coming along?”

That had surprised Tedder, and George had seen clearly that Tedder wished he could withdraw the offer. But now he, too, had been challenged. It was what Greg Peshkov would call a pissing contest. And Tedder, too, had felt unable to back down; although he had said, as an afterthought: “Of course, we can’t tell Bobby you came.”

So here they were. It was a pity, George reflected, that President Kennedy was so fond of the spy novels of the British writer Ian Fleming. The president seemed to think the world could be saved by James Bond in reality as well as in thrillers. Bond was “licensed to kill.” That was crap. No one was licensed to kill.

Their target was a small town called La Isabela. It lay along a narrow peninsula that stuck like a finger out of Cuba’s north coast. It was a port, and had no business other than trade. Their aim was to damage the harbor facilities.

Their arrival was timed for first light. The sky to the east was turning gray when the skipper, Sanchez, throttled back the powerful engine, and its roar faded to a low burble. Sanchez knew this stretch of coast well: his father had owned a sugar plantation in the neighborhood, before the revolution. The silhouette of a town began to emerge on the dim horizon, and he killed the engine and unshipped a pair of oars.

The tide took them toward the town; the oars were mainly for steering. Sanchez had judged his approach perfectly. A line of concrete piers came into view. Behind the piers, George could dimly see large warehouses with pitched roofs. There were no big ships in port: farther along the coast, a few small fishing boats were moored. A low surf whispered on the beach; otherwise the world was hushed. The silent speedboat bumped against a pier.

The hatch was opened and the men armed themselves. Tedder offered George a pistol. George shook his head. “Take it,” Tedder said. “This is dangerous.”

George knew what Tedder was up to. Tedder wanted him to get blood on his hands. That way he would lose the ability to criticize Mongoose. But George was not so easy to manipulate. “No, thanks,” he said. “I’m strictly an observer.”

“I’m in charge of this mission, and I’m ordering you.”

“And I’m telling you to fuck off.”

Tedder gave in.

Sanchez tied up the boat and they all disembarked. No one spoke. Sanchez pointed to the nearest warehouse, which also seemed to be the largest. They all ran toward it. George brought up the rear.

No one else was in sight. George could see a row of houses that looked little more than timber shacks. A tethered ass was cropping the sparse grass at the side of the dirt road. The only vehicle in sight was a rusty pickup truck of 1940s vintage. This was a very poor place, he realized. Clearly it had once been a busy port. George guessed it had been ruined by President Eisenhower, who had imposed an embargo on trade between the USA and Cuba in 1960.

Somewhere, a dog started barking.

The warehouse had timber sides and a corrugated-iron roof, but no windows. Sanchez found a small door and kicked it in. They all ran inside. The place was empty but for packaging litter: broken packing cases, cardboard boxes, short lengths of rope and string, discarded sacks and torn netting.

“Perfect,” said Sanchez.

The four Cubans threw incendiary bombs around the floor. A moment later they flamed up. The litter caught fire immediately. The timber walls would light in moments. They all ran outside again.

A voice said in Spanish: “Hey! What’s this?”

George turned to see a white-haired Cuban man in some kind of uniform. He was too old to be a cop or a soldier, so George guessed he was the night watchman. He wore sandals. However, he had a handgun on his belt, and he was fumbling to open the holster.

Before he could get his gun out, Sanchez shot him. Blood bloomed from the breast of his white uniform shirt and he fell backward.

“Let’s go!” Sanchez said, and the five men ran toward the speedboat.

George knelt over the old man. The eyes stared up at the brightening sky, seeing nothing.

Behind him, Tedder yelled: “George! Let’s go!”

Blood pumped from the chest wound for a few moments, then slowed to a trickle. George felt for a pulse, but there was none. At least the man had died fast.

The blaze in the warehouse was spreading rapidly, and George could feel its heat.

Tedder said: “George! We’ll leave you behind!”

The speedboat’s engine started with a roar.

George closed the dead man’s eyes. He stood up. For a few seconds he remained standing, head bowed. Then he ran for the speedboat.

As soon as he was aboard, the boat veered away from the dock and headed across the bay. George strapped himself in.

Tedder yelled in his ear: “What the fuck did you think you were doing?”

“We killed an innocent man,” George said. “I thought he deserved a moment of respect.”

“He was working for the Communists!”

“He was the night watchman—he probably didn’t know Communism from cheesecake.”

“You’re a goddamn pussy.”

George looked back. The warehouse was now a giant bonfire. People were swarming around it, presumably trying to put out the blaze. He returned his gaze to the sea in front, and did not look back again.

When at last they reached Miami and stood on solid ground again, George said to Tedder: “While we were at sea, you called me a pussy.” He knew this was stupid, almost as stupid as going on the raid, but he was too proud to let it pass. “We’re on dry land, now, with no safety issues. Why don’t you say it again, here?”

Tedder stared at him. Tedder was taller than George, but not so broad. He must have had some kind of training in unarmed combat, and George could see him weighing the odds, while the Cubans looked on with neutral interest.

Tedder’s gaze flicked to George’s cauliflower ear and back again and he said: “I think we’ll just forget it.”

“I thought so,” said George.

On the plane back to Washington he drafted a short report for Bobby, saying that in his opinion Operation Mongoose was ineffective, as there was no sign that people in Cuba (as opposed to exiles) wanted to overthrow Castro. It was also a threat to the global prestige of the United States, as it would cause anti-American hostility if it ever became public. When he handed Bobby the report, he said succinctly: “Mongoose is useless, and it’s dangerous.”

“I know,” Bobby said. “But we have to do something.”

Dimka was seeing all women differently.

He and Valentin spent most weekends with Nina and Anna at the girls’ apartment, the couples taking turns to sleep in the bed or on the floor of the living room. In the course of a night he and Nina would have sex twice and even three times. He knew, in more detail than he had ever dreamed of, how a woman’s body looked and smelled and tasted.

Consequently he looked at other women in a new, more knowing way. He could imagine them naked, speculate how their breasts curved, visualize their body hair, imagine their faces when they made love. In a way he knew all women, knowing one.

He felt a little disloyal to Nina when he admired Natalya Smotrov on the beach at Pitsunda, wearing a canary-yellow swimsuit, with wet hair and sandy feet. Her trim figure was not as curvy as Nina’s, but it was no less delightful. Perhaps his interest was pardonable: he had been here on the Black Sea coast for two weeks with Khrushchev, living the life of a monk. Anyway, he was not seriously courting temptation, for Natalya wore a wedding ring.

She was reading a typed report while he took a midday swim, and then she slipped a dress on over her swimsuit at the same time as he changed into his homemade shorts, so they walked together from the beach up to what they called the Barracks.

It was an ugly new building with bedrooms for relatively low-status visitors such as themselves. They met with the other aides in the empty dining room, which smelled of boiled pork and cabbage.

This was a jockeying-for-position meeting ahead of next week’s Politburo. The purpose, as always, was to identify controversial issues and assess the support for one side or another. Then an aide could save his boss from the embarrassment of arguing in favor of a proposal that would be subsequently rejected.

Dimka went on the attack right away. “Why is the Defense Ministry so slow in sending arms to our comrades in Cuba?” he said. “Cuba is the only revolutionary state in the American continent. It is proof that Marxism applies all over the world, not just in the East.”

Dimka’s fondness for the Cuban revolution was more than ideological. He was thrilled by the bearded heroes with their combat fatigues and their cigars—such a contrast to the grim-faced Soviet leaders in their gray suits. Communism was supposed to be a joyous crusade to make a better world. Sometimes the Soviet Union was more like a medieval monastery where everyone had taken vows of poverty and obedience.

Yevgeny Filipov was aide to the defense minister, and he bristled. “Castro is not a true Marxist,” he said. “He ignores the correct line laid down by the Popular Socialist Party of Cuba.” The PSP was the pro-Moscow party. “He goes his own revisionist way.”

Communism was badly in need of revision, in Dimka’s opinion, but he did not say that. “The Cuban revolution is a massive blow to capitalist imperialism. We should support it if only because the Kennedy brothers so hate Castro!”

“Do they?” said Filipov. “I don’t know so much. The Bay of Pigs invasion happened a year ago. What have the Americans done since?”

“They have spurned Castro’s peace feelers.”

“True: the conservatives in Congress would not let Kennedy make a pact with Castro even if he wanted to. But that doesn’t mean he’s going to war.”

Dimka looked around the room at the assembled aides in their short-sleeved shirts and sandals. They were watching him and Filipov, discreetly remaining silent until they could tell who was going to win this gladiatorial contest. Dimka said: “We have to make sure the Cuban revolution is not overthrown. Comrade Khrushchev believes there will be another American invasion, this one better organized and more lavishly financed.”

“But where is your evidence?”

Dimka was defeated. He had been aggressive and done his best, but his position was weak. “We don’t have evidence either way,” he admitted. “We have to argue from probabilities.”

“Or we could delay arming Castro until the position becomes clearer.”

Around the table several people nodded agreement. Filipov had scored heavily against Dimka.

At that moment Natalya spoke. “As a matter of fact, there is some evidence,” she said. She passed Dimka the typed pages she had been reading on the beach.

Dimka scanned the document. It was a report from the KGB station chief in the USA, and it was headed: “Operation Mongoose.”

While he was rapidly reading the pages, Natalya said: “Contrary to what Comrade Filipov from the Defense Ministry argues, the KGB is sure the Americans have not given up on Cuba.”

Filipov was furious. “Why has this document not been circulated to us all?”

“It’s only just in from Washington,” Natalya said coolly. “You’ll get a copy this afternoon, I’m sure.”

Natalya always seemed to get hold of key information a little ahead of everyone else, Dimka reflected. It was a great skill for an aide. Clearly she must be very valuable to her boss, Foreign Minister Gromyko. No doubt that was why she had such a high-powered job.

Dimka was astonished by what he was reading. It meant he would win today’s argument, thanks to Natalya, but it was bad news for Cuba’s revolution. “This is even worse than Comrade Khrushchev feared!” he said. “The CIA has sabotage teams in Cuba ready to destroy sugar mills and power stations. It’s guerrilla warfare! And they’re plotting to assassinate Castro!”

Filipov said desperately: “Can we rely on this information?”

Dimka looked at him. “What’s your opinion of the KGB, comrade?”

Filipov shut up.

Dimka got to his feet. “I’m sorry to draw this meeting to a premature close,” he said. “But I think the first secretary needs to see this right away.” He left the building.

He followed a path through the pine forest to Khrushchev’s white stucco villa. Inside, it was strikingly furnished with white curtains and furniture made of timber bleached like driftwood. He wondered who had picked such a radically contemporary style: certainly not the peasant Khrushchev, who, if he noticed decor at all, would probably have preferred velvet upholstery and flower-patterned carpets.

Dimka found the leader on the upstairs balcony that looked over the bay. Khrushchev was holding a pair of powerful Komz binoculars.

Dimka was not nervous. Khrushchev had taken a liking to him, he knew. The boss was pleased with the way he stood up to the other aides. “I thought you would want to see this report right away,” Dimka said. “Operation Mongoose—”

“I just read it,” Khrushchev interrupted. He handed the binoculars to Dimka. “Look over there,” he said, pointing across the water toward Turkey.

Dimka put the binoculars to his eyes.

“American nuclear missiles,” said Khrushchev. “Aimed at my dacha!”

Dimka could not see any missiles. He could not see Turkey, which was one hundred fifty miles away in that direction. But he knew that this characteristically theatrical gesture by Khrushchev was essentially right. In Turkey the USA had deployed Jupiter missiles, obsolete but certainly not harmless: Dimka had this information from his uncle Volodya in Red Army Intelligence.

Dimka was not sure what to do. Should he pretend he could see the missiles through the binoculars? But Khrushchev must know he could not.

Khrushchev solved the problem by snatching the binoculars back. “And do you know what I’m going to do?” he said.

“Please tell me.”

“I’m going to let Kennedy know how it feels. I will deploy nuclear missiles in Cuba—aimed at his dacha!”

Dimka was speechless. He had not been expecting this. And he could not see it as a good idea. He agreed with his boss in wanting more military aid for Cuba, and he had been battling the Defense Ministry over that issue—but now Khrushchev was going too far. “Nuclear missiles?” he repeated, trying to gain time to think.

“Exactly!” Khrushchev pointed to the KGB report on Operation Mongoose that Dimka was still clutching. “And that will convince the Politburo to support me. Poisoned cigars. Ha!”

“Our official line has been that we will not deploy nuclear weapons in Cuba,” Dimka said, in the manner of one who presents incidental information, rather than in an argumentative tone. “We have given the Americans that reassurance several times, and publicly.”

Khrushchev grinned with impish delight. “Then Kennedy will be all the more surprised!”

Khrushchev scared Dimka in this mood. The first secretary was not a fool, but he was a gambler. If this scheme went wrong it could lead to a diplomatic humiliation that might bring about Khrushchev’s downfall as leader—and, by way of collateral damage, end Dimka’s career. Worse, it might provoke the American invasion of Cuba that it was intended to prevent—and his beloved sister was in Cuba. There was even a chance that it would spark the nuclear war that would end capitalism, Communism, and quite possibly the human race.

On the other hand, Dimka could not help feeling excited. What a tremendous blow would be struck against the rich, smug Kennedy boys, against the global bully that was the United States, and against the whole capitalist-imperialist power bloc. If the gamble paid off, what a triumph it would be for the USSR and Khrushchev.

What should he do? He switched to practical mode and strained to think of ways to reduce the apocalyptic risks of the scheme. “We could start by signing a peace treaty with Cuba,” he said. “The Americans could hardly object to that without admitting that they were planning to attack a poor Third World country.” Khrushchev looked unenthusiastic but said nothing, so Dimka went on. “Then we could step up the supply of conventional weapons. Again it would be awkward for Kennedy to protest: why shouldn’t a country buy guns for its army? Finally we could send the missiles—”

“No,” said Khrushchev abruptly. He never liked gradualism, Dimka reflected. “This is what we’ll do,” Khrushchev went on. “We’ll ship the missiles secretly. We’ll put them in boxes labeled ‘drainage pipes,’ anything. Even the ships’ captains won’t know what’s inside. We’ll send our artillerymen over to Cuba to assemble the launchers. The Americans won’t have any idea what we’re up to.”

Dimka felt a little sick, with both fear and exhilaration. It would be extraordinarily difficult to keep such a big project secret, even in the Soviet Union. Thousands of men would be involved in crating the weapons, sending them by train to the ports, opening them in Cuba, and deploying them. Was it even possible to keep them all quiet?

However, he said nothing.

Khrushchev went on: “And then, when the weapons are launch-ready, we’ll make an announcement. It will be a fait accompli—the Americans will be helpless to do anything about it.”

It was just the kind of grand dramatic gesture Khrushchev loved, and Dimka realized he would never talk him out of it. He said cautiously: “I wonder how President Kennedy will react to such an announcement.”

Khrushchev made a scornful noise. “He’s a boy—inexperienced, timid, weak.”

“Of course,” said Dimka, though he feared Khrushchev might be underestimating the young president. “But they have midterm elections on November sixth. If we revealed the missiles during the campaign, Kennedy would come under heavy pressure to do something drastic, to avoid humiliation at the polls.”

“Then you have to keep the secret until November sixth.”

Dimka said: “Who does?”

“You do. I’m putting you in charge of this project. You’ll be my liaison with the Defense Ministry, who will have to carry it out. It will be your job to make sure they don’t let the secret leak before we’re ready.”

Dimka was shocked enough to blurt out: “Why me?”

“You hate that prick Filipov. Therefore I can trust you to ride him hard.”

Dimka was too aghast to wonder how Khrushchev knew he hated Filipov. The army was being given a near-impossible task—and Dimka would get the blame if it went wrong. This was a catastrophe.

But he knew better than to say so. “Thank you, Nikita Sergeyevich,” he said formally. “You can rely on me.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The GAZ-13 limousine was called a Seagull because of its streamlined American-style rear wings. It could reach one hundred miles per hour, just, although it was uncomfortable at such speeds on Soviet roads. It was available in two-tone burgundy and cream with whitewall tires, but Dimka’s was black.

He sat in the back as it drove onto the quayside at Sevastopol, Ukraine. The town stood on the tip of the Crimean Peninsula, where it poked out into the Black Sea. Twenty years ago it had been flattened by German bombing and artillery fire. After the war it had been rebuilt as a cheerful seaside resort with Mediterranean balconies and Venetian arches.

Dimka got out and looked at the ship moored at the dock, a timber freighter with oversize hatches designed to take tree trunks. Under the hot summer sun, stevedores were loading skis and clearly labeled cartons of cold-weather clothing, to give the impression that the ship was headed to the frozen north. Dimka had devised the deliberately misleading code name Operation Anadyr, after a town in Siberia.

A second Seagull pulled onto the dock and parked behind Dimka’s. Four men in Red Army Intelligence uniforms got out and stood waiting for his instructions.

A railway line ran alongside the dock, and a massive gantry straddled the line, positioned to shift cargo directly from railcar to ship. Dimka looked at his wristwatch. “The fucking train should be here by now.”

Dimka was wound up tight. He had never been so tense in all his life. He had not even known what stress was until he started this project.

The senior Red Army man was a colonel called Pankov. Despite his rank, he addressed Dimka with formal respect. “You want me to make a call, Dmitri Ilich?”

A second officer, Lieutenant Meyer, said: “I think it’s coming.”

Dimka looked along the track. In the distance he could see, approaching slowly, a line of low-slung open railcars loaded with long wooden crates.

Dimka said: “Why does everyone think it’s all right to be fifteen fucking minutes late?”

Dimka was worried about spies. He had visited the chief of the local KGB station and reviewed his list of suspected people in the area. They were all dissidents: poets, priests, painters of abstract art, and Jews who wanted to go to Israel—typical Soviet malcontents, about as threatening as a cycling club. Dimka had them all arrested anyway, but not one looked dangerous. Almost certainly there were real CIA agents in Sevastopol, but the KGB did not know who they were.

A man in captain’s uniform came from the ship across the gangway and addressed Pankov. “Are you in charge here, Colonel?”

Pankov inclined his head toward Dimka.

The captain became less deferential. “My ship can’t go to Siberia,” he said.

“Your destination is classified information,” Dimka said. “Do not speak of it.” In Dimka’s pocket was a sealed envelope that the captain was to open after he had sailed from the Black Sea into the Mediterranean. At that point he would learn he was going to Cuba.

“I need cold-weather lubricating oil, antifreeze, deicing equipment—”

Dimka said: “Shut the fuck up.”

“But I have to protest. Siberian conditions—”

Dimka said to Lieutenant Meyer: “Punch him in the mouth.”

Meyer was a big man and he hit hard. The captain fell back, his lips bleeding.

Dimka said: “Go back aboard your ship, wait for orders, and keep your stupid mouth shut.”

The captain left, and the men on the quay turned their attention back to the approaching train.

Operation Anadyr was huge. The approaching train was the first of nineteen similar, all required to bring just this first missile regiment to Sevastopol. Altogether, Dimka was sending fifty thousand men and two hundred thirty thousand tons of equipment to Cuba. He had a fleet of eighty-five ships.

He still did not see how he was to keep the whole thing secret.

Many of the men in authority in the Soviet Union were careless, lazy, drunk, and just plain stupid. They misunderstood their instructions, they forgot, they approached challenging tasks halfheartedly and then gave up, and sometimes they just decided they knew better. Reasoning with them was useless; charm was worse. Being nice to them made them think you were a fool who could be ignored.

The train inched alongside the ship, its steel-on-steel brakes squealing. Each purpose-built railcar carried just one wooden crate eighty feet long and nine feet square. A crane operator mounted the gantry and entered its control cabin. Stevedores leaped onto the railcars and began readying the crates for loading. A company of soldiers had traveled with the train, and now they began to help the stevedores. Dimka was relieved to see that the missile regiment flashes had been removed from their uniforms, in accordance with his instructions.

A man in a civilian suit jumped down off a car, and Dimka was irritated to see that it was Yevgeny Filipov, his opposite number at the Defense Ministry. Filipov approached Pankov, as the captain had, but Pankov said: “Comrade Dvorkin is in command here.”

Filipov shrugged. “Just a few minutes late,” he said with a satisfied air. “We were delayed—”

Dimka noticed something. “Oh, no,” he said. “Fuck it.”

Filipov said: “Something wrong?”

Dimka stamped his foot on the concrete quay. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

“What is it?”

Dimka looked at him in fury. “Who’s in charge on the train?”

“Colonel Kats is with us.”

“Bring the dumb bastard here to me right away.”

Filipov did not like to do Dimka’s bidding, but he could hardly refuse such a request, and he went away.

Pankov looked an inquiry at Dimka.

Dimka said with weary rage: “Do you see what is stenciled on the side of each crate?”

Pankov nodded. “It’s an army code number.”

“Exactly,” Dimka said bitterly. “It means: ‘R-12 ballistic missile.’”

“Oh, shit,” said Pankov.

Dimka shook his head in impotent fury. “Torture is too good for some people.”

He had feared that sooner or later he would have a showdown with the army, and on balance it suited him to have it now, over the very first shipment. And he was prepared for it.

Filipov returned with a colonel and a major. The senior man said: “Good morning, comrades. I’m Colonel Kats. Slight delay, but otherwise everything is going smoothly—”

“No, it’s not, you dimwitted prick,” said Dimka.

Kats was incredulous. “What did you say?”

Filipov said: “Look here, Dvorkin, you can’t talk to an army officer like that.”

Dimka ignored Filipov and spoke to Kats. “You have endangered the security of this entire operation by your disobedience. Your orders were to paint over the army numbers on the crates. You were provided with new stencils reading ‘Construction-Grade Plastic Pipe.’ You were to paint new markings on all the crates.”

Kats said indignantly: “There wasn’t time.”

Filipov said: “Be reasonable, Dvorkin.”

Dimka suspected Filipov might be happy for the secret to leak, for then Khrushchev would be discredited and might even fall from power.

Dimka pointed south, out to sea. “There is a NATO country just one hundred and fifty miles in that direction, Kats, you fucking idiot. Don’t you know that the Americans have spies? And that they send them to places such as Sevastopol, which is a naval base and a major Soviet port?”

“The markings are in code—”

“In code? What is your brain made of, dog shit? What training do you imagine is given to capitalist-imperialist spies? They are taught to recognize uniform badges—such as the missile regiment flash you are wearing on your collar, also against orders—as well as other military insignia and equipment markings. You stupid turd, every traitor and CIA informant in Europe can read the army code on these crates.”

Kats tried standing on his dignity. “Who do you think you are?” he said. “Don’t you dare speak to me like that. I’ve got children older than you.”

“You are relieved of your command,” said Dimka.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Show him, please.”

Colonel Pankov took a sheet of paper from his pocket and handed it to Kats.

Dimka said: “As you see from the document, I have the necessary authority.”

Filipov’s jaw was hanging open, Dimka saw.

Dimka said to Kats: “You are under arrest as a traitor. Go with these men.”

Lieutenant Meyer and another of Pankov’s group smoothly positioned themselves either side of Kats, took his arms, and marched him to the limousine.

Filipov recovered his wits. “Dvorkin, for God’s sake—”

“If you can’t say anything helpful, shut your fucking mouth,” Dimka said to him. He turned to the missile regiment major, who had not said a word so far. “Are you Kats’s second-in-command?”

The man looked terrified. “Yes, comrade. Major Spektor at your service.”

“You are now in command.”

“Thank you.”

“Take this train away. North of here is a large complex of train sheds. Arrange with the railway management to stop there for twelve hours while you repaint the crates. Bring the train back here tomorrow.”

“Yes, comrade.”

“Colonel Kats is going to a labor camp in Siberia for the rest of his life, which will not be very long. So, Major Spektor, don’t make a mistake.”

“I won’t.”

Dimka got into his limousine. As he drove away, he passed Filipov standing on the quay, looking as if he was not sure what had just happened.

Tanya Dvorkin stood on the dock at Mariel, on Cuba’s north coast, twenty-five miles from Havana, where a narrow inlet opened into a huge natural harbor hidden among hills. She looked anxiously at a Soviet ship moored at a concrete pier. Parked on the pier was a Soviet ZIL-130 truck pulling an eighty-foot trailer. A crane was lifting a long wooden crate from the ship’s hold and moving it through the air, with painful slowness, toward the truck. The crate was marked in Russian: CONSTRUCTION-GRADE PLASTIC PIPE.

She saw all this by floodlights. The ships had to be unloaded at night, by order of her brother. All other shipping had been cleared out of the harbor. Patrol boats had closed the inlet. Frogmen searched the waters around the ship to guard against an underwater threat. Dimka’s name was mentioned in tones of fear: his word was law and his wrath terrible to behold, they said.

Tanya was writing articles for TASS that told how the Soviet Union was helping Cuba, and how grateful the Cuban people were for the friendship of their ally on the far side of the globe. But she reserved the real truth for the coded cables she sent, via the KGB’s telegraph system, to Dimka in the Kremlin. And now Dimka had given her the unofficial task of making sure his instructions were carried out without fail. That was why she was anxious.

With Tanya was General Paz Oliva, the most beautiful man she had ever met.

Paz was breathtakingly attractive: tall and strong and a little scary, until he smiled and spoke in a soft bass voice that made her think of the strings of a cello being caressed by a bow. He was in his thirties: most of Castro’s military men were young. With his dark skin and soft curls he looked more Negro than Hispanic. He was a poster boy for Castro’s policy of racial equality, such a contrast with Kennedy’s.

Tanya loved Cuba, but it had taken a while. She missed Vasili more than she had expected. She realized how fond she was of him, even though they had never been lovers. She worried about him in his Siberian labor camp, hungry and cold. The campaign for which he had been punished—publicizing the illness of Ustin Bodian, the opera singer—had been successful, sort of: Bodian had been released from prison, though he had died soon afterward in a Moscow hospital. Vasili would find the irony telling.

Some things she could not get used to. She still put on a coat to go out, although the weather was never cold. She got bored with beans and rice and, to her surprise, found herself longing for a bowl of kasha with sour cream. After endless days of hot summer sun, she sometimes hoped for a downpour to freshen the streets.

Cuban peasants were as poor as Soviet peasants, but they seemed happier, perhaps because of the weather. And eventually the Cuban people’s irrepressible joie de vivre bewitched Tanya. She smoked cigars and drank rum with tuKola, the local substitute for Coke. She loved to dance with Paz to the irresistibly sexy rhythms of the traditional music they called trova. Castro had closed most of the nightclubs, but no one could prevent Cubans playing guitars, and the musicians had moved to small bars called casas de la trova.

But she worried for the Cuban people. They had defied their giant neighbor, the United States, only ninety miles away across the Straits of Florida, and she knew that one day they might be punished. When she thought about it, Tanya felt like the crocodile bird, bravely perched between the open jaws of the great beast, pecking food from a row of teeth like broken knives.

Was the Cubans’ defiance worth the price? Only time would tell. Tanya was pessimistic about the prospects for reforming Communism, but some of the things Castro had done were admirable. In 1961, the Year of Education, ten thousand students had flocked to the countryside to teach farmers to read, a heroic crusade to wipe out illiteracy in one campaign. The first sentence in the primer was “The peasants work in the cooperative,” but so what? People who could read were better equipped to recognize government propaganda for what it was.

Castro was no Bolshevik. He scorned orthodoxy and restlessly sought out new ideas. That was why he annoyed the Kremlin. But he was no democrat either. Tanya had been saddened when he had announced that the revolution had made elections unnecessary. And there was one area in which he had imitated the Soviet Union slavishly: with advice from the KGB he had created a ruthlessly efficient secret police force to stamp out dissent.

On balance, Tanya wished the revolution well. Cuba had to escape from underdevelopment and colonialism. No one wanted the Americans back, with their casinos and their prostitutes. But Tanya wondered whether Cubans would ever be allowed to make their own decisions. American hostility drove them into the arms of the Soviets; but as Castro moved closer to the USSR, so it became increasingly likely that the Americans would invade. What Cuba really needed was to be left alone.

But perhaps now it had a chance. She and Paz were among a mere handful of people who knew what was in these long wooden crates. She was reporting directly to Dimka on the effectiveness of the security blanket. If the plan worked it might protect Cuba permanently from the danger of an American invasion, and give the country breathing space in which to find its own way into the future.

That was her hope, anyway.

She had known Paz a year. “You never talk about your family,” she said as they watched the crate being positioned in the trailer. She addressed him in Spanish: she was now fairly fluent. She had also picked up a smattering of the American-accented English that many Cubans used occasionally.

“The revolution is my family,” he said.

Bullshit, she thought.

All the same, she was probably going to sleep with him.

Paz might turn out to be a dark-skinned version of Vasili, handsome and charming and faithless. There was probably a string of lissome Cuban girls with flashing eyes taking turns to fall into his bed.

She told herself not to be cynical. Just because a man was gorgeous he did not have to be a mindless Lothario. Perhaps Paz was simply waiting for the right woman to become his life partner and toil alongside him in the mission to build a new Cuba.

The missile in its crate was lashed to the bed of the trailer. Paz was approached by a small, obsequious lieutenant called Lorenzo, who said: “Ready to move out, General.”

“Carry on,” said Paz.

The truck moved slowly away from the dock. A herd of motorcycles roared into life and went ahead of the truck to clear the road. Tanya and Paz got into his army car, a green Buick LeSabre station wagon, and followed the convoy.

Cuba’s roads had not been designed for eighty-foot trucks. In the last three months, Red Army engineers had built new bridges and reconfigured hairpin bends, but still the convoy moved at walking pace much of the time. Tanya noted with relief that all other vehicles had been cleared from the roads. In the villages through which they passed, the low-built two-room wooden houses were dark, and the bars were shut. Dimka would be satisfied.

Tanya knew that back at the dockside another missile was already being eased onto another truck. The process would go on until first light. Unloading the entire cargo would take two nights.

So far, Dimka’s strategy was working. It seemed no one suspected what the Soviet Union was up to in Cuba. There was no whisper of it on the diplomatic circuit or in the uncontrolled pages of Western newspapers. The feared explosion of outrage in the White House had not yet happened.

But there were still two months to go before the American midterm elections; two more months during which these huge missiles had to be made launch-ready in total secrecy. Tanya did not know whether it could be done.

After two hours they drove into a broad valley that had been taken over by the Red Army. Here engineers were building a launch site. This was one of more than a dozen tucked away out of sight in the folds of the mountains all across the 777-mile-long island of Cuba.

Tanya and Paz got out of the car to watch the crate being off-loaded from the truck, again under floodlights. “We did it,” said Paz in a tone of satisfaction. “We now have nuclear weapons.” He took out a cigar and lit it.

Sounding a note of caution, Tanya said: “How long will it take to deploy them?”

“Not long,” he said dismissively. “A couple of weeks.”

He was not in the mood to think about problems, but to Tanya the task looked as if it might take more than two weeks. The valley was a dusty construction site where little had so far been achieved. All the same, Paz was right: they had done the hard part, which was bringing nuclear weapons into Cuba without the Americans finding out.

“Look at that baby,” Paz said. “One day it could land in the middle of Miami. Bang.”

Tanya shuddered at the thought. “I hope not.”

“Why?”

Did he really need to be told? “These weapons are meant to be a threat. They’re supposed to make the Americans afraid to invade Cuba. If ever they are used, they will have failed.”

“Perhaps,” he said. “But if they do attack us, we will be able to wipe out entire American cities.”

Tanya was unnerved by the evident relish with which he contemplated this dreadful prospect. “What good would that do?”

He seemed surprised by the question. “It will maintain the pride of the Cuban nation.” He uttered the Spanish word dignidad as if it were sacred.

She could hardly believe what she was hearing. “So you would start a nuclear war for the sake of your pride?”

“Of course. What could be more important?”

Indignantly she said: “The survival of the human race, for one thing!”

He waved his lighted cigar in a dismissive gesture. “You worry about the human race,” he said. “My concern is my honor.”

“Shit,” said Tanya. “Are you mad?”

Paz looked at her. “President Kennedy is prepared to use nuclear weapons if the United States is attacked,” he said. “Secretary Khrushchev will use them if the Soviet Union is attacked. The same for De Gaulle of France and whoever is the leader of Great Britain. If one of them said anything different he would be deposed within hours.” He drew on his cigar, making the end glow red, then blew out smoke. “If I’m mad,” he said, “they all are.”

George Jakes did not know what the emergency was. Bobby Kennedy summoned him and Dennis Wilson to a crisis meeting in the White House on the morning of Tuesday, October 16. His best guess was that the subject would be on the front page of today’s New York Times, with the headline:

Eisenhower Calls President Weak on Foreign Policy

The unwritten rule was that ex-presidents did not attack their successors. However, George was not surprised that Eisenhower had flouted the convention. Jack Kennedy had won by calling Eisenhower weak and inventing a nonexistent “missile gap” in the Soviets’ favor. Clearly Ike was still hurting from this punch below the belt. Now that Kennedy was vulnerable to a similar charge, Eisenhower was getting his revenge—exactly three weeks before the midterm elections.

The other possibility was worse. George’s great fear was that Operation Mongoose might have leaked. The revelation that the president and his brother were organizing international terrorism would be ammunition for every Republican candidate. They would say the Kennedys were criminals for doing it and fools for letting the secret out. And what reprisals might Khrushchev dream up?

George could see that his boss was furious. Bobby was not good at hiding his feelings. Rage showed in the set of his jaw and the hunch of his shoulders and the arctic blast of his blue-eyed gaze.

George liked Bobby for the openness of his emotions. People who worked with Bobby saw into his heart, frequently. It made him more vulnerable but also more lovable.

When they walked into the Cabinet Room, President Kennedy was already there. He sat on the other side of the long table, on which were several large ashtrays. He was in the center, with the presidential seal on the wall above and behind him. Either side of the seal, tall arched windows looked out onto the Rose Garden.

With him was a little girl in a white dress who was obviously his daughter, Caroline, not quite five years old. She had short light-brown hair parted at the side—like her father’s—and held back with a simple clip. She was speaking to him, solemnly explaining something, and he was listening raptly, as if her words were as vital as anything else said in this room of power. George was profoundly struck by the intensity of the connection between parent and child. If ever I have a daughter, he thought, I will listen like that, so that she will know she is the most important person in the world.

The aides took their seats against the wall. George sat next to Skip Dickerson, who worked for Vice President Lyndon Johnson. Skip had very fair straight hair and pale skin, almost like an albino. He pushed his blond forelock out of his eyes and spoke in a Southern accent. “Any idea where the fire is?”

“Bobby isn’t saying,” George replied.

A woman George did not know came into the room and took Caroline away. “The CIA has some news for us,” the president said. “Let’s begin.”

At one end of the room, in front of the fireplace, stood an easel displaying a large monochrome photograph. The man standing next to it introduced himself as an expert photointerpreter. George had not known that such a profession existed. “The pictures you are about to see were taken on Sunday by a high-altitude U-2 aircraft of the CIA flying over Cuba.”

Everyone knew about the CIA’s spy planes. The Soviets had shot one down over Siberia two years ago, and had put the pilot on trial for espionage.

Everyone peered at the photo on the easel. It seemed blurred and grainy, and showed nothing that George could recognize except maybe trees. They needed an interpreter to tell them what they were looking at.

“This is a valley in Cuba about twenty miles inland from the port of Mariel,” the CIA man said. He pointed with a little baton. “A good-quality new road leads to a large open field. These small shapes scattered around are construction vehicles: bulldozers, backhoes, and dump trucks. And here”—he tapped the photo for emphasis—“here, in the middle, you see a group of shapes like planks of wood in a row. They are in fact crates eighty feet long by nine feet across. That is exactly the right size and shape to contain a Soviet R-12 intermediate-range ballistic missile, designed to carry a nuclear warhead.”

George just managed to stop himself from saying Holy shit, but others were not so restrained, and for a moment the room was full of astonished curses.

Someone said: “Are you sure?”

The photointerpreter replied: “Sir, I have been studying air reconnaissance photographs for many years, and I can assure you of two things: one, this is exactly what nuclear missiles look like, and two, nothing else looks like this.”

God save us, George thought fearfully; the goddamn Cubans have nukes.

Someone said: “How the hell did they get there?”

The photointerpreter said: “Clearly the Soviets transported them to Cuba in conditions of utter secrecy.”

“Snuck them in under our fucking noses,” said the questioner.

Someone else asked: “What is the range of those missiles?”

“More than a thousand miles.”

“So they could hit . . .”

“This building, sir.”

George had to repress an impulse to get up and leave right away.

“And how long would it take?”

“To get here from Cuba? Thirteen minutes, we calculate.”

Involuntarily, George glanced at the windows, as if he might see a missile coming across the Rose Garden.

The president said: “That son of a bitch Khrushchev lied to me. He told me he would not deploy nuclear missiles in Cuba.”

Bobby added: “And the CIA told us to believe him.”

Someone else said: “This is bound to dominate the rest of the election campaign—three more weeks.”

With relief, George turned his mind to the domestic political consequences: the possibility of nuclear war was somehow too terrible to contemplate. He thought of this morning’s New York Times. How much more Eisenhower could say now! At least when he was president he had not allowed the USSR to turn Cuba into a Communist nuclear base.

This was a disaster, and not just for foreign policy. A Republican landslide in November would mean that Kennedy was hamstrung for the last two years of his presidency, and that would be the end of the civil rights agenda. With more Republicans joining Southern Democrats in opposing equality for Negroes, Kennedy would have no chance of bringing in a civil rights bill. How long would it be then before Maria’s grandfather would be allowed to register to vote without getting arrested?

In politics, everything was connected.

We have to do something about the missiles, George thought.

He had no idea what.

Fortunately Jack Kennedy did.

“First, we need to step up U-2 surveillance of Cuba,” the president said. “We have to know how many missiles they have and where they are. And then, by God, we’re going to take them out.”

George perked up. Suddenly the problem did not seem so great. The USA had hundreds of aircraft and thousands of bombs. And President Kennedy taking decisive, violent action to protect America would do no harm to the Democrats in the midterms.

Everyone looked at General Maxwell Taylor, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and America’s most senior military commander after the president. His wavy hair, slick with brilliantine and parted high on his head, made George think he might be vain. He was trusted by both Jack and Bobby, though George was not sure why. “An air strike would need to be followed by a full-scale invasion of Cuba,” Taylor said.

“And we have a contingency plan for that.”

“We can land one hundred fifty thousand men there within a week of the bombing.”

Kennedy was still thinking about taking out the Soviet missiles. “Could we guarantee to destroy every launch site in Cuba?” he asked.

Taylor replied: “It will never be one hundred percent, Mr. President.”

George had not thought of that snag. Cuba was 777 miles long. The air force might not be able to find every site, let alone destroy them all.

President Kennedy said: “And I guess any missiles remaining after our air strike would be fired at the USA immediately.”

“We would have to assume that, sir,” said Taylor.

The president looked bleak, and George had a sudden vivid sense of the dreadful weight of responsibility he bore. “Tell me this,” said Kennedy. “If one missile landed on a medium-size American city, how bad would that be?”

Election politics were driven from George’s mind, and once again his heart was chilled by the dreaded thought of nuclear war.

General Taylor conferred with his aides for a few moments, then turned back to the table. “Mr. President,” he said, “our calculation is that six hundred thousand people would die.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Dimka’s mother, Anya, wanted to meet Nina. This surprised him. His relationship with Nina was exciting, and he slept with her every chance he got, but what did that have to do with his mother?

He put that to her, and she answered in tones of exasperation. “You were the cleverest boy in school, but you’re such a fool sometimes,” she said. “Listen. Every weekend that you’re not away somewhere with Khrushchev, you’re with this woman. Obviously she’s important. You’ve been seeing her for three months. Of course your mother wants to know what she’s like! How can you even ask?”

He supposed she was right. Nina was not just a date nor even merely a girlfriend. She was his lover. She had become part of his life.

He loved his mother, but he did not obey her in everything: she disapproved of the motorcycle, the blue jeans, and Valentin. However, he would do anything reasonable to please her, so he invited Nina to the apartment.

At first Nina refused. “I’m not going to be inspected by your family, like a used car you’re thinking of buying,” she said resentfully. “Tell your mother I don’t want to get married. She’ll soon lose interest in me.”

“It’s not my family, it’s just her,” Dimka told her. “My father’s dead and my sister’s in Cuba. Anyway, what have you got against marriage?”

“Why, are you proposing to me?”

Dimka was embarrassed. Nina was thrilling and sexy, and he had never been anywhere near so deeply involved with a woman, but he had not thought about marriage. Did he want to spend the rest of his life with her?

He dodged the question. “I’m just trying to understand you.”

“I’ve tried marriage, and I didn’t like it,” she said. “Satisfied?”

Challenge was her default setting. He did not mind. It was part of what made her so exciting. “You prefer being single,” he said.

“Obviously.”

“What’s so great about it?”

“I don’t have to please a man, so I can please myself. And when I want something else I can see you.”

“I fit neatly into the slot.”

She grinned at the double meaning. “Exactly.”

However, she was thoughtful for a while; then she said: “Oh, hell, I don’t want to make an enemy of your mother. I’ll go.”

On the day, Dimka felt nervous. Nina was unpredictable. When something happened to displease her—a plate carelessly broken, a real or imagined slight, a note of reproof in Dimka’s voice—her disapproval was a blast like Moscow’s north wind in January. He hoped she would get on with his mother.

Nina had not previously been inside Government House. She was impressed by the lobby, which was the size of a small ballroom. The apartment was not large but it was luxuriously finished, by comparison with most Moscow homes, having thick rugs and expensive wallpaper and a radiogram—a walnut cabinet containing a record player and a radio. These were the privileges of senior KGB officers such as Dimka’s father.

Anya had prepared a lavish spread of snacks, which Muscovites preferred to a formal dinner: smoked mackerel and hard-boiled eggs with red pepper on white bread; little rye bread sandwiches with cucumber and tomatoes; and her pièce de résistance, a plate of “sailboats,” ovals of toast with triangles of cheese held upright by a toothpick like a mast.

Anya wore a new dress and put on a touch of makeup. She had gained a little weight since the death of Dimka’s father, and it suited her. Dimka felt his mother was happier since her husband had died. Maybe Nina was right about marriage.

The first thing Anya said to Nina was: “Twenty-three years old, and this is the first time my Dimka has ever brought a girl home.”

He wished his mother had not told her that. It made him seem a beginner. He was a beginner, and Nina had figured that out long ago, but all the same he did not need her to be reminded. Anyway, he was learning fast. Nina said he was a good lover, better than her husband, though she would not go into details.

To his surprise, Nina went out of her way to be pleasant to his mother, politely calling her Anya Grigorivitch, helping in the kitchen, asking her where she got her dress.

When they had had some vodka, Anya felt relaxed enough to say: “So, Nina, my Dimka tells me you don’t want to get married.”

Dimka groaned. “Mother, that’s too personal!”

But Nina did not seem to mind. “I’m like you, I’ve already been married,” she said.

“But I’m an old woman.”

Anya was forty-five, which was generally considered too old for remarriage. Women of that age were thought to have left desire behind—and, if they had not, they were regarded with distaste. A respectable widow who remarried in middle age would be careful to tell everyone it was “just for companionship.”

“You don’t look old, Anya Grigorivitch,” Nina said. “You might be Dimka’s big sister.”

This was rubbish, but Anya liked it all the same. Perhaps women always enjoyed such flattery, regardless of whether it was credible. Anyway, she did not deny it. “I’m too old to have more children, anyway.”

“I can’t have children, either.”

“Oh!” Anya was shaken by that revelation. It upturned all her fantasies. For a moment she forgot to be tactful. “Why not?” she asked bluntly.

“Medical reasons.”

“Oh.”

Clearly Anya would have liked to know more. Dimka had noticed that medical details were of great interest to many women. But Nina clammed up, as she always did on this subject.

There was a knock at the door. Dimka sighed: he could guess who it was. He opened up.

On the doorstep were his grandparents, who lived in the same building. “Oh! Dimka—you’re here!” said his grandfather Grigori Peshkov, feigning surprise. He was in uniform. He was nearly seventy-four, but he would not retire. Old men who did not know when to quit were a major problem in the Soviet Union, in Dimka’s opinion.

Dimka’s grandmother Katerina had had her hair done. “We brought you some caviar,” she said. Clearly this was not the casual drop-in they were pretending. They had found out that Nina was coming and they were here to check her out. Nina was being inspected by the family, just as she had feared.

Dimka introduced them. Grandmother kissed Nina and Grandfather held her hand longer than necessary. To Dimka’s relief, Nina continued to be charming. She called Grandfather “comrade General.” Realizing immediately that he was susceptible to attractive girls, she flirted with him, to his delight, at the same time giving Grandmother a woman-to-woman look that said You and I know what men are like.

Grandfather asked her about her job. She had recently been promoted, she told him, and now she was publishing manager, organizing the printing of the steel union’s various newsletters. Grandmother asked about her family, and she said she did not see much of them as they all lived in her hometown of Perm, a twenty-four-hour train journey eastward.

She soon got Grandfather onto his favorite subject, historical inaccuracies in Eisenstein’s film October, especially the scenes depicting the storming of the Winter Palace, in which Grandfather had participated.

Dimka was pleased they were all getting on so well, yet at the same time he had the uneasy sensation that he was not in control of whatever was happening here. He felt as if he were on a ship sailing through calm waters to an unknown destination: all was well for the moment, but what lay ahead?

The phone rang, and Dimka answered. He always did in the evenings: it was usually the Kremlin calling for him. The voice of Natalya Smotrov said: “I’ve just heard from the KGB station in Washington.”

Talking to her while Nina was in the room made Dimka feel awkward. He told himself not to be stupid: he had never touched Natalya. He had thought about it, though. But surely a man need not feel guilty for his thoughts? “What’s happened?” he asked.

“President Kennedy has booked television time this evening to talk to the American people.”

As usual, she had the hot news first. “Why?”

“They don’t know.”

Dimka thought immediately of Cuba. Most of his missiles were there now, and the nuclear warheads to go with them. Tons of ancillary equipment and thousands of troops had arrived. In a few days the weapons would be launch-ready. The mission was almost complete.

But two weeks remained before the American midterm elections. Dimka had been considering flying to Cuba—there was a scheduled air service from Prague to Havana—to make sure the lid was screwed on tight for a few more days. It was vital that the secret be kept just a little longer.

He prayed that Kennedy’s surprise TV appearance would be about something else: Berlin, perhaps, or Vietnam.

“What time is the broadcast?” Dimka asked Natalya.

“Seven in the evening, Eastern time.”

That would be two o’clock tomorrow morning in Moscow. “I’ll phone him right away,” he said. “Thank you.” He broke the connection, then dialed Khrushchev’s residence.

The phone was answered by Ivan Tepper, head of the household staff, the equivalent of a butler. “Hello, Ivan,” said Dimka. “Is he there?”

“On his way to bed,” said Ivan.

“Tell him to put his trousers back on. Kennedy is going to speak on television at two A.M. our time.”

“Just a minute, he’s right here.”

Dimka heard a muttered conversation, then Khrushchev’s voice. “They have found your missiles!”

Dimka’s heart sank. Khrushchev’s spontaneous intuition was usually right. The secret was out—and Dimka was going to take the blame. “Good evening, comrade First Secretary,” he said, and the four people in the room with him went silent. “We don’t yet know what Kennedy will be speaking about.”

“It’s the missiles, bound to be. Call an emergency meeting of the Presidium.”

“What time?”

“In an hour.”

“Very good.”

Khrushchev hung up.

Dimka dialed the home of his secretary. “Hello, Vera,” he said. “Emergency Presidium at ten tonight. He’s on his way to the Kremlin.”

“I’ll start calling people,” she said.

“You have the numbers at your home?”

“Yes.”

“Of course you do. Thank you. I’ll be at the office in a few minutes.” He hung up.

They were all staring at him. They had heard him say “Good evening, comrade First Secretary.” Grandfather looked proud, Grandmother and Mother were concerned, and Nina had a gleam of excitement in her eye. “I’ve got to go to work,” Dimka said unnecessarily.

Grandfather said: “What’s the emergency?”

“We don’t know yet.”

Grandfather patted him on the shoulder and looked sentimental. “With men such as you and my son, Volodya, in charge, I know the revolution is safe.”

Dimka was tempted to say he wished he felt so confident. Instead he said: “Grandfather, will you get an army car to take Nina home?”

“Of course.”

“Sorry to break up the party . . .”

“Don’t worry,” said Grandfather. “Your work is more important. Go, go.”

Dimka put on his coat, kissed Nina, and left.

Going down in the elevator, he wondered despairingly whether he had somehow let out the secret of the Cuban missiles, despite all his efforts. He had run the entire operation with formidable security. He had been brutally efficient. He had been a tyrant, punishing mistakes severely, humiliating fools, ruining the careers of men who failed to follow orders meticulously. What more could he have done?

Outside, a nighttime rehearsal was in progress for the military parade scheduled for Revolution Day, in two weeks’ time. An endless line of tanks, artillery, and soldiers rumbled along the embankment of the Moskva River. None of this will do us any good if there’s a nuclear war, he thought. The Americans did not know it, but the Soviet Union had few nuclear weapons, nowhere near the numbers the USA had. The Soviets could hurt the Americans, yes, but the Americans could wipe the Soviet Union off the face of the earth.

As the road was blocked by the procession, and the Kremlin was less than a mile away, Dimka left his motorcycle at home and walked.

The Kremlin was a triangular fortress on the north side of the river. Within were several palaces now converted to government buildings. Dimka went to the senate building, yellow with white pillars, and took the elevator to the third floor. He followed a red carpet along a high-ceilinged corridor to Khrushchev’s office. The first secretary had not yet arrived. Dimka went two doors farther along to the Presidium Room. Fortunately, it was clean and tidy.

The Presidium of the Supreme Soviet was in practice the ruling body of the Soviet Union. Khrushchev was its chairman. This was where the power lay. What would Khrushchev do?

Dimka was first, but soon Presidium members and their aides began to trickle in. No one knew what Kennedy was going to say. Yevgeny Filipov arrived with his boss, Defense Minister Rodion Malinovsky. “This is a fuckup,” Filipov said, hardly able to hide his glee. Dimka ignored him.

Natalya came in with the black-haired, dapper foreign minister Andrei Gromyko. She had decided that the late hour licensed casual clothing, and she looked cute in tight American-style blue jeans and a loose-fitting wool sweater with a big rolled collar.

“Thank you for the early warning,” Dimka murmured to her. “I really appreciate it.”

She touched his arm. “I’m on your side,” she said. “You know that.”

Khrushchev arrived and opened the meeting by saying: “I believe Kennedy’s television address will be about Cuba.”

Dimka sat up against the wall behind Khrushchev, ready to run errands. The leader might need a file, a newspaper, or a report; he might ask for tea or beer or a sandwich. Two other Khrushchev aides sat with Dimka. None of them knew the answers to the big questions. Had the Americans found the missiles? And, if they had, who had let the secret out? The future of the world hung in the balance but Dimka, somewhat to his shame, was equally worried about the future of Dimka.

Impatience was driving him mad. Kennedy would speak four hours from now. Surely the Presidium could learn the content of his speech before then? What was the KGB for?

Defense Minister Malinovsky looked like a veteran movie star, with his regular features and thick silver hair. He argued that the USA was not about to invade Cuba. Red Army Intelligence had people in Florida. There was a buildup of troops there, but nowhere near enough for an invasion, he thought. “This is some kind of election campaign trick,” he said. Dimka thought he sounded overconfident.

Khrushchev, too, was skeptical. Perhaps it was true that Kennedy did not want war with Cuba, but was he free to act as he wished? Khrushchev believed that the American president was at least partly under the control of the Pentagon and capitalist-imperialists such as the Rockefeller family. “We must have a contingency plan in case the Americans do invade,” he said. “Our troops must be prepared for every eventuality.” He ordered a ten-minute break for committee members to consider the options.

Dimka was horrified by the rapidity with which the Presidium had begun to discuss war. This was never the plan! When Khrushchev decided to send missiles to Cuba, he had not intended to provoke combat. How did we get here from there? Dimka thought despairingly.

He saw Filipov in an ominous huddle with Malinovsky and several others. Filipov was writing something down. When they reconvened, Malinovsky read a draft order for the Soviet commander in Cuba, General Issa Pliyev, authorizing him to use “all available means” to defend Cuba.

Dimka wanted to say: Are you mad?

Khrushchev felt the same. “We would be giving Pliyev the authority to start a nuclear war!” he said angrily.

To Dimka’s relief Anastas Mikoyan backed Khrushchev. Always a peacemaker, Mikoyan looked like a lawyer in a country town, with a neat mustache and receding hair. But he was the man who could talk Khrushchev out of his most reckless schemes. Now he opposed Malinovsky. Mikoyan had extra authority because he had visited Cuba shortly after its revolution.

“What about handing over control of the missiles to Castro?” said Khrushchev.

Dimka had heard his boss say some crazy things, especially during hypothetical discussions, but this was irresponsible even by his standards. What was he thinking?

“May I counsel against?” said Mikoyan mildly. “The Americans know that we don’t want nuclear war, and as long as we control the weapons they will try to solve this problem by diplomacy. But they will not trust Castro. If they know he has his finger on the trigger they may try to destroy all the missiles in Cuba with one massive first strike.”

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 gray 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 U.S. intelligence might somehow learn of this order; but despite his reservations the proposal was agreed on, to Dimka’s great relief, and the message was sent. The danger of a nuclear holocaust still loomed, but at least the Presidium was focused on avoiding a war rather than fighting it.

Soon afterward, 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 one fifteen 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 buildup 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 buildup, 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 USA 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 center 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 USA.”

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 favorite 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 underreacted. 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.”

Georgetown was a neighborhood of Washington, but few of the city’s black majority attended its prestigious university. “She white?”

“No.”

“Must be bright, then.”

“Very.”

“Catholic?” Georgetown University was a Jesuit foundation.

“Nothing wrong with Catholics,” Jacky said with a touch of defiance. Jacky attended Bethel Evangelical Church, but she was broad-minded. “Catholics believe in the Lord, too.”

“Catholics don’t believe in birth control, though.”

“I’m not sure I do.”

“What? You’re not serious.”

“If I’d used birth control, I wouldn’t have you.”

“But you don’t want to deny other women the right to a choice.”

“Oh, don’t be so argumentative. I don’t want to ban birth control.” She smiled fondly. “I’m just glad I was ignorant and reckless when I was sixteen.” She stood up. “I’ll put some coffee on.” The doorbell rang. “Would you see who that is?”

George opened the front door to an attractive black girl in her early twenties, wearing tight Capri pants and a loose sweater. She was surprised to see him. “Oh!” she said. “I’m sorry, I thought this was Mrs. Jakes’s house.”

“It is,” said George. “I’m visiting.”

“My father asked me to drop this off as I was passing.” She handed him a book called Ship of Fools. He had heard the title before: it was a bestseller. “I guess Dad borrowed it from Mrs. Jakes.”

“Thank you,” George said, taking the book. Politely he added: “Won’t you come in?”

She hesitated.

Jacky came to the kitchen door. From there she could see who was outside: it was not a large house. “Hello, Cindy,” she said. “I was just talking about you. Come in, I’ve made fresh coffee.”

“It sure smells good,” said Cindy, and she crossed the threshold.

George said: “Can we have coffee in the living room, Mom? It’s almost time for the president.”

“You don’t want to watch TV, do you? Sit and talk to Cindy.”

George opened the living room door. He said to Cindy: “Would you mind if we watched the president? He’s going to say something important.”

“How do you know?”

“I helped write his speech.”

“Then I have to watch,” she said.

They went in. George’s grandfather, Lev Peshkov, had bought and furnished this house for Jacky and George in 1949. After that Jacky proudly refused to take anything more from Lev except George’s school and college costs. On her modest salary she could not afford to redecorate, so the living room had changed little in thirteen years. George liked it this way: fringed upholstery, an oriental rug, a china cabinet. It was old-fashioned, but homey.

The main innovation was the RCA Victor television set. George turned it on, and they waited for the green screen to warm up.

Cindy said: “Your mom works at the University Women’s Club with my dad, doesn’t she?”

“That’s right.”

“So he didn’t really need me to drop off the book. He could have given it back to her tomorrow at work.”

“Yes.”

“We’ve been set up.”

“I know.”

She giggled. “Oh, well, what the heck.”

He liked her for that.

Jacky brought in a tray. By the time she had poured coffee, President Kennedy was on the monochrome screen, saying: “Good evening, my fellow citizens.” He was sitting at a desk. In front of him was a small lectern with two microphones. He wore a dark suit, white shirt, and narrow tie. George knew that the shadows of terrible strain on his face had been concealed by television makeup.

When he said Cuba had “a nuclear strike capability against the Western Hemisphere,” Jacky gasped and Cindy said: “Oh, my Lord!”

He read from sheets of paper on the lectern in his flat Boston accent, hard pronounced “haad,” and report pronounced “repoat.” His delivery was deadpan, almost boring, but his words were electrifying. “Each of these missiles, in short, is capable of striking Washington, DC—”

Jacky gave a little scream.

“—the Panama Canal, Cape Canaveral, Mexico City—”

Cindy said: “What are we going to do?”

“Wait,” said George. “You’ll see.”

Jacky said: “How could this happen?”

“The Soviets are sneaky,” George said.

Kennedy said: “We have no desire to dominate or conquer any other nation or impose our system on its people.” At that point, normally Jacky would have made a derisive remark about the Bay of Pigs invasion; but she was beyond political point-scoring now.

The camera zoomed in for a close-up as Kennedy said: “To halt this offensive buildup, a strict quarantine on all offensive military equipment under shipment to Cuba is being initiated.”

“What use is that?” said Jacky. “The missiles are there already—he just said so!”

Slowly and deliberately, the president said: “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.”

“Oh, my Lord,” said Cindy again. “So if Cuba launches just one missile, it’s all-out nuclear war.”

“That’s right,” said George, who had attended the meetings where this had been thrashed out.

As soon as the president said, “Thank you and good night,” Jacky turned off the set and rounded on George. “What is going to happen to us?”

He longed to reassure her, to make her feel safe, but he could not. “I don’t know, Mom.”

Cindy said: “This quarantine makes no difference to anything, even I can see that.”

“It’s just a preliminary.”

“So what comes next?”

“We don’t know.”

Jacky said: “George, tell me the truth, now. Is there going to be war?”

George hesitated. Nuclear weapons were being loaded on jets and flown around the country, to ensure that some at least would survive a Soviet first strike. The invasion plan for Cuba was being refined, and the State Department was sifting candidates to lead the pro-American government that would take charge of Cuba afterward.

Strategic Air Command had moved its alert status to DEFCON 3—Defense Condition Three, ready to start a nuclear attack in fifteen minutes.

On balance, what was the likeliest outcome of all this?

With a heavy heart, George said: “Yes, Mom. I think there will be war.”

In the end the Presidium ordered all Soviet missile ships still on their way to Cuba to turn around and come home.

Khrushchev reckoned he lost little by this, and Dimka agreed. Cuba had nukes now; it hardly mattered how many. The Soviet Union would avoid a confrontation on the high seas, claim to be a peacemaker in this crisis—and still have a nuclear base ninety miles from the USA.

Everyone knew that would not be the end of the matter. The two superpowers had not yet addressed the real question, what to do about the nuclear weapons already in Cuba. All Kennedy’s options were still open, and as far as Dimka could see, most of them led to war.

Khrushchev decided not to go home tonight. It was too dangerous to be even a few minutes’ car journey away: if war broke out he had to be here, ready to make instant decisions.

Next to his grand office was a small room with a comfortable couch. The first secretary lay down there in his clothes. Most of the Presidium made the same decision, and the leaders of the world’s second-most powerful country settled down to an uneasy sleep in their offices.

Dimka had a small cubbyhole down the corridor. There was no couch in his office: just a hard chair, a utilitarian desk, and a file cabinet. He was trying to figure out where would be the least uncomfortable place to lay his head when there was a tap at the door and Natalya came in. She brought with her a light fragrance unlike any Soviet perfume.

She had been wise to dress casually, Dimka realized: they were all going to sleep in their clothes. “I like your sweater,” he said.

“It’s called a Sloppy Joe.” She used the English words.

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t know, but I like how it sounds.”

He laughed. “I was just trying to figure out where to sleep.”

“Me, too.”

“On the other hand, I’m not sure I’ll be able to sleep.”

“You mean, knowing you might never wake up?”

“Exactly.”

“I feel the same.”

Dimka thought for a moment. Even if he spent the night awake, worrying, he might as well find somewhere to be comfortable. “This is a palace, and it’s empty,” he said. He hesitated, then added: “Shall we explore?” He was not sure why he said that. It was the kind of thing his lady-killer friend Valentin might come out with.

“Okay,” said Natalya.

Dimka picked up his overcoat, to use as a blanket.

The spacious bedrooms and boudoirs of the palace had been inelegantly subdivided into offices for bureaucrats and typists, and filled with cheap furniture made of pine and plastic. There were upholstered chairs in a few of the larger rooms for the most important men, but nothing you could sleep on. Dimka began to think of ways to make a bed on the floor. Then, at the far end of the wing, they passed along a corridor cluttered with buckets and mops and came to a grand room full of stored furniture.

The room was unheated, and their breath turned to white vapor. The large windows were frosted over. The gilded wall lights and chandeliers had sockets for candles, all empty. A dim light came from two naked bulbs hanging from the painted ceiling.

The stacked furniture looked as if it had been here since the revolution. There were chipped tables with spindly legs, chairs with rotting brocade upholstery, and carved bookcases with empty shelves. Here were the treasures of the tsars, turned to junk.

The furniture was rotting away here because it was too ancien régime to be used in the offices of commissars, although Dimka guessed it was the kind of stuff that might sell for fortunes in the antique auctions of the West.

And there was a four-poster bed.

Its hangings were full of dust but the faded blue coverlet appeared intact and it even had a mattress and pillows.

“Well,” said Dimka, “here’s one bed.”

“We may have to share,” said Natalya.

That thought had crossed Dimka’s mind, but he had dismissed it. Pretty girls sometimes casually offered to share a bed with him in his fantasies, but never in real life.

Until now.

But did he want to? He was not married to Nina, but she undoubtedly wanted him to be faithful to her, and he certainly expected the same of her. On the other hand, Nina was not here, and Natalya was.

Foolishly, he said, “Are you suggesting we sleep together?”

“Just for warmth,” she said. “I can trust you, can’t I?”

“Of course,” he said. That made it all right, he supposed.

Natalya drew back the ancient coverlet. Dust rose, making her sneeze. The sheets beneath had yellowed with age, but seemed intact. “Moths don’t like cotton,” she remarked.

“I didn’t know that.”

She stepped out of her shoes. In her jeans and sweater she slipped between the sheets. She shivered. “Come on,” she said. “Don’t be shy.”

Dimka put his coat over her. Then he unlaced his shoes and pulled them off. This was strange but exciting. Natalya wanted to sleep with him, but without sex.

Nina would never believe it.

But he had to sleep somewhere.

He took off his tie and got into bed. The sheets were icy. He put his arms around Natalya. She lay her head against his shoulder and pressed her body to his. Her bulky sweater and his suit coat made it impossible for him to feel the contours of her body, but all the same he got an erection. If she felt it, she did not react.

In a few minutes they stopped shivering and felt warmer. Dimka’s face was pressed into her hair, which was wavy and abundant and smelled of lemon soap. His hands were on her back, but he got no sense of her skin through the chunky sweater. He could feel her breath on his neck. The rhythm of her breathing changed, becoming regular and shallow. He kissed the top of her head, but she made no response.

He could not figure Natalya out. She was just an aide, like Dimka, and not more than three or four years his senior, but she drove a Mercedes, twelve years old and beautifully preserved. She usually dressed in conventionally dowdy Kremlin clothes yet she wore costly imported perfume. She was charming to the point of flirtatiousness, but she went home and cooked dinner for her husband.

She had inveigled Dimka into bed with her, then she had fallen asleep.

He was sure he would not sleep, lying in bed with a warm girl in his arms.

But he did.

It was still dark outside when he woke up.

Natalya mumbled: “What’s the time?”

She was still in his arms. He craned his neck to look at his wrist, which was behind her left shoulder. “Six thirty.”

“And we’re still alive.”

“The Americans didn’t bomb us.”

“Not yet.”

“We’d better get up,” Dimka said; and he immediately regretted it. Khrushchev would not be awake yet. And even if he was, Dimka did not have to bring this delicious moment to a premature end. He was bewildered, but happy. Why the hell had he suggested getting up?

But she was not ready. “In a minute,” she said.

He was pleased by the thought that she liked lying in his arms.

Then she kissed his neck.

It was the lightest possible touch of her lips on his skin, as if a moth had flown out of the ancient hangings and brushed him with its wings; but he had not imagined it.

She had kissed him.

He stroked her hair.

She tilted her head back and looked at him. Her mouth was slightly open, the full lips a little parted, and she was smiling faintly, as if at a pleasant surprise. Dimka was no expert on women but even he could not mistake the invitation. Still he hesitated to kiss her.

Then she said: “Today we’re probably going to be bombed to oblivion.”

So Dimka kissed her.

The kiss heated up in a flash. She bit his lip and pushed her tongue into his mouth. He rolled her onto her back and put his hands up inside her baggy sweater. She unfastened her brassiere with a swift movement. Her breasts were delightfully small and firm, with big pointed nipples that were already hard to his fingertips. When he sucked them she gasped with pleasure.

He tried to take off her jeans, but she had another idea. She pushed him onto his back and feverishly undid his trousers. He was afraid he would come right away—something that happened to a lot of men, according to Nina—but he did not. Natalya pulled his cock out of his underwear. She stroked it with both hands, pressed it to her cheek, and kissed it, then put it in her mouth.

When he felt himself about to explode he tried to withdraw, pushing her head away: this was how Nina preferred it. But Natalya made a protesting noise, then rubbed and sucked harder, so that he lost control and came in her mouth.

After a minute she kissed him. He tasted his semen on her lips. Was that peculiar? It felt simply affectionate.

She pulled off her jeans and underwear, and he realized it was his turn to please her. Fortunately Nina had tutored him in this.

Natalya’s hair was as curly and plentiful here as on her head. He buried his face, longing to return the delight she had given him. She guided him with her hands on his head, indicating by slight pressure when his kisses should be lighter or heavier, moving her hips up or down to tell him where to concentrate his attention. She was only the second woman he had done this to, and he luxuriated in the taste and the smell of her.

With Nina this was only a preliminary, but in a surprisingly short time Natalya cried out, first pressing his head hard against her, then, as if the pleasure were too much, pushing him away.

They lay side by side, catching their breath. This had been a totally new experience for Dimka, and he said reflectively: “This whole question of sex is more complicated than I thought.”

To his surprise, this made her laugh heartily.

“What did I say?” he said.

She laughed all the more, and all she would say was: “Oh, Dimka, I adore you.”

La Isabela was a ghost town, Tanya saw. Once a thriving Cuban port, it had been hit hard by Eisenhower’s trade embargo. It was miles from anywhere, and surrounded by salt marshes and mangrove swamps. Scraggy goats roamed the streets. Its harbor hosted a few shabby fishing boats—and the Aleksandrovsk, a fifty-four-hundred-ton Soviet freighter packed to the gunwales with nuclear warheads.

The ship had been headed for Mariel. After President Kennedy announced the blockade, most of the Soviet ships had turned back, but a few that were only hours from landfall had been ordered to make a dash for the nearest Cuban port.

Tanya and Paz watched the ship inch up to the concrete dock in a shower of rain. The antiaircraft guns on deck were concealed beneath coils of rope.

Tanya was terrified. She had no idea what was going to happen. All her brother’s efforts had failed to stop the secret getting out before the American midterm elections—and the trouble Dimka might be in as a result was only the least of her worries. Clearly the blockade was no more than an opening shot. Now Kennedy had to appear strong. And with Kennedy being strong and the Cubans defending their precious dignidad anything could happen, from an American invasion to a worldwide nuclear holocaust.

Tanya and Paz had become more intimate. They had told one another about their childhoods and their families and their past lovers. They touched each other frequently. They often laughed. But they held back from romance. Tanya was tempted, but she resisted. The idea of having sex with a man just because he was so beautiful seemed wrong. She liked Paz—despite his dignidad—but she did not love him. In the past she had kissed men she did not love, especially while she was at university, but she had not had sex with them. She had gone to bed with only one man, and she had loved him, or at least she had thought she did at the time. But she might sleep with Paz, if only to have someone’s arms around her when the bombs fell.

The largest of the dockside warehouses was burned out. “I wonder how that happened,” Tanya said, pointing.

“The CIA set fire to it,” said Paz. “We get a lot of terrorist attacks here.”

Tanya looked around. The quayside buildings were empty and derelict. Most of the homes were one-story wooden shacks. Rain pooled on the dirt roads. The Americans could blow the whole place up without doing noticeable damage to the Castro regime. “Why?” she said.

Paz shrugged. “It’s an easy target, here on the end of the peninsula. They come over from Florida in a speedboat, sneak ashore, blow something up, shoot one or two innocent people, and go back to America.” In English he added: “Fuckin’ cowards.”

Tanya wondered if all governments were the same. The Kennedy brothers spoke of freedom and democracy yet they sent armed gangs across the water to terrorize the Cuban people. The Soviet Communists talked of liberating the proletariat while they imprisoned or murdered everyone who disagreed with them, and they sent Vasili to Siberia for protesting. Was there an honest regime anywhere in the world?

“Let’s go,” said Tanya. “It’s a long way back to Havana, and I need to tell Dimka that this ship has arrived safely.” Moscow had decided the Aleksandrovsk was close enough to reach port, but Dimka was anxious for confirmation.

They got into Paz’s Buick and drove out of town. On either side of the road were tall thickets of sugarcane. Turkey vultures floated above, hunting the fat rats in the fields. In the distance, the high chimney of a sugar mill pointed like a missile at the sky. The flat landscape of central Cuba was crosshatched with single-track railway lines built to transport cane from the fields to the mills. Where the land was uncultivated it was mostly tropical jungle, flame trees and jacarandas and towering royal palms; or rough scrub grazed by cattle. The slim white egrets that followed the cows were grace notes on the dun landscape.

Transport in rural Cuba was still mostly horse-drawn, but as they approached Havana the roads became crowded with military trucks and buses taking reservists to their bases. Castro had declared a full combat alert. The nation was on a war footing. As Paz’s Buick sped by, the men waved and called out: “Patria o muerte! Motherland or death! Cuba si, yanqui no!”

On the outskirts of the capital she saw that a new poster had appeared overnight and now blanketed every wall. In simple black and white, it showed a hand clutching a machine gun and the words A LAS ARMAS—“To Arms.” Castro really understood propaganda, she reflected; unlike the old men in the Kremlin, whose idea of a slogan was: “Implement the resolutions of the twentieth party congress!”

Tanya had written and encoded her message earlier, and had only to fill in the exact time that the Aleksandrovsk had docked. She took the message into the Soviet embassy and gave it to the KGB communications officer, whom she knew well.

Dimka would be relieved, but Tanya was still fearful. Was it really good news that Cuba had another shipload of nuclear weapons? Might not the Cuban people—and Tanya herself—be safer with none?

“Do you have other duties today?” Tanya asked Paz when she came out.

“My job is liaison with you.”

“But in this crisis . . .”

“In this crisis, nothing is more important than clear communication with our Soviet allies.”

“Then let’s walk along the Malecón together.”

They drove to the sea front. Paz parked at the Hotel Nacional. Soldiers were stationing an antiaircraft gun outside the famous hotel.

Tanya and Paz left the car and walked along the promenade. A wind from the north whipped the sea into angry surges that crashed against the stone wall, throwing up explosions of spray that fell on the promenade like rain. This was a popular place to stroll, but today there were more people than usual, and their mood was not leisurely. They clustered in small crowds, sometimes talking but often silent. They were not flirting or telling jokes or showing off their best clothes. Everyone was looking in the same direction, north, toward the United States. They were watching for the yanquis.

Tanya and Paz watched with them for a while. She felt in her heart that the invasion had to happen. Destroyers would come slicing through the waves; submarines would surface a few yards away; and the gray planes with the blue-and-white stars would appear out of the clouds, loaded with bombs to drop on the Cuban people and their Soviet friends.

At last Tanya took Paz’s hand in her own. He squeezed gently. She looked up into his deep brown eyes. “I think we’re going to die,” she said calmly.

“Yes,” he said.

“Do you want to go to bed with me first?”

“Yes,” he said again.

“Shall we go to my apartment?”

“Yes.”

They returned to the car and drove to a narrow street in the old town, near the cathedral, where Tanya had upstairs rooms in a colonial building.

Tanya’s first and only lover had been Petr Iloyan, a lecturer at her university. He had worshipped her young body, gazing at her breasts and touching her skin and kissing her hair as if he had never come across anything so marvelous. Paz was the same age as Petr but, Tanya quickly realized, making love with him was going to be different. It was his body that was the center of attention. He took his clothes off slowly, as if teasing her, then stood naked in front of her, giving her time to take in his perfect skin and the curves of his muscles. Tanya was happy to sit on the edge of the bed and admire him. The display seemed to excite him, for his penis was already fat with arousal and half erect, and Tanya could hardly wait to get her hands on it.

Petr had been a slow, gentle lover. He had been able to work Tanya up into a fever of anticipation, then hold back tantalizingly. He would change positions several times, rolling her on top, then kneeling behind her, then getting her to straddle him. Paz was not rough but he was vigorous, and Tanya gave herself up to excitement and pleasure.

Afterward Tanya made eggs and coffee. Paz turned on the TV and they watched Castro’s speech while they ate.

Castro sat in front of a Cuban national flag, its bold blue and white stripes appearing black and white in the monochrome television picture. As always, he wore battle-dress drab, the only sign of rank a single star on the epaulet: Tanya had never seen him in a civilian suit, nor in the kind of pompous medal-encrusted uniform beloved of Communist leaders elsewhere.

Tanya felt a rush of optimism. Castro was no fool. He knew he could not defeat the United States in a war, even with the Soviet Union on his side. Surely he would come up with some dramatic gesture of reconciliation, some initiative that would transform the situation and defuse the time bomb.

His voice was high and reedy, but he spoke with overwhelming passion. The bushy beard gave him the air of a messiah crying in the wilderness, even though he was obviously in a studio. His black eyebrows moved expressively in a high forehead. He gestured with his big hands, sometimes raising a schoolmasterly forefinger to forbid dissent, often clenching a fist. At times he grasped the arms of his chair as if to prevent himself taking off like a rocket. He appeared to have no script, not even any notes. His expression showed indignation, pride, scorn, rage—but never doubt. Castro lived in a universe of certainty.

Point by point, Castro attacked Kennedy’s television speech, which had been broadcast on live radio beamed at Cuba. He scorned Kennedy’s appeal to the “captive people of Cuba.” “We are not sovereign by the grace of the yanquis,” he said contemptuously.

But he said nothing about the Soviet Union and nothing about nuclear weapons.

The speech lasted ninety minutes. It was a performance of Churchillian magnetism: brave little Cuba would defy big bullying America and would never give in. It must have boosted the morale of the Cuban people. But otherwise it changed nothing. Tanya was bitterly disappointed and even more scared. Castro had not even tried to prevent war.

At the end he cried: “Motherland or death, we will win!” Then he jumped out of the chair and rushed out as if he had not a minute to lose on his way to save Cuba.

Tanya looked at Paz. His eyes were glistening with tears.

She kissed him, then they made love again, on the couch in front of the flickering screen. This time it was slower and more satisfying. She treated him the way Petr had treated her. It was not difficult to adore his body, and he undoubtedly liked adoration. She squeezed his arms and kissed his nipples and pushed her fingers into his curls. “You’re so beautiful,” she murmured as she sucked his earlobe.

Afterward, as they lay sharing a cigar, they heard noises from outside. Tanya opened the door leading to the balcony. The city had been quiet while Castro was on television, but now people were coming out onto the narrow streets. Night had fallen, and some were carrying candles and torches. Tanya’s journalistic instincts returned. “I have to go out there,” she said to Paz. “This is a big story.”

“I’ll come with you.”

They pulled on their clothes and left the building. The streets were wet but the rain had stopped. More and more people appeared. There was a carnival atmosphere. Everyone was cheering and shouting slogans. Many were singing the national anthem, “La Bayamesa.” There was nothing Latin about the tune—it sounded more like a German drinking song—but the singers meant every word.

To live in chains is to live

In dishonor and ignominy

Hear the call of the bugle:

Hasten, brave ones, to arms!

As Tanya and Paz marched through the alleys of the old city with the crowd, Tanya noticed that many of the men had armed themselves. Lacking guns, they carried garden tools and machetes, and had kitchen knives and meat cleavers in their belts, as if they were going to fight the Americans hand-to-hand on the Malecón.

Tanya recalled that one Boeing B-52 Stratofortress of the United States Air Force carried seventy thousand pounds of bombs.

You poor fools, she thought bitterly; how much use do you think your knives will be against that?

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

George had never felt nearer death than he did in the Cabinet Room of the White House on Wednesday, October 24.

The morning meeting began at ten, and George thought war would break out before eleven.

Technically this was the Executive Committee of the National Security Council, called ExComm for short. In practice President Kennedy summoned anyone he felt could help in the crisis. His brother Bobby was always among them.

The advisers sat on leather chairs around the long table. Their aides sat on similar chairs up against the walls. The tension in the room was suffocating.

The alert status of the Strategic Air Command had moved to DEFCON 2, the level just below imminent war. Every bomber of the air force was ready. Many were continuously in the air, loaded with nukes, patrolling over Canada, Greenland, and Turkey, as close as they could get to the borders of the USSR. Every bomber had a preassigned Soviet target.

If war broke out, the Americans would unleash a nuclear firestorm that would flatten every major town in the Soviet Union. Millions would die. Russia would not recover in a hundred years.

And the Soviets had to have something similar planned for the United States.

Ten o’clock was the moment the blockade went into effect. Any Soviet vessel within five hundred miles of Cuba was now fair game. The first interception of a Soviet missile ship, by the USS Essex, was expected between ten thirty and eleven. By eleven they might all be dead.

CIA chief John McCone began by reviewing all Soviet shipping en route to Cuba. He spoke in a drone that heightened the tension by making everyone impatient. Which Soviet ships should the navy intercept first? What would happen then? Would the Soviets allow their ships to be inspected? Would they fire on American ships? What should the navy do then?

While the group tried to second-guess their opposite numbers in Moscow, an aide brought McCone a note. McCone was a dapper white-haired man of sixty. He was a businessman, and George suspected that the CIA career professionals did not tell him everything they were doing.

Now McCone peered through his rimless glasses at the note, which seemed to puzzle him. Eventually he said: “Mr. President, we’ve just received information from the Office of Naval Intelligence that all six Soviet ships currently in Cuban waters have either stopped or reversed course.”

George thought: What the hell does that mean?

Dean Rusk, the bald, pug-nosed secretary of state, asked: “What do you mean, Cuban waters?”

McCone did not know.

Bob McNamara, the Ford president whom Kennedy had made secretary of defense, said: “Most of these ships are outbound, from Cuba to the Soviet Union—”

“Why don’t we find out?” the president interrupted tetchily. “Are we talking about ships leaving Cuba or ships coming in?”

McCone said: “I’ll find out,” and he left the room.

The tension rose another notch.

George had always imagined that crisis meetings in the White House would be supernaturally high-powered, with everyone supplying the president with accurate information so that he could make a wise judgment. But this was the greatest crisis ever, and all was confusion and misunderstanding. That made George even more afraid.

When McCone came back in he said: “These ships are all westbound, all inbound for Cuba.” He listed the six vessels by name.

McNamara spoke next. He was forty-six, and the phrase whiz kid had been invented for him when he turned the Ford Motor Company from loss to profit. President Kennedy trusted him more than anyone else in the room except Bobby. Now from memory McNamara reeled off the positions of all six ships. Most were still hundreds of miles from Cuba.

The president was impatient. “Now, what do they say they’re doing with those, John?”

McCone replied: “They either stopped or reversed direction.”

“Is this all the Soviet ships, or just selected ones?”

“This is a selected bunch. There are twenty-four altogether.”

Once again McNamara interrupted with the key information. “It looks as though these are the ships closest to the quarantine barrier.”

George whispered to Skip Dickerson, sitting next to him: “The Soviets seem to be pulling back from the brink.”

“I sure hope you’re right,” Skip murmured.

The president said: “We’re not planning to grab any of those, are we?”

McNamara said: “We’re not planning to grab any ship that is not proceeding to Cuba.”

General Maxwell Taylor, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, picked up a phone and said: “Get me George Anderson.” Admiral Anderson was the chief of naval operations and was in charge of the blockade. After a few seconds Taylor began speaking quietly.

There was a pause. Everyone was trying to absorb the news and figure out what it meant. Were the Soviets giving in?

The president said: “We ought to check first. How do we find out if six ships are simultaneously turning? General, what does the navy say about this report?”

General Taylor looked up and said: “Three ships are definitely turning back.”

“Be in touch with the Essex and tell them to wait an hour. We have to move quickly because they’re going to intercept between ten thirty and eleven.”

Every man in the room looked at his watch.

It was ten thirty two.

George got a glimpse of Bobby’s face. He looked like a man reprieved from a death sentence.

The immediate crisis was over, but George realized over the next few minutes that nothing had been resolved. While the Soviets were clearly moving to avoid confrontation at sea, their nuclear missiles were still in Cuba. The clock had been turned back an hour, but it was still ticking.

ExComm discussed Germany. The president feared Khrushchev might announce a blockade of West Berlin to parallel the American blockade of Cuba. There was nothing they could do about that, either.

The meeting broke up. George was not needed at Bobby’s next appointment. He left with Skip Dickerson, who said: “How’s your friend Maria?”

“Fine, I think.”

“I was in the press office yesterday. She called in sick.”

George’s heart missed a beat. He had given up all hope of a romance with Maria, but all the same the news that she was ill made him feel panicky. He frowned. “I didn’t know that.”

“None of my business, George, but she’s a nice gal, and I thought maybe someone should check up on her.”

George squeezed Skip’s arm. “Thanks for letting me know,” he said. “You’re a pal.”

White House staffers did not call in sick in the middle of the greatest crisis of the Cold War, George reflected; not unless they were seriously ill. His anxiety deepened.

He hurried to the press office. Maria’s chair was empty. Nelly Fordham, the friendly woman at the next desk, said: “Maria’s not well.”

“I heard. Did she say what the trouble was?”

“No.”

George frowned. “I wonder if I could get away for an hour and go see her.”

“I wish you would,” Nelly said. “I’m worried too.”

George looked at his watch. He was pretty sure Bobby would not need him until after lunch. “I guess I could manage it. She lives in Georgetown, doesn’t she?”

“Yes, but she moved from her old place.”

“Why?”

“Said her flatmates were too nosy.”

That made sense to George. Other girls would be desperate to learn the identity of a clandestine lover. Maria was so determined to keep the secret that she had moved out. That indicated how serious she was about the guy.

Nelly was flicking through her Rolodex. “I’ll write down the address for you.”

“Thanks.”

She handed him a piece of paper and said: “You’re Georgy Jakes, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” He smiled. “It’s a long time since anyone called me Georgy, though.”

“I used to know Senator Peshkov.”

The fact that she mentioned Greg meant, almost certainly, that she knew he was George’s father. “Really?” George said. “How did you know him?”

“We dated, if you want to know the truth. But nothing came of it. How is he?”

“Pretty well. I have lunch with him about once a month.”

“I guess he never married.”

“Not yet.”

“And he must be past forty.”

“I believe there is a lady in his life.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I’m not after him. I made that decision a long time ago. All the same, I wish him well.”

“I’ll tell him that. Now I’m going to jump in a cab and go check on Maria.”

“Thank you, Georgy—or George, I should say.”

George hurried out. Nelly was an attractive woman with a kind heart. Why had Greg not married her? Perhaps it suited him to be a bachelor.

George’s taxi driver said: “You work in the White House?”

“I work for Bobby Kennedy. I’m a lawyer.”

“No kidding!” The driver did not trouble to hide his surprise that a Negro should be a lawyer with a high-powered job. “You tell Bobby we ought to bomb Cuba to dust. That’s what we ought to do. Bomb them to goddamn dust.”

“Do you know how big Cuba is, end to end?” George said.

“What is this, a quiz show?” the driver said resentfully.

George shrugged and said no more. Nowadays he avoided political discussions with outsiders. They usually had easy answers: send all the Mexicans home, put Hells Angels in the army, castrate the queers. The greater their ignorance, the stronger their opinions.

Georgetown was only a few minutes away, but the journey seemed long. George imagined Maria collapsed on the floor, or lying in bed on the edge of death, or in a coma.

The address Nelly had given George turned out to be a gracious old house divided into studio apartments. Maria did not answer her downstairs doorbell, but a black girl who looked like a student let George in and pointed out Maria’s room.

Maria came to the door in a bathrobe. She certainly looked sick. Her face was bloodless and her expression dejected. She did not say Come in, but she walked away leaving the door open, and he entered. At least she was ambulatory, he thought with relief: he had feared worse.

It was a tiny place, one room with a kitchenette. He guessed she shared the bathroom down the hall.

He looked hard at her. It pained him to see her this way, not just sick, but miserable. He longed to take her in his arms, but he knew that would be unwelcome. “Maria, what’s the matter?” he said. “You look terrible!”

“Just feminine problems, that’s all.”

That phrase was normally code for a menstrual period, but he was pretty sure this was something else.

“Let me make you a cup of coffee—or maybe tea?” He took off his coat.

“No, thanks,” she said.

He decided to make it anyway, just to show her that he cared. But then he glanced at the chair she was about to sit on, and saw that the seat was stained with blood.

She noticed it at the same time, blushed, and said: “Oh, hell.”

George knew a little about women’s bodies. Several possibilities passed through his mind. He said: “Maria, have you suffered a miscarriage?”

“No,” she said tonelessly. She hesitated.

George waited patiently.

At last Maria said: “An abortion.”

“You poor thing.” He grabbed a towel from the kitchenette, folded it, and placed it on the bloodstain. “Sit on this, for now,” he said. “Rest.” He looked at the shelf over the refrigerator and saw a packet of jasmine tea. Figuring that must be what she liked, he put water on to heat. He said no more until he had made the tea.

Abortion law varied from state to state. George knew that in DC it was legal for the purpose of protecting the health of the mother. Many doctors interpreted this liberally, to include the woman’s health and general well-being. In practice, anyone who had the money could find a doctor willing to perform an abortion.

Although she had said she did not want tea, she took a cup.

He sat opposite her with a cup for himself. “Your secret lover,” he said. “I guess he’s the father.”

She nodded. “Thank you for the tea. I presume World War Three hasn’t started yet, otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”

“The Soviets turned their ships back, so the danger of a showdown at sea has receded. But the Cubans still have nukes, aimed at us.”

Maria seemed too depressed to care.

George said: “He wouldn’t marry you.”

“No.”

“Because he’s already married?”

She did not answer.

“So he found you a doctor and paid the bill.”

She nodded.

George thought that was a despicable way to behave, but if he said so she would probably throw him out for insulting the man she loved. Trying to control his anger, George said: “Where is he now?”

“He’ll call.” She glanced at the clock. “Soon, probably.”

George decided not to ask any more questions. It would be unkind to interrogate her. And she did not need to be told how foolish she had been. What did she need? He decided to ask. “Is there anything you need? Anything I can do for you?”

She started to cry. Between sobs she said: “I hardly know you! How come you’re my only real friend in the whole city?”

He knew the answer to that question. She had a secret that she would not share. That made it difficult for others to be close to her.

She said: “Lucky for me you’re so kind.”

Her gratitude embarrassed him. “Does it hurt?” he said.

“Yes, it hurts like hell.”

“Should I call a doctor?”

“It’s not that bad. They told me to expect this.”

“Do you have any aspirin?”

“No.”

“Why don’t I step out and get you some?”

“Would you? I hate to ask a man to run errands.”

“It’s okay, this is an emergency.”

“There’s a drugstore right on the corner of the block.”

George put down his cup and shrugged on his coat.

Maria said: “Could I ask you an even bigger favor?”

“Sure.”

“I need sanitary napkins. Do you think you could buy a box?”

He hesitated. A man, buying sanitary napkins?

She said: “No, it’s too much to ask, forget it.”

“Hell, what are they going to do, arrest me?”

“The brand name is Kotex.”

George nodded. “I’ll be right back.”

His bravado did not last long. When he reached the drugstore he felt stricken with embarrassment. He told himself to shape up. So, it was uncomfortable. Men his age were risking their lives in the jungles of Vietnam. How bad could this be?

The store had three self-service aisles and a counter. Aspirins were not displayed on the open shelves, but sold from the counter.

To George’s dismay, feminine sanitary products were the same.

He picked up a cardboard container with six bottles of Coke. She was bleeding, so she needed fluids. But he could not postpone the moment of mortification for long.

He went up to the counter.

The pharmacist was a middle-aged white woman. Just my luck, he thought.

He put the Cokes on the counter and said: “I need some aspirin, please.”

“What size? We have small, medium, and large bottles.”

George was thrown. What if she asked him what size sanitary towels he wanted? “Uh, large, I guess,” he said.

The pharmacist put a large bottle of aspirin on the counter. “Anything else?”

A young woman shopper came and stood behind him, holding a wire basket containing cosmetics. She was obviously going to hear everything.

“Anything else?” the pharmacist repeated.

Come on, George, be a man, he thought. “I need a box of sanitary napkins,” he said. “Kotex.”

The young woman behind him stifled a giggle.

The pharmacist looked at him over her spectacles. “Young man, are you doing this for a bet?”

“No, ma’am!” he said indignantly. “They are for a lady who is too sick to come to the store.”

She looked him up and down, taking in the dark-gray suit, the white shirt, the plain tie, and the folded white handkerchief in the breast pocket of the jacket. He was glad he did not look like a student involved in a jape. “All right, I believe you,” she said. She reached below the counter and picked up a box.

George stared at it in horror. The word Kotex was printed on the side in large letters. Was he going to have to carry that out in the street?

The pharmacist read his mind. “I guess you’d like me to wrap this for you.”

“Yes, please.”

With quick, practised movements she wrapped the box in brown paper, then she put it in a bag with the aspirin.

George paid.

The pharmacist gave him a hard look, then seemed to relent. “I’m sorry I doubted you,” she said. “You must be a good friend to some girl.”

“Thank you,” he said, and he hurried out.

Despite the October cold, he was perspiring.

He returned to Maria’s place. She took three aspirins, then went along the corridor to the bathroom clutching the wrapped box.

George put the Cokes in the refrigerator, then looked around. He saw a shelf of law books over a small desk with framed photographs. A family group showed her parents, he presumed, and an elderly clergyman who must have been her distinguished grandfather. Another showed Maria in graduation robes. There was also a picture of President Kennedy. She had a television set, a radio, and a record player. He looked through her discs. She liked the latest pop music, he saw: the Crystals; Little Eva; Booker T and the MGs. On the table beside her bed was the novel Ship of Fools.

While she was out, the phone rang.

George picked it up. “This is Maria’s phone.”

A man’s voice said: “May I speak with Maria, please?”

The voice was vaguely familiar, but George could not place it. “She stepped out,” he said. “Who is—wait a minute, she just walked in.”

Maria snatched the phone from him. “Hello? Oh, hi . . . He’s a friend, he brought me some aspirins . . . Oh, not too bad, I’ll get by . . .”

George said: “I’ll step outside, give you some privacy.”

He strongly disapproved of Maria’s lover. Even if the jerk was married he should have been here. He had made her pregnant, so he should have taken care of her after the abortion.

That voice . . . George had heard it before. Had he actually met Maria’s lover? It would not be surprising, if the man was a work colleague, as George’s mother surmised. But the voice on the phone was not Pierre Salinger’s.

The girl who had let him in now walked by, on her way out again. She grinned at him standing outside the door like a naughty boy. “Have you been misbehaving in class?” she said.

“No such luck,” said George.

She laughed and walked on.

Maria opened the door and he went back inside. “I really have to get back to work,” he said.

“I know. You came to visit me in the middle of the Cuba crisis. I’ll never forget that.” She was visibly happier now that she had talked to her man.

Suddenly George had a flash of realization. “That voice!” he said. “On the phone.”

“You recognized it?”

He was astonished. “Are you having an affair with Dave Powers?”

To George’s consternation, Maria laughed out loud. “Please!” she said.

He saw right away how unlikely it was. Dave, the president’s personal assistant, was a homely-looking man of about fifty who still wore a hat. He was not likely to win the heart of a beautiful and lively young woman.

A moment later, George realized who Maria was having an affair with.

“Oh, my God,” he said, staring. He was astonished at what he had just figured out.

Maria said nothing.

“You’re sleeping with President Kennedy,” George said in amazement.

“Please don’t tell!” she begged. “If you do, he’ll leave me. Promise, please!”

“I promise,” said George.

For the first time in his adult life, Dimka had done something truly, indisputably, shamefully wrong.

He was not married to Nina, but she expected him to be faithful, and he assumed she was faithful to him; so there was no question that he had betrayed her trust by spending the night with Natalya.

He had thought it might be the last night of his life but, since it had not been, the excuse seemed feeble.

He had not had sexual intercourse with Natalya, but that, too, was a lousy excuse. What they had done was, if anything, even more intimate and loving than regular sex. He felt wretchedly guilty. Never before had he seen himself as untrustworthy, dishonest, and unreliable.

His friend Valentin would probably handle this situation by cheerfully carrying on affairs with both women until he was found out. Dimka did not even consider that option. He felt bad enough after one night of deception: he could not possibly do it on a regular basis. He would end up throwing himself in the Moskva River.

He had to either tell Nina, or break up with her, or both. He could not live with such a mammoth deception. But he found that he was scared. This was ludicrous. He was Dmitri Ilich Dvorkin, hatchet man to Khrushchev, hated by some, feared by many. How could he be afraid of a girl? But he was.

And what about Natalya?

He had a hundred questions for Natalya. He wanted to know how she felt about her husband. Dimka knew nothing about him except his name, Nik. Was she getting divorced? If so, did the breakdown of the marriage have anything to do with Dimka? Most importantly, did Natalya see Dimka playing any role in her future?

He kept seeing her around the Kremlin, but there was no chance for them to be alone. The Presidium met three times on Tuesday—morning, afternoon, and evening—and the aides were even busier during the meal breaks. Each time Dimka looked at Natalya she seemed more wonderful. He was still wearing the suit he had slept in, as were all the men, but Natalya had changed into a dark-blue dress with a matching jacket that made her look both authoritative and alluring at the same time. Dimka had trouble concentrating on the meetings, even though their task was to prevent World War III. He would gaze at her, remember what they had done to one another, and look away in embarrassment; then, a minute later, he would stare at her again.

But the pace of work was so intense that he was not able to talk privately to her even for a few seconds.

Khrushchev went home to his own bed late on Tuesday night, so everyone else did the same. First thing on Wednesday, Dimka gave Khrushchev the glad news—hot from his sister in Cuba—that the Aleksandrovsk had docked safely at La Isabela. The rest of the day was equally busy. He saw Natalya constantly, but neither of them had a minute to spare.

By this time Dimka was asking himself questions. What did he think Monday night meant? What did he want in the future? If any of them were alive in a week’s time, did he want to spend the rest of his life with Natalya, or Nina—or neither?

By Thursday he was desperate for some answers. He felt, irrationally, that he did not want to be killed in a nuclear war before he had resolved this.

He had a date with Nina that evening: they were to go to a movie with Valentin and Anna. If he could get away from the Kremlin, and keep the date, what would he say to Nina?

The morning Presidium normally began at ten, so the aides got together informally at eight in the Onilova Room. On Thursday morning Dimka had a new proposal from Khrushchev to put to the others. He was also hoping for a private talk with Natalya. He was about to approach her when Yevgeny Filipov appeared with the early editions of the European newspapers. “The front pages are all equally bad,” he said. He was pretending to be distraught with grief, but Dimka knew he was feeling the opposite. “The turning back of our ships is portrayed as a humiliating climb-down by the Soviet Union!”

He was hardly exaggerating, Dimka saw, looking at the papers spread on the cheap modern tables.

Natalya sprang to Khrushchev’s defense. “Of course they say that,” she countered. “All those newspapers are owned by capitalists. Did you expect them to praise our leader’s wisdom and restraint? How naïve are you?”

“How naïve are you? The London Times, the Italian Corriere della Sera, and Le Monde of Paris—these are the papers read and believed by the leaders of the Third World countries whom we hope to win to our side.”

That was true. Unfair though it was, people around the world trusted the capitalist press more than Communist publications.

Natalya replied: “We cannot decide our foreign policy based on the probable reactions of Western newspapers.”

“This operation was supposed to be top secret,” Filipov said. “Yet the Americans found out about it. We all know who was responsible for security.” He meant Dimka. “Why is that person sitting at this table? Should he not be under interrogation?”

Dimka said: “Army security may be to blame.” Filipov worked for the defense minister. “When we know how the secret got out, then we will be able to decide who should be interrogated.” It was feeble, he knew, but he still had no idea what had gone wrong.

Filipov changed his tack. “At this morning’s Presidium, the KGB will report that the Americans have massively stepped up their mobilization in Florida. The railroad tracks are jammed with railcars carrying tanks and artillery. The racetrack in Hallandale has been taken over by the 1st Armored Division, thousands of men sleeping in the grandstands. Ammunition factories are working twenty-four hours a day producing bullets for their planes to strafe Soviet and Cuban troops. Napalm bombs—”

Natalya interrupted him. “This, too, was expected.”

“But what will we do when they invade Cuba?” Filipov said. “If we respond using only conventional weapons, we cannot win: the Americans are too strong. Will we respond with nuclear weapons? President Kennedy has stated that if one nuclear weapon is launched from Cuba he will bomb the Soviet Union.”

“He cannot mean it,” said Natalya.

“Read the reports from Red Army Intelligence. The American bombers are circling us now!” He pointed at the ceiling, as if they might look up and see the planes. “There are only two possible outcomes for us: international humiliation, if we’re lucky, and nuclear death if we’re not.”

Natalya fell silent. No one around the table had an answer to that.

Except Dimka.

“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, and 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 peaceful 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.

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 colors, though he did not know whether those rumors 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—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 in 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 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 the hell 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.”

“Good-bye, George.”

“Good-bye.”

“God bless and keep you,” said Greg, and he walked away.

Early Friday morning George went to the White House Situation Room.

President Kennedy had created this suite in the West Wing basement where previously there had been a bowling alley. Its ostensible purpose was to speed communications in a crisis. The truth was that Kennedy believed the military had kept information from him during the Bay of Pigs crisis, and he wanted to make sure they never got another chance to do that.

This morning the walls were covered with large-scale maps of Cuba and its sea approaches. The teletype machines chattered like cicadas on a warm night. Pentagon telegrams were copied here. The president could listen in to military communications. The quarantine operation was being run from a room in the Pentagon known as Navy Flag Plot, but radio conversations between that room and the ships could be overheard here.

The military hated the Situation Room.

George sat on an uncomfortable modern chair at a cheap dining table and listened. He was still mulling over last night’s conversation with Greg. Had Greg expected George to throw his arms around him and cry: “Daddy!” Probably not. Greg seemed comfortable with his avuncular role. George had no wish to change that. At the age of twenty-six he could not suddenly start treating Greg like a regular father. All the same, George was kind of happy about what Greg had said. My father loves me, he thought; that can’t be bad.

The USS Joseph P. Kennedy hailed the Marucla at dawn.

The Kennedy was a twenty-four-hundred-ton destroyer armed with eight missiles, an antisubmarine rocket launcher, six torpedo tubes, and twin five-inch gun mounts. It also had nuclear depth charge capability.

The Marucla immediately cut its engines, and George breathed easier.

The Kennedy lowered a boat and six men crossed to the Marucla. The sea was rough, but the crew of the Marucla obligingly threw a rope ladder over the side. All the same, the chop made it difficult to board. The officer in charge did not want to look ridiculous by falling in the water, but eventually he took a chance, leaped for the ladder, and boarded the ship. His men followed.

The Greek crew offered them coffee.

They were delighted to open the hatches for the Americans to inspect their cargo, which was pretty much what they had said. There was a tense moment when the Americans insisted on opening a crate labeled SCIENTIFIC INSTRUMENTS, but it turned out to contain laboratory equipment no more sophisticated than what might be found in a high school.

The Americans left and the Marucla resumed course for Havana.

George reported the good news to Bobby Kennedy by phone, then hopped a cab.

He told the driver to take him to the corner of Fifth and K Streets, in one of the city’s worst slum neighborhoods. Here, above a car showroom, was the CIA’s National Photographic Interpretation Center. George wanted to understand this art and had asked for a special briefing, and since he worked for Bobby, he got it. He picked his way across a sidewalk littered with beer bottles, entered the building, and passed through a security turnstile; then he was escorted to the fourth floor.

He was shown around by a gray-haired photointerpreter called Claud Henry who had learned his trade in the Second World War, analyzing aerial photographs of bomb damage from Germany.

Claud told George: “Yesterday the navy sent Crusader jets over Cuba, so we now have low-level photographs, much easier to read.”

George did not find it so easy. To him the photos pinned up around Claud’s room still looked like abstract art, meaningless shapes arranged in a random pattern. “This is a Soviet military base,” Claud said, pointing at a photo.

“How do you know?”

“Here’s a soccer pitch. Cuban soldiers don’t play soccer. If it was a Cuban camp it would have a baseball diamond.”

George nodded. Clever, he thought.

“Here’s a row of T-54 tanks.”

They just looked like dark squares to George.

“These tents are missile shelters,” Claud said. “According to our tentologists.”

“Tentologists?”

“Yes. I’m actually a cratologist. I wrote the CIA handbook on crates.”

George smiled. “You’re not kidding, are you.”

“When the Soviets are shipping very large items such as fighter aircraft, they have to be carried on deck. They disguise them by putting them in crates. But we can usually work out the dimensions of the crate. And a MiG-15 comes in a different-size crate than a MiG-21.”

“Tell me something,” said George. “Do the Soviets have this kind of expertise?”

“We don’t think so. Consider this. They shot down a U-2 plane, so they know we have high-altitude planes with cameras. Yet they thought they could send missiles to Cuba without us finding out. They were still denying the existence of the missiles until yesterday, when we showed them the photos. So, they know about the spy planes and they know about the cameras, but until now they didn’t know we could see their missiles from the stratosphere. That leads me to think they’re behind us in photointerpretation.”

“That sounds right.”

“But here’s last night’s big revelation.” Claud pointed to an object with fins in one of the photos. “My boss will be briefing the president about this within the hour. It’s thirty-five feet long. We call it a Frog, for Free Rocket over Ground. It’s a short-range missile, intended for battlefield situations.”

“So this will be used against American troops if we invade Cuba.”

“Yes. And it’s designed to carry a nuclear warhead.”

“Oh, shit,” said George.

“That’s probably what President Kennedy is going to say,” said Claud.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The radio was on in the kitchen of the house in Great Peter Street on Friday evening. All over the world, people were keeping their radios on, listening fearfully for news flashes.

It was a big kitchen, with a long scrubbed-pine table in the center. Jasper Murray was making toast and reading the newspapers. Lloyd and Daisy Williams got all the London papers and several Continental ones as well. Lloyd’s main interest as a member of Parliament was foreign affairs, and had been ever since he fought in the Spanish Civil War. Jasper was scanning the pages for some reason to hope.

Tomorrow, Saturday, there would be a protest march in London, if London was still standing in the morning. Jasper would be there as a reporter for St. Julian’s News, the student paper. Jasper did not really like doing news reports: he preferred features, longer, more reflective pieces, in which the writing could be a little more fancy. He hoped one day to work in magazines, or maybe even television.

But first he wanted to be editor of St. Julian’s News. The post came with a small salary and a sabbatical year off studies. It was much coveted, as it practically guaranteed the student a good job in journalism after graduation. Jasper had applied but had been defeated by Sam Cakebread. The Cakebread name was famous in British journalism: Sam’s father was assistant editor of The Times and his uncle was a much-loved radio commentator. He had a younger sister at St. Julian’s College who had interned with Vogue magazine. Jasper suspected that it was Sam’s name, not his ability, that had won him the job.

But ability was never enough in Britain. Jasper’s grandfather had been a general, and his father had been on course for a similar career, until he made the mistake of marrying a Jewish girl, and in consequence had never been promoted above the rank of colonel. The British establishment never forgave people who broke their rules. Jasper had heard it was different in the United States.

Evie Williams was in the kitchen with Jasper, sitting at the table, making a placard that read HANDS OFF CUBA.

Evie no longer had a schoolgirl crush on Jasper. He was relieved. She was sixteen now, and beautiful in a pale, ethereal way; but she was too solemn and intense for his taste. Anyone who dated her would have to share her passionate commitment to a wide range of campaigns against cruelty and injustice, from apartheid in South Africa to experiments on animals. Jasper had no commitment to anything, and anyway he preferred girls like the impish Beep Dewar, who even at the age of thirteen had put her tongue in his mouth and rubbed herself against his erection.

As Jasper watched, Evie inscribed, inside the O of OFF, the four-branched symbol of the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament. Jasper said: “So your slogan supports two idealistic causes for the price of one!”

“There’s nothing idealistic about it,” she said sharply. “If war breaks out tonight, do you know what the first target of Soviet nuclear bombs will be? Britain. That’s because we have nuclear weapons, which they need to eliminate before they attack the United States. They won’t be bombing Norway, or Portugal, or any country that has the sense to stay out of the nuclear competition. Anyone who thinks logically about the defense of our country knows that nuclear weapons don’t protect us—they put us in danger.”

Jasper had not intended his remark to be taken seriously, but Evie took everything seriously.

Evie’s fourteen-year-old brother, Dave, was also at the table, making miniature Cuban flags. He had used a stencil to paint the stripes onto sheets of heavy paper, and now he was attaching the sheets to small sticks of plywood with a borrowed staple gun. Jasper resented Dave’s privileged life, with wealthy, easygoing parents, but he worked hard to be friendly. “How many are you making?” he asked.

Dave said: “Three hundred and sixty.”

“Not a random number, presumably.”

“If we don’t all get killed by bombs tonight, I’m going to sell them at the demonstration tomorrow for sixpence each. Three hundred and sixty sixpences are one hundred and eighty shillings, or nine pounds, which is the price of the guitar amplifier I want to buy.”

Dave had a nose for business. Jasper remembered his soft drinks stall at the school play, staffed by teenage boys who worked at top speed because Dave was paying them a commission. But Dave did badly at his lessons, coming at or near the bottom of the class in all academic subjects. It drove his father wild, for in other respects Dave seemed bright. Lloyd accused Dave of laziness, but Jasper thought it was more complicated. Dave had trouble making sense of anything written down. His own writing was dire, full of spelling mistakes and even reversed letters. It reminded Jasper of his best friend at school, who had been incapable of singing the school song, and found it hard to hear the difference between his one-note drone and the melody the other boys were singing. Likewise, Dave had to make an effort of concentration to see the difference between the letters d and b. He longed to fulfill the expectations of his high-achieving parents, but always fell short.

As he stapled his sixpenny flags together, his mind evidently wandered, for apropos of nothing he said: “Your mother and mine can’t have had much in common when they first met.”

“No,” said Jasper. “Daisy Peshkov was the child of a Russian-American gangster. Eva Rothmann was a doctor’s daughter from a middle-class Jewish family in Berlin, sent to America to escape the Nazis. Your mother took my mother in.”

Evie, who had been named after Eva, said: “My mother just has a big heart.”

Jasper said half to himself: “I wish someone would send me to America.”

“Why don’t you just go?” said Evie. “You could tell them to leave the Cuban people alone.”

Jasper did not care a damn about the Cubans. “I can’t afford it.” Even living rent-free he was too broke to buy a ticket to the United States.

At that moment the woman with the big heart walked into the room. Daisy Williams at forty-six was still attractive, with big blue eyes and fair curls: when she was young she must have been irresistible, Jasper thought. Tonight she was dressed modestly, in a midblue skirt with matching jacket and no jewelry; hiding her wealth, Jasper thought sardonically, the better to play the part of a politician’s wife. Her figure was still trim, though not as slim as it used to be. Picturing her naked, he thought she would be better in bed than her daughter, Evie. Daisy would be like Beep, ready for anything. He was surprised to catch himself in such a fantasy about someone his mother’s age. It was a good thing women could not read men’s minds.

“What a nice picture,” she said fondly. “Three kids working quietly.” She still had a distinctive American accent, though its edges had been worn smooth by her living in London for a quarter of a century. She looked with surprise at Dave’s flags. “You don’t often take an interest in world affairs.”

“I’m going to sell them for sixpence each.”

“I might have guessed your efforts had nothing to do with world peace.”

“I leave world peace to Evie.”

Evie said with spirit: “Someone has to worry about it. We could all be dead before this march begins, you know—just because Americans are such hypocrites.”

Jasper looked at Daisy, but she was not offended. She was used to her daughter’s abrasive ethical pronouncements. Mildly, she said: “I guess Americans have been badly scared by the missiles in Cuba.”

“Then they should imagine how other people feel, and take their missiles out of Turkey.”

“I think you’re right, and it was a mistake for President Kennedy to put them there. All the same, there’s a difference. Here in Europe we’re used to having missiles pointed at us—on both sides of the Iron Curtain. But when Khrushchev secretly sent missiles to Cuba he made a shocking change in the status quo.”

“Justice is justice.”

“And practical politics is something else. But look how history repeats itself. My son is like my father, always alert for an opportunity to make a few bucks, even on the brink of World War Three. My daughter is like my Bolshevik uncle Grigori, determined to change the world.”

Evie looked up. “If he was a Bolshevik, he did change the world.”

“But was it for the better?”

Lloyd came in. Like his coal-mining ancestors, he was short in stature with broad shoulders. Something about the way he walked reminded Jasper that he had once been a champion boxer. He was dressed with old-fashioned flair, in a black suit with a faint herringbone stripe, a crisp white linen handkerchief in his breast pocket. The two parents were obviously going to a political event. “I’m ready if you are, my darling,” he said to Daisy.

Evie said: “What’s your meeting about?”

“Cuba,” said her father. “What else?” He noticed her placard. “I see you’ve already made up your mind about the issue.”

“It’s not complicated, is it?” she said. “The Cuban people should be allowed to choose their own destiny—isn’t that a basic democratic principle?”

Jasper saw a row looming. In this family, half the rows were about politics. Bored by Evie’s idealism, he interrupted. “Hank Remington is going to sing ‘Poison Rain’ in Trafalgar Square tomorrow.” Remington, an Irish boy whose real name was Harry Riley, was leader of a pop group called the Kords. The song was about nuclear fallout.

“He’s wonderful,” said Evie. “So clear thinking.” Hank was one of her heroes.

“He came to see me,” said Lloyd.

Evie immediately changed her tone. “You didn’t tell me!”

“It happened only today.”

“What did you think of him?”

“He’s a genuine working-class genius.”

“What did he want?”

“He wanted me to stand up in the House of Commons and denounce President Kennedy as a warmonger.”

“So you should!”

“And what happens if Labour wins the next general election? Suppose I become foreign secretary. I might have to go to the White House and ask the president’s support for something the Labour government wants to do, perhaps a resolution in the United Nations against racial discrimination in South Africa. Kennedy might remember how I insulted him, and tell me to drop dead.”

Evie said: “You should do it anyway.”

“Calling someone a warmonger usually doesn’t help. If I thought it would resolve the current crisis, I would do it. But it’s a card you can play only once, and I prefer to save it for a winning hand.”

Jasper reflected that Lloyd was a pragmatic politician. He approved.

Evie did not. “I believe that people should stand up and tell the truth,” she said.

Lloyd smiled. “I’m proud to have such a daughter,” he said. “I hope you will hold on to that belief all your life. But now I must go and explain the crisis to my supporters in the East End.”

Daisy said: “Bye, kids. See you later.”

They went out.

Evie said: “Who won that argument?”

Your father did, Jasper thought, hands down; but he did not say so.

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. U.S. 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 query. 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 colored 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 from 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 backseat 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 judgment 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 color.”

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 a 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 hotheaded 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.

Khrushchev’s message arrived in bits. Predictably, the important part was at the end. If the United States would promise not to invade Cuba, Khrushchev said, “the necessity for the presence of our military specialists would disappear.”

It was a compromise proposal, and that had to be good news. But what, exactly, did it mean?

Presumably the Soviets would withdraw their nuclear weapons from Cuba. Nothing less would count for anything.

But could the United States promise never to invade Cuba? Would President Kennedy even consider tying his own hands like that? George thought he would be loath to give up all hope of getting rid of Castro.

And how would the world react to such a deal? Would they see it as a foreign policy coup for Khrushchev? Or would they say Kennedy had forced the Soviets to back down?

Was this good news? George could not decide.

Larry Mawhinney put his buzz-cut head around the door. “Cuba has short-range nuclear weapons now,” he said.

“We know,” said George. “The CIA found them yesterday.”

“That means we have to have the same,” said Larry.

“What do you mean?”

“The Cuba invasion force must be equipped with battlefield nukes.”

“Must it?”

“Of course! The Joint Chiefs are about to demand them. Would you send our men into battle less well armed than the enemy?”

He had a point, George saw; but there was a terrible consequence. “So now any war with Cuba must be a nuclear war, from the start.”

“Damn right,” said Larry, and he left.

Last thing, George dropped by his mother’s house. Jacky made coffee and put a plate of cookies in front of him. He did not take one. “I saw Greg yesterday,” he said.

“How is he?”

“Same as ever. Except . . . Except that he told me I was the best thing that ever happened to him.”

“Hm!” she said in a disparaging tone. “What brought that on?”

“He wanted me to know how proud he is of me.”

“Well, well. There is still some good in that man.”

“How long is it since you last saw Lev and Marga?”

Jacky narrowed her eyes in suspicion. “What kind of question is that?”

“You get along well with Grandmother Marga.”

“That’s because she loves you. When a person loves your child, it’s endearing. You’ll find that out when you have kids.”

“You haven’t seen her since Harvard commencement, more than a year ago.”

“That’s true.”

“You don’t work on the weekend.”

“The club is closed Saturdays and Sundays. When you were small I had to have weekends off, to take care of you when you weren’t in school.”

“The First Lady has taken Caroline and John Junior to Glen Ora.”

“Oh, and I suppose you think I ought to go to my country house in Virginia and spend a couple of days riding my horses?”

“You could go and see Marga and Lev in Buffalo.”

“Go to Buffalo for the weekend?” she said incredulously. “For pity’s sake, child! I’d spend all Saturday on the train there and all Sunday on the train back.”

“You could fly.”

“I can’t afford to.”

“I’ll buy you a ticket.”

“Oh, my good Lord,” she said. “You think the Russians are going to bomb us this weekend, don’t you?”

“It’s never been closer than this. Go to Buffalo.”

She drained her cup, then got up and went to the sink to wash it. After a moment she said: “And what about you?”

“I have to stay here and do what I can to prevent it happening.”

Jacky shook her head decisively. “I’m not going to Buffalo.”

“It would ease my heart mightily, Mom.”

“If you want to ease your heart, pray to the Lord.”

“You know what the Arabs say? ‘Trust in Allah, but tether your camel.’ I’ll pray if you’ll go to Buffalo.”

“How do you know the Russians won’t bomb Buffalo?”

“I don’t know for sure. But I’d guess it’s a secondary target. And it may be out of range of those missiles in Cuba.”

“You make a weak case, for a lawyer.”

“I’m serious, Mom.”

“So am I,” she said. “And you’re a good son, to worry about your mother. But listen to me, now. From the age of sixteen I’ve given my life to nothing but raising you. If everything I’ve done is going to be wiped out in a nuclear flash, I don’t want to be alive afterward to know about it. I’m staying where you are.”

“Either we’ll both survive, or we’ll both die.”

“‘The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away,’” she quoted. “‘Blessed be the name of the Lord.’”

The United States had more than two hundred nuclear missiles that could reach the Soviet Union, according to Dimka’s uncle Volodya in Red Army Intelligence. The Americans believed the Soviet Union had about half that many intercontinental missiles, Volodya said. In truth, the USSR had precisely forty-two.

And some of them were obsolete.

When the United States did not immediately reply to the Soviet Union’s compromise offer, Khrushchev ordered even the oldest and most unreliable missiles to be made launch-ready.

In the early hours of Saturday morning, Dimka telephoned the missile testing range at Baikonur in Kazakhstan. The army base there had two five-engined Semyorkas, obsolete R-7 rockets of the type that had taken the Sputnik into orbit five years ago. They were being readied for a Mars probe.

Dimka called off the Mars expedition. The Semyorkas were included in the Soviet Union’s forty-two intercontinental missiles. They were needed for World War III.

He ordered the scientists to fit both rockets with nuclear warheads and fuel them.

Preparation for launch would take twenty hours. The Semyorkas used an unstable liquid propellant, and they could not be kept on alert for more than a day. They would be used this weekend or not at all.

Semyorka rockets often exploded on takeoff. However, if they did not, they could reach Chicago.

Each was to be fitted with a 2.8-megaton bomb.

If one managed to hit its target, it would destroy everything within seven miles of the center of Chicago, from the lake shore to Oak Park, according to Dimka’s atlas.

When he was sure the commanding officer had understood the orders, Dimka went to bed.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The phone woke Dimka. His heart pounded: was it war? How many minutes did he have to live? He snatched up the receiver. It was Natalya. First with the news, as usual, she said: “There’s a flash from Pliyev.”

General Pliyev was in command of Soviet forces in Cuba.

“What?” said Dimka. “What does it say?”

“They think the Americans are going to attack today, at dawn their time.”

It was still dark in Moscow. Dimka turned on the bedside light and looked at his watch. It was eight in the morning: he should be at the Kremlin. But dawn in Cuba was still five and a half hours away. His heart slowed a little. “How do they know?”

“That’s not the point,” she said impatiently.

“What is the point?”

“I’ll read you the last sentence. ‘We have decided that in the event of a U.S. attack on our installations, we will employ all available means of air defense.’ They will use nuclear weapons.”

“They can’t do that without our permission!”

“But that’s exactly what they’re proposing.”

“Malinovsky won’t let them.”

“Don’t bet on that.”

Dimka cursed under his breath. Sometimes the military seemed actually to want nuclear annihilation. “I’ll meet you in the canteen.”

“Give me half an hour.”

Dimka showered fast. His mother offered him breakfast, but he refused, so she gave him a piece of black rye bread to take with him. “Don’t forget there’s a party for your grandfather today,” Anya said.

It was Grigori’s birthday: he was seventy-four. There would be a big lunch at his apartment. Dimka had promised to bring Nina. They were planning to surprise everyone by announcing their engagement.

But there would be no party if the Americans attacked Cuba.

As Dimka was leaving, Anya stopped him. “Tell me the truth,” she said. “What’s going to happen?”

He put his arms around her. “I’m sorry, Mother, I don’t know.”

“Your sister’s over there in Cuba.”

“I know.”

“She’s right in the line of fire.”

“The Americans have intercontinental missiles, Mother. We’re all in the line of fire.”

She hugged him, then turned away.

Dimka drove to the Kremlin on his motorcycle. When he got to the Presidium building, Natalya was waiting in the canteen. Like Dimka, she had dressed in a hurry, and she looked a little disheveled. Her untidy hair fell over her face in a way he found charming. I must stop thinking like this, he told himself: I’m going to do the right thing, and marry Nina and raise our child.

He wondered what Natalya would say when he told her that.

But this was not the moment. He took his piece of rye bread from his pocket. “I wish I could get some tea,” he said. The canteen doors were open but no one was serving yet.

“I’ve heard that restaurants in the United States open when people want food and drinks, not when the staff want to work,” said Natalya. “Do you think it’s true?”

“Probably just propaganda,” said Dimka. He sat down.

“Let’s draft a reply to Pliyev,” she said, and opened a notebook.

Chewing, Dimka concentrated on the issue. “The Presidium should forbid Pliyev to launch nuclear weapons without specific orders from Moscow.”

“I’d rather forbid him even to mount the warheads on the rockets. Then they can’t be fired by accident.”

“Good thinking.”

Yevgeny Filipov came into the room. He was wearing a brown pullover under a gray suit jacket. Dimka said: “Good morning, Filipov, have you come to apologize to me?”

“For what?”

“You accused me of allowing the secret of our Cuban missiles to leak out. You even said I should be arrested. Now we know the missiles were photographed by a spy plane of the CIA. Obviously you owe me a groveling apology.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Filipov blustered. “We didn’t think their high-altitude photographs would show something as small as a missile. What are you two plotting?”

Natalya answered with the truth. “We’re discussing this morning’s flash message from Pliyev.”

“I’ve already spoken to Malinovsky about it.” Filipov worked for Defense Minister Malinovsky. “He is in agreement with Pliyev.”

Dimka was horrified. “Pliyev can’t be allowed to start World War Three on his own initiative!”

“He won’t be starting it. He’ll be defending our troops from American aggression.”

“The level of response can’t be a local decision.”

“There may be no time for anything else.”

“Pliyev must make time, rather than trigger a nuclear exchange.”

“Malinovsky believes we must protect the weapons we have in Cuba. If they were destroyed by the Americans, it would weaken our ability to defend the USSR.”

Dimka had not thought of that. A significant part of the Soviet nuclear stockpile was now in Cuba. The Americans could wipe out all those costly weapons, leaving the Soviets seriously weakened.

“No,” said Natalya. “Our whole strategy must be based on not using nuclear weapons. Why? Because we have so few, by comparison with the American arsenal.” She leaned forward across the canteen table. “Listen to me, Yevgeny. If it comes to all-out nuclear war, they win.” She sat back. “So we may brag, we may bluster, we may threaten, but we may not fire our weapons. For us, nuclear war is suicide.”

“That’s not how the Defense Ministry sees it.”

Natalya hesitated. “You speak as if a decision has already been made.”

“It has. Malinovsky has endorsed Pliyev’s proposal.”

Dimka said: “Khrushchev won’t like that.”

“On the contrary,” said Filipov. “He agreed with it.”

Dimka realized he had missed out on early-morning discussions because he had been up so late last night. That put him at a disadvantage. He stood up. “Let’s go,” he said to Natalya.

They left the cafeteria. Waiting for the elevator, Dimka said: “Damn. We’ve got to reverse that decision.”

“I’m sure Kosygin will want to raise it at the Presidium today.”

“Why don’t you type the order we drafted and suggest Kosygin brings it to the meeting? I’ll try to soften Khrushchev up.”

“All right.”

They parted and Dimka went to Khrushchev’s office. The first secretary was reading translations of Western newspaper articles, each one stapled to the original clipping. “Have you read Walter Lippmann’s article?”

Lippmann was a syndicated American columnist of liberal views. He was said to be close to President Kennedy.

“No.” Dimka had not yet looked at the papers.

“Lippmann proposes a swap: we withdraw our missiles from Cuba, and they remove theirs from Turkey. It’s a message to me from Kennedy!”

“Lippmann is only a journalist—”

“No, no. He’s a mouthpiece for the president.”

Dimka doubted that American democracy worked that way, but he said nothing.

Khrushchev went on: “It means that if we propose this swap, Kennedy will accept.”

“But we have already demanded something different—their promise not to invade Cuba.”

“So, we will keep Kennedy guessing!”

We’ll certainly keep him confused, Dimka thought. But that was Khrushchev’s way. Why be consistent? It only made life easier for the enemy.

Dimka changed the subject. “There will be questions at the Presidium about Pliyev’s message. Giving him the power to fire nuclear weapons—”

“Don’t worry,” said Khrushchev with a deprecating wave. “The Americans are not going to attack now. They’re even talking to the United Nations general secretary. They want peace.”

“Of course,” said Dimka deferentially. “So long as you know it’s going to come up.”

“Yes, yes.”

The leaders of the Soviet Union gathered in the paneled Presidium Room a few minutes later. Khrushchev opened the meeting with a long speech arguing that the time for an American attack had passed. Then he raised what he called the Lippmann Proposal. There was little enthusiasm for it around the long table, but no one opposed him. Most people realized the leader had to conduct diplomacy in his own style.

Khrushchev was so excited about the new idea that he dictated his letter to Kennedy there and then, while the others listened. Then he ordered that it should be read out on Radio Moscow. That way the American embassy here could forward it to Washington without the time-consuming chore of encoding it.

Finally Kosygin raised the issue of Pliyev’s flash. He argued that control of nuclear weapons must remain in Moscow, and read out the order to Pliyev that Dimka and Natalya had drafted.

“Yes, yes, send it,” said Khrushchev impatiently; and Dimka breathed easier.

An hour later Dimka was with Nina, going up in the elevator at Government House. “Let’s try to forget our woes for a while,” he said to her. “We won’t talk about Cuba. We’re going to a party. Let’s enjoy ourselves.”

“That suits me,” Nina said.

They went to the apartment of Dimka’s grandparents. Katerina opened the door in a red dress. Dimka was startled to see that it was knee length, in the latest Western fashion, and that his grandmother still had slim legs. She had lived in the West, while her husband was on the diplomatic circuit, and she had learned to dress more stylishly than most Soviet women.

She looked Nina up and down with the unapologetic curiosity of old people. “You look well,” she said, and Dimka wondered why her tone of voice sounded a little odd.

Nina took it as a compliment. “Thank you, so do you. Where did you get that dress?”

Katerina led them into the living room. Dimka remembered coming here as a boy. His grandmother had always given him belev candy, a traditional Russian kind of apple confection. His mouth watered: he would have liked a piece right then.

Katerina seemed a little unsteady in her high-heeled shoes. Grigori was sitting in the easy chair opposite the television, as always, though the set was off. He had already opened a bottle of vodka. Perhaps that was why Grandmother was wobbling a little.

“Birthday greetings, Grandfather,” said Dimka.

“Have a drink,” said Grigori.

Dimka had to be careful. He would be no use to Khrushchev drunk. He knocked back the vodka Grigori gave him, then put the glass down out of Grandfather’s reach, to avoid a refill.

Dimka’s mother was already there, helping Katerina. She came out of the kitchen carrying a plate of crackers with red caviar. Anya had not inherited Katerina’s stylishness. She always looked comfortably dumpy, whatever she wore.

She kissed Nina.

The doorbell rang and Uncle Volodya came in with his family. He was forty-eight, and his close-cropped hair was now gray. He was in uniform: he might be called to duty at any moment. Aunt Zoya followed him, approaching fifty but still a pale Russian goddess. Behind her trailed their two teenagers, Dimka’s cousins, Kotya and Galina.

Dimka introduced Nina. Both Volodya and Zoya greeted her warmly.

“Now we’re all here!” said Katerina.

Dimka looked around: at the old couple who had started it all; at his plain mother and her handsome blue-eyed brother; at his beautiful aunt and his teenage cousins; and at the voluptuous redhead he was going to marry. This was his family. And it was the most precious part of everything that would be lost today if his fears came true. They all lived within a mile of the Kremlin. If the Americans fired their nuclear weapons at Moscow tonight, the people in this room would all be lying dead in the morning, their brains boiled, their bodies crushed, their skin burned black. And the only consolation was that he would not have to mourn them because he, too, would be dead.

They all drank to Grigori’s birthday.

“I wish my little brother, Lev, could be with us,” said Grigori.

“And Tanya,” said Anya.

Volodya said: “Lev Peshkov is not so little anymore, Father. He’s sixty-seven years old and a millionaire in America.”

“I wonder if he has grandchildren in America.”

“Not in America, no,” said Volodya. Red Army Intelligence could find out this sort of thing easily, Dimka knew. “Lev’s illegitimate son, Greg, the senator, is a bachelor. But his legitimate daughter, Daisy, who lives in London, has two adolescents, a boy and a girl, about the same age as Kotya and Galina.”

“So, I’m a great-uncle to two British kids,” Grigori said, musing in a pleased tone. “What are they called? Jane and Bill, perhaps.” The others laughed at the odd sounds of the English names.

“David and Evie,” said Volodya.

“You know, I was supposed to be the one to go to America,” Grigori said. “But at the last minute I had to give my ticket to Lev.” He went into a reminiscence. His family had heard the story before, but they listened again, happy to indulge him on his birthday.

After a moment, Volodya took Dimka aside and said: “How was this morning’s Presidium?”

“They ordered Pliyev not to fire nuclear weapons without specific orders from the Kremlin.”

Volodya grunted disparagingly. “Waste of time.”

Dimka was surprised. “Why?”

“It will make no difference.”

“Are you saying Pliyev will disobey orders?”

“I think any commander would. You haven’t been in battle, have you?” Volodya gave Dimka a searching look with those intense blue eyes. “When you’re under attack, fighting for your life, you defend yourself with any means that come to hand. It’s visceral, you can’t help it. If the Americans invade Cuba, our forces there will throw everything at them, regardless of orders from Moscow.”

“Shit,” said Dimka. All this morning’s efforts had been wasted, if Volodya was right.

Grandfather’s story wound down, and Nina touched Dimka’s arm. “Now might be a good moment.”

Dimka addressed the assembled family. “Now that we have honored my grandfather’s birthday, I have an announcement. Quiet, please.” He waited for the teenagers to stop talking. “I have asked Nina to marry me, and she has accepted.”

They all cheered.

Another round of vodka was poured, but Dimka managed not to drink this one.

Anya kissed Dimka. “Well done, my son,” she said. “She didn’t want to get married—until she met you!”

“Maybe I’ll have great-grandchildren soon!” said Grigori, and he winked broadly at Nina.

Volodya said: “Father, don’t embarrass the poor girl.”

“Embarrass? Rubbish. Nina and I are friends.”

“Don’t worry about that,” said Katerina, who was now drunk. “She’s already pregnant.”

Volodya protested: “Mother!”

Katerina shrugged. “A woman can tell.”

So that was why Grandmother looked Nina up and down so hard when we arrived, Dimka thought. He saw a glance pass between Volodya and Zoya: Volodya raised an eyebrow, Zoya gave a slight nod, and Volodya made a momentary “Oh!” with his mouth.

Anya looked shocked. She said to Nina: “But you told me . . .”

Dimka said: “I know. We thought Nina couldn’t have children. But the doctors were wrong!”

Grigori raised yet another glass. “Hooray for wrong doctors! I want a boy, Nina—a great-grandson to carry on the Peshkov-Dvorkin line!”

Nina smiled. “I’ll do my best, Grigori Sergeivitch.”

Anya still looked troubled. “The doctors made a mistake?”

“You know doctors, they never admit to mistakes,” said Nina. “They say it’s a miracle.”

“I just hope I live to see my great-grandchild,” said Grigori. “Damn the Americans to hell.” He drank.

Kotya, the sixteen-year-old boy, spoke up. “Why do the Americans have more missiles than we do?”

Zoya answered: “When we scientists began to work on nuclear energy, back in 1940, and we told the government that it could be used to create a super-powerful bomb, Stalin did not believe us. So the West got ahead of the USSR, and they’re still ahead. That’s what happens when governments don’t listen to scientists.”

Volodya added: “But don’t repeat what your mother says when you go to school, okay?”

Anya said: “Who cares? Stalin killed half of us, now Khrushchev will kill the other half.”

“Anya!” protested Volodya. “Not in front of the children!”

“I feel for Tanya,” said Anya, ignoring her brother’s remonstrances. “Over there in Cuba, waiting for the Americans to attack.” She began to weep. “I wish I could have seen my pretty little girl again,” she said, sudden tears streaming down her cheeks. “Just once more, before we die.”

By Saturday morning the U.S. was ready to attack Cuba.

Larry Mawhinney gave George the details in the basement Situation Room at the White House. President Kennedy called this area a pigpen, because he found it cramped; but he had been raised in grand spacious homes: the suite was larger than George’s apartment.

According to Mawhinney, the air force had five hundred seventy-six planes at five different bases ready for the air strike that would turn Cuba into a smoking wasteland. The army had mobilized one hundred fifty thousand troops for the invasion that would follow. The navy had twenty-six destroyers and three aircraft carriers circling the island nation. Mawhinney said all this proudly, as if it were his own personal achievement.

George thought Mawhinney was too glib. “None of that will be any use against nuclear missiles,” George said.

“Fortunately, we have nukes of our own,” Mawhinney replied.

Like that made everything all right.

“How do we fire them, exactly?” said George. “I mean, what does the president do, physically?”

“He has to call the Joint War Room at the Pentagon. His phone in the Oval Office has a red button that connects him instantly.”

“And what would he say?”

“He has a black leather briefcase containing a set of codes that he has to use. The briefcase goes everywhere with him.”

“And then . . . ?”

“It’s automatic. There’s a program called the Single Integrated Operational Plan. Our bombers and missiles take off with about three thousand nuclear weapons, and head for a thousand targets in the Communist bloc.” Mawhinney made a flattening motion with his hand. “Wipe them out,” he said with relish.

George was not buying this attitude. “And they do the same to us.”

Mawhinney looked annoyed. “Listen, if we get the first punch in, we can destroy most of their weapons before they get off the ground.”

“But we’re not likely to get the first punch in, because we’re not barbarians, and we don’t want to start a nuclear war that would kill millions.”

“That’s where you politicians go wrong. A first strike is the way to win.”

“Even if we do what you want, we’ll only destroy most of their weapons, you said.”

“Obviously, we won’t get a hundred percent.”

“So, whatever happens, the USA gets nuked.”

“War is not a picnic,” Mawhinney said angrily.

“If we avoid war, we can carry on having picnics.”

Larry looked at his watch. “ExComm at ten,” he said.

They left the Situation Room and went upstairs to the Cabinet Room. The president’s senior advisers were gathering, with their aides. President Kennedy entered a few minutes after ten. This was the first time George had seen him since Maria’s abortion. He stared at the president with new eyes. This middle-aged man in the dark suit with the faint stripe had fucked a young woman, then let her go to the abortion doctor on her own. George felt a momentary flash of pure vitriolic rage. At that moment he could have killed Jack Kennedy.

All the same, the president did not look evil. He was bearing the strain of the cares of the world, literally, and George, against his will, felt a pang of sympathy, too.

As usual, CIA chief McCone opened the meeting with an intelligence summary. In his customary soporific drone he announced news frightening enough to keep everyone wide awake. Five medium-range missile sites in Cuba were now fully operational. Each had four missiles, so there were now twenty nuclear weapons pointed at the United States and ready to be fired.

At least one had to be targeted on this building, George thought grimly, and his stomach cramped in fear.

McCone proposed round-the-clock surveillance of the sites. Eight U.S. Navy jets were ready to take off from Key West to overfly the launchpads at low level. Another eight would travel the same circuit this afternoon. When it got dark they would go again, illuminating the sites with flares. In addition, high-altitude reconnaissance flights by U-2 spy planes would continue.

George wondered what good that would do. The overflights might detect prelaunch activity, but what could the U.S. do about that? Even if the American bombers took off immediately, they would not reach Cuba before the missiles were fired.

And there was another problem. As well as nuclear missiles aimed at the USA, the Red Army in Cuba had SAMs, surface-to-air missiles designed to bring down aircraft. All twenty-four SAM batteries were operational, McCone reported, and their radar equipment had been switched on. So American planes overflying Cuba would now be tracked and targeted.

An aide came into the room with a long sheet of paper torn off a teletype machine. He gave it to President Kennedy. “This is from the Associated Press in Moscow,” said the president, and he read it aloud. “‘Premier Khrushchev told President Kennedy yesterday he would withdraw offensive weapons from Cuba if the United States withdrew its rockets from Turkey.’”

Mac Bundy, the national security adviser, said: “He did not.”

George was as puzzled as everyone else. Khrushchev’s letter yesterday had demanded that the USA promise not to invade Cuba. It had said nothing about Turkey. Had the Associated Press made a mistake? Or was Khrushchev up to his usual tricks?

The president said: “He may be putting out another letter.”

That turned out to be the truth. In the next few minutes, further reports made the situation clearer. Khrushchev was making a completely separate new proposal, and had broadcast it on Radio Moscow.

“He’s got us in a pretty good spot here,” said President Kennedy. “Most people would regard this as not an unreasonable proposal.”

Mac Bundy did not like that idea. “What ‘most people,’ Mr. President?”

The president said: “I think you’re going to find it difficult to explain why we want to take hostile military action in Cuba when he’s saying: ‘Get yours out of Turkey and we’ll get ours out of Cuba.’ I think you’ve got a very touchy point there.”

Bundy argued for going back to Khrushchev’s first offer. “Why pick that track when he’s offered us the other track in the last twenty-four hours?”

Impatiently, the president said: “This is their new and latest position—and it’s a public one.” The press did not yet know about Khrushchev’s letter, but this new proposal had been made through the media.

Bundy persisted. America’s NATO allies would feel betrayed if the U.S. traded missiles, he said.

Defense Secretary Bob McNamara expressed the bewilderment and fear that they all felt. “We had one deal in the letter, now we’ve got a different one,” he said. “How can we negotiate with somebody who changes his deal before we even get a chance to reply?”

No one knew the answer.

That Saturday, the royal poinsettia trees in the streets of Havana blossomed with brilliant red flowers like bloodstains on the sky.

Early in the morning Tanya went to the store and grimly laid in provisions for the end of the world: smoked meat, canned milk, processed cheese, a carton of cigarettes, a bottle of rum, and fresh batteries for her flashlight. Although it was daybreak there was a line, but she waited only fifteen minutes, which was nothing to someone accustomed to Moscow queues.

There was a doomsday air in the narrow streets of the old town. Habaneros were no longer waving machetes and singing the national anthem. They were collecting sand in buckets for putting out fires, sticking gummed paper over their windows to minimize flying shards, toting sacks of flour. They had been so foolish as to defy their superpower neighbor, and now they were going to be punished. They should have known better.

Were they right? Was war unavoidable now? Tanya felt sure no world leader really wanted it, not even Castro, who was beginning to sound borderline crazy. But it could happen anyway. She thought gloomily of the events of 1914. No one had wanted war then. But the Austrian emperor had seen Serbian independence as a threat, in the same way that Kennedy saw Cuban independence as a threat. And once Austria declared war on Serbia the dominoes fell with deadly inevitability until half the planet was involved in a conflict more cruel and bloody than any the world had previously known. But surely that could be avoided this time?

She thought of Vasili Yenkov, in a prison camp in Siberia. Ironically, he might have a chance of surviving a nuclear war. His punishment might save his life. She hoped so.

When she got back to her apartment she turned on the radio. It was tuned to one of the American stations broadcasting from Florida. The news was that Khrushchev had offered Kennedy a deal. He would withdraw the missiles from Cuba if Kennedy would do the same in Turkey.

She looked at her canned milk with a feeling of overwhelming relief. Maybe she would not need emergency rations after all.

She told herself it was too soon to feel safe. Would Kennedy accept? Would he prove wiser than the ultraconservative Emperor Franz Joseph of Austria?

A car honked outside. She had a long-standing date to fly to the eastern end of Cuba with Paz today to write about a Soviet antiaircraft battery. She had not really expected him to show up, but when she looked out of the window she saw his Buick station wagon at the curb, its wipers struggling to cope with a tropical rainstorm. She picked up her raincoat and bag and went out.

“Have you seen what your leader has done?” he asked angrily as soon as she got into the car.

She was surprised by his rage. “You mean the Turkey offer?”

“He didn’t even consult us!” Paz pulled away, driving too fast along the narrow streets.

Tanya had not even thought about whether the Cuban leaders should be part of the negotiation. Obviously Khrushchev, too, had overlooked the need for this courtesy. The world saw the crisis as a conflict of superpowers, but naturally the Cubans still imagined it was about them. And this faint prospect of a peace deal seemed to them a betrayal.

She needed to calm Paz down, if only to prevent a road accident. “What would you have said, if Khrushchev had asked you?”

“That we will not trade our security for Turkey’s!” he said, and banged the steering wheel with the heel of his hand.

Nuclear weapons had not brought security to Cuba, Tanya reflected. They had done the opposite. Cuba’s sovereignty was more threatened today than ever. But she decided not to enrage Paz further by pointing this out.

He drove to a military airstrip outside Havana where their plane was waiting, a Yakovlev Yak-16 propeller-driven Soviet light transport aircraft. Tanya looked at it with interest. She had never intended to be a war correspondent but, to avoid appearing ignorant, she had taken pains to learn the stuff men knew, especially how to identify aircraft, tanks, and ships. This was the military modification of the Yak, she saw, with a machine gun mounted in a ball turret on top of the fuselage.

They shared the ten-seat cabin with two majors of the 32nd Guards air fighter regiment, dressed in the loud check shirts and peg-top pants that had been issued in a clumsy attempt to disguise Soviet troops as Cubans.

Takeoff was a little too exciting: it was the rainy season in the Caribbean, and there were gusty winds, too. When they could see the land below, through gaps in the clouds, they glimpsed a collage of brown and green patches crazed with crooked yellow lines of dirt road. The little plane was tossed around in a storm for two hours. Then the sky cleared, with the rapidity characteristic of tropical weather changes, and they landed smoothly near the town of Banes.

They were met by a Red Army colonel called Ivanov who already knew all about Tanya and the article she was writing. He drove them to an antiaircraft base. They arrived at ten A.M., Cuban time.

The site was laid out as a six-pointed star, with the command post in the center and the launchers at the points. Beside each launcher stood a transporter trailer bearing a single surface-to-air missile. The troops looked miserable in their waterlogged trenches. Inside the command post, officers stared intently at green radar screens that beeped monotonously.

Ivanov introduced them to the major in command of the battery. He was obviously tense. No doubt he would have preferred not to have visiting VIPs on a day such as this.

A few minutes after they arrived, a foreign aircraft was sighted at high altitude entering Cuban airspace two hundred miles west. It was given the tag Target No. 33.

Everyone was speaking Russian, so Tanya had to translate for Paz. “It must be a U-2 spy plane,” he said. “Nothing else flies that high.”

Tanya was suspicious. “Is this a drill?” she asked Ivanov.

“We were planning to fake something, for your benefit,” he said. “But actually this is the real thing.”

He looked so worried that Tanya believed him. “We’re not going to shoot it down, are we?” she said.

“I don’t know.”

“The arrogance of these Americans!” Paz raved. “Flying right above us! What would they say if a Cuban plane overflew Fort Bragg? Imagine their indignation!”

The major ordered a combat alert, and Soviet troops began to move missiles from transporters to launchers, and to attach the cables. They did it with calm efficiency, and Tanya guessed they had practised many times.

A captain was plotting the course of the U-2 on a map. Cuba was long and thin, 777 miles from east to west but only fifty to a hundred miles from north to south. Tanya saw that the spy plane was already fifty miles inside Cuba. “How fast do they fly?” she asked.

Ivanov answered: “Five hundred miles an hour.”

“How high?”

“Seventy thousand feet, roughly double the altitude of a regular jet airline flight.”

“Can we really hit a target that far away and moving so fast?”

“We don’t need a direct hit. The missile has a proximity fuse. It explodes when it gets close.”

“I know we’re targeting this plane,” she said. “But please tell me we’re not actually going to fire at it.”

“The major is calling for instructions.”

“But the Americans might retaliate.”

“Not my decision.”

The radar was tracking the intruder plane, and a lieutenant reading from a screen called out its height, speed, and distance. Outside the command post, the Soviet artillerymen adjusted the aim of the launchers to follow Target No. 33. The U-2 crossed Cuba from north to south, then turned east, following the coast, coming closer to Banes. Outside, the missile launchers turned slowly on their pivoting bases, tracking the target like wolves sniffing the air. Tanya said to Paz: “What if they fire by accident?”

That was not what he was thinking about. “It’s taking pictures of our positions!” he said. “Those photographs will be used to guide their army when they invade—which could be in a few hours’ time.”

“The invasion is much more likely to happen if you kill an American pilot!”

The major had the phone to his ear while he watched the fire-control radar. He looked up at Ivanov and said: “They’re checking with Pliyev.” Tanya knew that Pliyev was the Soviet commander in chief in Cuba. But surely Pliyev would not shoot down an American plane without authorization from Moscow?

The U-2 reached the southernmost tip of Cuba and turned, following the north coast. Banes was near the coast. The U-2’s course would bring it directly overhead. But at any instant it could turn north—and then, traveling at about a mile a second, it could quickly be out of range.

“Shoot it down!” said Paz. “Now!”

Everyone ignored him.

The plane turned north. It was almost directly above the battery, though thirteen miles high.

Just a few more seconds, please, Tanya thought, praying to she knew not what god.

Tanya, Paz, and Ivanov stared at the major, who stared at the screen. The room was silent but for the beeping of the radar.

Then the major said: “Yes, sir.”

What was it—reprieve or doom?

Without putting down the phone, he spoke to the men in the room. “Destroy Target No. 33. Fire two missiles.”

“No!” said Tanya.

There was a roar of sound. Tanya looked through the window. A missile rose from its launcher and was gone in a blink. Another followed seconds later. Tanya put her hand to her mouth, feeling she might vomit in fear.

They would take about a minute to reach an altitude of thirteen miles.

Something might go wrong, Tanya thought. The missiles could malfunction, veer off course, and land harmlessly in the sea.

On the radar screen, two small dots approached a larger one.

Tanya prayed they would miss.

They went fast, then all three dots merged.

Paz let out a yell of triumph.

Then a scatter of smaller dots sprayed across the screen.

Speaking into the phone, the major said: “Target No. 33 is destroyed.”

Tanya looked out of the window, as if she might see the U-2 crashing to earth.

The major raised his voice. “It’s a kill. Well done, everyone.”

Tanya said: “And what will President Kennedy do to us now?”

George was full of hope on Saturday afternoon. Khrushchev’s messages were inconsistent and confusing, but the Soviet leader seemed to be seeking a way out of the crisis. And President Kennedy certainly did not want war. Given goodwill on both sides, it seemed inconceivable that they would fail.

On his way to the Cabinet Room, George stopped by the press office and found Maria at her desk. She was wearing a smart gray dress, but she had on a bright pink headband, as if to announce to the world that she was well and happy. George decided not to ask how she was: clearly she did not want to be treated as an invalid. “Are you busy?” he said.

“We’re waiting for the president’s reply to Khrushchev,” she said. “The Soviet offer was made publicly, so we’re assuming the American response will be released to the press.”

“That’s the meeting I’m going to with Bobby,” George said. “To draft the response.”

“Swapping missiles in Cuba for missiles in Turkey seems like a reasonable proposal,” she said. “Especially as it may save all our lives.”

“Praise be.”

“Your mom says that.”

He laughed and moved on. In the Cabinet Room, advisers and their aides were gathering for the four o’clock meeting of ExComm. Among a knot of military aides by the door, Larry Mawhinney was saying: “We have to stop them giving Turkey to the Communists!”

George groaned. The military saw everything as a fight to the death. In truth, nobody was going to give Turkey away. The proposal was to scrap some missiles that were obsolete anyway. Was the Pentagon really going to oppose a peace deal? He could hardly believe it.

President Kennedy came in and took his usual place, in the middle of the long table with the windows behind him. They all had copies of a draft response put together earlier. It said that the USA could not discuss missiles in Turkey until the Cuba crisis had been resolved. The president did not like the wording of this reply to Khrushchev. “We’re rejecting his message,” he complained. “He” was always Khrushchev: Kennedy saw this as a personal conflict. “This is not going to be successful. He’s going to announce that we’ve rejected his proposal. Our position ought to be that we’re glad to discuss this matter—once we get a positive indication that they have ceased their work in Cuba.”

Someone said: “That really injects Turkey as a quid pro quo.”

National Security Adviser Mac Bundy chimed in: “That’s my worry.” Bundy, whose hair was receding although he was only forty-three, came from a Republican family and tended to be hard-line. “If we sound, to NATO and other allies, as if we want to make this trade, then we’re in real trouble.”

George was disheartened: Bundy was lining up with the Pentagon, against a deal.

Bundy went on: “If we appear to be trading the defense of Turkey for a threat to Cuba, we’ll just have to face a radical decline in the effectiveness of the alliance.”

That was the problem, George realized. The Jupiter missiles might have been obsolete, but they symbolized American determination to resist the spread of Communism.

The president was not convinced by Bundy. “The situation is moving there, Mac.”

Bundy persisted. “The justification for this message is that we expect it to be turned down.”

Really? thought George. He was pretty sure President Kennedy and his brother did not see it that way.

“We expect to be acting against Cuba tomorrow or the next day,” Bundy went on. “What’s our military plan?”

This was not how George had thought the meeting would go. They should be talking about peace, not war.

Defense Secretary Bob McNamara, the whiz kid from Ford, answered the question. “A large air strike leading to invasion.” Then he turned the argument back to Turkey. “To minimize the Soviet response against NATO following a U.S. attack on Cuba, we get those Jupiters out of Turkey before the Cuban attack—and let the Soviets know. On that basis, I don’t believe the Soviets would strike Turkey.”

That was ironic, George thought: to protect Turkey, it was necessary to take away its nuclear weapons.

Secretary of State Dean Rusk, who George thought was one of the smarter men in the room, warned: “They might take some other action—in Berlin.”

George marveled that the American president could not attack a Caribbean island without calculating the repercussions five thousand miles away in Eastern Europe. It showed how the entire planet was a chess board for the two superpowers.

McNamara said: “I’m not prepared at this moment to recommend air attacks on Cuba. I’m just saying we must now begin to look at it more realistically.”

General Maxwell Taylor spoke. He had been in touch with the Joint Chiefs of Staff. “The recommendation they give is that the big strike, Operations Plan 312, be executed no later than Monday morning, unless there is irrefutable evidence in the meantime that offensive weapons are being dismantled.”

Sitting behind Taylor, Mawhinney and his friends looked pleased. Just like the military, George thought: they could hardly wait to go into battle, even though it might mean the end of the world. He prayed that the politicians in the room would not be guided by the soldiers.

Taylor continued: “And that the execution of this strike plan be followed by the execution of 316, the invasion plan, seven days later.”

Bobby Kennedy said sarcastically: “Well, I’m surprised.”

There was loud laughter around the table. Everyone thought the military’s recommendations were absurdly predictable, it seemed. George felt relieved.

But the mood became grim again when McNamara, reading a note passed to him by an aide, suddenly said: “The U-2 was shot down.”

George gasped. He knew that a CIA spy plane had gone silent during a mission over Cuba, but everyone was hoping it had suffered a radio problem and was on its way home.

President Kennedy evidently had not been briefed about the missing plane. “A U-2 was shot down?” he said, and there was fear in his voice.

George knew why the president was appalled. Until this moment, the superpowers had been nose to nose, but all they had done was threaten one another. Now the first shot had been fired. From this point on, it would be much more difficult to avoid war.

“Wright just said it was found shot down,” McNamara said. Colonel John Wright was with the Defense Intelligence Agency.

Bobby said: “Was the pilot killed?”

As so often, he had asked the key question.

General Taylor said: “The pilot’s body is in the plane.”

President Kennedy said: “Did anyone see the pilot?”

“Yes, sir,” Taylor replied. “The wreckage is on the ground and the pilot’s dead.”

The room went quiet. This changed everything. An American was dead, shot down in Cuba by Soviet guns.

Taylor said: “That raises the question of retaliation.”

It certainly did. The American people would demand revenge. George felt the same. Suddenly he yearned for the president to launch the massive air attack that the Pentagon had demanded. In his mind he saw hundreds of bombers in close formation sweeping across the Florida Straits and dropping their deadly payload on Cuba like a hailstorm. He wanted every missile launcher blown up, all the Soviet troops slaughtered, Castro killed. If the entire Cuban nation suffered, so be it: that would teach them not to kill Americans.

The meeting had been going on for two hours, and the room was foggy with tobacco smoke. The president announced a break. It was a good idea, George thought. George himself certainly needed to calm down. If the others were feeling as bloodthirsty as he was, they were in no state to make rational decisions.

The more important reason for the break, George knew, was that President Kennedy had to take his medicine. Most people knew he had a bad back, but few understood that he fought a constant battle against a whole range of ailments, including Addison’s disease and colitis. Twice a day the doctors shot him up with a cocktail of steroids and antibiotics to keep him functioning.

Bobby undertook to redraft the letter to Khrushchev, with the help of the president’s cheerful young speechwriter Ted Sorensen. The two of them went with their aides to the president’s study, a cramped room next to the Oval Office. George took a pen and yellow pad and wrote down everything Bobby told him to. With only two people discussing it, the draft was done quickly.

The key paragraphs were:

1. You would agree to remove these weapons systems from Cuba under appropriate United Nations observation and supervision; and undertake, with suitable safeguards, to halt the further introduction of such weapons systems into Cuba.

2. We, on our part, would agree—upon the establishment of adequate arrangements through the United Nations to ensure the carrying out and continuation of these commitments—(a) to remove promptly the quarantine arrangements now in effect and (b) to give assurances against an invasion of Cuba and I am confident that other nations of the Western Hemisphere would be prepared to do likewise.

The USA was accepting Khrushchev’s first offer. But what about his second? Bobby and Sorensen agreed to say:

The effect of such a settlement on easing world tensions would enable us to work toward a more general arrangement regarding “other armaments” as proposed in your second letter.

It was not much, just a hint of a promise to discuss something, but it was probably the most that ExComm would allow.

George privately wondered how this could possibly be enough.

He gave his handwritten draft to one of the president’s secretaries and asked her to get it typed. A few minutes later, Bobby was summoned to the Oval Office, where a smaller group was gathering: the president, Dean Rusk, Mac Bundy, and two or three others, with their closest aides. Vice President Lyndon Johnson was excluded: he was a smart political operator, in George’s opinion, but his rough Texas manners grated on the refined Boston Kennedy brothers.

The president wanted Bobby to carry the letter personally to the Soviet ambassador in Washington, Anatoly Dobrynin. Bobby and Dobrynin had had several informal meetings in the last few days. They did not much like one another, but they were able to speak frankly, and had formed a useful back channel that bypassed the Washington bureaucracy. In a face-to-face meeting, perhaps Bobby could expand on the hint of a promise to discuss the missiles in Turkey—without getting prior approval from ExComm.

Dean Rusk suggested that Bobby could go a little further with Dobrynin. In today’s meetings it had become clear that no one really wanted the Jupiter missiles to remain in Turkey. From a strictly military point of view they were useless. The problem was cosmetic: the Turkish government and the other NATO allies would be angered if the USA traded those missiles in a Cuba settlement. Rusk suggested a solution that George thought was very smart. “Offer to pull the Jupiters out later—say, in five or six months’ time,” said Rusk. “Then we can do it quietly, with the agreement of our allies, and step up the Mediterranean activity of our nuclear-armed submarines to compensate. But the Soviets have to promise to keep that deal deadly secret.”

It was a startling suggestion, but brilliant, George thought.

Everyone agreed with remarkable speed. ExComm discussions had rambled all over the globe for most of the day, but this smaller group here in the Oval Office had suddenly become decisive. Bobby said to George: “Call Dobrynin.” He looked at his watch, and George did the same: it was seven fifteen P.M. “Ask him to meet me at the Justice Department in half an hour,” Bobby said.

The president added: “And release the letter to the press fifteen minutes later.”

George stepped into the secretaries’ office next to the Oval Office and picked up a phone. “Get me the Soviet embassy,” he said to the switchboard operator.

The ambassador agreed instantly to the meeting.

George took the typed letter to Maria and told her the president wanted it released to the press at eight P.M.

She looked anxiously at her watch, then said: “Okay, girls, we’d better go to work.”

Bobby and George left the White House and a car drove them the few blocks to the Justice Department. In the gloomy weekend lighting, the statues in the Great Hall seemed to watch the two men suspiciously. George explained to the security staff that an important visitor would shortly arrive to see Bobby.

They went up in the elevator. George thought Bobby looked exhausted, and undoubtedly he was. The corridors of the huge building echoed emptily. Bobby’s cavernous office was dimly lit, but he did not bother to switch on more lamps. He slumped behind his wide desk and rubbed his eyes.

George looked out of the window at the streetlights. The center of Washington was a pretty park full of monuments and palaces, but the rest of it was a densely populated metropolis with five million residents, more than half of them black. Would the city be here this time tomorrow? George had seen pictures of Hiroshima: miles of buildings flattened to rubble, and burned and maimed survivors on the outskirts, staring with uncomprehending eyes at the unrecognizable world around them. Would Washington look like that in the morning?

Ambassador Dobrynin was shown in at exactly a quarter to eight. He was a bald man in his early forties, and he clearly relished his informal meetings with the president’s brother.

“I want to lay out the current alarming situation the way the president sees it,” Bobby said. “One of our planes has been shot down over Cuba and the pilot is dead.”

“Your planes have no right to fly over Cuba,” Dobrynin said quickly.

Bobby’s discussions with Dobrynin could be combative, but today the attorney general was in a different mood. “I want you to understand the political realities,” he said. “There is now strong pressure on the president to respond with fire. We can’t stop these overflights: it’s the only way we can check the state of construction of your missile bases. But if the Cubans shoot at our planes, we’re going to shoot back.”

Bobby told Dobrynin what was in the letter from President Kennedy to Secretary Khrushchev.

“And what about Turkey?” Dobrynin said sharply.

Bobby replied carefully. “If that is the only obstacle to achieving the regulation I mentioned earlier, the president doesn’t see any insurmountable difficulties. The greatest difficulty for the president is the public discussion of the issue. If such a decision were announced now it would tear NATO apart. We need four to five months to remove the missiles from Turkey. But this is extremely confidential: only a handful of people know that I am saying this to you.”

George watched Dobrynin’s face carefully. Was it his imagination, or was the diplomat concealing a rush of excitement?

Bobby said: “George, give the ambassador the phone numbers we use to get to the president directly.”

George grabbed a pad, wrote down three numbers, tore off the sheet, and handed it to Dobrynin.

Bobby stood up, and the ambassador did the same. “I need an answer tomorrow,” Bobby said. “That’s not an ultimatum, it’s the reality. Our generals are itching for a fight. And don’t send us one of those long Khrushchev letters that take all day to translate. We need a clear, businesslike answer from you, Mr. Ambassador. And we need it fast.”

“Very well,” said the Russian, and he went out.

On Sunday morning, the KGB station chief in Havana reported to the Kremlin that the Cubans now thought an American attack was inevitable.

Dimka was at a government dacha at Novo-Ogaryevo, a picturesque village on the outskirts of Moscow. The dacha was a small place with white columns that made it look a bit like the White House in Washington. Dimka was preparing for the Presidium meeting to be held here in a few minutes, at twelve noon. He went around the long oak table with eighteen briefing folders, putting one in each place. They contained President Kennedy’s latest message to Khrushchev, translated into Russian.

Dimka felt hopeful. The American president had agreed to everything Khrushchev had originally demanded. If this letter had arrived, miraculously, minutes after Khrushchev’s first message had been sent, the crisis would have been over instantly. But the delay had permitted Khrushchev to add to his demands. And, unfortunately, Kennedy’s letter did not directly mention Turkey. Dimka did not know whether that would be a sticking point for his boss.

The Presidium members were assembling when Natalya Smotrov came into the room. Dimka noticed first that her curly hair was getting longer and sexier, and second that she looked scared. He had been trying to get a few minutes with her to tell her about his engagement. He felt he could not give the news to anyone in the Kremlin until he had told Natalya. But once again this was not a good moment. He needed her alone.

She came straight to him and said: “Those imbeciles have shot down an American plane.”

“Oh, no!”

She nodded. “A U-2 spy plane. The pilot is dead.”

“Shit! Who did it, us or the Cubans?”

“No one will say, which means it was probably us.”

“But no such order was given!”

“Exactly.”

This was what they had both feared: that someone would start the shooting without authorization.

The members were taking their seats, aides behind them as usual. “I’ll go and tell him,” Dimka said but, as he spoke, Khrushchev came in. Dimka hurried to his side and murmured the news in the leader’s ear as he sat down. Khrushchev did not reply, but looked grim.

He opened the meeting with what was clearly a prepared speech. “There was a time when we advanced, as in October 1917; but in March 1918 we had to retreat, having signed the Brest-Litovsk agreement with the Germans,” he began. “Now we find ourselves face-to-face with the danger of war and nuclear catastrophe, with the possible result of destroying the human race. In order to save the world, we must retreat.”

That sounded like the beginning of an argument for compromise, Dimka thought.

But Khrushchev quickly turned to military considerations. What should the Soviet Union do if the Americans were to attack Cuba today, as the Cubans themselves fully expected? General Pliyev must be instructed to defend Soviet forces in Cuba. But he should ask permission before using nuclear weapons.

While the Presidium was discussing that possibility, Dimka was called out of the room by Vera Pletner, his secretary. There was a phone call for him.

Natalya followed him out.

The Foreign Ministry had news that must be passed to Khrushchev immediately—yes, in the middle of the meeting. A cable had just been received from the Soviet ambassador in Washington. Bobby Kennedy had told him the missiles in Turkey would be removed in four or five months—but this must be kept deadly secret.

“This is good news!” Dimka said delightedly. “I’ll tell him right away.”

“One more thing,” said the Foreign Ministry official. “Bobby kept stressing the need for speed. Apparently the American president is under severe pressure from the Pentagon to attack Cuba.”

“Just as we thought.”

“Bobby kept saying there is very little time. They must have their answer today.”

“I’ll tell him.”

He hung up. Natalya was standing beside him, looking expectant. She had a nose for news. He told her: “Bobby Kennedy offered to remove the missiles from Turkey.”

She smiled broadly. “It’s over!” she said. “We’ve won!” Then she kissed him on the lips.

Dimka went back into the room in high excitement. Malinovsky, the defense minister, was speaking. Dimka went up to Khrushchev and said in a low voice: “A cable from Dobrynin—he’s received a new offer from Bobby Kennedy.”

“Tell everyone,” Khrushchev said, interrupting the speaker.

Dimka repeated what he had been told.

Presidium members rarely smiled, but Dimka now saw broad grins around the table. Kennedy had given them everything they had asked for! It was a triumph for the Soviet Union and for Khrushchev personally.

“We must accept as quickly as possible,” Khrushchev said. “Bring in a stenographer. I will dictate our letter of acceptance immediately, and it must be broadcast on Radio Moscow.”

Malinovsky said: “When should I instruct Pliyev to start dismantling the missile launchers?”

Khrushchev looked at him as if he were stupid. “Now,” he said.

After the Presidium, Dimka at last got Natalya alone. She was sitting in an anteroom, going through her notes of the meeting. “I have something to tell you,” he said. For some reason he had a feeling of discomfort in his stomach, though he had nothing to be nervous about.

“Go ahead.” She turned a page in her notebook.

He hesitated, feeling he did not have her attention.

Natalya put down the book and smiled.

Now or never.

Dimka said: “Nina and I are engaged to be married.”

Natalya went pale and her mouth dropped open in shock.

Dimka felt the need to say something else. “We told my family yesterday,” he said. “At my grandfather’s birthday party.” Stop gabbling, shut up, he told himself. “He’s seventy-four.”

When Natalya spoke, her words shocked him. “What about me?” she said.

He hardly understood what she meant. “You?” he said.

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “We spent a night together.”

“I’ll never forget it.” Dimka was baffled. “But afterward, all you would say to me was that you were married.”

“I was scared.”

“Of what?”

Her face showed genuine distress. Her wide mouth was twisted in a grimace, almost as if she were in pain. “Don’t get married, please!”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want you to.”

Dimka was flabbergasted. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t know what to do.”

“But now it’s too late.”

“Is it?” She looked at him with pleading eyes. “You can break off an engagement . . . if you want to.”

“Nina is going to have a baby.”

Natalya gasped.

Dimka said: “You should have said something . . . before . . .”

“And if I had?”

He shook his head. “There is no point in discussing it.”

“No,” she said. “I see that.”

“Well,” said Dimka, “at least we avoided a nuclear war.”

“Yes,” she said. “We’re alive. That’s something.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

The smell of coffee woke Maria. She opened her eyes. President Kennedy was in bed beside her, sitting upright with several pillows propping him, drinking coffee and reading the Sunday edition of The New York Times. He was wearing a light-blue nightshirt, as was she. “Oh!” she said.

He smiled. “You sound surprised.”

“I am,” she said. “To be alive. I thought we might die in the night.”

“Not this time.”

She had gone to sleep half-hoping it would happen. She dreaded the end of their love affair. She knew it had no future. For him to leave his wife would destroy him politically; to do so for a black woman was unthinkable. Anyway, he did not even want to leave Jackie: he loved her, and he loved their children. He was happily married. Maria was his mistress, and when he tired of her he would discard her. Sometimes she felt she would prefer to die before that came to pass—especially if death could come while she was at his side, in bed, in a flash of nuclear destruction that would be over before they knew what was happening.

She said none of this: her role was to make him happy, not sad. She sat upright, kissed his ear, looked over his shoulder at the newspaper, took his cup from his hand, and drank some of his coffee. Despite everything, she was glad she was still alive.

He had not mentioned her abortion. It was almost as if he had forgotten about it. She had never raised it with him. She had called Dave Powers and said she was pregnant; and Dave had given her a phone number and said he would take care of the doctor’s fee. The only time the president had spoken about it had been when he phoned her after the procedure. He had bigger worries on his mind.

Maria thought about raising the subject herself, but quickly decided against it. Like Dave, she wanted to shield the president from care, not give him additional burdens. She felt sure this was the right decision, though she could not help feeling sorry, and even hurt, that she was not able to talk to him about something so important.

She had feared that sex might be painful after the procedure. However, when Dave had asked her to go to the residence last night, she had been so reluctant to decline the invitation that she had decided to take the risk; and it had been fine—wonderful, in fact.

“I’d better move,” the president said. “I’m going to church this morning.”

He was about to get up when the bedside phone rang. He picked it up. “Good morning, Mac,” he said.

Maria guessed he was talking to McGeorge Bundy, the national security adviser. She jumped out of bed and went to the bathroom.

Kennedy often took calls in bed in the morning. Maria assumed that the people who phoned either did not know or did not care whether he had company. She saved the president embarrassment by making herself scarce during such conversations, just in case they were top secret.

She peeped out of the door in time to see him hang up the phone. “Great news!” he said. “Moscow Radio announced that Khrushchev is dismantling the Cuban missiles and sending them back to the USSR.”

Maria had to restrain herself from shouting for joy. It was over!

“I feel like a new man,” said the president.

She threw her arms around him and kissed him. “You saved the world, Johnny,” she said.

He looked reflective. After a minute he said: “Yeah, I guess I did.”

Tanya was standing on her balcony, leaning on the wrought-iron parapet, breathing deeply of the damp Havana morning air, when Paz’s Buick pulled up below, completely blocking the narrow street. He jumped out of the car, looked up, saw her, and yelled: “You betrayed me!”

“What?” She was astonished. “How?”

“You know.”

He was a passionate and mercurial character, but she had never seen him this angry, and she was glad he had not come up the stairs to the apartment. However, she was baffled as to the reason for his rage. “I’ve told no secrets, and I haven’t slept with another man,” she said. “So I’m sure I haven’t betrayed you.”

“Then why are they dismantling the missile launchers?”

“Are they?” If that was so, the crisis was over. “Are you sure?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know.”

“I’m not pretending anything. But if it’s true, we’re saved.” Out of the corner of her eye she noticed neighbors opening windows and doors, to watch the row with unabashed curiosity. She ignored them. “Why are you angry?”

“Because Khrushchev made a deal with the yanquis—and never even discussed it with Castro!”

The neighbors made disapproving noises.

“Of course I didn’t know,” she said with annoyance. “Do you imagine Khrushchev talks to me about such things?”

“He sent you here.”

“Not personally.”

“He talks to your brother.”

“You really believe I’m some kind of special emissary of Khrushchev?”

“Why do you suppose I have gone everywhere with you for months?”

In a quieter voice, she replied: “I imagined it was because you liked me.”

The listening women made sympathetic cooing sounds.

“You’re not welcome here any longer,” he yelled. “Pack your suitcase. You are to leave Cuba immediately. Today!”

With that he jumped back into his car and roared away.

“It was nice knowing you,” said Tanya.

Dimka and Nina celebrated by going to a bar near her apartment that evening.

Dimka was determined not to think about his unsettling conversation with Natalya. It changed nothing. He put her to the back of his mind. They had had a brief fling and it was over. He loved Nina, and she was going to be his wife.

He bought a couple of bottles of weak Russian beer and sat beside her on a bench. “We’re going to be married,” he said tenderly. “I want you to have a wonderful dress.”

“I don’t want a lot of fuss,” Nina said.

“Nor do I, for myself, but that could be a problem,” Dimka said with a frown. “I’m the first of my generation to get married. My mother and grandparents will want to throw a big party. What about your family?” He knew that Nina’s father had died in the war, but her mother was still alive, and she had a brother a couple of years younger than she.

“I hope Mother will be well enough to come.” Nina’s mother lived in Perm, nine hundred miles east of Moscow. But something told Dimka that Nina did not really want her mother to come.

“What about your brother?”

“He’ll ask for leave, but I don’t know if he’ll get it.” Nina’s brother was in the Red Army. “I have no idea where he’s stationed. He could be in Cuba, for all I know.”

“I’ll find out,” Dimka said. “Uncle Volodya can pull a few strings.”

“Don’t go to too much trouble.”

“I want to. This will probably be my only wedding!”

She snapped: “What do you mean by that?”

“Nothing.” He had meant it lightheartedly, and he was sorry to have irritated her. “Forget I said it.”

“Do you think I’m going to divorce you as I did my first husband?”

“I said exactly the opposite, didn’t I? What’s the matter with you?” He forced a smile. “We should be happy today. We’re getting married, we’re having a baby, and Khrushchev has saved the world.”

“You don’t understand. I’m not a virgin.”

“I guessed that.”

“Will you be serious?”

“All right.”

“A wedding is normally two young people promising to love one another forever. You can’t say that twice. Don’t you see that I’m embarrassed to be doing this again because I’ve already failed at it once?”

“Oh!” he said. “Yes, I do see, now that you’ve explained it.” Nina’s attitude was a little old-fashioned—lots of people got divorced nowadays—but perhaps that was because she came from a provincial town. “So you want a celebration appropriate to a second marriage: no extravagant promises, no newlywed jokes, an adult awareness that life doesn’t always go according to plan.”

“Exactly.”

“Well, my beloved, if that’s what you want, I will make sure you have it.”

“Will you, really?”

“Whatever made you think I wouldn’t?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Sometimes I forget what a good man you are.”

That morning, at the last ExComm of the crisis, George heard Mac Bundy invent a new way of describing the opposite sides among the president’s advisers. “Everyone knows who were the hawks and who were the doves,” he said. Bundy himself was a hawk. “Today was the day of the doves.”

But there were few hawks this morning: everyone was full of praise for President Kennedy’s handling of the crisis, even some who had recently argued that he was being dangerously weak, and had pressed him to commit the United States to a war.

George summoned up the nerve to banter with the president. “Maybe you should solve the India-China border war next, Mr. President.”

“I don’t think either of them, or anyone else, wants me to.”

“But today you’re ten feet tall.”

President Kennedy laughed. “That’ll last about a week.”

Bobby Kennedy was pleased at the prospect of seeing more of his family. “I’ve almost forgotten my way home,” he said.

The only unhappy people were the generals. The Joint Chiefs of Staff, meeting at the Pentagon to finalize plans for the air attack on Cuba, were furious. They sent the president an urgent message saying that Khrushchev’s acceptance was a trick to gain time. Curtis LeMay said this was the greatest defeat in American history. No one took any notice.

George had learned something, and he felt it was going to take him a while to digest it. Political issues were interlinked more closely than he had previously imagined. He had always thought that problems such as Berlin and Cuba were separate from each other and had little connection with such issues as civil rights and health care. But President Kennedy had been unable to deal with the Cuban missile crisis without thinking of the repercussions in Germany. And if he had failed to deal with Cuba, the imminent midterm elections would have crippled his domestic program, and made it impossible for him to pass a civil rights bill. Everything was connected. This realization had implications for George’s career that he needed to mull over.

When ExComm broke up George kept his suit on and went to his mother’s house. It was a sunny autumn day, and the leaves had turned red and gold. She cooked him supper, as she loved to do. She made steak and mashed potatoes. The steak was overdone: he could not persuade her to serve it in the French style, medium rare. He enjoyed the food anyway, because of the love with which it was made.

Afterward she washed the dishes and he dried, then they got ready to go to the evening service at Bethel Evangelical Church. “We must thank the Lord for saving us all,” she said as she stood in front of the mirror by the door, putting on her hat.

“You thank the Lord, Mom,” George said amiably. “I’ll thank President Kennedy.”

“Why don’t we just agree to be grateful to both?”

“I’ll buy that,” said George, and they went out.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Joe Henry’s Dance Band had a regular Saturday night gig in the restaurant of the Europe Hotel in East Berlin, playing jazz standards and show tunes for the East German elite and their wives. Joe, whose real name was Josef Heinried, was not much of a drummer, in Walli’s opinion; but he could keep the beat, even when drunk, and besides, he was an official of the musicians’ union, so he could not be fired.

Joe arrived at the staff entrance of the hotel at six P.M. in an old black Framo V901 van with his precious drums in the back packed tight with cushions. While Joe sat at the bar drinking beer, it was Walli’s job to carry the drums from the van to the stage, unpack them from their leather cases, and set up the kit the way Joe liked it. There was a bass drum with a kick pedal, two tom-toms, a snare drum, a high hat, a crash cymbal, and a cowbell. Walli handled them as gently as if they were eggs: they were American Slingerland drums that Joe had won from a GI in a card game back in the 1940s, and he would never get another set like it.

The pay was lousy, but as part of the deal Walli and Karolin performed for twenty minutes in the interval, as the Bobbsey Twins, and, most importantly, they got musicians’ union cards, even though Walli at seventeen was too young.

Walli’s English grandmother, Maud, had chortled when he told her the name of the duo. “Are you Flossie and Freddie, or Bert and Nan?” she had said. “Oh, Walli, you do make me laugh.” It turned out that the Bobbsey Twins were not a bit like the Everly Brothers. There was a series of old-fashioned books for children about the impossibly perfect Bobbsey family with two sets of beautiful rosy-cheeked twins. Walli and Karolin had decided to stick with the name anyway.

Joe was an idiot but Walli was learning from him just the same. Joe made sure the band was too loud to be ignored, though not so loud that people complained they could not converse. He gave each band member the spotlight in one number, keeping the musicians happy. He always opened with a well-known number, and he liked to finish while the dance floor was packed, leaving people wanting more.

Walli did not know what the future held, but he knew what he wanted. He was going to be a musician, the leader of a band, popular and famous; and he was going to play rock music. Perhaps the Communists would soften their attitude to American culture, and permit pop groups. Maybe Communism would fall. Best of all, Walli might find a way to go to America.

All that was a long way off. Right now his ambition was that the Bobbsey Twins would become popular enough for him and Karolin to become full-time professionals.

Joe’s musicians drifted in while Walli was setting up, and they began to play at seven sharp.

Communists were ambivalent about jazz. They were suspicious of everything American, but the Nazis had banned jazz, which made jazz anti-Fascist. In the end they permitted it because so many people liked it. Joe’s band had no vocalist, so there was no problem about songs that celebrated bourgeois values, such as “Top Hat, White Tie and Tails” or “Puttin’ on the Ritz.”

Karolin arrived a minute later, and her presence lit up the shabby backstage area with a glow like candlelight, bathing the gray walls in a rosy wash and making the grimy corners vanish into shadow.

For the first time, there was something in Walli’s life that mattered as much as music. He had had girlfriends before, in fact they came without much effort by him. And they had usually been willing to have sex with him, so intercourse for Walli was not the unattainable dream it was for most of his schoolmates. But he had experienced nothing like the overwhelming love and passion he felt for Karolin. “We think the same way—we even say the same thing sometimes,” he had told Grandmother Maud, and she had said: “Ah—soul mates.” Walli and Karolin could talk about sex as easily as they talked about music, confiding what they liked and did not like—though there was not much that Karolin did not like.

The band would play for another hour. Walli and Karolin got into the back of Joe’s van and lay down. It became a boudoir, dimly lit by the yellow glow from the car park lights; Joe’s cushions were a velvet divan, and Karolin a languorous odalisque, opening her robes to offer her body to Walli’s kisses.

They had tried sex using a condom, but neither of them liked it. Sometimes they had intercourse without a condom, and Walli withdrew at the last moment, but Karolin said that was not really safe. Tonight they used their hands. After Walli had come into Karolin’s handkerchief, she showed him how to please her, guiding his fingers, and she came with a little “Oh!” that sounded more like surprise than anything else.

“Sex with the one you love is the second-best thing in the world,” Maud had said to Walli. Somehow a grandmother could say things that a mother could not.

“If that’s second best, what’s first?” he had asked.

“Seeing your children happy.”

“I thought you were going to say: ‘Playing ragtime,’” Walli had said, and she had laughed.

As always, Walli and Karolin went from sex to music with no break, as if it were all one. Walli taught Karolin a new song. He had a radio in his bedroom and he listened to American stations broadcasting from West Berlin, so he knew all the popular numbers. This one was called “If I Had a Hammer,” and it was a hit for an American trio called Peter, Paul and Mary. It had a compelling beat, and he felt sure the audience would love it.

Karolin was doubtful about the lyrics, which mentioned justice and freedom.

Walli said: “In America, Pete Seeger is called a Communist for writing it! I think it annoys bullies everywhere.”

“How does that help us?” Karolin said with remorseless practicality.

“No one here will understand the English words.”

“All right,” she said, giving in reluctantly. Then she said: “I have to stop doing this, anyway.”

Walli was shocked. “What do you mean?”

She looked somber. She had saved some piece of bad news so that it would not spoil the sex, Walli realized. Karolin had impressive self-control. She said: “My father has been questioned by the Stasi.”

Karolin’s father was a supervisor at a bus station. He seemed uninterested in politics, and was an unlikely suspect for the secret police. “Why?” said Walli. “What did they question him about?”

“You,” she said.

“Oh, shit.”

“They told him you were ideologically unreliable.”

“What was the name of the man who interrogated him? Was it Hans Hoffmann?”

“I don’t know.”

“I bet it was.” If Hans was not the actual interviewer, he was surely responsible, Walli thought.

“They said Dad would lose his job if I continued to be seen in public singing with you.”

“Do you have to do what your parents say? You’re nineteen.”

“I’m still living with them, though.” Karolin had left school but was at a technical college studying to be a bookkeeper. “Anyway, I can’t be responsible for my father getting the sack.”

Walli was devastated. This blighted his dream. “But . . . we’re so good! People love us!”

“I know. I’m so sorry.”

“How do the Stasi even know about your singing?”

“Do you remember the man in the cap who followed us the night we met? I see him occasionally.”

“Do you think he follows me all the time?”

“Not all the time,” she said in a lowered voice. People always spoke quietly when mentioning the Stasi, even if there was no one to overhear. “Maybe just now and again. But I suppose that sooner or later he noticed me with you, and started tailing me, and found out my name and address, and that’s how they got to my father.”

Walli refused to accept what was happening. “We’ll go to the West,” he said.

Karolin looked agonized. “Oh, God, I wish we could.”

“People escape all the time.”

Walli and Karolin had talked of this often. Escapers swam canals, obtained false papers, hid themselves in truckloads of produce, or just sprinted across. Sometimes their stories were told on West German radio stations; more often there were all kinds of rumors.

Karolin said: “People die all the time, too.”

At the same time as Walli was eager to leave, he was tortured by the possibility that Karolin would be hurt, or worse, in the escape. The border guards shot to kill. And the Wall changed constantly, becoming more and more formidable. Originally it had been a barbed-wire fence. Now in many places it was a double barrier of concrete slabs with a broad floodlit middle patrolled by dogs and guarded by watchtowers. It even had tank traps. No one had ever tried to cross in a tank, though border guards fled frequently.

Walli said: “My sister escaped.”

“But her husband was crippled.”

Rebecca and Bernd were married now and living in Hamburg. Both were schoolteachers, even though Bernd was in a wheelchair: he had not yet recovered completely from his fall. Their letters to Carla and Werner were always delayed by the censors, but they got through in the end.

“I don’t want to live here, anyway,” said Walli derisively. “I’ll spend my life singing songs that are approved by the Communist Party, and you’ll be a bookkeeper so that your father can keep his job in the bus garage. I’d rather be dead.”

“Communism can’t last forever.”

“Why not? It’s lasted since 1917. And what if we have children?”

“What makes you say that?” she asked sharply.

“If we stay here, we’re not just condemning ourselves to a life in prison. Our children will suffer, too.”

“Do you want to have children?”

Walli had not intended to raise this subject. He did not know whether he wanted children. First he needed to save his own life. “Well, I don’t want to have children in East Germany,” he said. He had not thought of this before, but now that he had said it he felt sure of it.

Karolin looked serious. “Then maybe we should escape,” she said. “But how?”

Walli had toyed with many ideas, but he had a favorite. “Have you seen the checkpoint near my school?”

“I’ve never really looked.”

“It’s used by vehicles carrying goods to West Berlin—meat, vegetables, cheese, and so on.” The East German government did not like feeding West Berlin, but they needed the money, according to Walli’s father.

“And . . . ?”

Walli had worked out some details in his fantasy. “The barrier is a single length of timber about six inches thick. You show your papers, then the guard swings up the barrier to let your truck in. They inspect your load in the compound, then there’s another similar barrier to the exit.”

“Yes, I recall the setup.”

Walli made his voice more confident than he felt. “It strikes me that a driver who had trouble with the guards could probably crash through both barriers.”

“Oh, Walli, it’s so dangerous!”

“There’s no safe way to get out.”

“You don’t have a truck.”

“We’ll steal this van.” After the show, Joe always sat in the bar while Walli packed up the drum kit and loaded the van. By the time Walli was finished, Joe was more or less drunk, and Walli would drive him home. Walli did not have a license, but Joe did not know that, and he had never been sober enough to notice Walli’s erratic driving. After helping Joe into his apartment, Walli had to stash the kit in the hallway, then garage the van. “I could take it tonight, after the show,” he said to Karolin. “We could go across first thing in the morning, as soon as the checkpoint opens.”

“If I’m late home my father will come looking for me.”

“Go home, go to bed, and get up early. I’ll wait for you outside the school. Joe won’t surface before midday. By the time he realizes his van is missing, we’ll be strolling in the Tiergarten.”

Karolin kissed him. “I’m scared, but I love you,” she said.

Walli heard the band playing “Avalon,” the closing number of the first set, and he realized they had been talking a long time. “We’re on in five minutes,” he said. “Let’s go.”

The band left the stage and the dance floor emptied. It took Walli less than a minute to set up the microphones and the small guitar amplifier. The audience returned to their drinks and their conversations. Then the Bobbsey Twins came on. Some customers took no notice; others looked on with interest: Walli and Karolin made an attractive couple, and that was always a good start.

As usual they began with “Noch Einen Tanz,” which got people’s attention and made them laugh. They sang some folk songs, two Everly Brothers numbers, and “Hey Paula,” a hit for an American duo very like themselves called Paul and Paula. Walli had a high voice, and sang harmonies over Karolin’s tune. He had developed a fingerpicking guitar style that was rhythmic as well as melodic.

They finished with “If I Had a Hammer.” Most of the audience loved it, clapping along with the beat, though there were a few stern faces at the words justice and freedom in the refrain.

They came off to loud applause. Walli’s head swam with the euphoria of knowing he had enchanted an audience. It was better than being drunk. He was flying.

Passing them in the wings, Joe said: “If you ever sing that song again, you’re fired.”

Walli’s elation was punctured. He felt as if he had been slapped. Furious, he said to Karolin: “That settles it. I’m leaving tonight.”

They returned to the van. Often they made love a second time, but tonight both were too tense. Walli was boiling with rage. “What’s the earliest you could meet me in the morning?” he said to Karolin.

She thought for a minute. “I’ll go home now and tell them I need an early night, because I have to get up early in the morning . . . for a rehearsal of my college’s May Day parade.”

“Good,” he said.

“I could be with you by seven without arousing suspicion.”

“That’s perfect. There won’t be much traffic through the checkpoint at that hour on a Sunday morning.”

“Kiss me again, then.”

They kissed long and hard. Walli touched her breasts, then pulled away. “Next time we make love, we’ll be free,” he said.

They got out of the van. “Seven o’clock,” Walli repeated.

Karolin waved and disappeared into the night.

Walli got through the rest of the evening on a wave of hope mingled with rage. He was constantly tempted to show his scorn for Joe, but also fearful that for some reason he would not be able to steal the van. However, if he showed his feelings Joe did not notice, and by one o’clock Walli was parked in the street outside his school. He was out of sight of the checkpoint, around two corners, which was good: he did not want the guards to see him and get suspicious.

He lay on the cushions in the back of the van with his eyes shut, but it was too cold to sleep. He spent much of the night thinking about his family. His father had been bad-tempered for more than a year. Father no longer owned the television factory in West Berlin: he had made it over to Rebecca, so that the East German government could not find a way to take it from the family. He was still trying to run the place, even though he could not go there. He had hired a Danish accountant to be his liaison. As a foreigner, Enok Andersen was able to cross between West and East Berlin once a week for a meeting with Father. It was no way to run a business, and it drove Father crazy.

Walli did not think his mother was happy either. She was mostly absorbed in her work, as head of nursing at a large hospital. She hated the Communists as much as the Nazis, but there was nothing she could do about it.

Grandmother Maud was as stoical as ever. Germany had been fighting Russia for as long as she could remember, she said, and she only hoped to live long enough to see who won. She thought that playing the guitar was an achievement, unlike Walli’s parents, who saw it as a waste of time.

The one Walli would miss most was Lili. She was fourteen now, and he liked her a lot better than he had when they were kids and she was a pest.

He tried not to think too much about the dangers ahead of him. He did not want to lose his nerve. In the small hours, when he felt his determination weakening, he thought of Joe’s words: “If you ever sing that song again, you’re fired.” The recollection stoked Walli’s rage. If he stayed in East Germany he would spend his life being told what to play by numbskulls such as Joe. It would be no life at all; it would be hell; it would be impossible. He had to leave, whatever else happened. The alternative was unthinkable.

That thought gave him courage.

At six o’clock he left the van and went in search of a hot drink and something to eat. However, there was nothing open, even at the railway stations, and he returned to the van hungrier than ever. The walking had warmed him, though.

Daylight took the chill off. He sat in the driving seat, so that he could look out for Karolin. She would find him without difficulty: she knew the vehicle, and anyway there were no other vans parked near the school.

Over and over again he visualized what he was about to do. He would take the guards by surprise. It would be several seconds before they realized what was happening. Then, presumably, they would shoot.

With any luck, by that time the guards would be behind Walli and Karolin, shooting at the back of the van. How dangerous was that? Walli really had no idea. He had never been shot at. He had never seen anyone fire a gun, for any reason. He did not know whether bullets could pass through cars or not. He recalled his father saying that hitting someone with a firearm was not as easy as it seemed in the movies. That was the extent of Walli’s knowledge.

He suffered an anxious moment when a police car drove past. The cop in the passenger seat gave Walli a hard stare. If they asked to see his driving license he was done for. He cursed his foolishness in not staying in the back of the van. But they drove on without stopping.

In Walli’s imagination, both he and Karolin would be killed by the guards if something went wrong. But now for the first time it occurred to him that one might be hit while the other survived. That was a terrible prospect. They often said “I love you” to one another, but Walli was feeling it in a different way. To love someone, he now realized, was to have something so precious that you could not bear to lose it.

An even worse possibility struck him: one of them might be crippled, like Bernd. How would Walli feel if Karolin were paralyzed and it was his fault? He would want to commit suicide.

At last his watch said seven o’clock. He wondered if any of these thoughts had occurred to her. Almost certainly they had. What else would she have been thinking of in the night? Would she come walking along the street, sit next to him in the van, and quietly tell him she was not willing to take the risk? What would he do then? He could not give up, and live out his life behind the Iron Curtain. But could he leave her and go alone?

He was disappointed when seven fifteen came around and she had not appeared.

By seven thirty he was worried, and by eight he was in despair.

What had gone wrong?

Had Karolin’s father discovered there was no rehearsal tomorrow for the college’s May Day parade? Why would he trouble to check a thing like that?

Was Karolin ill? She had been perfectly well last night.

Had she changed her mind?

She might have.

She had never been as sure as he of the need to escape. She voiced doubts and foresaw difficulties. When they had talked about it last night, he had suspected she was against the whole idea until he mentioned raising their children in East Germany. That was when she had come round to Walli’s way of thinking. But now it looked as if she had had second thoughts.

He decided to give her until nine o’clock.

Then what? Go alone?

He no longer felt hungry. The tension in his guts was such that he knew he could not eat. He was thirsty, though. He would almost have given his guitar for hot coffee with cream in it.

At eight forty-five, a slim girl with long fair hair came walking along the street toward the van, and Walli’s heart beat faster; but as she came closer he saw that she had dark eyebrows and a small mouth and an overbite. It was not Karolin.

At nine Karolin still had not appeared.

Go or stay?

If you ever sing that song again, you’re fired.

Walli started the engine.

He moved forward slowly and turned the first corner.

He would need to be traveling fast to bust through the timber barrier. On the other hand, if he approached at top speed the guards would be forewarned. He needed to begin at normal speed, slow down a little to lull them, then stamp on the gas.

Unfortunately, not much happened when you stamped on the gas in this vehicle. The Framo had a 900 cc three-cylinder two-stroke engine. Walli thought maybe he should have kept the drums on board, so that their weight would give the van more impetus when it hit.

He turned a second corner, and the checkpoint stood ahead of him. About three hundred yards away, the road was blocked by a barrier that lifted to give access to a compound with a guardhouse. The compound was about fifty yards long. Another wooden barrier blocked the exit. Beyond that, the road was bare for thirty yards, then turned into a regular West Berlin street.

West Berlin, he thought; then West Germany; then America.

There was a truck waiting at the near barrier. Walli hurriedly stopped the van. If he got into a queue he was in trouble, for he would have little opportunity to build up speed.

As the truck passed through the barrier, a second vehicle pulled up. Walli waited. But he saw a guard staring his way, and realized his presence had been noted. In an attempt to cover up, he got out of the van, went around to the back, and opened the rear door. From there he could see through the windscreen. As soon as the second vehicle passed into the compound, he returned to the driving seat.

He put the van in gear and hesitated. It was not too late to turn around. He could take the van back to Joe’s garage, leave it there, and walk home, his only problem to explain to his parents why he had been out all night.

Life or death.

If he waited now, another truck might come along and block his way; and then a guard might stroll along the street and ask him what the hell he thought he was doing, loitering within sight of a checkpoint; and his opportunity would be lost.

If you ever sing that song again . . .

He let out the clutch and moved forward.

He reached thirty miles an hour, then slowed down a little. The guard standing by the barrier was watching him. He touched the brake. The guard looked away.

Walli floored the accelerator pedal.

The guard heard the change in the engine note and turned around, wearing a slight frown of puzzlement. As the van picked up speed, he waved at Walli with a Slow down gesture. Pointlessly, Walli pressed harder on the pedal. The Framo gained pace lumberingly, like an elephant. Walli saw the guard’s expression change in slow motion, from curiosity to disapproval to alarm. Then the man panicked. Even though he was not in the way of the van, he took three steps backward and flattened himself against a wall.

Walli let out a yell that was half war cry, half sheer terror.

The van hit the barrier with a crash of deforming metal. The impact threw Walli forward onto the steering wheel, which struck his ribs painfully. He had not anticipated that. Suddenly it was hard to catch his breath. But the timber bar fractured with a crack like a gunshot, and the van moved on, its pace only a little reduced by the impact.

Walli changed into first gear and accelerated. The two vehicles ahead of him had both pulled over for inspection, leaving a clear path to the exit. The other people in the compound, three guards and two drivers, turned to see what the noise was. The Framo picked up speed.

Walli experienced a rush of confidence. He was going to make it! Then a guard with more than average presence of mind knelt down and aimed his submachine gun.

He was just to one side of Walli’s route to the exit. In a flash Walli realized he would pass the guard at point-blank range. He was sure to be shot and killed.

Without thinking, he swung the wheel and drove straight at the guard.

The guard fired a burst. The windscreen shattered, but to Walli’s astonishment he was not hit. Then he was almost on top of the man. He was suddenly struck by the horror of driving a vehicle over a living human body, and he swung the wheel again to avoid the guard. But he was too late, and the front of the van hit the man with a sickening thump, knocking him down. Walli cried: “No!” The vehicle lurched as its front offside wheel rolled over the guard. “Oh, Christ!” Walli wailed. He had never wanted to hurt anyone.

The van slowed as Walli yielded to despair. He wanted to jump out and see if the guard was alive, and if so help him. Then gunfire broke out again, and he realized they were going to kill him now if they could. Behind him, he heard bullets hit the metal of the van.

He pressed the pedal down and swung the wheel again, trying to get back on track. He had lost momentum. He managed to steer toward the exit barrier. He did not know whether he was going fast enough to break it. Resisting the impulse to change gear, he let the engine shriek in first.

He felt a sudden pain as if someone had stuck a knife in his leg. He shouted out in shock and agony. His foot came up off the pedal, and the van immediately slowed. He had to force himself to press down again, despite how it hurt. He screamed in pain. He felt hot blood run down his calf into his shoe.

The van hit the second timber barrier. Again Walli was thrown forward; again the wheel bruised his ribs; again the wooden bar splintered and fell away; and again the van kept going.

The van crossed a patch of concrete. The gunfire ceased. Walli saw a street with shops, advertisements for Lucky Strike and Coca-Cola, shiny new cars, and, best of all, a small group of startled soldiers in American uniforms. He took his foot off the accelerator and tried to brake. Suddenly the pain was too much. His leg felt paralyzed, and he was unable to press down on the brake pedal. In desperation he steered the van into a lamppost.

The soldiers rushed to the van and one threw open the door. “Well done, kid, you made it!” he said.

I made it, Walli thought. I’m alive, and I’m free. But without Karolin.

“Hell of a ride,” the soldier said admiringly. He was not much older than Walli.

As Walli relaxed, the pain became overwhelming. “My leg hurts,” he managed to say.

The soldier looked down. “Jeez, look at all that blood.” He turned and spoke to someone behind him. “Hey, call an ambulance.”

Walli passed out.

Walli got his bullet wound stitched up and was discharged from hospital the next day with bruised ribs and a bandage around the calf of his right leg.

According to the newspapers, the border guard he had run over had died.

Limping, Walli went to the Franck television factory and told his story to the Danish accountant, Enok Andersen, who undertook to tell Werner and Carla that he was all right. Enok gave Walli some West German deutschmarks, and Walli got a room at the YMCA.

His ribs hurt every time he turned over in bed, and he slept badly.

Next day he retrieved his guitar from the van. The instrument had survived the crossing without damage, unlike Walli. However, the vehicle was a write-off.

Walli applied for a West German passport, granted automatically to escapers.

He was free. He had escaped from the suffocating puritanism of Walter Ulbricht’s Communist regime. He could play and sing anything he chose.

And he was miserable.

He missed Karolin. He felt as if he had lost a hand. He kept thinking of things he would tell her or ask her tonight or tomorrow, then suddenly remembering that he could not speak to her; and the dreadful recollection hit him every time like a kick in the stomach. He would see a pretty girl on the street, and think about what he and Karolin might do next Saturday in the back of Joe’s van; then he would realize that there would be no more evenings in the back of the van, and he would feel stricken by grief. He walked past clubs where he might get a gig, then wondered if he could bear to perform without Karolin at his side.

He spoke on the phone to his sister Rebecca, who urged him to come and live in Hamburg with her and her husband; but he thanked her and declined. He could not bring himself to leave Berlin while Karolin was still in the East.

Missing her grievously, he took his guitar a week later to the Minnesänger folk club, where he had met her two years ago. A sign outside said it was not open on Mondays, but the door stood ajar, so he went in anyway.

Sitting at the bar, adding up figures in a ledger, was the club’s young compere and owner, Danni Hausmann. “I remember you,” said Danni. “The Bobbsey Twins. You were great. Why did you never come back?”

“The Vopos smashed up my guitar,” Walli explained.

“But now you have another, I see.”

Walli nodded. “But I’ve lost Karolin.”

“That was careless. She was a pretty girl.”

“We both lived in the East. She’s still there, but I escaped.”

“How?”

“I drove a van through the barrier.”

“That was you? I read about it in the newspapers. Hey, man, cool! But why didn’t you bring the chick?”

“She didn’t show up at the rendezvous.”

“Too bad. Want a drink?” Danni went behind the bar.

“Thanks. I’d like to go back for her, but I’m wanted for murder there now.”

Danni pumped two glasses of draft beer. “The Communists made a huge fuss about that. They’re calling you a violent criminal.”

They had also demanded Walli’s extradition. The government of West Germany had refused, saying that the guard had shot at a German citizen who merely wanted to go from one Berlin street to the next, and responsibility for his death lay with the unelected East German regime that illegally imprisoned its population.

In his head Walli did not believe that he had done wrong, but in his heart he could not get used to the idea that he had killed a man.

He said to Danni: “If I crossed the border they would arrest me.”

“Man, you’re fucked.”

“And I still don’t know why Karolin didn’t come.”

“And you can’t go back to ask her. Unless . . .”

Walli pricked up his ears. “Unless what?”

Danni hesitated. “Nothing.”

Walli put down his glass. He was not going to let a thing like that pass him by. “Come on, man—what?”

Danni said thoughtfully: “Of all the people in Berlin, I guess the one I could trust is a guy who killed an East German border guard.”

This was maddening. “What are you talking about?”

Danni made up his mind. “Oh, just something I heard.”

If it were just something he had heard, he would not be so secretive about it, Walli thought. “What did you hear?”

“There might be a way to go back without passing through a checkpoint.”

“How?”

“I can’t tell you.”

Walli was angered. Danni seemed to be toying with him. “Then why the fuck did you say it?”

“Take it easy, okay? I can’t tell you, but I could take you to see someone.”

“When?”

Danni thought for a minute, then answered the question with a question. “Are you willing to go back today? Like, now?”

Walli was scared, but he did not hesitate. “Yes. But why the rush?”

“So that you have no chance to tell anyone. They’re not exactly professional about security, but they’re not completely stupid either.”

He was talking about an organized group. It sounded promising. Walli got off his stool. “Can I leave my guitar here?”

“I’ll put it in the store.” Danni picked up the instrument in its case and locked it in a cupboard with several other instruments and some amplification gear. “Let’s go,” he said.

The club was just off the Ku’damm. Danni closed up and they walked to the nearest subway station. Danni noticed his limp. “You were shot in the leg, according to the newspapers.”

“Yeah. Hurts like fuck.”

“I guess I can trust you. A Stasi undercover agent wouldn’t go so far as to wound himself.”

Walli did not know whether to be thrilled or terrified. Might he really be able to return to East Berlin—today? It seemed too much to hope for. Yet it also filled him with dread. East Germany still had the death penalty. If he were caught, he would probably be executed by guillotine.

Walli and Danni took the subway across the city. It occurred to Walli that this could be a trap. The Stasi probably had agents in West Berlin, and the owner of the Minnesänger could be one. Would they go to so much trouble to catch Walli? It was a stretch; but, knowing how vengeful Hans Hoffmann was, Walli thought it was possible.

He studied Danni covertly as they rode the underground train. Could he be a Stasi agent? It was hard to imagine. Danni was about twenty-five, and had longish hair combed forward in the latest style. He wore elastic-sided boots with pointed toes. He had a successful club. He was too cool to be a cop.

On the other hand, he was perfectly placed to spy on West Berlin’s young anti-Communists. Most of them probably came to his club. He must know just about every student leader in West Berlin. Did the Stasi care about what such young people were doing?

Of course they did. They were obsessed, like medieval priests hunting witches.

Yet Walli could not pass up this opportunity, if it meant he might speak to Karolin just one more time.

He vowed to be alert.

The sun was going down when they came out of the subway in the district called Wedding. They walked south, and Walli quickly realized they were heading for Bernauer Strasse, where Rebecca had escaped.

The street had changed, he saw in the fading daylight. On the south side, in place of the barbed-wire fence, there was now a concrete wall; and the buildings on the Communist side were in the process of being demolished. On the free side, where Walli and Danni were, the street seemed blighted. The ground-floor shops in the apartment buildings looked run-down. Walli guessed that nobody wanted to live so close to the Wall, repellent to the eye and to the heart.

Danni led him to the back of a building and they went in by the rear entrance of a disused shop. It seemed to have been a grocery store, for on the walls were enamel advertisements for canned salmon and cocoa. However, the shop and the rooms around it were full of loose earth, piled high, leaving only a narrow passage through; and Walli began to guess what was going on here.

Danni opened a door and went down a concrete stair lit by an electric bulb. Walli followed. Danni called out a phrase that might have been code: “Submariners coming in!” At the foot of the stairs was a large cellar, undoubtedly used by the grocer for storage. Now there was a hole a yard square in the floor, and a surprisingly professional-looking hoist over it.

They had dug a tunnel.

“How long has this been here?” Walli asked. If his sister had known about it last year she might have escaped this way, and avoided Bernd’s crippling injury.

“Too long,” said Danni. “We finished it a week ago.”

“Oh.” That was too late to have been any use to Rebecca.

Danni added: “We only use it in twilight. In daytime we would be too visible, and at night we would have to use flashlights, which might call attention to us. All the same, the risk of discovery increases every time we bring people across.”

A young man in jeans came up a ladder out of the hole: presumably one of the student tunnelers. He looked hard at Walli, then said: “Who’s this, Danni?”

“I vouch for him, Becker,” said Danni. “I’ve known him since before the Wall went up.”

“Why is he here?” Becker was hostile and suspicious.

“To go across.”

“He wants to go to the East?”

Walli explained: “I escaped last week, but I need to go back for my girlfriend. I can’t cross by a regular checkpoint because I killed a border guard, so I’m wanted for murder.”

“You’re that guy?” Becker looked at him again. “Yeah, I recognize you from the photograph in the paper.” His attitude changed. “You can go, but you haven’t got much time.” He looked at his watch. “They’ll start coming through from the East in ten minutes exactly. There’s hardly room to pass someone in the tunnel, and I don’t want you to cause a traffic jam and slow down the escapers.”

Walli was scared, but he did not want to lose this chance. “I’ll go right away,” he said, concealing his fear.

“Okay, go.”

He shook Danni’s hand. “Thanks,” he said. “I’ll be back for my guitar.”

“Good luck with your girl.”

Walli scrambled down the ladder.

The shaft was three yards deep. At the bottom was the entrance to a tunnel about a yard square. It was neatly built, Walli saw immediately. There was a plank floor, and the roof was propped at intervals. He dropped to his hands and knees and began to crawl.

After a few seconds he realized there were no lights. He kept crawling as it became completely dark. He felt viscerally scared. He knew that the real danger would come when he emerged into East Germany at the other end of the tunnel, but his animal instincts told him to be frightened now, as he crawled forward unable to see an inch in front of his face.

To distract himself, he tried to picture the streetscape above. He was passing beneath the road, then the Wall, then the half-demolished houses on the Communist side; but he did not know how much farther the tunnel went, nor where it terminated.

He was breathing hard with the effort, his hands and knees were sore from crawling on planks, and the bullet wound in his calf was burning with pain; but all he could do was grit his teeth and go on.

The tunnel could not be infinite. It must end eventually. He just had to keep crawling. The sense that he was lost in endless darkness was just childish panic. He had to stay calm. He could do that. Karolin was at the end of this tunnel—not literally, but all the same the thought of her sexy wide-mouthed smile gave him strength to combat his fear.

Was there a glimmer ahead, or did he imagine it? For a long time it remained too faint to be sure of; but at last it strengthened, and a couple of seconds later he emerged into electric light.

There was another shaft above his head. He went up a ladder and found himself in another basement. Three people stood staring at him. Two had luggage: he guessed they were escapers. The third, presumably one of the student organizers, looked at him and said: “I don’t know you!”

“Danni brought me,” he said. “I’m Walli Franck.”

“Too many people know about this tunnel!” the man said. His voice was shrill with anxiety.

Well, of course, Walli thought; everyone who escapes through it obviously knows the secret. He understood why Danni had said that the danger increased every time it was used. He wondered whether it would still be open when he wanted to return. The thought of being trapped in East Germany again almost made him want to turn around and crawl all the way back.

The man turned to the two with bags. “Go,” he said. They went down the shaft. Returning his attention to Walli, he pointed to a flight of stone steps. “Go to the top and wait,” he said. “When the coast is clear, Cristina will open the hatch from the outside. You get out. Then you’re on your own.”

“Thanks.” Walli went up the steps until his head came up against an iron trapdoor in the ceiling. This had originally been used for deliveries of some kind, he guessed. He crouched on the steps and forced himself to be patient. Lucky for him there was someone keeping watch on the outside, otherwise he might be seen leaving.

After a couple of minutes, the hatch opened. In the evening light, Walli saw a young woman in a gray head scarf. He scrambled out, and two more people with bags hurried down the steps. The young woman called Cristina closed the hatch. She had a pistol stuffed into her belt, he saw with surprise.

Walli looked around. He was in a small walled yard at the back of a derelict apartment building. Cristina pointed to a wooden door in the wall. “Go that way,” she said.

“Thank you.”

“Get lost,” she said. “Fast.”

They were all too stressed to be polite.

Walli opened the door and passed through to the street. To his left, a few yards away, was the Wall. He turned right and started walking.

At first he looked around constantly, expecting to see a police car screech up. Then he tried to act normally and saunter along the pavement as he had used to. No matter how he tried, he could not lose the limp: his leg hurt too much.

His first impulse was to go straight to Karolin’s house. But he could not knock on her door. Her father would call the police.

He had not thought this out.

Perhaps it would be better if he met her leaving class tomorrow afternoon. There was nothing suspicious about a boy waiting outside the college for his girlfriend, and Walli had done it often. Somehow he would have to make sure none of her classmates saw his face. He was agonizingly impatient to see her, but he would be mad not to take precautions.

What would he do in the meantime?

The tunnel had come out in Strelitzer Strasse, which ran southward into the old city center, Berlin-Mitte, where his family lived. He was only a few blocks from his parents’ house. He could go home.

They might even be pleased to see him.

As he approached their street, he wondered whether the house might be under surveillance. If that was so, he could not go there. He thought again about changing his appearance, but he had nothing with which to disguise himself: when he left his room at the YMCA this morning he had not dreamed he might be back in East Berlin by nightfall. At his family home there would be hats and scarves and other useful items of attire—but first he had to get there safely.

Happily it was now dark. He walked along his parents’ street on the opposite side, scanning for people who might be Stasi snoops. He saw no loiterers, no one sitting in a parked car, no one stationed at a window. All the same he went to the end of the street and walked around the block. Coming back, he ducked down the alley that led to the backyards. He opened a gate, crossed his parents’ yard, and came to the kitchen entrance. It was nine thirty: his father had not yet locked up the house. Walli opened the door and stepped inside.

The light was on but the kitchen was empty. Dinner was long over and his family would be upstairs in the drawing room. Walli crossed the hall and went up. The drawing room door was open, and he stepped inside. His mother, father, sister, and grandmother were watching television. Walli said: “Hello, everyone.”

Lili screamed.

Grandmother Maud said in English: “Oh, my goodness!”

Carla went pale and her hands flew to her mouth.

Werner stood up. “My boy,” he said. In two strides he crossed the room and folded Walli into his arms. “My boy, thank God.”

In Walli’s heart a dam of pent-up feeling burst, and he wept.

His mother hugged him next, tears flowing freely. Then Lili, then Grandmother Maud. Walli wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his denim shirt, but more kept coming. His overwhelming emotion had taken him by surprise. He had thought himself hardened, at the age of seventeen, to being alone and separated from his family. Now he saw that he had only been postponing the tears.

At last they all calmed down and dried their eyes. Mother rebandaged Walli’s bullet wound, which had bled while he was in the tunnel. Then she made coffee and brought some cake, and Walli realized he was starving. When he had eaten and drunk his fill, he told them the story. Then, when they had asked all their questions, he went to bed.

Next day at half past three he was leaning against a wall across the street from Karolin’s college, wearing a cap and sunglasses. He was early: the girls came out at four.

The sun was shining optimistically on Berlin. The city was a mixture of grand old buildings, hard-edged modern concrete, and slowly disappearing vacant lots where bombs had fallen during the war.

Walli’s heart was full of longing. In a few minutes he would see Karolin’s face, framed by long curtains of fair hair, the wide mouth smiling. He would kiss her hello, and feel the soft roundness of her lips on his. Perhaps they would lie down together, before the night was over, and make love.

He was also consumed by curiosity. Why had she not turned up at their rendezvous, nine days ago, to escape with him? He was almost certain something had happened to spoil their plan: her father had somehow divined what was afoot and locked her in her room, or a similar stroke of bad luck. But he also suffered a fear, faint but not negligible, that she had changed her mind about coming with him. He could hardly contemplate the possible reason why. Did she still love him? People could change. In the East German media he had been portrayed as a heartless killer. Had that affected her?

Soon he would know.

His parents were devastated by what had happened, but they had not tried to make him change his plans. They had not wanted him to leave home, feeling that he was much too young, but they knew that now he could not stay in the East without being jailed. They had asked what he was going to do in the West—study, or work—and he had said he could not make any decisions until he had talked to Karolin. They had accepted that, and for the first time his father had not tried to tell him what to do. They were treating him like a grown-up. He had been demanding this for years, but now that it had happened he felt lost and scared.

People began to come out of the college.

The building was an old bank converted into classrooms. The students were all girls in their late teens, learning to be typists and secretaries and bookkeepers and travel agents. They carried bags and books and folders. They wore spring sweater-and-skirt combinations, a bit old-fashioned: trainee secretaries were expected to dress modestly.

At last Karolin emerged, wearing a green twinset, carrying her books in an old leather briefcase.

She looked different, Walli thought; a bit more round-faced. She could not have put on much weight in a week, could she? She was with two other girls, chatting, though she did not laugh when they did. Walli feared that if he spoke to her now the other girls would notice him. That would be dangerous: even though he was disguised, they might know that the notorious murderer and escaper Walli Franck had been Karolin’s boyfriend, and suspect that this boy in dark glasses was he.

He felt panic rise: surely his purpose could not be so easily frustrated, now at the last moment, after all he had been through? Then the two friends turned left and waved good-bye, and Karolin crossed the street on her own.

As she came near, Walli took off his sunglasses and said: “Hello, baby.”

She looked, recognized him, and gave a squeal of shock, stopping in her tracks. He saw astonishment and fear on her face, and something else—could it be guilt? Then she ran to him, dropped her briefcase, and threw herself into his arms. They hugged and kissed, and Walli was swamped by relief and happiness. His first question was answered: she still loved him.

After a minute he realized passersby were staring—some smiling, others looking with disapproval. He put his sunglasses back on. “Let’s go,” he said. “I don’t want people to recognize me.” He picked up her dropped briefcase.

They walked away from the college, holding hands. “How did you get back?” she said. “Is it safe? What are you going to do? Does anyone know you’re here?”

“We’ve got so much to talk about,” he said. “We need a place to sit down and be private.” Across the street he spotted a church. Perhaps it would be open for people seeking spiritual calm.

He led Karolin to the door. “You’re limping,” she said.

“That border guard shot me in the leg.”

“Does it hurt?”

“You bet it does.”

The church door was unlocked, and they went in.

It was a plain Protestant hall, dimly lit, with rows of hard benches. At the far end a woman in a head scarf was dusting the lectern. Walli and Karolin sat in the back row and spoke in low voices.

“I love you,” Walli said.

“I love you, too.”

“What happened on Sunday morning? You were supposed to meet me.”

“I got scared,” she said.

This was not the answer he had been expecting, and he found it hard to understand. “I was scared, too,” he said. “But we made each other a promise.”

“I know.”

He could see that she was in an agony of remorse; but there was something else. He did not want to torture her, but he had to know the truth. “I took a terrible risk,” he said. “You shouldn’t have backed out without a word.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I wouldn’t have done it to you,” he said. Then he added accusingly: “I love you too much.”

She flinched as if he had struck her. But her answer was spirited. “I’m not a coward,” she said.

“If you love me, how could you have let me down?”

“I’d give my life for you.”

“If that was true, you would have come with me. How can you say it, now?”

“Because it’s not just my life at risk.”

“It’s mine, too.”

“And someone else’s.”

Walli was baffled. “Whose, for God’s sake?”

“I’m talking about the life of our child.”

“What?”

“We’re going to have a baby. I’m pregnant, Walli.”

Walli’s mouth fell open. He could not speak. His world turned upside-down in an instant. Karolin was pregnant. A baby was coming into their lives.

His child.

“Oh, my God,” he said at last.

“I was so torn, Walli,” she said in anguish. “You have to try to understand that. I wanted to go with you, but I couldn’t put the baby in danger. I couldn’t get in the van, knowing you were going to crash through the barrier. I wouldn’t care if I got injured, but not the child.” She was pleading with him. “Say you understand.”

“I understand,” he said. “I think.”

“Thank you.”

He took her hand. “All right, let’s talk about what we’re going to do.”

“I know what I’m going to do,” she said firmly. “I already love this baby. I’m not going to get rid of it.”

She had been living with the knowledge for some weeks, he guessed, and she had thought long and hard. All the same he was taken aback by her strength of purpose. “You speak as if it’s nothing to do with me,” he said.

“This is my body!” she said fiercely. The cleaner looked round, and Karolin lowered her voice, though she continued to speak forcefully. “I will not be told what to do with my body by any man, you or my father!”

Walli guessed that her father had tried to persuade her to have an abortion. “I’m not your father,” Walli said. “I’m not going to tell you what to do, and I don’t want to talk you into an abortion.”

“I’m sorry.”

“But is this our baby, or just yours?”

She began to cry. “Ours,” she said.

“Then shall we talk about what we’re going to do—together?”

She squeezed his hand. “You’re so grown-up,” she said. “It’s a good thing—you’re going to be a father before you’re eighteen.”

That was a shocking thought. He pictured his own father, with his short haircut and his waistcoats. Now Walli would be required to play that role: commanding, authoritative, reliable, always able to provide for the family. He was not ready, no matter what Karolin said.

But he had to do it, anyway.

“When?” he said.

“November.”

“Do you want to get married?”

She smiled through her tears. “Do you want to marry me?”

“More than anything in the world.”

“Thank you.” She hugged him.

The cleaner coughed reprovingly. Conversation was permitted, but physical contact was not.

Walli said: “You know I can’t stay here in the East.”

“Couldn’t your father get a lawyer?” she said. “Or exert some political pressure? The government might issue a pardon, if all the circumstances were explained.”

Karolin’s family were not political. Walli’s were, and he knew with total certainty that he was never going to receive a pardon for killing a border guard. “It’s impossible,” he said. “If I stay here they’ll execute me for murder.”

“So what can you do?”

“I have to go back to the West, and I have to stay there, unless Communism collapses, and I don’t see that happening in my lifetime.”

“No.”

“You’ll have to come with me to West Berlin.”

“How?”

“We’ll go out the way I came in. Some students have dug a tunnel under Bernauer Strasse.” He looked at his watch. Time was passing quickly. “We need to be there around sundown.”

She looked horrified. “Today?”

“Yes, right away.”

“Oh, God.”

“Wouldn’t you prefer our child to grow up in a free country?”

She grimaced as if in pain at the conflict within her. “I’d prefer not to take terrible risks.”

“So would I. But we have no choice.”

She looked away from him, at the rows of pews and the assiduous cleaner, and at a plaque on the wall saying I AM THE WAY, THE TRUTH, AND THE LIFE. It was not helpful, Walli thought, but Karolin made up her mind. “Then let’s go,” she said, and she stood up.

They left the church. Walli headed north. Karolin was subdued, and he tried to cheer her up. “The Bobbsey Twins are having an adventure,” he said. She smiled briefly.

Walli considered whether they might be under surveillance. He was pretty sure no one had seen him leave his parents’ house this morning: he had gone out the back way and no one had followed him. But did Karolin have a tail? Perhaps there had been another man waiting outside her college for her to emerge, someone expert at making himself inconspicuous.

Walli started to look behind him every minute or so to check whether there might be one person always in view. He did not see anyone suspicious, but he succeeded in spooking Karolin. “What are you doing?” she said fearfully.

“Checking for a tail.”

“You mean the man in the cap?”

“Maybe. Let’s catch a bus.” They were passing a stop, and Walli pulled Karolin to the end of the queue.

“Why?”

“To see if anyone gets on and off with us.”

Unfortunately it was rush hour, and millions of Berliners were catching buses and trains home. By the time a bus came, there were several people in line behind Walli and Karolin. As they boarded he looked hard at each of them. There was a woman in a raincoat, a pretty girl, a man in blue overalls, a man in a suit with a trilby hat, and two teenagers.

They rode the bus three stops east, then got off. The woman in the raincoat and the man in overalls got off behind them. Walli headed west, going back the way they had come, figuring that anyone who followed them on such an illogical route must be suspicious.

But no one did.

“I’m pretty sure we’re not being tailed,” he said to Karolin.

“I’m so scared,” she said.

The sun was going down. They needed to hurry. They turned north, heading for Wedding. Walli checked behind him again. He saw a middle-aged man in the brown canvas coat of a warehouseman, but no one he had noticed earlier. “I think we’re all right,” he said.

“I’m not going to see my family again, am I?” Karolin said.

“Not for a while,” Walli replied. “Unless they escape, too.”

“My father would never leave. He loves his buses.”

“They have buses in the West.”

“You don’t know him.”

Walli did know him, and Karolin was right. Her father was as different as could be from the clever, strong-willed Werner. Karolin’s father had no political or religious ideas and cared nothing for freedom of speech. If he lived in a democracy he probably would not bother to vote. He liked his work and his family and his pub. His favorite food was bread. Communism gave him everything he needed. He would never escape to the West.

It was twilight when Walli and Karolin reached Strelitzer Strasse.

Karolin became increasingly jumpy as they walked along the street toward where it dead-ended at the Wall.

Ahead Walli noticed a young couple with a child. He wondered if they, too, were escaping. Yes, they were: they opened the door to the yard and disappeared.

Walli and Karolin reached the place, and Walli said: “We go in here.”

Karolin said: “I want my mother with me when I have the baby.”

“We’re almost there!” Walli said. “Through this door there’s a yard with a hatch. We go down the shaft and along the tunnel to freedom!”

“I’m not scared of escaping,” she said. “I’m scared of giving birth.”

“You’ll be fine,” Walli said desperately. “They have great hospitals in the West. You’ll be surrounded by doctors and nurses.”

“I want my mother,” she said.

Over her shoulder Walli saw, four hundred yards away at the corner of the street, the man in the brown canvas coat talking to a policeman. “Shit!” he said. “We were followed.” He looked at the door, then at Karolin. “It’s now or never,” he said. “I have no choice, I have to go. Are you coming with me, or not?”

She was crying. “I want to, but I can’t,” she said.

A car came around the corner, traveling fast. It stopped beside the policeman and the tail. A familiar figure jumped out of the car, a tall man with a stoop: Hans Hoffmann. He spoke to the man in the brown coat.

Walli said to Karolin: “Either follow me, or walk quickly away from here. There’s going to be trouble.” He stared at her. “I love you,” he said. Then he dashed through the door.

Standing over the hatch was Cristina, still wearing the head scarf and the gun in her belt. When she saw Walli she threw the iron doors open. “You may need that gun,” Walli said to her. “The police are coming.”

He took one look back. The wooden door in the wall remained shut. Karolin had not followed him. Pain twisted in his stomach: it was the end.

He scrambled down the steps.

In the cellar the young couple with the child were standing with one of the students. “Hurry!” Walli yelled. “The police are coming!”

They went down the shaft: mother first, then child, then father. The child was slow on the ladder.

Cristina came down the steps and shut the iron trapdoor behind her with a clang. “How did the police get onto us?” she said.

“The Stasi were following my girlfriend.”

“You stupid fool, you’ve betrayed us all.”

“Then I’ll go last,” Walli said.

The male student went down the shaft, and Cristina made to follow.

“Give me your gun,” Walli said.

She hesitated.

Walli said: “If I’m behind you, you won’t be able to use it.”

She handed it to him.

He took it gingerly. It looked exactly like the pistol his father had pulled from its hiding place in the kitchen, the day Rebecca and Bernd had escaped.

Cristina noticed his unease. “Have you ever fired a gun?” she said.

“Never.”

She took it back from him and moved a lever near the hammer. “Now the safety catch is off,” she said. “All you do is point it and pull the trigger.” She put the safety catch on again and handed the gun back to him. Then she went down the ladder.

Walli could hear shouts and car engines outside. He could not guess what the police were doing, but it was clear he was running out of time.

He saw how things had gone wrong. Hans Hoffmann had had Karolin under surveillance, no doubt hoping that Walli might come back for her. The tail had seen her meet a boy and go off with him. Someone had decided not to arrest them immediately, but to see whether they would lead their watchers to a group of co-conspirators. There had been a slick change of personnel after they got off the bus, and a new follower had taken over, the man in the brown coat. At some point he had realized they were heading for the Wall, and had pressed the panic button.

Now the police and the Stasi were outside, searching the rear of the derelict buildings, trying to figure out where Walli and Karolin had gone. They would find the trapdoor any second now.

With the pistol in his hand Walli went down the shaft, following the others.

As he reached the foot of the ladder he heard the clang of the iron hatch. The police had located the entrance. A moment later there were gruff shouts of surprise and triumph as they saw the hole in the floor.

Walli had to wait a long, agonizing moment at the mouth of the tunnel, until Cristina disappeared inside. He followed her, then stopped. He was slim, and he was just about able to turn in the narrow passage. He peeked out, looking up the shaft, and saw the bulk of a policeman stepping onto the ladder.

This was hopeless. The police were too close. All they had to do was point their guns into the tunnel and fire. Walli himself would be shot, and when he fell the bullets would pass over him and hit the next in line—and so on: the slaughter would be bloody. And he knew they would not hesitate to shoot, for no mercy was shown to escapers, ever. It would be carnage.

He had to keep them out of the shaft.

But he did not want to kill another man.

Kneeling just inside the mouth of the tunnel, he moved the safety catch of the Walther. Then he put his hand holding the gun outside the tunnel, pointed it upward, and pulled the trigger.

The gun kicked in his hand. The bang was very loud in the confined space. Immediately afterward he heard shouts of dismay and fear, but not of pain, and he guessed he had scared them without actually hitting anyone. He peeped out and saw the cop scrambling back up the ladder and out of the shaft.

He waited. He knew the escapers ahead of him would be slow, because of the child. He could hear the cops discussing in angry tones what they were going to do. None of them was willing to go down the shaft: it was suicide, one said. But they could not just let people escape!

To reinforce the danger to them, Walli fired the gun again. He heard sudden panic movements as if they had all pulled back from the shaft. He thought he had succeeded in scaring them off. He turned to crawl away.

Then he heard a voice he knew well. Hans Hoffmann said: “We need grenades.”

“Oh, fuck,” said Walli.

He stuck the gun in his belt and began to crawl along the tunnel. There was nothing for it now but to get as far along as possible. In no time he felt Cristina’s shoes in front of him. “Hurry up!” he yelled. “The cops are getting grenades!”

“I can’t go faster than the guy in front of me!” she yelled back.

All Walli could do was follow. It was dark now. He heard no sound from the cellar to his rear. Regular cops were not normally equipped with grenades, he guessed, but Hans could get some from nearby border guards in a couple of minutes.

Walli could see nothing, but he could hear the panting of his fellow fugitives, and the scrape of their knees on the boards. The child began to cry. Yesterday Walli would have cursed it for a dangerous nuisance, but today he was a father-to-be, and he felt only pity for the frightened kid.

What would the police do with their grenades? Would they play safe, and drop one into the shaft, where it might do little damage? Or would one have the nerve to climb down the ladder and throw one lethally into the tunnel? That might kill all the escapers.

Walli decided he had to do more to discourage the cops. He lay down, rolled over, pulled the gun, and raised himself on his left elbow. He could see nothing, but he pointed the gun back along the tunnel and pulled the trigger.

Several people screamed.

Cristina said: “What was that?”

Walli put the gun away and resumed crawling. “I was just discouraging the cops.”

“Warn us next time, for Christ’s sake.”

He saw light ahead. The tunnel seemed shorter going back. He heard cries of relief as people realized they were at the end. He found himself going faster, pushing up against Cristina’s shoes.

Behind him, there was an explosion.

He felt the shock wave, but it was weak, and he knew immediately that they had dropped the first grenade into the down shaft. He had never paid enough attention to physics in school, but he guessed that in those circumstances nearly all the explosive force would go upward.

However, he could foresee what Hans would do next. Having made sure there was no longer someone lying in wait inside the tunnel entrance, he would now send a cop down the ladder to throw a grenade into the tunnel.

Ahead the group were emerging into the cellar of the disused grocery. “Quickly!” Walli yelled. “Climb the ladder fast!”

Cristina exited the tunnel and stood in the shaft, smiling. “Relax,” she said. “This is the West. We’re out—we’re free!”

“Grenades!” Walli yelled. “Go up, fast as you can!”

The couple with the child were climbing the ladder with painful slowness. The male student and Cristina followed. Walli stood at the foot of the ladder, trembling with impatience and fear. He went up right behind Cristina, his face at her knees. He reached the top and saw them all standing around, laughing and hugging. “Lie flat!” he yelled. “Grenades!” He threw himself to the floor.

There was a terrific boom. The shock wave seemed to rock the cellar. Then there was a gushing sound like a fountain, and he guessed that earth was spurting from the mouth of the tunnel. Confirming his guess, a rain of mud and small stones fell on him. The hoist over the shaft collapsed and fell into the hole.

The noise died away. The cellar was quiet except for the sobbing of the child. Walli looked around. The kid had a nosebleed, but seemed otherwise unhurt, and no one else appeared injured. He looked over the lip of the shaft and saw that the tunnel had fallen in.

He stood upright, shakily. He had made it. He was alive and free.

And alone.

Rebecca had spent a lot of her father’s money on the apartment in Hamburg. The place was the ground floor of a grand old merchant’s house. All the rooms were big enough to allow Bernd to turn the wheelchair—even the bathroom. She had installed every known aid for a man paralyzed from the waist down. Walls and ceilings were festooned with ropes and grab handles that enabled him to wash and dress himself and get in and out of bed. He could even cook in the kitchen, if he wanted to, though like most men he could not prepare anything more complicated than eggs.

She was determined—furiously determined—that she and Bernd were going to live as normal an existence as possible, despite his injury. They would enjoy their marriage and their work and their freedom. Life for them would be busy and varied and satisfying. Anything less would give the victory to the tyrants on the other side of the Wall.

Bernd’s condition had not changed since he left the hospital. The doctors said he might improve, and he should keep hoping. One day, they insisted, he might be able to father children. Rebecca should never stop trying.

She felt she had a lot to be happy about. She was teaching again, doing what she was good at, opening the minds of young people to the intellectual riches of the world they lived in. She was in love with Bernd, whose kindness and humor made every day a pleasure. They were free to read what they liked, think what they liked, and say what they liked, without having to worry about police spies.

Rebecca had a long-term aim, too. She yearned to be reunited with her family one day. Not her original family: the memory of her biological parents was poignant, but distant and vague. However, Carla had rescued her from the hell of war, and had made her feel safe and loved, even when they were all hungry and cold and scared. Over the years the house in Mitte had filled with people to love and be loved by Rebecca: baby Walli; then her new father, Werner; then a baby girl, Lili. Even Grandmother Maud, that impossibly dignified old English lady, had loved and cared for Rebecca.

She would be reunited with them when all West Germans were reunited with all East Germans. Many people thought that day might never come. Perhaps they were right. But Carla and Werner had taught Rebecca that if you wanted change you had to take political action to get it. “In my family, apathy isn’t an option,” Rebecca had said to Bernd. So they had joined the Free Democratic Party, which was liberal, though not as socialist as Willy Brandt’s Social Democratic Party. Rebecca was branch secretary and Bernd was treasurer.

In West Germany you could join any party you liked except the Communist Party, which was banned. Rebecca disapproved of that prohibition. She hated Communism, but banning it was the kind of thing Communists did, not democrats.

Rebecca and Bernd drove to work together every day. They came home after school, and Bernd laid the table while Rebecca prepared dinner. Some days, after they had eaten, Bernd’s masseur came. Because Bernd could not move his legs, they had to be massaged regularly to improve the circulation and prevent, or at least slow, the wasting of nerves and muscles. Rebecca cleared away while Bernd went into the bedroom with the masseur, Heinz.

This evening she sat down with a pile of exercise books and began marking. She had asked her pupils to write an imaginary advertisement about the attractions of Moscow as a holiday destination. They liked tongue-in-cheek assignments.

After an hour Heinz departed, and Rebecca went into the bedroom.

Bernd lay naked on the bed. His upper body was strongly muscular, because he constantly had to use his arms to move himself. His legs looked like those of an old man, thin and pale.

He usually felt good, physically and mentally, after massage. Rebecca leaned over him and kissed his lips, long and slow. “I love you,” she said. “I’m so happy to be with you.” She said it often, because it was true, and because he needed reassurance: she knew that sometimes he wondered how she could love a cripple.

She stood facing him and took off her clothes. He liked her to do this, he said, even though it never gave him a hard-on. She had learned that paralyzed men rarely got psychogenic erections, the kind caused by sexy sights or thoughts. All the same his eyes followed her with evident enjoyment as she unfastened her bra, slid her stockings off, and stepped out of her panties.

“You look great,” he said.

“And I’m all yours.”

“Lucky me.”

She lay beside him and they caressed each other languorously. Sex with Bernd, before and after his accident, had always been about soft kisses and murmured endearments, not just fucking. In that way he was different from her first husband. Hans had had a program: kiss, undress, get hard, come. Bernd’s philosophy was anything you like, in any order.

After a while she straddled him, then maneuvered so that he could kiss her breasts and suck her nipples. He had adored her breasts right from the start, and now he enjoyed them with the same intensity and relish as before the accident; and that aroused her more than anything.

When she was ready, she said: “Do you want to try?”

“Sure,” he said. “We should always try.”

She moved back, so that she was astride his withered legs, and bent over his penis. She manipulated it with her hand. It grew a little, and he got what was called a reflex erection. For a few moments it was hard enough to go inside her, then it quickly subsided. “Never mind,” she said.

“I don’t mind,” he said, but she knew it was not true. He would have liked to have an orgasm. He wanted children, too.

She lay beside him, took his hand, and placed it on her vagina. He positioned his fingers in the way she had taught him, then she pressed his hand with her own and moved rhythmically. It was like masturbation, but using his hand. He stroked her hair fondly with his other hand. It worked, as it always did, and she had a delightful orgasm.

Lying beside him afterward, she said: “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Not just for that.”

“What, then?”

“For coming with me. For escaping. I can never tell you enough how grateful I am.”

“Good.”

The doorbell rang. They looked at one another in puzzlement: they expected no one. Bernd said: “Maybe Heinz left something behind.”

Rebecca was mildly annoyed. Her euphoria had been shattered. She put on a robe and went to the door, feeling grumpy.

There stood Walli. He looked thin and smelled ripe. He wore jeans, American baseball shoes, and a grubby shirt—no coat. He was carrying a guitar and nothing else.

“Hello, Rebecca,” he said.

Her grumpiness evaporated in a flash. She smiled broadly. “Walli!” she said. “What a wonderful surprise! I’m so happy to see you!”

She stood back and he stepped into the hallway.

“What are you doing here?” she said.

“I’ve come to live with you,” he said.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The most racist city in America was probably Birmingham, Alabama. George Jakes flew there in April 1963.

Last time he came to Alabama, he recalled vividly, they had tried to kill him.

Birmingham was a dirty industrial city, and from the plane it had a delicate rose-pink aura of pollution, like the chiffon scarf around the neck of an old prostitute.

George felt the hostility as he walked through the terminal. He was the only colored man in a suit. He remembered the attack on him and Maria and the Freedom Riders in Anniston, just sixty miles away: the bombs, the baseball bats, the whirling lengths of iron chain, and most of all the faces, twisted and deformed into masks of hatred and madness.

He walked out of the airport, located the taxi stand, and got into the first car in line.

“Get out of the car, boy,” said the driver.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I don’t drive for no goddamn nigras.”

George sighed. He was reluctant to get out. He felt like sitting here in protest. He did not like to make things easy for racists. But he had a job to do in Birmingham, and he could not do it in jail. So he got out.

Standing by the open door, he looked down the line. The car behind had a white driver: he assumed he would get the same treatment again. Then, three cars back, a dark-brown arm came out of the window and waved at him.

He stepped away from the first cab.

“Close the door!” the driver yelled.

George hesitated, then said: “I don’t close doors for no goddamn segregationists.” It was not a very good line, but it gave him some small satisfaction, and he walked away leaving the door wide open.

He jumped into the cab with the black driver. “I know where you’re going,” the man said. “Sixteenth Street Baptist Church.”

The church was the base of fiery preacher Fred Shuttlesworth. He had founded the Alabama Christian Movement for Human Rights, after the state courts outlawed the moderate National Association for the Advancement of Colored People. Clearly, George thought, any Negro arriving at the airport was assumed to be a civil rights campaigner.

But George was not going to the church. “Take me to the Gaston Motel, please,” he said.

“I know the Gaston,” said the driver. “I saw Little Stevie Wonder in the lounge there. It’s just a block from the church.”

It was a hot day and the cab had no air-conditioning. George wound down the window and let the slipstream cool his perspiring skin.

He had been sent by Bobby Kennedy with a message for Martin Luther King. The message was stop pushing, calm things down, end your protests, things are changing. George had a feeling that Dr. King was not going to like it.

The Gaston was a low-built modern hotel. Its owner, A. G. Gaston, was a coal miner who had become Birmingham’s leading black businessman. George knew that Gaston was nervous about the disruption being brought to Birmingham by King’s campaign, but gave his qualified support nonetheless. George’s taxi drove through the entrance into a motor court.

Martin Luther King was in Room 30, the motel’s only suite; but before seeing him George had lunch with Verena Marquand in the nearby Jockey Boy Restaurant. When he asked for his hamburger medium rare, the waitress looked at him as if he were speaking a foreign language.

Verena ordered a salad. She looked more alluring than ever in white pants and a black blouse. George wondered if she had a boyfriend. “You’re on a downhill slope,” he said to her while they were waiting for their food. “First Atlanta, now Birmingham. Come to Washington, before you find yourself stuck in Mudslide, Mississippi.” He was teasing, but he did think that if she came to Washington he might ask her out on a date.

“I go where the movement takes me,” she replied seriously.

Their lunch arrived. “Why did King decide to target this town?” George asked while they were eating.

“The commissioner of public safety—effectively the chief of police—is a vicious white racist called Eugene ‘Bull’ Connor.”

“I’ve seen his name in the papers.”

“The nickname tells you all you need to know about him. As if that were not enough, Birmingham also has the most violent chapter of the Ku Klux Klan.”

“Any idea why?”

“This is a steel town, and the industry is in decline. Skilled, high-wage jobs have always been reserved for white men, while blacks do low-paid work such as cleaning. Now the whites are desperately trying to maintain their prosperity and privileges—just at the moment when blacks are asking for their fair share.”

It was a crisp analysis, and George’s respect for Verena went up a notch. “How does that show itself?”

“Klan members throw homemade bombs at the homes of prosperous Negroes in mixed neighborhoods. Some people call this town Bombingham. Needless to say, the police never arrest anyone for the bombings, and the FBI somehow just can’t seem to figure out who might be doing it.”

“No surprise there. J. Edgar Hoover can’t find the Mafia, either. But he knows the name of every Communist in America.”

“However, white rule is weakening here. Some people are beginning to realize it does the town no good. Bull Connor just lost an election for mayor.”

“I know. The White House view is that Birmingham’s Negroes will get what they want in due course, if they’re patient.”

“Dr. King’s view is that now is the time to pile on the pressure.”

“And how is that working out?”

“To be frank, we’re disappointed. When we sit-in at a lunch counter, the waitresses turn out the lights and say sorry, they’re closing.”

“A clever move. Some towns did something similar to the Freedom Riders. Instead of making a fuss, they just ignored what was happening. But that level of restraint is too much for most segregationists, and they soon reverted to beating people up.”

“Bull Connor won’t give us a permit to demonstrate, so our marches are illegal, and the protesters are usually jailed; but they’re too few to make the national news.”

“So maybe it’s time for another change of tactics.”

A young black woman came into the café and approached their table. “The Reverend Dr. King is free to see you now, Mr. Jakes.”

George and Verena left their lunches half-eaten. As with the president, you did not ask Dr. King to wait while you finished what you were doing.

They returned to the Gaston and went upstairs to King’s suite. As always, he was dressed in a dark business suit: the heat seemed to make little difference to him. George was struck again by how small he was, and how handsome. This time King was less wary, more welcoming. “Sit down, please,” he said, waving to a couch. His voice was mild even when his words were barbed: “What has the attorney general got to tell me that he can’t say over the phone?”

“He wants you to consider delaying your campaign here in Alabama.”

“Somehow I’m not surprised.”

“He supports what you’re trying to achieve, but he feels the protest may be ill timed.”

“Tell me why.”

“Bull Connor has just lost the election for mayor to Albert Boutwell. There’s a new city government. Boutwell is a reformer.”

“Some people feel Boutwell is just a more dignified version of Bull Connor.”

“Reverend, that may be so; but Bobby would like you to give Boutwell the chance to prove himself—one way or the other.”

“I see. So that message is: Wait.”

“Yes, sir.”

King looked at Verena, as if inviting her to comment, but she said nothing.

After a moment King said: “Last September, Birmingham businessmen promised to remove humiliating WHITES ONLY signs from their stores and, in return, Fred Shuttlesworth agreed to a moratorium on demonstrations. We kept our promise, but the businessmen broke theirs. As has happened so many times, our hopes were blasted.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said George. “But—”

King ignored the interruption. “Nonviolent direct action seeks to create so much tension, and sense of crisis, that a community is forced to confront the issue and open the door to sincere negotiation. You ask me to give Boutwell time to show his true colors. Boutwell may be less of a brute than Connor, but he is a segregationist, dedicated to keeping the status quo. He needs to be prodded to act.”

This was so reasonable that George could not even pretend to disagree, though the likelihood of his changing King’s mind seemed to be fading rapidly.

“We have never made a gain, in civil rights, without pressure,” King went on. “Frankly, George, I have yet to engage in a campaign that was ‘well timed’ in the eyes of men such as Bobby Kennedy. For years now I have heard the word ‘Wait.’ It rings in my ears with piercing familiarity. This ‘Wait’ always means ‘Never.’ We have waited three hundred and forty years for our rights. African nations are moving with jetlike speed toward independence, but we still creep at horse-and-buggy pace toward gaining a cup of coffee at a lunch counter.”

George realized now that he was hearing a sermon being rehearsed, but he was no less mesmerized. He had abandoned all hope of fulfilling his mission for Bobby.

“Our great stumbling block, in our stride toward freedom, is not the White Citizens’ Councilor or the Ku Klux Klanner. It’s the white moderate who is more devoted to order than to justice; who constantly says, like Bobby Kennedy: ‘I agree with the goal you seek, but I cannot condone your methods.’ He paternalistically believes he can set the timetable for another man’s freedom.”

Now George felt ashamed, for he was Bobby’s messenger.

“We will have to repent, in this generation, not merely for the hateful words and actions of bad people, but for the appalling silence of the good,” King said, and George had to struggle against tears. “The time is always ripe to do right. ‘Let justice roll down like waters, and righteousness like an ever flowing stream,’ said the prophet Amos. You tell Bobby Kennedy that, George.”

“Yes, sir, I will,” said George.

When George got back to Washington he called Cindy Bell, the girl his mother had tried to fix him up with, and asked her for a date. She said: “Why not?”

It would be his first date since he had dumped Norine Latimer in the doomed hope of romancing Maria Summers.

He took a taxi to Cindy’s place the following Saturday evening. She was still living at her parents’ home, a small working-class house. Her father opened the door. He had a bushy beard: George guessed a chef did not need to look neat. “I’m glad to meet you, George,” he said. “Your mother is one of the finest people I’ve ever known. I hope you don’t mind me saying something so personal.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bell,” said George. “I agree with you.”

“Come in, Cindy’s almost ready.”

George noticed a small crucifix on the wall in the hallway, and remembered that the Bells were Catholic. He recalled being told, as a teenager, that convent schoolgirls were the hottest.

Cindy appeared in a tight sweater and a short skirt that made her father frown a little, though he said nothing. George had to smother a smile. She was curvy and did not want to hide it. A small silver cross on a chain hung between her generous breasts—for protection, perhaps?

George handed her a small box of chocolates tied up with a blue ribbon.

Outside, she raised her eyebrows at the taxi.

“I’m going to buy a car,” George said. “I just haven’t had time.”

As they drove downtown, Cindy said: “My father admires your mother for raising you on her own, and making such a good job of it.”

“And they lend each other books,” said George. “Is your mom okay with all that?”

Cindy giggled. The idea of sexual jealousy in the parental generation was naturally comical. “You’re sharp. Mom knows nothing else is going on—but all the same she’s on her guard.”

George felt glad he had asked her out. She was intelligent and warm, and he was beginning to think how pleasant it would be to kiss her. The thought of Maria became dim in his mind.

They went to an Italian restaurant. Cindy confessed that she loved all kinds of pasta. They had tagliatelle with mushrooms, then veal escalopes in a sherry sauce.

She had a degree from Georgetown University, but she told him she was working as a secretary to a black insurance broker. “Girls get hired as secretaries, even after college,” she said. “I’d like to do government work. I know people think it’s dull, but Washington runs this whole country. Unfortunately, the government hires mostly white people for the important jobs.”

“That’s true.”

“How did you break in?”

“Bobby Kennedy wanted a black face on his team, to make him look sincere about civil rights.”

“So you’re a symbol.”

“I was, at the start. It’s better now.”

After dinner they went to see Tippi Hedren and Rod Taylor in Alfred Hitchcock’s latest film, The Birds. During the scary scenes, Cindy clung to George in a way he found delightful.

On the way out, they disagreed amiably about the ending of the movie. Cindy hated it. “I was so disappointed!” she said. “I was looking forward to the explanation.”

George shrugged. “Not everything in life has an explanation.”

“Yes, it does, but sometimes we just don’t know it.”

They went to the bar of the Fairfax Hotel for a nightcap. He ordered Scotch and she had a daiquiri. Her silver cross caught his eye. “Is that just jewelry, or something more?” he said.

“Something more,” she replied. “It makes me feel safe.”

“Safe from . . . anything in particular?”

“No. It just guards me, generally.”

George was skeptical. “You don’t believe that.”

“Why not?”

“Uh . . . I don’t want to offend you, if you’re sincere, but it seems superstitious to me.”

“I thought you were religious. You go to church, don’t you?”

“I go with my mother because it’s important to her, and I love her. To make her happy, I’ll sing hymns and listen to prayers and hear a sermon, all of which seem to me to be just . . . mumbo jumbo.”

“Don’t you believe in God?”

“I think there’s probably a controlling intelligence in the universe, a being that decided the rules, such as E equals MC squared, and the value of pi. But that being isn’t likely to care whether we sing its praise or not, I doubt whether its decisions can be manipulated by praying to a statue of the Virgin Mary, and I don’t believe it will organize special treatment for you on account of what you have around your neck.”

“Oh.”

He saw that he had shocked her. He realized he had been arguing as if at a White House meeting, where the issues were too important for anyone to care about other people’s feelings. “I probably shouldn’t be so direct,” he said. “Are you offended?”

“No,” she said. “I’m glad you told me.” She finished her drink.

George put some money down on the bar and slid off his stool. “I’ve enjoyed talking to you,” he said.

“Nice movie, disappointing ending,” she said.

That summed up the evening. She was likable and attractive, but he could not see himself falling for a woman whose beliefs about the universe were so much at odds with his own.

They went outside and got a cab.

On the ride back, George realized that in his heart of hearts he was not sorry the date had not worked out. He still had not fully got over Maria. He wondered how much longer it was going to take.

When they reached Cindy’s house she said: “Thank you for a lovely evening.” She kissed his cheek and got out of the car.

Next day Bobby sent George back to Alabama.

George and Verena stood in Kelly Ingram Park, in the heart of black Birmingham, at twelve noon on Friday, May 3, 1963. Across the road was the famous Sixteenth Street Baptist Church, a magnificent red-brick Byzantine building designed by a black architect. The park was crowded with civil rights campaigners, bystanders, and anxious parents.

They could hear singing from inside the church: “Ain’t Gonna Let Nobody Turn Me Round.” A thousand black high school students were getting ready to march.

To the east of the park, the avenues leading downtown were blocked by hundreds of police. Bull Connor had commandeered school buses to take the marchers to jail, and he had attack dogs in case anyone refused to go. The police were backed up by firemen with hoses.

There were no colored men in the police force or the fire brigade.

The civil rights campaigners always applied, in the correct way, for permission to march. Every time, they were refused. When they marched nevertheless, they were arrested and sent to jail.

In consequence, most of Birmingham’s Negroes were reluctant to join the demonstrations—permitting the all-white city government to claim that Martin Luther King’s movement had little support.

King himself had gone to jail here exactly three weeks ago, on Good Friday. George had marveled at how crass the segregationists were: did they not know who else had been arrested on Good Friday? King had been put in solitary confinement, for no reason other than sheer malice.

But King’s jailing had hardly made the papers. A Negro being mistreated for demanding his rights as an American was not news. King had been criticized by white clergymen in a letter that got big publicity. From the jail he had written a reply that smoldered with righteousness. No newspapers had printed it, though perhaps they yet would. Overall, the campaign had got little publicity.

Birmingham’s black teenagers clamored to join the demonstrations, and at last King agreed to permit schoolchildren to march, but nothing changed: Bull Connor just jailed the children, and no one cared.

The sound of the hymns from inside the church was thrilling, but that was not enough. Martin Luther King’s campaign in Birmingham was going nowhere, just like George’s love life.

George was studying the firemen on the streets to the east of the park. They had a new type of weapon. The device appeared to take water from two inlet hoses and force it out through a single nozzle. Presumably that gave the jet supercharged force. It was mounted on a tripod, suggesting that it was too powerful for a man to hold. George was glad he was strictly an observer, and would not be taking part in the march. He suspected that the jet would do more than soak you.

The doors of the church flew open and a group of students emerged through the triple arches, dressed in their Sunday best, singing. They marched down the long, broad flight of steps to the street. There were about sixty of them, but George knew that this was only the first contingent: there were hundreds more inside. Most were high school seniors, with a sprinkling of younger kids.

George and Verena followed them at a distance. The watching crowd in the park cheered and clapped as they paraded down Sixteenth, passing mostly black-owned stores and businesses. They turned east along Fifth Avenue and came to the corner of Seventeenth, where their way was blocked by police barricades.

A police captain spoke through a bullhorn. “Disperse, get off the street,” he said. He pointed to the firemen behind him. “Otherwise you’re going to get wet.”

On previous occasions the police had simply herded demonstrators into paddy wagons and buses and taken them to jail. But, George knew, the jails were now full and overcrowded, and Bull Connor was hoping to minimize arrests today: he would prefer them all to go home.

Which was the last thing they were going to do. The sixty kids stood in the road, facing the massed ranks of white authority, and sang at the tops of their voices.

The police captain made a signal to the firemen, who turned on the water. George noted that they deployed regular hoses, not the tripod-mounted water cannon. Nevertheless the spray drove most of the marchers back, and sent the bystanders scurrying across the park and into doorways. Through his bullhorn the captain kept repeating: “Evacuate the area! Evacuate the area!”

Most of the marchers retreated—but not all. Ten simply sat down. Already soaked to the skin, they ignored the water and continued singing.

That was when the firemen turned on the water cannon.

The effect was instant. Instead of a spurt of water, unpleasant but harmless, the seated pupils were blasted with a high-powered jet. They were knocked backward and cried out in pain. Their hymn turned to screams of fright.

The smallest of them was a little girl. The water lifted her physically from the ground and blasted her backward. She rolled along the street like a blown leaf. Her arms and legs flailed helplessly. Bystanders began yelling and cursing.

George swore and ran into the street.

The firemen relentlessly directed their tripod-mounted hose to follow the child, so that she could not escape from its force. They were trying to wash her away like a scrap of litter. George was the first of several men to reach her. He got between the hose and her, and turned his back.

It was like being punched.

The jet knocked him to his knees. But the little girl was now protected, and she got to her feet and ran toward the park. However, the fire hose followed her and tumbled her down again.

George was enraged. The firemen were like hunting dogs bringing down a young deer. Shouts of protest from bystanders told him that they, too, were infuriated.

George ran after the girl and shielded her again. This time he was prepared for the impact of the jet, and he managed to keep his balance. He knelt and picked up the child. Her pink churchgoing dress was sodden. Carrying her, he staggered toward the sidewalk. The firemen chased him with the jet, trying to knock him down again, but he stayed on his feet long enough to get to the other side of a parked car.

He set the girl on her feet. She was screaming in terror. “It’s okay, you’re safe now,” George told her, but she could not be consoled. Then a distraught woman rushed to her and picked her up. The girl clung to the woman, and George guessed that this was her mother. Weeping, the mother carried her away.

George was bruised and sodden. He turned around to see what was happening. The marchers had all been trained in nonviolent protest, but the furious onlookers had not, and now they were retaliating, he saw, throwing rocks at the firemen. This was turning into a riot.

He could not see Verena.

Police and firemen advanced along Fifth Avenue, trying to disperse the crowd, but their progress was slowed by the hail of missiles. Several men went into the buildings along the south side of the street and bombarded the police from upstairs windows, throwing stones, bottles, and garbage. George hurried away from the fracas. He stopped on the next corner, outside the Jockey Boy Restaurant, and stood with a small group of reporters and spectators, black and white.

Looking north, he saw that more contingents of young marchers were coming out of the church and taking different southbound streets to avoid the violence. That would create a problem for Bull Connor by splitting his forces.

Connor responded by deploying the dogs.

They came out of the vans snarling, baring their teeth, and straining against their leather leashes. Their handlers looked just as vicious: thickset white men in police caps and sunglasses. Dogs and handlers alike were animals eager to attack.

Cops and dogs rushed forward in a pack. Marchers and bystanders tried to flee, but the crowd on the street was now tightly packed, and many people could not get away. The dogs were hysterical with excitement, snapping and biting and drawing blood from people’s legs and arms.

Some people fled west, into the depths of the black neighborhood, chased by cops. Others took sanctuary in the church. No more marchers were emerging from the triple arches, George saw: the demonstration was coming to an end.

But the police had not yet had enough.

From nowhere, two cops with dogs appeared beside George. One grabbed hold of a tall young Negro: George had noticed him because he was wearing an expensive-looking cardigan sweater. The boy was about fifteen, and had taken no part in the demonstration other than to watch. Nevertheless the cop spun him round, and the dog leaped up and sunk its teeth into the boy’s middle. He cried out in fear and pain. One of the reporters snapped a picture.

George was about to intervene when the cop pulled the dog off. Then he arrested the boy for parading without a permit.

George noticed a big-bellied white man, dressed in a shirt and no jacket, watching the arrest. From photographs in the newspapers he recognized Bull Connor. “Why didn’t you bring a meaner dog?” Connor said to the arresting officer.

George felt like remonstrating with the man. He was supposed to be the commissioner of public safety, but he was acting like a street hoodlum.

But George realized he was in danger of getting arrested himself, especially now that his smart suit was a drenched rag. Bobby Kennedy would not be pleased if George ended up in jail.

With an effort, George suppressed his anger, clamped his mouth shut, turned, and walked briskly back to the Gaston.

Fortunately he had a spare pair of pants in his luggage. He took a shower, dressed again in dry clothes, and sent his suit for pressing. He called the Justice Department and dictated to a secretary his report on the day’s events for Bobby Kennedy. He made his report dry and unemotional, and left out the fact that he had been fire-hosed.

He found Verena again in the lounge of the hotel. She had escaped without injury, but she looked shaken. “They can do anything they like to us!” she said, and there was a note of hysteria in her voice. He felt the same, but it was worse for her. Unlike George, she had not been a Freedom Rider, and he guessed this might be the first time she had seen violent racial hatred in its naked horror.

“Let me buy you a drink,” he said, and they went to the bar.

Over the next hour he talked her down. Mostly he just listened; every now and again he said something sympathetic or reassuring; he helped her become calm by being calm himself. The effort brought his own boiling passions under control.

They had dinner together quietly in the hotel restaurant. It was just dark when they went upstairs. In the corridor Verena said: “Will you come to my room?”

He was surprised. It had not been a romantic or sexy evening, and he had not regarded it as a date. They were just two fellow-campaigners commiserating.

She saw his hesitation. “I just want someone to hold me,” she said. “Is that all right?”

He was not sure he understood, but he nodded.

The image of Maria flashed into his mind. He suppressed it. It was time he forgot her.

When they were in the room she closed the door and put her arms around him. He pressed her body to his and kissed her forehead. She turned her face away and laid her cheek against his shoulder. Okay, he thought, you want to hug but you don’t want to kiss. He made up his mind to simply follow her cues. Whatever she wanted would be all right with him.

After a minute she said: “I don’t want to sleep alone.”

“Okay,” he said neutrally.

“Can we just cuddle?”

“Yes,” he said, though he could not believe it would happen that way.

She drew away from his embrace. Then, quickly, she stepped out of her shoes and pulled her dress over her head. She was wearing a white brassiere and panties. He stared at her perfect creamy skin. She took off her underwear in a couple of seconds. Her breasts were flat and firm with tiny nipples. Her pubic hair had an auburn tinge. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen naked—by far.

He took it all in at a glance, for she immediately got into bed.

George turned away and took off his shirt.

Verena said: “Your back! Oh, God—it’s awful!”

George felt sore from the fire hose, but it had not occurred to him that the damage would show. He stood with his back to the mirror by the door and looked over his shoulder. He saw what Verena meant: his skin was a mass of purple bruises.

He took off his shoes and socks slowly. He had an erection, and he was hoping it would go down, but it did not. He could not help it. He stood up and took off his pants and undershorts, then he got into bed as quickly as she had.

They hugged. His erection pressed into her belly, but she showed no reaction. Her hair tickled his neck and her breasts were squashed against his chest. He was madly aroused, but instinct told him to be still, and he obeyed it.

Verena began to cry. At first she made small moaning noises, and George was not sure whether they indicated sexual feelings. Then he felt her warm tears on his chest, and she began to shake with sobbing. He patted her back in the primal gesture of comfort.

A part of his mind marveled at what he was doing. He was naked in bed with a beautiful woman and all he could do was pat her back. But on a deeper level it made sense. He had a vague but sure feeling that they were giving one another a kind of comfort stronger than sex. They were both in the grip of an intense emotion, albeit one for which George did not have a name.

Verena’s sobs gradually eased. After a while her body relaxed, her breathing became regular and shallow, and she drifted into the helplessness of sleep.

George’s erection subsided. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the warmth of her body against his, and the light feminine aroma that rose from her skin and her hair. With such a girl in his arms he felt sure he would not sleep.

But he did.

When he woke up in the morning, she was gone.

On that Saturday morning Maria Summers went to work in a pessimistic mood.

While Martin Luther King had been in jail in Alabama, the Commission on Civil Rights had produced a horrifying report on abuse of Negroes in Mississippi. But the Kennedy administration had cleverly undermined the report. A Justice Department lawyer called Burke Marshall had written a memo quibbling with its findings; Maria’s boss, Pierre Salinger, had portrayed its proposals as extremist; and the American press had been fooled.

And the man Maria loved was in charge. President Kennedy had a good heart, she believed, but his eye was always on the next election. He had done well in last year’s midterms: his coolheaded handling of the Cuban missile crisis had won him popularity, and the expected Republican landslide had been averted. But now he was worrying about his reelection contest next year. He did not like Southern segregationists, but he was not willing to sacrifice himself in the battle against them.

So the civil rights campaign was fizzling out.

Maria’s brother had four children of whom she was very fond. They, and any children Maria herself might have in the future, were going to grow up to be second-class Americans. If they traveled in the South they would have trouble finding a hotel willing to take them in. If they went to a white church they would be turned away, unless the pastor considered himself a liberal and directed them to a special roped-off seating area for Negroes. They would see a sign saying WHITES ONLY outside public toilets, and a sign directing COLOREDS to a bucket in the backyard. They would ask why there were no black people on television, and their parents would not know how to answer them.

Then she reached the office and saw the newspapers.

On the front page of The New York Times was a photograph from Birmingham that made Maria gasp with horror. It showed a white policeman with a savage German shepherd dog. The dog was biting a harmless-looking Negro teenager while the cop held the boy by his cardigan sweater. The cop’s teeth were bared in a grin of eager malice, as if he wanted to bite someone too.

Nelly Fordham heard Maria’s gasp and looked up from The Washington Post. “Ugly, ain’t it,” she commented.

The same picture was on the front of many other American newspapers, and the airmail editions of foreign papers too.

Maria sat at her desk and began to read. The tone had altered, she noticed with a gleam of hope. It was no longer possible for the press to point the finger of blame at Martin Luther King and say that his campaign was ill timed and Negroes should be patient. The story had changed, with the unstoppable chemistry of media coverage, a mysterious process that Maria had learned to respect and fear.

Her excitement grew as she began to suspect that the white Southerners had gone too far. The press were now talking about violence against children on the streets of America. They still quoted men who said it was all the fault of King and his agitators, but the segregationists’ customary tone of confident deprecation had gone, and now there was a note of desperate denial. Was it possible that one photograph could change everything?

Salinger came into the room. “Everybody,” he said. “The president looked at the papers this morning, saw the photographs from Birmingham, and felt sickened—and he would like the press to know it. This is not an official statement, but it is an off-the-record briefing. The key word is sickened. Put it out right away, please.”

Maria looked at Nelly and they both raised their eyebrows. This was a change.

Maria picked up the phone.

By Monday morning, George was moving like an old man, cautiously, trying to minimize the twinges of pain. The Birmingham Fire Department’s water cannon produced a pressure of one hundred pounds per square inch, according to the newspapers, and George could feel every pound on every inch of his back.

He was not the only one hurting on Monday morning. Hundreds of demonstrators were bruised. Some had been dog-bitten badly enough to need stitches. Thousands of schoolchildren were still in jail.

George prayed their sufferings would prove worthwhile.

There was hope now. The wealthy white businessmen of Birmingham wanted to end the conflict. No one was shopping: a black boycott of downtown stores had been made more effective by the fear of whites that they might get caught up in a riot. Even the hard-nosed owners of steel mills and factories felt that their businesses were being damaged by the city’s reputation as the world capital of violent racism.

And the White House hated the continuing global headlines. Foreign newspapers, taking for granted the Negroes’ right to justice and democracy, could not understand why the American president seemed unable to enforce his own laws.

Bobby Kennedy sent Burke Marshall to try to make a deal with Birmingham’s leading citizens. Dennis Wilson was his aide. George did not trust either. Marshall had undermined the Commission on Civil Rights report with legal quibbles, and Dennis had always been jealous of George.

Birmingham’s white elite would not negotiate directly with Martin Luther King, so Dennis and George had to act as go-betweens, with Verena representing King.

Burke Marshall wanted King to call off Monday’s demonstration. “And take the pressure off, just when we’re gaining the advantage?” said Verena incredulously to Dennis Wilson in the swanky lounge of the Gaston Motel. George nodded agreement.

“The city government can’t do anything right now anyway,” Dennis responded.

The city government was going through a separate but related crisis: Bull Connor had mounted a legal challenge to the election he had lost, so there were two men claiming to be mayor. Verena said: “So they’re divided and weakened—good! If we wait for them to resolve their differences, they’ll come back stronger and more determined. Don’t you White House people know anything about politics?”

Dennis pretended that the civil rights campaigners were muddled about what they wanted. That, too, infuriated Verena. “We have four simple demands,” she said. “One: immediate desegregation of lunch counters, restrooms, water fountains, all facilities in stores. Two: nondiscriminatory hiring and promotion of black employees in the stores. Three: all demonstrators to be released from jail, and charges dropped. Four: for the future, a biracial committee to negotiate desegregation of the police, schools, parks, movie theaters, and hotels.” She glared at Dennis. “Anything muddled there?”

King was asking for things that should have been taken for granted, but all the same it was too much for the whites. That evening, Dennis came back to the Gaston and told George and Verena the counterproposals. The store owners were willing to desegregate fitting rooms immediately, other facilities after a delay. Five or six black employees could be promoted to “tie jobs” as soon as the demonstrations ended. The businessmen could do nothing about the prisoners, because that was a matter for the courts. Segregation of schools and other city facilities had to be referred to the mayor and the city council.

Dennis was pleased. For the first time ever, the whites were negotiating!

But Verena was scornful. “This is nothing,” she said. “They never ask two women to share a fitting room, so they’re hardly segregated in the first place. And there are more than five Negro men in Birmingham capable of putting on a tie. As for the rest—”

“They say they have no power to reverse the decisions of the courts or change the laws.”

“How naïve are you?” said Verena. “In this town, the courts and the city government do what the businessmen ask them to do.”

Bobby Kennedy asked George to put together a list of the most influential white businessmen in town, with their phone numbers. The president was going to call them personally and tell them they needed to compromise.

George noted other exciting signs. Mass meetings in Birmingham churches on Monday evening collected an amazing $40,000 in donations to the campaign: it took King’s people most of the night to count it all, which they did in a motel room rented for the purpose. Even more money was pouring in by mail. The movement normally lived from hand to mouth, but Bull Connor and his dogs had brought a massive windfall.

Verena and King’s people settled in for a late-night session in the sitting room of King’s suite, discussing how to keep the pressure on. George was not invited—he did not want to learn things he might feel obliged to report to Bobby—so he went to bed.

In the morning he put on his suit and went downstairs to King’s ten o’clock press conference. He found the motel courtyard crammed with more than a hundred journalists from all over the world, sweating under the Alabama sun. King’s Birmingham campaign was hot news—again thanks to Bull Connor. “The activities which have taken place in Birmingham over the last few days mark the nonviolent movement’s coming of age,” King said. “This is the fulfillment of a dream.”

George could not see Verena anywhere, and the suspicion grew in him that the real action might be elsewhere. He left the motel and went around the corner to the church. He did not find Verena, but he did notice schoolchildren coming out of the church basement and getting into cars parked in a line along Fifth Avenue. He sensed an air of forced nonchalance about the adults supervising them.

He ran into Dennis Wilson, who had news. “The Senior Citizens Committee is having an emergency meeting at the chamber of commerce.”

George had heard of this unofficial group, nicknamed the Big Mules. They were the men who held the real power in the town. If they were panicking, something would have to change.

Dennis said: “What are King’s people planning?”

George was glad he did not know. “I wasn’t invited to the meeting,” he said. “But they’ve cooked up something.”

He parted from Dennis and walked downtown. Even strolling alone he knew he might be arrested for parading without a permit, but he had to take the risk: he would be of no use to Bobby if he hid in the Gaston.

In ten minutes he reached Birmingham’s typical Southern-town business district: department stores, cinemas, civic buildings, and a railway line running through the middle.

George figured out what King’s plan was only when he saw it going into operation.

Suddenly Negroes walking alone, or in twos and threes, began to congregate, brandishing placards that they had until now kept hidden. Some sat down, blocking the sidewalk, others knelt to pray on the steps of the massive art deco city hall. Conga lines of hymn-singing teenagers wove in and out of segregated stores. Traffic slowed to a halt.

The police were caught unawares: they were concentrated around Kelly Ingram Park, half a mile away, and the demonstrators had blindsided them. But George felt sure that this air of good-natured protest could last only as long as Bull Connor remained off balance.

As morning turned into afternoon he returned to the Gaston. He found Verena looking worried. “This is great, but it’s out of control,” she said. “Our people are trained in nonviolent protest, but thousands of others are just joining in, and they have no discipline.”

“It’s increasing the pressure on the Big Mules,” George said.

“But we don’t want the governor to declare martial law.” The governor of Alabama was George Wallace, an unyielding segregationist.

“Martial law means federal control,” George pointed out. “Then the president would have to order at least partial integration.”

“If it’s forced on the Big Mules from the outside they’ll find ways to undermine it. Better that it’s their decision.”

Verena was a subtle political thinker, George could tell. No doubt she had learned a lot from King. But he was not sure whether she was right on this point.

He ate a ham sandwich and went out again. The atmosphere around Kelly Ingram Park was now more tense. There were hundreds of police in the park, swinging their nightsticks and restraining their eager dogs. The fire brigade hosed anyone headed downtown. The Negroes, resenting the hoses, began to throw stones and Coke bottles at the police. Verena and others of King’s team moved through the crowd, begging people to stay calm and refrain from violence, but they had little effect. A strange white vehicle that people called the Tank drove up and down Sixteenth Street, with Bull Connor bellowing through a loudspeaker: “Disperse! Get off the streets!” It was not a tank, George had been told, but an army surplus armored car Connor had bought.

George saw Fred Shuttlesworth, King’s rival as leader of the campaign. At forty-one he was a wiry, tough-looking man, smartly dressed with a trim mustache. He had survived two bombings, and his wife had been stabbed by a Ku Klux Klansman, but he seemed to have no fear, and refused to leave town. “I wasn’t saved to run,” he liked to say. Although a fighter by nature, he was now trying to marshal some of the youngsters. “You mustn’t taunt the police,” he was saying. “Don’t act like you intend to strike them.” It was good advice, George figured.

Kids gathered around Shuttlesworth and he led them, like the Pied Piper, back toward his church, waving a white handkerchief in the air in an attempt to show the police his peaceful intent.

It almost worked.

Shuttlesworth led the kids past the fire trucks outside the church to the basement entrance, which was at street level, and ushered them inside and down the stairs. When they were all in, he turned to follow. At that moment George heard a voice say: “Let’s put some water on the reverend.”

Shuttlesworth turned, frowning, to look back. A jet from a water cannon hit him squarely in the chest. He staggered and fell backward down the stairs with a clatter and a roar.

Someone yelled: “Oh, my God, Shuttlesworth is struck!”

George rushed in. Shuttlesworth lay at the foot of the stairs, gasping. “Are you okay?” George yelled, but Shuttlesworth could not answer. “Get an ambulance, somebody, fast!” George shouted.

George was astonished that the authorities had been so stupid. Shuttlesworth was a hugely popular figure. Did they actually want to provoke a riot?

Ambulances were near at hand, and it was only a minute or two later that two men came in with a stretcher and carried Shuttlesworth out.

George followed them up to the sidewalk. Black bystanders and white police were milling around dangerously. Reporters had gathered and press photographers clicked as the stretcher was eased into the ambulance. They all watched it drive away.

A moment later, Bull Connor appeared. “I waited a week to see Shuttlesworth hit by a hose,” he said jovially. “I’m sorry I missed it.”

George was furious. He hoped one of the bystanders would punch Connor’s fat face.

A white newspaper reporter said: “He left in an ambulance.”

“I wish it was a hearse,” said Connor.

George had to turn away to control his fury. He was saved by Dennis Wilson, who appeared from nowhere and grabbed his arm. “Good news!” he said. “The Big Mules caved!”

George spun around. “What do you mean, they caved?”

“They formed a committee to negotiate with the campaigners.”

That was good news. Something had changed them: the demonstrations, or the phone calls from the president, or the threat of martial law. Whatever the reason, they were now desperate enough to sit down with black people and discuss a truce. Perhaps it could be agreed before the rioting turned seriously nasty.

“But they need someplace to meet,” Dennis added.

“Verena will know. Let’s go find her.” George turned to leave, then paused and looked back at Bull Connor. He was becoming irrelevant, George now saw. Connor was on the streets, jeering at civil rights campaigners, but at the chamber of commerce the city’s most powerful men had changed course—and they had done so without consulting Connor. Maybe the time was coming when fat white bullies would no longer rule the South.

And then again, maybe not.

The compromise was announced at a press conference on Friday. Fred Shuttlesworth attended, with cracked ribs from the water cannon, and announced: “Birmingham reached an accord with its conscience today!” Shortly afterward he fainted and had to be carried out. Martin Luther King declared a victory and flew home to Atlanta.

Birmingham’s white elite had at last agreed to some measure of desegregation. Verena complained that it was not much, and in a way she was right: they were making a few minor concessions. But George believed that a huge change of principle had occurred: the whites had accepted that they needed to negotiate with the Negroes about segregation. They could no longer simply lay down the law. Those negotiations would continue, and they could go in only one direction.

Whether this was a small advance or a major turning point, every colored person in Birmingham was celebrating on Saturday night, and Verena invited George to her room.

He soon learned that she was not one of those girls who liked the man to take charge in bed. She knew what she wanted and she was comfortable asking for it. That was fine with George.

Almost anything would have been fine with him. He was enchanted by her lovely pale body and her witchy green eyes. She talked a lot while they made love, telling him how she felt, asking him if this pleased him or that embarrassed him; and the talk heightened their intimacy. He realized, more strongly than ever, how sex could be a way of getting to know the other person’s character as well as her body.

Near the end she wanted to get on top. This, too, was new: no woman had done that with him before. She knelt astride him, and he held her hips and moved with her. She closed her eyes, but he did not. He watched her face, fascinated and enthralled, and when at last she reached her climax, he did too.

A few minutes before midnight he stood at the window in a robe, looking down on the streetlights of Fifth Avenue, while Verena was in the bathroom. His mind returned to the agreement King had struck with Birmingham’s whites. If it was a triumph for the civil rights movement, die-hard segregationists would not accept defeat, he guessed; but what would they do? Bull Connor undoubtedly had a plan for sabotaging the agreement. So presumably did George Wallace, the racist governor.

That day the Ku Klux Klan had held a rally at Bessemer, a small town eighteen miles from Birmingham. According to Bobby Kennedy’s intelligence, supporters had come from Georgia, Tennessee, South Carolina, and Mississippi. No doubt their speakers had spent the evening working them up into a frenzy of indignation about Birmingham giving in to the blacks. By now the women and children must have gone home, but the men would have started drinking and bragging to one another about what they were going to do.

Tomorrow would be Mother’s Day, Sunday, May 12. George recalled Mother’s Day two years ago, when white people had tried to kill him and other Freedom Riders by firebombing their bus at Anniston, sixty miles from here.

Verena emerged from the bathroom. “Come back to bed,” she said, getting under the sheet.

George was eager. He hoped to make love to her at least once more before dawn. But just as he was about to turn away from the window, something caught his eye. The headlights of two cars were approaching along Fifth Avenue. The first vehicle was a white Birmingham Police Department patrol car, clearly marked with the number 25. It was followed by an old round-nosed Chevrolet from the early fifties. Both cars slowed as they drew level with the Gaston.

George suddenly noticed that the cops and state troopers who had been patrolling the streets around the motel had vanished. There was no one on the sidewalk.

What the hell . . . ?

A second later something was thrown from the open rear window of the Chevrolet, across the sidewalk, to the wall of the motel. The object landed right underneath the windows of the corner suite, Room 30, which Martin Luther King had occupied until he left earlier today.

Then both cars accelerated.

George turned from the window, crossed the room in two strides, and threw himself on top of Verena.

Her yell of protest was just beginning when it was drowned by a tremendous boom. The entire building shook as if in an earthquake. The air filled with the sounds of smashing glass and the rumble of falling masonry. The window of their room shattered with a tinkling noise like death chimes. There was a creepy moment of quiet. As the sound of the two cars faded, George heard shouts and screams from within the building.

He said to Verena: “Are you okay?”

She said: “What the fuck happened?”

“Someone threw a bomb from a car.” He frowned. “The car had a police escort. Can you believe that?”

“In this goddamn town? You bet I can.”

George rolled off her and looked around the room. He saw broken glass all over the floor. A piece of green cloth was draped over the end of the bed, and after a moment he realized it was the curtain. A picture of President Roosevelt had been blown off the wall by the force of the blast, and lay faceup on the carpet, crazed glass over the president’s smile.

Verena said: “We have to go downstairs. People may be hurt.”

“Wait a minute,” George said. “I’ll get your shoes.” He put his feet down on a clear patch of the rug. To cross the room he had to pick up shards of glass and throw them aside. His shoes and hers were side by side in the closet: he liked that. He put his feet into his black leather oxfords, then picked up Verena’s white kitten-heels and took them to her.

The lights went out.

They both dressed quickly in the dark. They discovered there was no water in the bathroom. They went downstairs.

The darkened lobby was full of panicking hotel staff and guests. Several people were bleeding but it seemed no one was dead. George pushed his way outside. By the streetlights he saw a hole five feet across in the wall of the building, and a spill of heavyweight rubble across the sidewalk. Trailers parked in the adjacent lot had been wrecked by the force of the blast. But, by a miracle, no one had been badly injured.

A cop arrived with a dog, then an ambulance drew up, then more police. Ominously, groups of Negroes began to gather outside the motel and in Kelly Ingram Park on the next block. These people were not the nonviolent Christians who had marched joyfully out of the Sixteenth Street Baptist Church singing hymns, George noted anxiously. This crowd had spent Saturday evening drinking in bars and pool halls and juke joints, and they did not subscribe to the Gandhian philosophy of passive resistance favored by Martin Luther King.

Someone said there had been another bomb, a few blocks away, at the parsonage occupied by Martin Luther King’s brother, Alfred, always known as A. D. King. An eyewitness had seen a uniformed cop place a package on the porch a few seconds before the blast. Clearly the Birmingham police had tried to murder both King brothers at the same time.

The crowd got angrier.

Soon they were throwing bottles and rocks. Dogs and water cannon were the favorite targets. George went back inside the motel. Verena was helping to rescue an elderly black woman from a wrecked ground-floor room by flashlight.

“It’s getting nasty out there,” George said to Verena. “They’re throwing rocks at the police.”

“So they damn well should. The police are the bombers.”

“Think about this,” George said urgently. “Why do the whites want a riot tonight? To sabotage the agreement.”

She wiped plaster dust off her forehead. George watched her face and saw rage replaced by calculation. “Damn, you’re right,” she said.

“We can’t let them do it.”

“But how can we stop it?”

“We have to get all the movement leaders out there calming people down.”

She nodded. “Hell, yes. I’ll start rounding people up.”

George went back outside. The riot had escalated fast. A taxicab had been overturned and torched, and was blazing in the middle of the road. A block away, a grocery store was alight. Squad cars approaching from downtown were halted at Seventeenth Street by a hail of missiles.

George grabbed a megaphone and addressed the crowd. “Everybody stay calm!” he said. “Don’t jeopardize our deal! The segregationists are trying to provoke a riot—don’t give them what they want! Go home to bed!”

A black man standing nearby said to him: “How come we have to go home every time they start violence!”

George jumped on the hood of a parked car and stood on the roof. “This is not helping us!” he said. “Our movement is nonviolent! Everybody go home!”

Someone yelled: “We’re nonviolent, but they ain’t!”

Then an empty whisky bottle flew through the air and hit George’s forehead. He climbed down from the roof of the car. He touched his head. It hurt, but it was not bleeding.

Others took up his cry. Verena appeared with several movement leaders and preachers, and they all mingled with the crowd, trying to talk people down. A. D. King got up on a car. “Our home was just bombed,” he cried. “We say, Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do. But you are not helping—you are hurting us! Please, clear this park!”

Slowly, it began to work. Bull Connor was nowhere to be seen, George noted: the man in charge was Chief of Police Jamie Moore—a law enforcement professional rather than a political appointee—and that helped. The police attitude seemed to have changed. Dog handlers and firemen no longer seemed eager for a fight. George heard a cop saying to a group of Negroes: “We’re your friends!” It was bullshit, but a new kind of bullshit.

There were hawks and doves among the segregationists, George realized. Martin Luther King had allied himself with the doves, and thereby outflanked the hawks. Now the hawks were trying to reignite the fires of hatred. They could not be allowed to succeed.

Lacking the stimulus of police aggression, the crowd lost the will to riot. George began to hear a different kind of comment. When the burning grocery store collapsed, people sounded penitent. “That’s a doggone shame,” said one man, and another said: “We gone too far.”

At last the preachers got them singing, and George relaxed. It was all over, he felt.

He found Chief Moore on the corner of Fifth Avenue and Seventeenth Street. “We need to get repair crews to the motel, chief,” he said politely. “Power and water are out, and it’s going to get unsanitary in there pretty quickly.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” said Moore, and put his walkie-talkie to his ear.

But before he could speak into it, the state troopers arrived.

They wore blue helmets and they carried carbines and double-barreled shotguns. They arrived in a rush, most in cars, some on horseback. Within seconds there were two hundred or more. George stared in horror. This was a catastrophe—they would restart the riot. But that was what Governor George Wallace wanted, he realized. Wallace, like Bull Connor and the bombers, saw that the only hope now for the segregationists was a complete breakdown of law and order.

A car drew up and Wallace’s director of public safety, Colonel Al Lingo, jumped out, toting a shotgun. Two men with him, apparently bodyguards, had Thompson submachine guns.

Chief Moore holstered his walkie-talkie. He spoke softly, but carefully did not address Lingo by his military rank. “If you’d leave, Mr. Lingo, I’d appreciate it.”

Lingo did not trouble to be courteous. “Get your cowardly ass back to your office,” he said. “I’m in charge now, and my orders are to put those black bastards to bed.”

George expected them to tell him to get lost, but they were too intent on their argument to care about him.

“Those guns are not needed,” said Moore. “Will you please put them up? Somebody’s going to get killed.”

“You’re damn right!” said Lingo.

George walked away quickly, heading back to the motel.

Just before he went inside he turned to look, just in time to see the state troopers charge the crowd.

Then the riot started all over again.

George found Verena in the motel courtyard. “I have to go to Washington,” he said.

He did not want to go. He wanted to spend time with Verena, talking to her, deepening their newfound intimacy. He wanted to make her fall in love with him. But that would have to wait.

She said: “What are you going to do in Washington?”

“Make sure the Kennedy brothers understand what’s happening. They have to be told that Governor Wallace is provoking violence in order to undermine the deal.”

“It’s three o’clock in the morning.”

“I’d like to get to the airport as early as possible and catch the first flight out. I might have to go via Atlanta.”

“How will you get to the airport?”

“I’m going to look for a taxi.”

“No cab will pick up a black man tonight—especially one with a lump on his forehead.”

George touched his face exploratively and found a bump just where she said. “How did that happen?” he said.

“I seem to remember seeing a bottle hit you.”

“Oh, yes. Well, it may be dumb, but I have to try to get to the airport.”

“What about your luggage?”

“I can’t pack in the dark. Besides, I don’t have much. I’m just going to go.”

“Be careful,” she said.

He kissed her. She put her arms around his neck and pressed her slim body to his. “It was great,” she whispered. Then she let him go.

He left the motel. The avenues heading directly downtown were blocked to the east: he would have to take a circuitous route. He walked west, then north, then turned east when he felt he was well clear of the rioting. He did not see any taxis. He might have to wait for the first bus of Sunday morning.

A faint light was showing in the eastern sky when a car screeched to a halt alongside him. He got ready to run, fearing white vigilantes, then changed his mind when three state troopers got out, rifles at the ready.

They won’t need much of an excuse to kill me, he thought fearfully.

The leader was a short man with a swagger. George noticed he had a sergeant’s chevrons on his sleeve. “Where are you going, boy?” the sergeant said.

“I’m trying to get to the airport, Sarge,” George said. “Maybe you can tell me where I can find a taxicab.”

The leader turned to the others with a grin. “He’s trying to get to the airport,” he repeated, as if the idea were risible. “He thinks we can help him find a taxi!”

His subordinates laughed appreciatively.

“What are you going to do at the airport?” the sergeant asked George. “Clean the toilets?”

“I’m going to catch a plane to Washington. I work at the Department of Justice. I’m a lawyer.”

“Is that so? Well, I work for George Wallace, the governor of Alabama, and we don’t pay too much mind to Washington, down here. So get in the goddamn car before I break your woolly head.”

“What are you arresting me for?”

“Don’t get smart with me, boy.”

“If you seize me without good cause, you’re a criminal, not a trooper.”

With a sudden quick motion the sergeant swung his rifle, butt first. George ducked and instinctively raised his hand to protect his face. The wooden butt of the rifle struck his left wrist painfully. The other two troopers seized his arms. He offered no resistance, but they dragged him along as if he were struggling. The sergeant opened the rear door of the car and they threw him on the backseat. They slammed the door before he was fully inside, and it jammed his leg, causing him to shout in pain. They opened the door again, shoved his injured leg inside, and closed the door.

He lay slumped on the backseat. His leg hurt but his wrist was worse. They can do anything they like to us, he thought, because we’re black. At that moment he wished he had thrown rocks and bottles at the police instead of running around telling people to calm down and go home.

The troopers drove to the Gaston. There they opened the back door of the car and pushed George out. Holding his left wrist in his right hand, he limped back into the courtyard.

Later that Sunday morning George at last found a working taxi with a black driver and went to the airport, where he caught a flight to Washington. His left wrist hurt so badly that he could not use his arm, and kept his hand in his pocket for support. The wrist was swollen, and to ease the pain he took off his watch and unbuttoned his shirt cuff.

From a pay phone at National Airport he called the Department of Justice and learned that there would be an emergency meeting at the White House at six P.M. The president was flying in from Camp David, and Burke Marshall had been helicoptered in from West Virginia. Bobby was on his way to Justice and urgently required a briefing, and no, there was no time for George to go home and change his clothes.

Vowing to keep a clean shirt in his desk drawer from now on, George got a taxi to the Justice Department and went straight to Bobby’s office.

George insisted that his injuries were too trivial to require medical treatment, though he winced every time he tried to move his left arm. He summarized the night’s events for the attorney general and a group of advisers including Marshall. For some reason Bobby’s huge black Newfoundland dog, Brumus, was there too.

“The truce that was agreed on with such difficulty this week is now in jeopardy,” George told them in conclusion. “The bombings, and the brutality of the state troopers, have weakened the Negroes’ commitment to nonviolence. On the other side, the riots threaten to undermine the position of the whites who negotiated with Martin Luther King. The enemies of integration, George Wallace and Bull Connor, hope that one side or both will renounce the agreement. Somehow we have to prevent that happening.”

“Well, that’s pretty clear,” said Bobby.

They all got into Bobby’s car, a Ford Galaxie 500. It was spring, and he had the top down. They drove the short distance to the White House. Brumus enjoyed the ride.

Several thousand demonstrators were outside the White House, noticeably a mixture of black and white, carrying placards that said SAVE THE SCHOOLCHILDREN OF BIRMINGHAM.

President Kennedy was in the Oval Office, sitting in his favorite chair, a rocker, waiting for the group from Justice. With him was a powerful trio of military men: Bob McNamara, the whiz kid secretary of defense, plus the army secretary and the army chief of staff.

This group had gathered here today, George realized, because the Negroes of Birmingham had started fires and thrown bottles last night. Such an emergency meeting had never been called during all the years of nonviolent civil rights protest, even when the Ku Klux Klan bombed the homes of Negroes. Rioting brought results.

The military men were present to discuss sending the army into Birmingham. Bobby focused as always on the political reality. “People are going to be calling for the president to take action,” he said. “But here’s the problem. We can’t admit that we’re sending federal troops to control the state troopers—that would be the White House declaring war on the state of Alabama. So we’d have to say it was to control the rioters—and that would be the White House declaring war on Negroes.”

President Kennedy got it right away. “Once the white people have the protection of federal troops, they might just tear up the agreement they just made,” he said.

In other words, George thought, the threat of Negro riots is keeping the agreement alive. He did not like this conclusion, but it was hard to escape.

Burke Marshall spoke up. He saw the agreement as his baby. “If that agreement blows up,” he said wearily, “the Negroes will be, uh . . .”

The president finished his sentence. “Uncontrollable,” he said.

Marshall added: “And not only in Birmingham.”

The room went quiet as they all contemplated the prospect of similar riots in other American cities.

President Kennedy said: “What is King doing today?”

George said: “Flying back to Birmingham.” He had learned this just before leaving the Gaston. “By now, I have no doubt, he’s making the rounds of the big churches, urging people to go home peacefully after the service and stay indoors tonight.”

“Will they do what he says?”

“Yes, provided there are no further bombings, and the state troopers are brought under control.”

“How can we guarantee that?”

“Could you deploy U.S. troops near Birmingham, but not actually in the city? That would demonstrate support for the agreement. Connor and Wallace would know that if they misbehave, they will forfeit their power. But it would not give the whites the chance to renege on the deal.”

They talked it up and down for a while, and in the end that was what they decided to do.

George and a small subgroup moved to the Cabinet Room to draft a statement for the press. The president’s secretary typed it. Press conferences were usually held in Pierre Salinger’s office, but today there were too many reporters and television cameras for that room, and it was a warm spring evening, so the announcement was made in the Rose Garden. George watched President Kennedy step outside, stand in front of the world’s press, and say: “The Birmingham agreement was and is a just accord. The federal government will not permit it to be sabotaged by a few extremists on either side.”

Two steps forward, one step back, and two more forward, George thought; but we make progress.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Dave Williams had a plan for Saturday night. Three girls from his class at school were going to the Jump Club in Soho, and Dave and two other boys had said, casually, that they might meet the girls there. Linda Robertson was one of the girls. Dave thought she liked him. Most people assumed he was thick, because he always came bottom of the class in exams, but Linda talked to him intelligently about politics, which he knew about because of his family.

Dave was going to wear a new shirt with startlingly long collar points. He was a good dancer—even his male friends conceded that he had a stylish way of doing the Twist. He thought he had a good chance of starting a romance with Linda.

Dave was fifteen but, to his intense annoyance, most girls of his age preferred older boys. He still winced when he remembered how, more than a year ago, he had followed the enchanting Beep Dewar, hoping to steal a kiss, and had found her locked in a passionate embrace with eighteen-year-old Jasper Murray.

On Saturday mornings the Williams children went to their father’s study to receive their weekly allowances. Evie, who was seventeen, was given a pound; Dave got ten shillings. Like Victorian paupers, they often had to listen to a sermon first. Today Evie was given her money and dismissed, but Dave was told to wait. When the door closed, his father, Lloyd, said: “Your exam results are very bad.”

Dave knew that. In ten years of schooling he had failed every written test he had ever taken. “I’m sorry,” he said. He did not want to get into an argument: he just wanted to take his money and go.

Dad was wearing a check shirt and a cardigan, his Saturday morning outfit. “But you’re not stupid,” he said.

“The teachers think I’m thick,” Dave said.

“I don’t believe that. You’re intelligent, but lazy.”

“I’m not lazy.”

“What are you, then?”

Dave did not have an answer. He was a slow reader, but worse than that he always forgot what he had read as soon as he turned the page. He was a poor writer, too: when he wanted to put “bread” his pen would write “beard” and he would not notice the difference. His spelling was atrocious. “I got top marks in oral French and German,” he said.

“Which only proves you can do it when you try.”

It did not prove any such thing, but Dave did not know how to explain that.

Lloyd said: “I’ve thought long and hard about what to do, and your mother and I have talked about it endlessly.”

This sounded ominous to Dave. What the hell was coming now?

“You’re too old to be spanked, and anyway we never had much faith in physical punishment.”

That was true. Most kids were smacked when they misbehaved, but Dave’s mother had not struck him for years; his father, never. What bothered Dave now, however, was the word punishment. Clearly he was in for it.

“The only thing I can think of, to force you to concentrate on your studies, is to withdraw your allowance.”

Dave could not believe what he was hearing. “What do you mean, withdraw?”

“I’m not giving you any more money until I see an improvement in your schoolwork.”

Dave had not seen this coming. “But how am I supposed to get around London?” And buy cigarettes, and get into the Jump Club, he thought in a panic.

“You walk to school anyway. If you want to go anywhere else, you’ll have to do better in your lessons.”

“I can’t live like that!”

“You get fed for nothing, and you have a wardrobe full of clothes, so you won’t lack for much. Just remember that if you don’t study, you’ll never have the money to get around.”

Dave was outraged. His plan for this evening was ruined. He felt helpless and infantile. “So that’s it?”

“Yes.”

“I’m wasting my time here, then.”

“You’re listening to your father trying to guide you as best he can.”

“Same bloody thing,” Dave said, and he stamped out.

He took his leather jacket off the hook in the hall and left the house. It was a mild spring morning. What was he going to do? His plan for the day had been to meet some friends in Piccadilly Circus, stroll along Denmark Street looking at guitars, have a pint of beer in a pub, then come home and put on the shirt with the long collar points.

He had some change in his pocket—enough for half a pint of beer. How could he get the money for admission to the Jump Club? Perhaps he could work. Who would employ him at short notice? Some of his friends had jobs on Saturday or Sunday, working in shops and restaurants that needed extra people at the weekend. He considered walking into a café and offering to wash up in the kitchen. It was worth a try. He turned his steps toward the West End.

Then he had another idea.

He had relatives who might employ him. His father’s sister, Millie, was in the fashion business, with three shops in affluent north London suburbs: Harrow, Golders Green, and Hampstead. She might give him a Saturday job, though he did not know how good he would be at selling frocks to ladies. Millie was married to a leather wholesaler, Abie Avery, and his warehouse in east London might be a better bet. But both Auntie Millie and Uncle Abie would probably check with Lloyd, who would tell them that Dave was supposed to be studying, not working. However, Millie and Abie had a son, Lenny, aged twenty-three, who was a small-time businessman and hustler. On Saturdays Lenny operated a market stall in Aldgate, in the East End. He sold Chanel No. 5 and other expensive perfumes at ludicrously low prices. He whispered to his customers that they were stolen, but in fact they were simple fakes, cheap scent in expensive-looking bottles.

Lenny might give Dave a day’s work.

Dave had just enough money for the Tube fare. He turned into the nearest station and bought his ticket. If Lenny turned him down he did not know how he was going to get back. He guessed he could walk a few miles if necessary.

The train took him underneath London from the affluent west to the working-class east. The market was already crowded with shoppers eager to buy at prices lower than those in the regular stores. Some of the goods were stolen, Dave guessed: electric kettles, shavers, irons, and radio sets slipped out of the back door of the factory. Others were surplus production sold off cheaply by the makers: records no one wanted, books that had failed to become bestsellers, ugly photo frames, ashtrays in the shape of seashells. But most were defective. There were boxes of stale chocolates, striped scarves with a flaw in the weave, piebald leather boots that had been unevenly dyed, china plates decorated with half a flower.

Lenny resembled his and Dave’s grandfather, the late Bernie Leckwith, with thick dark hair and brown eyes. Lenny’s hair was oiled and combed into an Elvis Presley pompadour. His greeting was warm. “Hello, young Dave! Want some scent for the girlfriend? Try Fleur Sauvage.” He pronounced it “flewer savidge.” “Guaranteed to make her knickers fall down, yours for two shillings and sixpence.”

“I need a job, Lenny,” said Dave. “Can I work for you?”

“Need a job? Your mother’s a millionaire, ain’t she?” said Lenny evasively.

“Dad cut off my allowance.”

“Why did he do that?”

“Because my schoolwork is poor. So I’m broke. I just want to earn enough money to go out tonight.”

For the third time, Lenny replied with a question. “What am I, the Labour Exchange?”

“Give me a chance. I bet I could sell perfume.”

Lenny turned to a customer. “You, madam, have got very good taste. Yardley perfumes are the classiest on the market—yet that bottle in your hand is only three shillings, and I had to pay two-and-six to the bloke that stole it, I mean to say supplied it to me.”

The woman giggled and bought the perfume.

“I can’t pay you a wage,” Lenny said to Dave. “But I tell you what I’ll do: I’ll give you ten percent of everything you take.”

“It’s a deal,” said Dave, and he joined Lenny behind the display.

“Keep the money in your pockets and we’ll settle up later.” Lenny gave him a “float” of a pound in coins to make change.

Dave picked up a bottle of Yardley, hesitated, smiled at a passing woman, and said: “The classiest perfume on the market.”

She smiled back and walked on.

He kept trying, imitating Lenny’s patter, and after a few minutes he sold a bottle of Joy by Patou for two-and-six. He soon knew all Lenny’s lines: “Not every woman has the flair to wear this one, but you . . . Only buy this if there’s a man you really want to please . . . Discontinued line, the government banned this scent because it’s too sexy . . .”

The crowds were cheerful and always ready to laugh. They dressed up to come to the market: it was a social event. Dave learned a whole range of new slang for money: a sixpenny piece was a Tilbury, five shillings was a dollar, and a ten-shilling note was half a knicker.

The time passed quickly. A waitress from a nearby café brought two sandwiches of thick white bread with fried bacon and ketchup, and Lenny paid her and gave one of the sandwiches to Dave, who was surprised to learn that it was lunchtime. The pockets of his drainpipe jeans grew heavy with coins, and he recalled with pleasure that 10 percent of the money was his. At midafternoon he noticed that there were hardly any men on the streets, and Lenny explained that they had all gone to a football match.

Toward the end of the afternoon, business slowed to almost nothing. Dave thought the money in his pockets might amount to as much as five pounds, in which case he had made ten shillings, the amount of his normal allowance—and he could go to the Jump Club.

At five o’clock Lenny began to dismantle the stall, and Dave helped to put the unsold goods in cardboard boxes, then they loaded everything into Lenny’s yellow Bedford van.

When they counted Dave’s money, he had taken just over nine pounds. Lenny gave him a pound, a little more than the agreed ten percent, “because you helped me pack up.” Dave was delighted: he had made twice the amount his father should have given him this morning. He would gladly do this every Saturday, he thought, especially if it meant he did not have to listen to his father’s preaching.

They went to the nearest pub and got pint glasses of beer. “You play the guitar a bit, don’t you?” Lenny said as they sat at a grimy table with a full ashtray.

“Yes.”

“What sort of instrument have you got?”

“An Eko. It’s a cheap copy of a Gibson.”

“Electric?”

“It’s semi-hollow.”

Lenny looked impatient: perhaps he did not know much about guitars. “Can you plug it in, is what I’m asking.”

“Yes—why?”

“Because I need a rhythm guitarist for my group.”

That was exciting. Dave had not thought of joining a group, but the idea appealed to him instantly. “I didn’t know you had a group,” he said.

“The Guardsmen. I play piano and do most of the singing.”

“What kind of music?”

“Rock and roll—the only kind.”

“By which you mean . . .”

“Elvis, Chuck Berry, Johnny Cash . . . All the greats.”

Dave could play three-chord songs without difficulty. “What about the Beatles?” Their chords were more difficult.

Lenny said: “Who?”

“A new group. They’re fab.”

“Never heard of them.”

“Well, anyway, I can play rhythm guitar on old rock songs.”

Lenny looked mildly offended at the phrase, but he said: “So, do you want to audition for the Guardsmen?”

“I’d love to!”

Lenny looked at his watch. “How long will it take you to go home and get your guitar?”

“Half an hour, and half an hour to get back.”

“Meet me at the Aldgate Workingmen’s Club at seven. We’ll be setting up. We can audition you before we play. Have you got an amplifier?”

“Small one.”

“It’ll have to do.”

Dave got the Tube. His success as a salesman, and the beer he had drunk, gave him an inner glow. He smoked a cigarette on the train, rejoicing at his victory over his father. He imagined saying casually to Linda Robertson: “I play guitar in a beat group.” That could hardly fail to impress her.

He arrived home and entered the house by the back door. He managed to slip up to his room without seeing either of his parents. It took him only a few moments to put his guitar in its carrying case and pick up his amplifier.

He was about to leave when his sister, Evie, came into his room, dressed up for Saturday night. She wore a short skirt and knee boots, and her hair was back-combed in a beehive. She had heavy eye makeup in the panda style made fashionable by Dusty Springfield. She looked older than seventeen. “Where are you going?” Dave asked her.

“To a party. Hank Remington is supposed to be there.”

Remington, lead singer of the Kords, sympathized with some of Evie’s causes, and had said so in interviews.

“You’ve caused a stir today,” Evie said. She was not accusing him: she always took his side in arguments with the parents, and he did the same for her.

“What makes you say that?”

“Dad’s really upset.”

“Upset?” Dave was not sure what to make of that. His father could be angry, disappointed, stern, authoritarian, or tyrannical, and he knew how to react; but upset? “Why?”

“I gather you and he had a row.”

“He wouldn’t give me my allowance because I failed all my exams.”

“What did you do?”

“Nothing. I walked out. I probably slammed the door.”

“Where have you been all day?”

“I worked on Lenny Avery’s market stall and earned a pound.”

“Good for you! Where are you off to now, with your guitar?”

“Lenny has a beat group. He wants me to play rhythm guitar.” That was an exaggeration: Dave did not have the job yet.

“Good luck!”

“I suppose you’ll tell Mum and Dad where I’ve gone.”

“Only if you want me to.”

“I don’t care.” Dave went to the door, then hesitated. “He’s upset?”

“Yes.”

Dave shrugged and left.

He got out of the house without being seen.

He was looking forward to the audition. He played and sang a lot with his sister, but he had never sat in with a real group that had a drummer. He hoped he was good enough—though rhythm guitar was not difficult.

On the Tube his thoughts kept wandering back to his father. He was a bit shocked to learn that he could upset Dad. Fathers were supposed to be invulnerable—but that attitude was childish, he now saw. Irritatingly, he might have to change his outlook. He could no longer be merely indignant and resentful. He was not the only sufferer. Dad had hurt him, but he had hurt Dad as well, and they were both responsible. Feeling responsible was not as comfortable as feeling outraged.

He found the Aldgate Workingmen’s Club and carried his guitar and amplifier inside. It was a drab place, with bright neon strips throwing a harsh light on Formica tables and tubular chairs lined up in rows that made him think of a factory canteen: hardly the place for rock and roll.

The Guardsmen were onstage, tuning up. As well as Lenny on piano there was Lew on drums, Buzz on bass, and Geoffrey on lead guitar. Geoffrey had a microphone in front of him, so presumably he also did some singing. All three were older than Dave, in their early twenties, and he feared they might be much better musicians than he was. Suddenly, playing rhythm did not seem so easy.

He tuned his guitar to the piano and plugged into his amplifier. Lenny said: “Do you know ‘Mess of Blues’?”

Dave did, and he felt relieved. It was a rock-steady number in the key of C, led by a rolling piano part, easy to accompany on the guitar. He strummed along with it effortlessly, and found a special kick in playing with others that he had never experienced on his own.

Lenny sang well, Dave thought. Buzz and Lew made a solid rhythm section, very steady. Geoff had some fancy licks on lead guitar. The group was competent, if a bit unimaginative.

At the end of the song, Lenny said: “The chords round out the sound of the group nicely, but can you play more rhythmically?”

Dave was surprised to be criticized. He thought he had done well. “Okay,” he said.

The next number was “Shake, Rattle and Roll,” a Jerry Lee Lewis hit that was also piano-led. Geoffrey sang in unison with Lenny on the chorus. Dave played choppy chords on the offbeat, and Lenny seemed to like that better.

Lenny announced “Johnny B. Goode,” and without being asked Dave enthusiastically played the Chuck Berry introduction. When he got to the fifth bar he expected the group to join in, as on the record, but the Guardsmen remained silent. Dave stopped, and Lenny said: “I usually play the intro on the piano.”

“Sorry,” Dave said, and Lenny restarted the number.

Dave felt dispirited. He was not doing well.

The next number was “Wake Up, Little Susie.” To Dave’s surprise, Geoffrey did not sing the Everly Brothers harmony. After the first verse, Dave moved to Geoffrey’s microphone and began to sing with Lenny. A minute later, two young waitresses who were putting ashtrays out on the tables stopped their work to listen. At the end of the song they clapped. Dave grinned with pleasure. It was the first time he had been applauded by anyone outside his family.

One of the girls said to Dave: “What’s your group called?”

Dave pointed at Lenny. “It’s his group, and they’re called the Guardsmen.”

“Oh.” She seemed mildly disappointed.

Lenny’s last choice was “Take Good Care of My Baby,” and again Dave sang the harmony. The waitresses danced along the aisles between the rows of tables.

Afterward, Lenny got up from the piano. “Well, you’re not much of a guitarist,” he said to Dave. “But you sing nicely, and those girls really went for it.”

“So am I in, or out?”

“Can you play tonight?”

“Tonight!” Dave was pleased, but he had not expected to start immediately. He was looking forward to seeing Linda Robertson later.

“You got something better to do?” Lenny looked a bit offended that Dave had not accepted instantly.

“Well, I was going to see a girl, but she’ll just have to wait. What time will we be through?”

“This is a workingmen’s club. They don’t stay up late. We come offstage at half past ten.”

Dave calculated that he could be at the Jump Club by eleven. “That’s okay,” he said.

“Good,” said Lenny. “Welcome to the group.”

Jasper Murray still could not afford to go to America. At St. Julian’s College, London, there was a group called the North America Club that chartered flights and sold cheap tickets. Late one afternoon he went to their little office in the student union and inquired about prices. He learned that he could go to New York for ninety pounds. It was too much, and he left disconsolate.

He spotted Sam Cakebread in the coffee bar. For several days he had been looking for a chance to speak to Sam outside the office of the student newspaper, St. Julian’s News. Sam was the paper’s editor, Jasper its news editor.

With Sam was his younger sister, Valerie, also a student at St. Julian’s, wearing a tweed cap and a minidress. She wrote articles about fashion for the paper. She was attractive: in other circumstances Jasper would have flirted with her, but today he had other matters on his mind. He would have preferred to talk to Sam on his own, but he decided that Valerie’s presence was no real problem.

He carried his coffee to Sam’s table. “I want your advice,” he said. He wanted information, not advice, but people were sometimes reluctant to share information, whereas they were always flattered to be asked for advice.

Sam was wearing a herringbone jacket with a tie and smoking a pipe: perhaps he wanted to look older. “Take a seat,” he said, folding the paper he had been reading.

Jasper sat down. His relationship with Sam was awkward. They had been rivals for the post of editor, and Sam had won. Jasper had concealed his resentment, and Sam had made him news editor. They had become colleagues, but not friends. “I want to be next year’s editor,” Jasper said. He hoped that Sam would help him, either because he was the right man for the job—which he was—or out of guilt.

“That’s up to Lord Jane,” said Sam evasively. Jane was provost of the college.

“Lord Jane will ask your opinion.”

“There’s a whole appointment committee.”

“But you and the provost are the members who count.”

Sam did not argue with that. “So you want my advice.”

“Who else is in the running?”

“Toby, obviously.”

“Really?” Toby Jenkins was the features editor, a plodder who had commissioned a dull series of worthy articles about the work of university officials such as the registrar and the treasurer.

“He will apply.”

Sam himself had got the job partly because of the distinguished journalists among his relations. Lord Jane was impressed by such connections. This irritated Jasper, but he did not mention it.

Jasper said: “Toby’s stuff is pedestrian.”

“He’s an accurate reporter, if unimaginative.”

Jasper recognized this remark as a dig at himself. He was the opposite of Toby. He prized sensation over accuracy. In his reports a scuffle always became a fight, a plan was a conspiracy, and a slip of the tongue was never less than a blatant lie. He knew that people read newspapers for excitement, not information.

Cakebread added: “And he did write that piece about rats in the refectory.”

“So he did.” Jasper had forgotten. The article had caused uproar. It had been luck, really: Toby’s father worked for the local council and knew about the efforts of the pest control department to eradicate vermin in the eighteenth-century cellars of St. Julian’s College. Nevertheless the article had secured the job of features editor for Toby, who had written nothing half as good since. “So I need a scoop,” Jasper said thoughtfully.

“Perhaps.”

“You mean, like, revealing that the provost is skimming off university funds to pay his gambling debts.”

“I doubt that Lord Jane gambles.” Sam did not have a great sense of humor.

Jasper thought about Lloyd Williams. Might he provide some kind of tip-off? Lloyd was frightfully discreet, unfortunately.

Then he thought of Evie. She had applied to attend the Irving School of Drama, which was part of St. Julian’s College, so she was of interest to the student newspaper. She had just got her first acting job, in a film called All Around Miranda. And she was going out with Hank Remington, of the Kords. Perhaps . . .

Jasper stood up. “Thanks for your help, Sam. I really appreciate it.”

“Anytime,” said Sam.

Jasper caught the Tube home. The more he thought about interviewing Evie, the more excited he became.

Jasper knew the truth about Evie and Hank. They were not just dating, they were having a passionate affair. Her parents knew she went out with Hank two or three evenings a week, and came home at midnight on Saturdays. But Jasper and Dave also knew that most days after school Evie went to Hank’s flat in Chelsea and had sex with him. Hank had already written a song about her, “Too Young to Smoke.”

But would she give Jasper an interview?

When he got home to the house in Great Peter Street, Evie was in the red-tiled kitchen, learning lines. Her hair was pinned up untidily, and she wore a faded old shirt, but she still looked fabulous. Jasper’s relationship with her was warm. Throughout her girlish crush on him, he had always been kind, though never encouraging. His motive for being so careful was that he did not want a crisis that would cause a rift between him and her generously hospitable parents. Now he was even more glad he had kept her goodwill. “How’s it going?” he said with a nod at her script.

She shrugged. “The part isn’t difficult, but film will be a new challenge.”

“Maybe I should interview you.”

She looked troubled. “I’m supposed to do only the publicity arranged by the studio.”

Jasper felt a mild panic. What kind of journalist would he make if he failed to secure an interview with Evie even though he lived in her house? “It’s only for the student paper,” he said.

“I suppose that doesn’t really count.”

His hopes rose. “I’m sure not. And it might help you get accepted by the Irving drama school.”

She put down the script. “All right. What do you want to know?”

Jasper suppressed his feeling of triumph. Coolly he said: “How did you get the part in All Around Miranda?”

“I went to an audition.”

“Tell me about that.” Jasper took out a notebook and started writing.

He was careful not to mention her nude scene in Hamlet. He feared she would tell him not to mention it. Fortunately he did not need to question her about it, for he had seen it himself. Instead he asked her about the stars of the movie, and other famous people she had met, and gradually worked around to Hank Remington.

When Jasper mentioned Hank, Evie’s eyes lit up with a characteristic intensity of feeling. “Hank is the most courageous and dedicated person I know,” she said. “I admire him so much.”

“But you don’t just admire him.”

“I adore him.”

“And you are dating.”

“Yes, but I don’t want to say too much about that.”

“Of course, no problem.” She had said “Yes,” and that was enough.

Dave came in from school and made instant coffee with boiling milk. “I thought you weren’t supposed to do publicity,” he said to Evie.

Jasper thought: Shut your mouth, you overprivileged little shit.

Evie replied to Dave. “This is only for St. Julian’s News,” she said.

Jasper wrote the article that evening.

As soon as he saw it typed out, he realized it could be more than just a piece for the student paper. Hank was a star, Evie was a minor actress, and Lloyd was a member of Parliament: this could be a big story, he thought with mounting excitement. If he could get something published in a national newspaper it would give his career prospects a major boost.

It could also get him in trouble with the Williams family.

He gave his article to Sam Cakebread the next day.

Then, with trepidation, he phoned the tabloid Daily Echo.

He asked for the news editor. He did not get the news editor, but he was put through to a reporter called Barry Pugh. “I’m a student journalist, and I’ve got a story for you,” he said.

“Okay, go ahead,” said Pugh.

Jasper hesitated only a moment. He was betraying Evie and the entire Williams family, he knew; but he plunged on anyway. “It’s about the daughter of a member of Parliament who is sleeping with a pop star.”

“Good,” said Pugh. “Who are they?”

“Could we meet?”

“I suppose you want some money?”

“Yes, but that’s not all.”

“What else?”

“I want my name on the article when it appears.”

“Let’s get the story down first, then we’ll see.”

Pugh was trying to employ the kind of blandishments Jasper had used on Evie. “No, thanks,” Jasper said firmly. “If you don’t like the story, you don’t have to print it, but if you do use it you must put my name on it.”

“All right,” said Pugh. “When can we meet?”

Two days later, at breakfast in Great Peter Street, Jasper read in the Guardian that Martin Luther King was planning a massive demonstration of civil disobedience in Washington in support of a civil rights bill. King was forecasting that there would be one hundred thousand people. “Boy, I’d love to see that,” said Jasper.

Evie said: “Me, too.”

It was to take place in August, during the university vacation, so Jasper would be free. But he could not afford ninety pounds for the fare to the USA.

Daisy Williams opened an envelope and said: “My goodness! Lloyd, here’s a letter from your German cousin Rebecca!”

Dave, the youngest, swallowed a mouthful of Sugar Puffs and said: “Who the heck is Rebecca?”

His father had been leafing through newspapers with the speed of a professional politician. Now he looked up and said: “Not really a cousin. She was adopted by some distant relations of mine after her parents died in the war.”

“I’d forgotten we had German relatives,” Dave said. “Gott im Himmel!”

Jasper had noticed that Lloyd was suspiciously vague about his relatives. The late Bernie Leckwith had been his stepfather, but no one ever mentioned his real father. Jasper felt sure Lloyd had been illegitimate. It was not quite a tabloid story: bastardy was not as much of a disgrace as formerly. All the same, Lloyd never gave details.

Lloyd went on: “Last time I saw Rebecca was in 1948. She was about seventeen. By then she had been adopted by my relation Carla Franck. They lived in Berlin-Mitte, so now their house must be on the wrong side of the Wall. What’s become of her?”

Daisy answered: “She’s obviously got out of East Germany, somehow, and moved to Hamburg. Oh . . . her husband was injured escaping, and he’s in a wheelchair.”

“What prompted her to write to us?”

“She’s trying to trace Hannelore Rothmann.” Daisy looked at Jasper. “She was your grandmother. Apparently she was kind to Rebecca in the war, the day Rebecca’s real parents were killed.”

Jasper had never met his mother’s family. “We don’t know exactly what happened to my German grandparents, but Mother is sure they’re dead,” he said.

Daisy said: “I’ll show this letter to your mother. She should write to Rebecca.”

Lloyd opened the Daily Echo and said: “Bloody hell, what’s this?”

Jasper had been waiting for this moment. He clasped his hands together in his lap to stop them shaking.

Lloyd spread the newspaper on the table. On page three was a photograph of Evie coming out of a nightclub with Hank Remington, and the headline:

Kords Star Hank & Labour MP’s Nudie Daughter, 17

By Barry Pugh and Jasper Murray

“I didn’t write that!” Jasper lied. His indignation sounded forced, to him; what he really felt was elation at the sight of his own name over a report in a national newspaper. The others did not seem to notice his mixed emotions.

Lloyd read aloud: “‘Pop star Hank Remington’s latest flame is the just-seventeen daughter of Lloyd Williams, member of Parliament for Hoxton. Movie starlet Evie Williams is famous for appearing nude onstage at Lambeth Grammar, the posh school for top people’s children.’”

Daisy said: “Oh, dear, how embarrassing.”

Lloyd read on: “‘Evie said: “Hank is the most courageous and dedicated person I have ever known.” Both Evie and Hank support the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament, despite the disapproval of her father, who is Labour spokesman on military affairs.’” Lloyd looked at Evie severely. “You know a lot of courageous and dedicated people, including your mother, who drove an ambulance during the Blitz, and your great-uncle Billy Williams, who fought at the Somme. Hank must be remarkable, to overshadow them.”

“Never mind that,” said Daisy. “I thought you weren’t supposed to do interviews without asking the studio, Evie.”

“Oh, God, this is my fault,” Jasper said. They all looked at him. He had known there would be a scene like this, and he was ready for it. He had no difficulty looking distraught: he felt horribly guilty. “I interviewed Evie for the student paper. The Echo must have lifted my story—and rewritten it to make it sensational.” He had prepared this fiction in advance.

“First lesson of public life,” Lloyd said. “Journalists are treacherous.”

That’s me, Jasper thought—treacherous. But the Williams family seemed to accept that he had not intended the Echo to run the story.

Evie was close to tears. “I might lose the part.”

Daisy said: “I can’t imagine this will do the movie any damage—quite the reverse.”

“I hope you’re right,” said Evie.

“I’m so sorry, Evie,” said Jasper, with all the sincerity he could muster. “I feel I’ve really let you down.”

“You didn’t mean to,” Evie said.

Jasper had got away with it. Around the table, no one was looking accusingly at him. They saw the Echo report as nobody’s fault. The only one he was not sure of was Daisy, who wore a slight frown and avoided his eye. But she loved Jasper for his mother’s sake, and she would not accuse him of duplicity.

Jasper stood up. “I’m going to the Daily Echo office,” he said. “I want to meet this Pugh bastard and see what explanation he can offer.”

He was glad to get out of the house. He had successfully lied his way through a difficult scene, and the release of tension was enormous.

An hour later he was in the newsroom of the Echo. He was thrilled to be there. This was what he wanted: the news desk, the typewriters, the ringing phones, the pneumatic tubes carrying copy across the room, the air of excitement.

Barry Pugh was about twenty-five, a small man with a squint, wearing a rumpled suit and scuffed suede shoes. “You did well,” he said.

“Evie still doesn’t know I gave the story to you.”

Pugh had little time for Jasper’s scruples. “Bloody few stories would ever be published if we asked permission every time.”

“She was supposed to refuse all interviews except those arranged by the studio publicist.”

“Publicists are your enemies. Be proud you outwitted one.”

“I am.”

Pugh handed him an envelope. Jasper tore it open. It contained a check. “Your payment,” Pugh said. “That’s what you get for a page three lead.”

Jasper looked at the amount. It was ninety pounds.

He remembered the march on Washington. Ninety pounds was the fare to the USA. Now he could go to America.

His heart lifted.

He put the check in his pocket. “Thank you very much,” he said.

Barry nodded. “Let us know if you have any more stories like that.”

Dave Williams was nervous about playing the Jump Club. It was a deeply cool central London venue, just off Oxford Street. It had a reputation for breaking new stars, and had launched several groups now in the hit parade. Famous musicians went there to listen to new talent.

Not that it looked special. There was a small stage at one end and a bar at the other. In between was room for a couple of hundred people to dance buttock-to-buttock. The floor was an ashtray. The only decoration consisted of a few tattered posters of famous acts that had played there in the past—except in the dressing room, where the walls bore the most obscene graffiti Dave had ever come across.

Dave’s performance with the Guardsmen had improved, thanks in part to helpful advice from his cousin. Lenny had a soft spot for Dave, and talked like an uncle to him, although he was only eight years older. “Listen to the drummer,” Lenny had told him. “Then you’ll always be on the beat.” And: “Learn to play without looking at your guitar, so that you can meet the eyes of people in the audience.” Dave was grateful for any tips he could get, but he knew he was still far short of seeming professional. All the same he felt wonderful onstage. There was nothing to read or write, so he was no longer a dunce; in fact, he was competent, and getting better. He had even fantasized about becoming a musician, and never having to study, ever again; but he knew the chances were small.

The group was improving, however. When Dave sang in harmony with Lenny they sounded modern, more like the Beatles. And Dave had persuaded Lenny to try some different material, authentic Chicago blues and danceable Detroit soul, the kind of thing the younger groups were playing. As a result they were getting more dates. Instead of once a fortnight, they were now booked every Friday and Saturday night.

But Dave had another reason for anxiety. He had got this gig by asking Evie’s boyfriend, Hank Remington, to recommend the group. But Hank had turned his nose up at their name. “The Guardsmen sounds old-fashioned, like the Four Aces, and the Jordanaires,” he had said.

“We might change it,” Dave had said, willing to do anything for a booking at the Jump Club.

“The latest vogue is a name from an old blues, like the Rolling Stones.”

Dave recalled a track by Booker T. and the MGs that he had heard a few days earlier. He had been struck by its oddball name. “How about Plum Nellie?” he had said.

Hank had liked that, and told the club they should try out a new group called Plum Nellie. A suggestion from someone as famous as Hank was like a command, and the group got the gig.

But when Dave had proposed the name change, Lenny had turned it down flat. “The Guardsmen we are, and the Guardsmen we stay,” he had said mulishly, and started talking about something else. Dave had not dared to tell him the Jump Club already thought they were called Plum Nellie.

Now the crisis was approaching.

At the sound check they played “Lucille.” After the first verse, Dave stopped and turned to the lead guitarist, Geoffrey. “What the fuck was that?” Dave said.

“What?”

“You played something weird halfway through.”

Geoffrey gave a knowing smile. “Nothing. It’s just a passing chord.”

“It’s not on the record.”

“What’s the matter, can’t you play C sharp diminished?”

Dave knew exactly what was going on. Geoffrey was trying to show him up as a beginner. But unfortunately Dave had never heard of a diminished chord.

Lenny said: “Known to pub pianists as a double minor, Dave.”

Swallowing his pride, Dave said to Geoffrey: “Show me.”

Geoffrey rolled up his eyes and sighed, but he demonstrated the chord shape. “Like that, all right?” he said wearily, as if tired of dealing with amateurs.

Dave copied the chord. It was not difficult. “Next time, tell me before we play the fucking song,” he said.

After that it went well. Phil Burleigh, the owner of the club, entered in the middle and listened. Being prematurely bald, he was naturally known as Curly Burleigh. At the end he nodded approval. “Thank you, Plum Nellie,” he said.

Lenny shot a filthy look at Dave. “The group is called the Guardsmen,” he said firmly.

Dave said: “We discussed changing it.”

“You discussed it. I said no.”

Curly said: “The Guardsmen is a terrible name, mate.”

“It’s what we’re called.”

“Listen, Byron Chesterfield is coming in tonight,” Curly said with a note of desperation. “He’s the most important promoter in London—in Europe, probably. You might get work from him—but not with that name.”

“Byron Chesterfield?” said Lenny, laughing. “I’ve known him all my life. His real name is Brian Chesnowitz. His brother’s got a stall in Aldgate Market.”

Curly said: “It’s your name I’m worried about, not his.”

“Our name is fine.”

“I can’t put on a group called the Guardsmen. I’ve got a reputation.” Curly stood up. “I’m sorry, lads,” he said. “Pack up your gear.”

Dave said: “Come on, Curly, you don’t want to piss off Hank Remington.”

“Hank’s an old mate,” said Curly. “We played skiffle together at the 2i’s Coffee Bar in the fifties. But he recommended me a group called Plum Nellie, not the Guardsmen.”

Dave was distraught. “All my friends are coming!” he said. He was thinking of Linda Robertson in particular.

Curly said: “I’m sorry about that.”

Dave turned to Lenny. “Be reasonable,” he said. “What’s in a name?”

“It’s my group, not yours,” said Lenny stubbornly.

So that was the issue. “Of course it’s your group,” said Dave. “But you taught me that the customer is always right.” He was struck by inspiration. “And you can change the name back to the Guardsmen tomorrow morning, if you want.”

Lenny said: “Naah,” but he was weakening.

“Better than not playing,” said Dave, pressing his advantage. “It would be a real comedown to go home now.”

“Oh, fuck it, all right,” said Lenny.

And the crisis was over, to Dave’s intense relief and pleasure.

They stood at the bar drinking beer while the first customers trickled in. Dave limited himself to one pint: enough to relax him, not enough to make him fumble the chords. Lenny had two pints, Geoffrey three.

Linda Robertson showed up, to Dave’s delight, in a short purple dress and white knee boots. She and all Dave’s friends were legally too young to drink alcohol in bars, but they went to great lengths to look older, and anyway the law was not enforced strictly.

Linda’s attitude to Dave had changed. In the past she had treated him like a bright kid brother, even though they were the same age. The fact that he was playing at the Jump Club turned him into a different person in her eyes. Now she saw him as a sophisticated grown-up, and asked him excited questions about the group. If this was what he got for being in Lenny’s crummy outfit, Dave thought, what must it be like to be a real pop star?

With the others he returned to the dressing room to change. Professional groups usually appeared wearing identical suits, but that was expensive. Lenny compromised with red shirts for everyone. Dave thought that group uniforms were going out of fashion: the anarchic Rolling Stones dressed individually.

Plum Nellie were bottom of the bill, and played first. Lenny, as leader of the group, introduced the songs. He was seated at the side of the stage, with the upright piano angled so that he could look at the audience. Dave stood in the middle, playing and singing, and most eyes were on him. Now that the worry about the group’s name was out of the way—at least for the moment—he could relax. He moved as he played, swinging the guitar as if it were his dance partner; and when he sang he imagined he was speaking to the audience, emphasizing the words with his facial expressions and the movements of his head. As always, the girls responded to that, watching him and smiling as they danced to the beat.

After the set, Byron Chesterfield came to the dressing room.

He was about forty, and wore a beautiful light-blue suit with a waistcoat. His tie had a pattern of daisies. His hair was receding either side of an old-fashioned brilliantined quiff. He brought a cloud of cologne into the room.

He spoke to Dave. “Your group is not bad,” he said.

Dave pointed to Lenny. “Thank you, Mr. Chesterfield, but it’s Lenny’s group.”

Lenny said: “Hello, Brian, don’t you remember me?”

Byron hesitated a moment, then said: “My life! It’s Lenny Avery.” His London accent became broader. “I never recognized you. How’s the stall?”

“Doing great, never better.”

“The group is good, Lenny: bass and drums solid, nice guitars and piano. I like the vocal harmonies.” He jerked a thumb at Dave. “And the girls love the kid. You getting much work?”

Dave was excited. Byron Chesterfield liked the group!

Lenny said: “We’re busy every weekend.”

“I might be able to get you an out-of-town gig for six weeks in the summer, if you’re interested,” Byron said. “Five nights a week, Tuesday to Saturday.”

“I don’t know,” said Lenny with indifference. “I’d have to get my sister to run the stall for me while I was away.”

“Ninety pound a week in your hand, no deductions.”

That was more than they had ever been paid, Dave calculated. And with luck it would fall in the school holiday.

Dave was annoyed to see Lenny still looking dubious. “What about board and lodging?” he said. Dave realized he was not uninterested, he was negotiating.

“You get lodging but not board,” Byron said.

Dave wondered if this was at a seaside resort, where there was seasonal work for entertainers.

Lenny said: “I couldn’t leave the stall for that kind of money, Brian. Pity it’s not a hundred and twenty pound a week. Then I could consider it.”

“The venue might go to ninety-five, as a personal favor to me.”

“Say a hundred and ten.”

“If I forgo my own fee I can make it a hundred.”

Lenny looked at the rest of the group. “What do you say, lads?”

They all wanted to take the job.

“What’s the venue?” Lenny said.

“A club called the Dive.”

Lenny shook his head. “Never heard of it. Where is it?”

“Didn’t I mention that?” said Byron Chesterfield. “It’s in Hamburg.”

Dave could hardly contain his excitement. A six-week gig—in Germany! Legally, he was old enough to quit school. Was there a chance he might become a professional musician?

In exuberant mood, he took his guitar and amplifier and Linda Robertson to the house in Great Peter Street, intending to drop off his gear before walking her home to her parents’ place in Chelsea. Unfortunately his parents were still up, and his mother waylaid him in the hall. “How did it go?” she asked brightly.

“Great,” he said. “I’m just dropping off my gear, and I’m going to walk Linda home.”

“Hello, Linda,” said Daisy. “How nice to see you again.”

“How do you do,” Linda said politely, morphing into a demure schoolgirl; but Dave could see his mother taking in the short dress and the sexy boots.

“Will the club hire you again?” Daisy asked.

“Well, a promoter called Byron Chesterfield offered us a summer job at another club. It’s great because it’s all during the school holiday.”

His father came out of the drawing room, still wearing his suit from whatever Saturday night political meeting he had attended. “What’s happening in the school holiday?”

“Our group has a six-week engagement.”

Lloyd frowned. “You need to do some revision in the vacation. Next year you have the all-important O-level exams. To date, your grades are nowhere near good enough to permit you to take the whole summer off.”

“I can study in the day. We’ll be playing in the evenings.”

“Hmm. You obviously don’t care about missing the annual holiday with your family in Tenby.”

“I do,” Dave lied. “I love Tenby. But this is a great opportunity.”

“Well, I don’t see how we can leave you alone in this house for two weeks while we’re in Wales. You’re still only fifteen.”

“Er, the club isn’t in London,” Dave said.

“Where is it?”

“Hamburg.”

Daisy said: “What?”

Lloyd said: “Don’t be ridiculous. Do you imagine we’re going to allow you to do that at your age? It must be illegal under German employment law, for one thing.”

“Not all laws are strictly enforced,” Dave argued. “I bet you illegally bought drinks in pubs before you were eighteen.”

“I went to Germany with my mother when I was eighteen. I certainly never spent six weeks unsupervised in a foreign country at the age of fifteen.”

“I won’t be unsupervised. Cousin Lenny will be with me.”

“I don’t see him as a reliable chaperone.”

“Chaperone?” said Dave indignantly. “What am I, a Victorian maiden?”

“You’re a child, according to the law, and an adolescent, in reality. You’re certainly not an adult.”

“You’ve got a cousin in Hamburg,” Dave said desperately. “Rebecca. She wrote to Mam. You could ask her to look after me.”

“She’s a distant cousin by adoption, and I haven’t seen her for sixteen years. That’s not a sufficiently close connection for me to dump an unruly teenager on her for the summer. I’d hesitate to do it to my sister.”

Daisy adopted a conciliatory tone. “From her letter I got the impression of a kind person, Lloyd, dear. And I don’t think she has children of her own. She might not mind being asked.”

Lloyd looked annoyed. “Do you actually want Dave to do this?”

“No, of course not. If I had my wish, he would come to Tenby with us. But he is growing up, and we may have to loosen the apron strings.” She looked at Dave. “He’s going to find it harder work and less fun than he imagines, but he may learn some life lessons from it.”

“No,” said Lloyd with an air of finality. “If he were eighteen, perhaps I’d agree. But he’s too young, much too young.”

Dave wanted to scream with rage and burst into tears at the same time. Surely they would not spoil this opportunity?

“It’s late,” said Daisy. “Let’s talk about it in the morning. Dave needs to get Linda home before her parents start to worry.”

Dave hesitated, reluctant to leave the argument unresolved.

Lloyd went to the foot of the stairs. “Don’t get your hopes up,” he said to Dave. “It isn’t going to happen.”

Dave opened the front door. If he walked out now, without saying anything else, he would leave them with the wrong impression. He needed them to know they could not stop him going to Hamburg easily. “Listen to me,” he said, and his father looked startled. Dave made up his mind. “For the first time in my life, I’m a success at something, Dad,” he said. “Just understand me. If you try to take this from me, I’ll leave home. And, I swear, if I leave I will never, ever, come back.”

He led Linda out and slammed the door.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Tanya Dvorkin was back in Moscow, but Vasili Yenkov was not.

After the two of them had been arrested at the poetry reading in Mayakovsky Square, Vasili had been convicted of “anti-Soviet activities and propaganda” and sentenced to two years in a Siberian labor camp. Tanya felt guilty: she had been Vasili’s partner in crime, but she had got away with it.

Tanya assumed Vasili had been beaten and interrogated. But she was still free and working as a journalist, therefore he had not given her away. Perhaps he had refused to talk. More likely, he might have named plausible fictitious collaborators who the KGB believed were simply difficult to track down.

By the spring of 1963 Vasili had served his sentence. If he was alive—if he had survived the cold, hunger, and disease that killed many prisoners in labor camps—he should be free now. Ominously, he had not reappeared.

Prisoners were normally allowed to send and receive one letter per month, heavily censored; but Vasili could not write to Tanya, for that would betray her to the KGB; so she had no information; and no doubt the same applied to most of his friends. Perhaps he wrote to his mother in Leningrad. Tanya had never met her: Vasili’s association with Tanya was secret even from his mother.

Vasili had been Tanya’s closest friend. She lay awake nights worrying about him. Was he ill, or even dead? Perhaps he had been convicted of another crime, and had his sentence extended. Tanya was tortured by the uncertainty. It gave her a headache.

One afternoon she took the risk of mentioning Vasili to her boss, Daniil Antonov. The features department of TASS was a large, noisy room, with journalists typing, talking on the phone, reading newspapers, and walking in and out of the reference library. If she spoke quietly she would not be overheard. She began by saying: “What happened about Ustin Bodian, in the end?” The ill treatment of Bodian, a dissident opera singer, was the subject of the edition of Dissidence Vasili had been giving out when arrested—an issue written by Tanya.

“Bodian died of pneumonia,” Daniil said.

Tanya knew that. She was pretending ignorance only to bring the conversation around to Vasili. “There was a writer arrested with me that day—Vasili Yenkov,” she said in a musing tone. “Any idea what happened to him?”

“The script editor. He got two years.”

“Then he must be free by now.”

“Perhaps. I haven’t heard. He won’t get his old job back, so I’m not sure where he’d go.”

He would come to Moscow, Tanya felt sure. But she shrugged, pretending indifference, and went back to typing an article about a woman bricklayer.

She had made several discreet inquiries among people who would have known if Vasili had returned. The answer had been the same in all cases: no one had heard anything.

Then, that afternoon, Tanya got word.

Leaving the TASS building at the end of the working day, she was accosted by a stranger. A voice said: “Tanya Dvorkin?” and she turned to see a pale, thin man in dirty clothes.

“Yes?” she said, a little anxiously: she could not imagine what such a man would want with her.

“Vasili Yenkov saved my life,” he said.

It was so unexpected that for a moment she did not know how to respond. Too many questions raced through her mind: How do you know Vasili? Where and when did he save your life? Why have you come to me?

He thrust into her hand a grubby envelope the size of a regular sheet of paper, then he turned away.

It took Tanya a moment to gather her wits. At last she realized there was one question more important than all the rest. While the man was still within earshot she said: “Is Vasili alive?”

The stranger stopped and looked back. The pause struck fear into Tanya’s heart. Then he said: “Yes,” and she felt the sudden lightness of relief.

The man walked away.

“Wait!” Tanya called, but he quickened his pace, turned a corner, and disappeared from view.

The envelope was not sealed. Tanya looked inside. She saw several sheets of paper covered with handwriting that she recognized as Vasili’s. She pulled them halfway out. The first sheet was headed:

Frostbite

by Ivan Kuznetsov

She pushed the sheets back into the envelope and walked on to the bus stop. She felt scared and excited at the same time. “Ivan Kuznetsov” was an obvious pseudonym, the commonest name imaginable, like Hans Schmidt in German or Jean Lefevre in French. Vasili had written something, an article or a story. She could hardly wait to read it, yet at the same time she had to resist the impulse to hurl it away from her like something contaminated, for it was sure to be subversive.

She shoved it into her shoulder bag. When the bus came it was crowded—this was the evening rush hour—so she could not look at the manuscript on her way home without the risk that someone would read it over her shoulder. She had to suppress her impatience.

She thought about the man who had handed it to her. He had been badly dressed, half starved, and in poor health, with a look of permanent wary fearfulness: just like a man recently released from jail, she thought. He had seemed glad to get rid of the envelope, and reluctant to say more to her than he had to. But he had at least explained why he had undertaken his dangerous errand. He was repaying a debt. “Vasili Yenkov saved my life,” he had said. Again she wondered how.

She got off the bus and walked to Government House. On her return from Cuba she had moved back into her mother’s flat. She had no reason to get her own apartment and, if she had, it would have been a lot less luxurious.

She spoke briefly to Anya, then went to her bedroom and sat down on the bed to read what Vasili had written.

His handwriting had altered. The letters were smaller, the risers shorter, the loops less flamboyant. Did that reflect a change of personality, she wondered, or just a shortage of writing paper?

She began to read.

Josef Ivanovich Maslov, called Soso, was overjoyed when the food arrived spoiled.

Normally, the guards stole most of the consignment and sold it. The prisoners were left with plain gruel in the morning and turnip soup at night. Food rarely went bad in Siberia, where the ambient temperature was usually below freezing—but Communism could work miracles. So when, occasionally, the meat was crawling with maggots and the fat rancid, the cook threw it all into the pot, and the prisoners rejoiced. Soso gobbled down kasha that was oily with stinking lard, and longed for more.

Tanya was nauseated, but at the same time she had to read on.

With each page she was more impressed. The story was about an unusual relationship between two prisoners, one an intellectual dissident, the other an uneducated gangster. Vasili had a simple, direct style that was remarkably effective. Life in the camp was described in brutally vivid language. But there was more than just description. Perhaps because of his experience in radio drama, Vasili knew how to keep a story moving, and Tanya found that her interest never flagged.

The fictional camp was located in a forest of Siberian larch, and its work was chopping down the trees. There were no safety rules and no protective clothing or equipment, so accidents were frequent. Tanya particularly noted an episode in which the gangster severed an artery in his arm with a saw and was saved by the intellectual, who tied a tourniquet around his arm. Was that how Vasili had saved the life of the messenger who had brought his manuscript to Moscow from Siberia?

Tanya read the story twice. It was almost like talking to Vasili: the phrasing was familiar from a hundred discussions and arguments, and she recognized the kinds of things he found funny or dramatic or ironic. It made her heart ache with missing him.

Now that she knew Vasili was alive, she had to find out why he had not returned to Moscow. The story contained no clue to that. But Tanya knew someone who could find out almost anything: her brother.

She put the manuscript in the drawer of her bedside table. She left the bedroom and said to her mother: “I have to go and see Dimka—I won’t be long.” She went down in the elevator to the floor on which her brother lived.

The door was opened by his wife, Nina, nine months pregnant. “You look well!” Tanya said.

It was not true. Nina was long past the stage when people said a pregnant woman looked “blooming.” She was huge, her breasts pendulous, her belly stretched taut. Her fair skin was pale under the freckles, and her red-brown hair was greasy. She looked older than twenty-nine. “Come in,” she said in a tired voice.

Dimka was watching the news. He turned off the television, kissed Tanya, and offered her a beer.

Nina’s mother, Masha, was there, having come from Perm by train to help her daughter with the baby. Masha was a small, prematurely wrinkled peasant woman dressed in black, visibly proud of her citified daughter in her swanky apartment. Tanya had been surprised when she first met Masha, having previously got the impression that Nina’s mother was a schoolteacher; but it turned out that she merely worked in the village school, cleaning it in fact. Nina had pretended that her parents were somewhat higher in status—a practice so common as to be almost universal, Tanya supposed.

They talked about Nina’s pregnancy. Tanya wondered how to get Dimka alone. There was no way she was going to talk about Vasili in front of Nina or her mother. Instinctively she mistrusted her brother’s wife.

Why did she feel that so strongly, she wondered guiltily? It was because of the pregnancy, she decided. Nina was not intellectual, but she was clever: not the type to suffer an accidental pregnancy. Tanya had a suspicion, never voiced, that Nina had manipulated Dimka into the marriage. Tanya knew that her brother was sophisticated and savvy about almost everything: he was naïve and romantic only about women. Why would Nina have wanted to entrap him? Because the Dvorkins were an elite family, and Nina was ambitious?

Don’t be such a bitch, Tanya told herself.

She made small talk for half an hour, then got up to go.

There was nothing supernatural about the twins’ relationship, but they knew each other so well that each could usually guess what the other was thinking, and Dimka intuited that Tanya had not come to talk about Nina’s pregnancy. Now he stood up too. “I’ve got to take out the garbage,” he said. “Give me a hand, would you, Tanya?”

They went down in the elevator, each carrying a bucket of rubbish. When they were outside, at the back of the building, with no one else around, Dimka said: “What is it?”

“Vasili Yenkov’s sentence is up, but he hasn’t come back to Moscow.”

Dimka’s face hardened. He loved Tanya, she knew, but he disagreed with her politics. “Yenkov did his best to undermine the government I work for. Why would I care what happens to him?”

“He believes in freedom and justice, as you do.”

“That kind of subversive activity just gives the hard-liners an excuse to resist reform.”

Tanya knew she was defending herself, as well as Vasili. “If it were not for people like Vasili, the hard-liners would say everything was all right, and there would be no pressure for change. How would anyone know that they killed Ustin Bodian, for example?”

“Bodian died of pneumonia.”

“Dimka, that’s not worthy of you. He died of neglect, and you know it.”

“True.” Dimka looked chastened. In a softer voice he said: “Are you in love with Vasili Yenkov?”

“No. I like him. He’s funny and smart and brave. But he’s the kind of man that needs a succession of young girls.”

“Or he was. There are no nymphets in a prison camp.”

“Anyway, he is a friend, and he’s served his sentence.”

“The world is full of injustice.”

“I want to know what has happened to him, and you can find out for me. If you will.”

Dimka sighed. “What about my career? In the Kremlin, compassion for dissidents unjustly treated is not considered admirable.”

Tanya’s hopes rose. He was weakening. “Please. It means a lot to me.”

“I can’t make any promises.”

“Just do your best.”

“All right.”

Tanya felt overcome by gratitude, and kissed his cheek. “You’re a good brother,” she said. “Thank you.”

Just as the Eskimos were said to have numerous different words for snow, so the citizens of Moscow had many phrases for the black market. Everything other than life’s most basic necessities had to be bought “on the left.” Many such purchases were straightforwardly criminal: you found a man who smuggled blue jeans from the West and you paid him an enormous price. Others were neither legal nor illegal. To buy a radio or a rug, you might have to put your name down on a waiting list; but you could leap to the top of the list “through pull,” by being a person of influence and having the power to return the favor; or “through friends,” by having a relative or pal in a position to manipulate the list. So widespread was queue-jumping that most Muscovites believed no one ever got to the top of a list just by waiting.

One day Natalya Smotrov asked Dimka to go with her to buy something on the black market. “Normally I’d ask Nik,” she said. Nikolai was her husband. “But it’s a present for his birthday, and I want it to be a surprise.”

Dimka knew little about Natalya’s life outside the Kremlin. She was married with no children, but that was about the extent of his knowledge. Kremlin apparatchiks were part of the Soviet elite, but Natalya’s Mercedes and her imported perfume indicated some other source of privilege and money. However, if there was a Nikolai Smotrov in the upper reaches of the Communist hierarchy, Dimka had never heard of him.

Dimka asked: “What are you going to give him?”

“A tape recorder. He wants a Grundig—that’s a German brand.”

Only on the black market could a Soviet citizen buy a German tape recorder. Dimka wondered how Natalya could afford such an expensive gift. “Where are you going to find one?” he asked.

“There’s a guy called Max at the Central Market.” This bazaar, in Sadovaya-Samotyochnaya, was a lawful alternative to state stores. Produce from private gardens was sold at higher prices. Instead of long queues and unattractive displays, there were mountains of colorful vegetables—for those who could afford them. And the sale of legitimate produce masked even more profitable illegal business at many of the stalls.

Dimka understood why Natalya wanted company. Some of the men who did this kind of work were thugs, and a woman had reason to be wary.

Dimka hoped that was her only motive. He did not want to be led into temptation. He felt close to Nina just now, her time being near. They had not had sex for a couple of months, which made him more vulnerable to Natalya’s charms. But that paled beside the drama of pregnancy. The last thing Dimka wanted was a dalliance with Natalya. But he could hardly refuse her this simple favor.

They went in the lunch hour. Natalya drove Dimka to the market in her ancient Mercedes. Despite its age it was fast and comfortable. How did she get parts for it, he wondered?

On the way she asked him about Nina. “The baby is due any day,” he said.

“Let me know if you need baby supplies,” Natalya said. “Nik’s sister has a three-year-old who no longer needs feeding bottles and suchlike.”

Dimka was surprised. Baby feeding bottles were a luxury more rare than tape recorders. “Thank you, I will.”

They parked and walked through the market to a shop selling secondhand furniture. This was a semi-legal business. People were allowed to sell their own possessions, but it was against the law to be a middleman, which made the trade cumbersome and inefficient. To Dimka, the difficulties of imposing such Communist rules illustrated the practical necessity of many capitalist practices—hence the need for liberalization.

Max was a heavy man in his thirties dressed American style in blue jeans and a white T-shirt. He sat at a pine kitchen table drinking tea and smoking. He was surrounded by cheap used couches and cabinets and beds, mostly elderly and damaged. “What do you want?” he said brusquely.

“I spoke to you last Wednesday about a Grundig tape recorder,” said Natalya. “You said to come back in a week.”

“Tape recorders are difficult to get hold of,” he said.

Dimka intervened. “Don’t piss about, Max,” he said, making his voice as harsh and contemptuous as Max’s. “Have you got one or not?”

Men such as Max considered it a sign of weakness to give a direct answer to a simple question. He said: “You’ll have to pay in American dollars.”

Natalya said: “I agreed to your price. I’ve brought exactly that much. No more.”

“Show me the money.”

Natalya took a wad of American bills from the pocket of her dress.

Max held out his hand.

Dimka took Natalya’s wrist to prevent her handing over the money prematurely. He said: “Where is the tape recorder?”

Max spoke over his shoulder. “Josef!”

There was a movement in the back room. “Yes?”

“Tape recorder.”

“Yes.”

Josef came out carrying a plain cardboard box. He was a younger man, maybe nineteen, with a cigarette dangling from his lip. Although small, he was muscular. He put the box down on a table. “It’s heavy,” he said. “Have you got a car?”

“Around the corner.”

Natalya counted out the cash.

Max said: “It cost me more than I expected.”

“I don’t have any more money,” Natalya said.

Max picked up the bills and counted them. “All right,” he said resentfully. “It’s yours.” He stood up and stuffed the wad into the pocket of his jeans. “Josef will carry it to your car.” He went into the back room.

Josef grasped the box to pick it up.

Dimka said: “Just a minute.”

Josef said: “What? I haven’t got time to waste.”

“Open the box,” said Dimka.

Josef took the weight of the box, ignoring him, but Dimka put his hand on it and leaned on it, making it impossible for Josef to lift it. Josef gave him a look of blazing fury, and for a moment Dimka wondered if there would be violence. Then Josef stood back and said: “Open the damn thing yourself.”

The lid was stapled and taped. Dimka and Natalya got it open with some difficulty. Inside was a reel-to-reel tape recorder. The brand name was Magic Tone.

“This is not a Grundig,” Natalya said.

“These are better than Grundigs,” Josef said. “Nicer sound.”

“I paid for a Grundig,” she said. “This is a cheap Japanese imitation.”

“You can’t get Grundigs these days.”

“Then I’ll have the money back.”

“You can’t, not once you’ve opened the box.”

“Until we opened the box, we didn’t know you were trying to defraud us.”

“Nobody defrauded you. You wanted a tape recorder.”

Dimka said: “Bugger this.” He went to the door of the back room.

Josef said: “You can’t go in there!”

Dimka ignored him and went in. The room was full of cardboard boxes. A few were open, showing television sets, record players, and radios, all foreign brands. But Max was not there. Dimka saw a back door.

He returned to the front room. “Max has run off with your money,” he told Natalya.

Josef said: “He’s a busy man. He has a lot of customers.”

“Don’t be so fucking stupid,” Dimka said to him. “Max is a thief, and so are you.”

Josef pointed a finger close to Dimka’s face. “Don’t you call me stupid,” he said in a threatening tone.

“Give her the money back,” Dimka said. “Before you get into real trouble.”

Josef grinned. “What are you going to do—call the police?”

They could not do that. They were engaged in an illegal transaction. And the police would probably arrest Dimka and Natalya but not Josef and Max, who were undoubtedly paying bribes to protect their business.

“There’s nothing we can do,” Natalya said. “Let’s go.”

Josef said: “Take your tape recorder.”

“No, thanks,” Natalya said. “It’s not what I want.” She went to the door.

Dimka said. “We’re coming back—for the money.”

Josef laughed. “What are you going to do?”

“You’ll see,” Dimka said weakly, and he followed Natalya out.

He was seething with frustration as Natalya drove back to the Kremlin. “I’m going to get your money back,” he said to her.

“Please don’t,” she said. “Those men are dangerous. I don’t want you to get hurt. Just leave it.”

He was not going to leave it, but he said no more.

When he got to his office, the KGB file on Vasili Yenkov was on his desk.

It was not thick. Yenkov was a script editor who had never been in trouble nor even under suspicion until the day in May 1961 when he had been arrested carrying five copies of a subversive news sheet called Dissidence. Under interrogation he claimed he had been handed a dozen copies a few minutes earlier and had begun to pass them out under a sudden impulse of compassion for the opera singer who had pneumonia. A thorough search of his apartment had revealed nothing to contradict his story. His typewriter did not match the one used to produce the newsletter. With electrical terminals attached to his lips and his fingertips, he had given the names of other subversives, but innocent and guilty people alike did that under torture. As was usual, some of the people named had been impeccable Communist Party members, while others the KGB had failed to trace. On balance, the secret police were inclined to believe Yenkov was not the illegal publisher of Dissidence.

Dimka had to admire the grit of a man who could maintain a lie under KGB interrogation. Yenkov had protected Tanya even while suffering agonizing torture. Perhaps he deserved his freedom.

Dimka knew the truth that Yenkov had kept hidden. On the night of Yenkov’s arrest, Dimka had driven Tanya on his motorcycle to Yenkov’s apartment, where she had picked up a typewriter, undoubtedly the machine used to produce Dissidence. Dimka had hurled it into the Moskva River half an hour later. Typewriters did not float. He and Tanya had saved Yenkov from a longer sentence.

Yenkov was no longer at the logging camp in the larch forest, according to the file. Someone had discovered that he had a little technical expertise. His first job at Radio Moscow had been studio production assistant, so he knew about microphones and electrical connections. The shortage of technicians in Siberia was so chronic that this had been enough to get him a job as an electrician in a power station.

He had probably been pleased, at first, to move to inside work at which he did not have to risk losing a limb to a careless axe. But there was a downside. The authorities were reluctant to permit a competent technician to leave Siberia. When his sentence was up, he had applied in the usual way for a travel visa to return to Moscow. And his application had been refused. That left him no choice but to continue in his job. He was stuck.

It was unjust; but injustice was everywhere, as Dimka had pointed out to Tanya.

Dimka studied the photograph in the file. Yenkov looked like a movie star, with a sensual face, fleshy lips, black eyebrows, and thick dark hair. But there seemed more to him than that. A faint expression of wry amusement around the corners of his eyes suggested that he did not take himself too seriously. It would not be surprising if Tanya were in love with this man, despite her denials.

Anyway, Dimka would try to get him released for her sake.

He would speak to Khrushchev about the case. However, he needed to wait until the boss was in a good mood. He put the file in his desk drawer.

He did not get an opportunity that afternoon. Khrushchev left early, and Dimka was getting ready to go home when Natalya put her head around his door. “Come for a drink,” she said. “We need one after our horrible experience in the Central Market.”

Dimka hesitated. “I need to get home to Nina. Her time is near.”

“Just a quick one.”

“Okay.” He screwed the cap onto his fountain pen and spoke to his secretary. “We can go, Vera.”

“I’ve got a few more things to do,” she said. She was conscientious.

The Riverside Bar was patronized by the young Kremlin elite, so it was not as dismal as the average Moscow drinking hole. The chairs were comfortable, the snacks were edible, and for the better-paid apparatchik with exotic tastes there were bottles of Scotch and bourbon behind the bar. Tonight it was crowded with people whom Dimka and Natalya knew, mostly aides like themselves. Someone thrust a glass of beer into Dimka’s hand and he drank gratefully. The mood was boisterous. Boris Kozlov, a Khrushchev aide like Dimka, told a risky joke. “Everybody! What will happen when Communism comes to Saudi Arabia?”

They all cheered and begged him to tell them.

“After a while there will be a shortage of sand!”

Everyone laughed. The people in this group were keen workers for Soviet Communism, as Dimka was, but they were not blind to its faults. The gap between party aspirations and Soviet reality bothered them all, and jokes released the tension.

Dimka finished his beer and got another.

Natalya raised her glass as if about to give a toast. “The best hope for world revolution is an American company called United Fruit,” she said. The people around her laughed. “No, seriously,” she said, though she was smiling. “They persuade the United States government to support brutal right-wing dictatorships all over Central and South America. If United Fruit had any sense they would foster gradual progress toward bourgeois freedoms—the rule of law, freedom of speech, trade unions—but, happily for world Communism, they’re too dumb to see that. They stamp ruthlessly on reform movements, so the people have nowhere to turn but to Communism—just as Karl Marx predicted.” She clinked glasses with the nearest person. “Long live United Fruit!”

Dimka laughed. Natalya was one of the smartest people in the Kremlin, as well as the prettiest. Flushed with gaiety, her wide mouth open in a laugh, she was enchanting. Dimka could not help comparing her with the weary, bulging, sex-averse woman at home, though he knew the thought was cruelly unjust.

Natalya went to the bar to order snacks. Dimka realized he had been here more than an hour: he had to leave. He went up to Natalya with the intention of saying good-bye. But the beer was just enough to make him incautious and, when Natalya smiled warmly at him, he kissed her.

She kissed him back, enthusiastically.

Dimka did not understand her. She had spent a night with him; then she yelled at him that she was married; then she asked him to go for a drink with her; then she kissed him. What next? But he hardly cared about her inconsistency when her warm mouth was on his and the tip of her tongue was teasing his lips.

She broke the embrace, and Dimka saw his secretary standing beside them.

Vera’s expression was severely judgmental. “I’ve been looking for you,” she said with a note of accusation. “There was a phone call just after you left.”

“I’m sorry,” said Dimka, not sure whether he was apologizing for being hard to find or for kissing Natalya.

Natalya took a plate of pickled cucumbers from the bartender and returned to the group.

“Your mother-in-law called,” Vera went on.

Dimka’s euphoria had now evaporated.

“Your wife has gone into labor,” Vera said. “All is well, but you should join her at the hospital.”

“Thank you,” said Dimka, feeling that he was the worst kind of faithless husband.

“Good night,” said Vera, and she left the bar.

Dimka followed her out. He stood breathing the cool night air for a moment. Then he got on his motorcycle and headed for the hospital. What a moment to be caught kissing a colleague. He deserved to feel humiliated: he had done something stupid.

He parked his bike in the hospital car park and went in. He found Nina in the maternity ward, sitting up in bed. Masha was on a chair beside the bed, holding a baby wrapped in a white shawl. “Congratulations,” Masha said to Dimka. “It’s a boy.”

“A boy,” Dimka said. He looked at Nina. She smiled, weary but triumphant.

He looked at the baby. He had a lot of damp dark hair. His eyes were a shade of blue that made Dimka think of his grandfather Grigori. All babies had blue eyes, he recalled. Was it his imagination that this baby seemed already to look at the world with Grandfather Grigori’s intense stare?

Masha held the baby out to Dimka. He took the little bundle as if handling a large eggshell. In the presence of this miracle, the day’s dramas faded to nothing.

I have a son, he thought, and tears came to his eyes.

“He’s beautiful,” Dimka said. “Let’s call him Grigor.”

Two things kept Dimka awake that night. One was guilt: just when his wife was giving birth in bloodshed and agony, he had been kissing Natalya. The other was rage at the way he had been outwitted and humiliated by Max and Josef. It was not he but Natalya who had been robbed, but he felt no less indignant and resentful.

Next morning on the way to work he drove his motorcycle to the Central Market. For half the night he had rehearsed what he would say to Max. “My name is Dmitri Ilich Dvorkin. Check who I am. Check who I work for. Check who my uncle is and who my father was. Then meet me here tomorrow with Natalya’s money, and beg me not to take the revenge you deserve.” He wondered whether he had the nerve to say all that; whether Max would be impressed or scornful; whether the speech would be threatening enough to retrieve Natalya’s money and Dimka’s pride.

Max was not sitting at the pine table. He was not in the room. Dimka did not know whether to be disappointed or relieved.

Josef was standing by the door to the back room. Dimka wondered whether to unleash his speech on the youngster. He probably did not have the power to get the money back, but it might relieve Dimka’s feelings. While Dimka hesitated he noticed that Josef had lost the threatening arrogance he had displayed yesterday. To Dimka’s astonishment, before he had a chance to open his mouth Josef backed away from him, looking scared. “I’m sorry!” Josef said. “I’m sorry!”

Dimka could not account for this transformation. If Josef had found out, overnight, that Dimka worked in the Kremlin and came from a politically powerful family, he might be apologetic and conciliatory, and he might even give the money back, but he would not look as if he were afraid for his life. “I just want Natalya’s money,” Dimka said.

“We gave it back! We already did!”

Dimka was puzzled. Had Natalya been here before him? “Who did you give it to?”

“Those two men.”

Dimka could not make sense of this. “Where is Max?” he said.

“In the hospital,” said Josef. “They broke both his arms, isn’t that enough for you?”

Dimka reflected for a moment. Unless this was all some charade, it seemed that two unknown men had beaten Max severely and forced him to give them the money he had taken from Natalya. Who were they? And why had they done this?

Clearly Josef knew no more. Bemused, Dimka turned and left the store.

It was not the police who had done this, he reasoned as he walked back to his bike, nor the army nor the KGB. Anyone official would have arrested Max and taken him to prison and broken his arms in private. Someone unofficial, then.

Unofficial meant gangland. So there were nasty criminals among Natalya’s friends or family.

No wonder she never said much about her private life.

Dimka drove fast to the Kremlin but still he was dismayed to find that Khrushchev had got there before him. However, the boss was in a good mood: Dimka could hear him laughing. Perhaps this was the moment to mention Vasili Yenkov. He opened his desk drawer and took out Yenkov’s KGB file. He picked up a folder of documents for Khrushchev to sign, then he hesitated. He was a fool to do this, even for his beloved sister. But he suppressed his anxiety and went into the main office.

The first secretary sat behind a big desk speaking on the telephone. He did not much like the phone, preferring face-to-face contact: that way, he said, he could tell when people were lying. However, this conversation was jovial. Dimka put the letters in front of him, and he began to sign while continuing to talk and laugh into the mouthpiece.

When he hung up, Khrushchev said: “What’s that in your hand? Looks like a KGB file.”

“Vasili Yenkov. Sentenced to two years in a labor camp for possessing a leaflet about Ustin Bodian, the dissident singer. He’s served his time, but they’re keeping him there.”

Khrushchev stopped signing and looked up. “Do you have some personal interest?”

Dimka felt a chill of fear. “None whatsoever,” he lied, managing to keep the anxiety out of his voice. If he revealed his sister’s link to a convicted subversive it could end his career and hers.

Khrushchev narrowed his eyes. “So why should we let him come home?”

Dimka wished he had refused Tanya. He should have known Khrushchev would see through him: a man did not become leader of the Soviet Union without being suspicious to the point of paranoia. Dimka backpedaled desperately. “I don’t say we should bring him home,” he said as calmly as he could. “I just thought you might like to know about him. His crime was trivial, he has suffered his punishment, and for you to grant justice to a minor dissident would accord with your general policy of cautious liberalization.”

Khrushchev was not fooled. “Someone has asked you for a favor.” Dimka opened his mouth to protest his innocence, but Khrushchev held up a hand to silence him. “Don’t deny it, I don’t mind. Influence is your reward for hard work.”

Dimka felt as if a death sentence had been lifted. “Thank you,” he said, sounding more pathetically grateful than he wished.

“What job is Yenkov doing in Siberia?” Khrushchev asked.

Dimka realized that the hand holding the file was trembling. He pressed his arm against his side to stop it. “He’s an electrician in a power station. He’s not qualified, but he used to work in radio.”

“What was his job in Moscow?”

“He was a script editor.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Khrushchev threw down his pen. “A script editor? What the hell use is a script editor? They’re desperate for electricians in Siberia. Leave him there. He’s doing something useful.”

Dimka stared at him in dismay. He did not know what to say.

Khrushchev picked up his pen and resumed signing. “A script editor,” he muttered. “My arse.”

Tanya typed out Vasili’s short story, “Frostbite,” with two carbon copies.

But it was too good merely for samizdat publication. Vasili evoked the world of the prison camps with brutal vividness—but he did more. Copying it, she had realized, with an ache in her heart, that the camp stood for the Soviet Union, and the story was a savage critique of Soviet society. Vasili was telling the truth in a way that Tanya could not, and she burned with remorse. Every day she wrote articles that were published in newspapers and magazines all over the USSR; every day she carefully avoided reality. She did not tell outright lies, but she always skirted around the poverty, injustice, repression, and waste that were the actual characteristics of her country. Vasili’s writing showed her that her life was a fraud.

She took the typescript to her editor, Daniil Antonov. “This came to me in the mail, anonymously,” she said. He might well guess that she was lying, but he would not betray her. “It’s a short story set in a prison camp.”

“We can’t publish it,” he said quickly.

“I know. But it’s very good—the work of a great writer, I think.”

“Why are you showing it to me?”

“You know the editor of New World magazine.”

Daniil looked thoughtful. “He occasionally publishes something unorthodox.”

Tanya lowered her voice. “I don’t know how far Khrushchev’s liberalization is intended to go.”

“The policy has vacillated, but the overall instruction is that the excesses of the past should be discussed and condemned.”

“Would you read it and, if you like it, show it to the editor?”

“Sure.” Daniil read a few lines. “Why do you think it was sent to you?”

“It’s probably written by someone I met when I went to Siberia two years ago.”

“Ah.” He nodded. “That would explain it.” He meant Not a bad cover.

“The author will probably reveal his identity if the story is accepted for publication.”

“Okay,” said Daniil. “I’ll do my best.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The University of Alabama was the last all-white state university in the USA. On Tuesday, June 11, two young Negroes arrived at the campus in Tuscaloosa to register as students. George Wallace, the diminutive governor of Alabama, stood at the doors of the university with his arms folded and his legs astride, and vowed to keep them out.

At the Department of Justice in Washington, George Jakes sat with Bobby Kennedy and others listening to telephone reports from people at the university. The television was on, but for the moment none of the networks was showing the scene live.

Less than a year ago, two people had been shot dead during riots at the University of Mississippi after its first colored student enrolled. The Kennedy brothers were determined to prevent a repeat.

George had been to Tuscaloosa, and had seen the university’s leafy campus. He had been frowned at as he walked across the green lawns, the only dark face among the pretty girls in bobby socks and the smart young men in blazers. He had drawn for Bobby a sketch of the grand portico of the Foster Auditorium, with its three doors, in front of which Governor Wallace now stood, at a portable lectern, surrounded by highway patrolmen. The June temperature in Tuscaloosa was rising toward a hundred degrees. George could visualize the reporters and photographers crowded in front of Wallace, sweating in the sun, waiting for violence to break out.

The confrontation had long been anticipated and planned by both sides.

George Wallace was a Southern Democrat. Abraham Lincoln, who freed the slaves, had been a Republican, while pro-slavery Southerners had been Democrats. Those Southerners were still in the party, helping Democratic presidents get elected, then undermining them once in office.

Wallace was a small, ugly man, going bald except for a patch at the front of his head that he greased and combed into a ludicrous quiff. But he was cunning, and George Jakes could not figure out what he was up to today. What result did Wallace hope for? Mayhem—or something more subtle?

The civil rights movement, which had seemed moribund two months ago, had taken wing after the Birmingham riots. Money was pouring in: at a Hollywood fund-raiser, movie stars such as Paul Newman and Tony Franciosa had written checks for a thousand dollars each. The White House was terrified of more disorder, and desperate to appease the protesters.

Bobby Kennedy had at last come round to the belief that there must be a new civil rights bill. He now admitted that the time had come for Congress to outlaw segregation in all public places—hotels, restaurants, buses, restrooms—and to protect the right of Negroes to vote. But he had not yet convinced his brother the president.

Bobby was pretending to be calm and in charge this morning. A television crew was filming him, and three of his seven children were running around the office. But George knew how fast Bobby’s relaxed openness could turn to cold fury when things went wrong.

Bobby was resolved that there would be no rioting—but he was equally determined to get the two students enrolled. A judge had issued a court order to admit the students, and Bobby, as attorney general, could not let himself be defeated by a state governor intent on flouting the law. He was ready to send in troops to remove Wallace by force—but that, too, would be an unhappy ending, Washington bullying the South.

Bobby was in his shirtsleeves, bent over the speakerphone on his wide desk, with wet marks of perspiration under his arms. The army had set up mobile communications, and someone in the crowd was telling Bobby what was happening. “Nick has arrived,” the voice on the speaker said. Nicholas Katzenbach was deputy attorney general, and Bobby’s representative on the scene. “He’s going up to Wallace . . . he’s handing him the cease-and-desist.” Katzenbach was armed with a presidential proclamation ordering Wallace to cease illegally defying a court order. “Now Wallace is making a speech.”

George Jakes’s left arm was in a discreet black silk sling. State troopers had cracked a bone in his wrist in Birmingham, Alabama. Two years earlier a racist rioter had broken the same arm in Anniston, which was also in Alabama. George hoped never to go to Alabama again.

“Wallace isn’t talking about segregation,” said the voice on the speaker. “He’s talking about states’ rights. He says Washington doesn’t have the right to interfere in Alabama schools. I’m going to try to get close enough so you can hear him.”

George frowned. In his inaugural speech as governor, Wallace had said: “Segregation now, segregation tomorrow, segregation forever.” But then he had been speaking to white Alabamans. Who was he trying to impress today? Something was going on here that the Kennedy brothers and their advisers had not yet understood.

Wallace’s speech was long. When at last it was over, Katzenbach once again demanded that Wallace obey the court, and Wallace refused. Stalemate.

Katzenbach then left the scene—but the drama was not over. The two students, Vivian Malone and James Hood, were waiting in a car. By prior arrangement, Katzenbach escorted Vivian to her dormitory, and another Justice Department lawyer did the same for James. This was only temporary. To register formally, they had to enter the Foster Auditorium.

The lunchtime news came on television, and in Bobby Kennedy’s office someone turned up the sound. Wallace stood at the lectern, looking taller than he was in real life. He said nothing about colored people or segregation or civil rights. He talked of the might of central government oppressing the sovereignty of the state of Alabama. He spoke indignantly about freedom and democracy, as if there were no Negroes being denied the vote. He quoted the American Constitution as if he did not spurn it every day of his life. It was a bravura performance, and it worried George.

Burke Marshall, the white lawyer who headed the civil rights division, was in Bobby’s office. George still did not trust him, but Marshall had become more radical since Birmingham, and now he proposed resolving the stalemate in Tuscaloosa by sending troops in. “Why don’t we just go ahead and do it?” he said to Bobby.

Bobby agreed.

It took time. Bobby’s aides ordered sandwiches and coffee. On the campus, everyone held their positions.

News came in from Vietnam. At a road junction in Saigon a Buddhist monk called Thich Quang Duc, doused in five gallons of gasoline, had calmly struck a match and set himself alight. His suicide was a protest at the persecution of the Buddhist majority by the American-sponsored president Ngo Dinh Diem, who was a Catholic.

There was no end to the travails of President Kennedy.

At last the voice on Bobby’s speakerphone said: “General Graham has arrived . . . with four soldiers.”

“Four?” said George. “That’s our show of force?”

They heard a new voice, presumably that of the general addressing Wallace. He said: “Sir, it is my sad duty to ask you to step aside under orders from the president of the United States.”

Graham was the commander of the Alabama National Guard, and he was clearly doing his duty against his inclination.

But the voice on the phone now said: “Wallace is walking away . . . Wallace is leaving! Wallace is leaving! It’s over!”

There was cheering and handshaking in the office.

After a minute the others noticed that George was not joining in. Dennis Wilson said: “What’s the matter with you?”

In George’s opinion, the people around him were not thinking hard enough. “Wallace planned this,” he said. “All along, he intended to give in as soon as we called in the troops.”

“But why?” said Dennis.

“That’s the question that’s been bothering me. All morning, I’ve had this suspicion that we’re being used.”

“So what did Wallace gain by this charade?”

“A showcase. He’s just been on television, posing as the ordinary man standing up to a bullying government.”

“Governor Wallace, complaining about being bullied?” said Wilson. “That’s a joke!”

Bobby had been following the argument, and now he intervened. “Listen to George,” he said. “He’s asking the right questions.”

“It’s a joke to you and me,” said George. “But many working-class Americans feel that integration is being shoved down their throats by Washington do-gooders such as all of us in this room.”

“I know,” said Wilson. “Though it’s unusual to hear that from . . .” He was going to say from a Negro, but changed his mind. “From someone who campaigns for civil rights. What’s your point?”

“What Wallace was doing, today, was talking to those white working-class voters. They’ll remember him standing there, defying Nick Katzenbach—a typical East Coast liberal, they’ll say—and they’ll remember the soldiers making Governor Wallace withdraw.”

“Wallace is the governor of Alabama. Why would he need to address the nation?”

“I suspect he will oppose Jack Kennedy in next year’s Democratic primaries. He’s running for president, folks. And he opened his campaign today on national television—with our help.”

There was a moment of quiet in the office as that sunk in. George could tell that they were convinced by his argument, and worried by its implications.

“Right now, Wallace leads the news, and he looks like a hero,” George finished. “Maybe President Kennedy needs to seize back the initiative.”

Bobby touched the intercom on his desk and said: “Get me the president.” He lit a cigar.

Dennis Wilson took a call on another phone and said: “The two students have entered the auditorium and registered.”

A few moments later Bobby picked up the phone to talk to his brother. He reported a nonviolent victory. Then he began to listen. “Yes!” he said at one stage. “George Jakes said the same thing . . .” There was another long pause. “Tonight? But there’s no speech . . . Of course it can be written. No, I think you’ve made the right decision. Let’s do it.” He hung up and looked around the room. “The president is going to introduce a new civil rights bill,” he said.

George’s heart leaped. That was what he and Martin Luther King and everyone in the civil rights movement had been asking for.

Bobby went on: “And he’s going to announce it on live television—tonight.”

“Tonight?” said George in surprise.

“In a few hours’ time.”

That made sense, George thought, though it would be a rush. The president would be back at the top of the news, where he belonged—ahead of both George Wallace and Thich Quang Duc.

Bobby added: “And he wants you to go over there and work on the speech with Ted.”

“Yes, sir,” said George.

He left the Justice Department in a state of high excitement. He walked so fast that he was panting when he reached the White House. He took a minute to catch his breath on the ground floor of the West Wing. Then he went upstairs. He found Ted Sorensen in his office with a group of colleagues. George took off his jacket and sat down.

Among the papers scattered on the table was a telegram from Martin Luther King to President Kennedy. In Danville, Virginia, when sixty-five Negroes had protested segregation, forty-eight of them had been so badly beaten by the police that they had ended up in the hospital. “The Negro’s endurance may be at breaking point,” King’s cable said. George underlined that sentence.

The group worked intensely on the speech. It would begin with a reference to the day’s events in Alabama, emphasizing that the troops had been enforcing a court order. However, the president would not linger on the details of this particular squabble, but move quickly to a strong appeal to the moral values of all decent Americans. At intervals, Sorensen took handwritten pages to the secretaries to be typed.

George felt frustrated that something so important had to be done in a last-minute rush, but he understood why. Drafting legislation was a rational process; politics, by contrast, was an intuitive game. Jack Kennedy had good instincts, and his gut feelings told him that he needed to take the initiative today.

Time passed too quickly. The speech was still being written when the TV crews moved into the Oval Office and began to set up their lights. President Kennedy walked along the corridor to Sorensen’s room and asked how it was coming. Sorensen showed him some pages, and the president did not like them. They moved into the secretaries’ office, and Kennedy started dictating changes to be typed. Then it was eight o’clock, and the speech was unfinished, but the president was on the air.

George watched the TV in Sorensen’s room, biting his nails.

And President Kennedy gave the performance of his life.

He started off a little too formally, but he warmed up when he spoke of the life prospects of a Negro baby: half as much chance of completing high school, one-third of the chance of graduating college, twice as much chance of being unemployed, and a life expectancy seven years shorter than that of a white baby.

“We are confronted primarily with a moral issue,” he said. “It is as old as the scriptures and as clear as the American Constitution.”

George marveled. Much of this was unscripted, and it showed a new Jack Kennedy. The slick modern president had discovered the power of sounding biblical. Perhaps he had learned from the preacher Martin Luther King. “Who among us would be content to have the color of his skin changed?” he said, reverting to short, plain words. “Who among us would then be content with the counsels of patience and delay?”

It was Jack Kennedy and his brother Bobby who had counseled patience and delay, George reflected. He rejoiced that now at last they had seen the painful inadequacy of such advice.

“We preach freedom around the world,” the president said. He was about to go to Europe, George knew. “But are we to say to the world, and much more importantly to each other, that this is the land of the free—except for the Negroes? That we have no second-class citizens—except Negroes? That we have no class or caste system, no ghettoes, no master race—except with respect to Negroes?”

George exulted. This was strong stuff—especially the reference to the master race, which called the Nazis to mind. It was the kind of speech he had always wanted the president to make.

“The fires of frustration are burning in every city, north and south, where legal remedies are not at hand,” Kennedy said. “Next week I shall ask the Congress of the United States to act, to make a commitment it has not fully made this century, to the proposition that”—he had gone formal, but now he reverted to plain language—“race has no place in American life or law.”

That was a quote for the newspapers, George thought immediately: race has no place in American life or law. He was excited beyond measure. America was changing, right now, minute by minute, and he was part of that change.

“Those who do nothing are inviting shame as well as violence,” the president said, and George thought he meant it, even though doing nothing had been his policy until a few hours ago.

“I ask the support of all our citizens,” Kennedy finished.

The broadcast ended. Along the corridor, the TV lights were switched off and the crews began to pack their gear. Sorensen congratulated the president.

George was euphoric but exhausted. He went home to his apartment, ate scrambled eggs, and watched the news. As he had hoped, the president’s broadcast was the main item. He went to bed and fell asleep.

The phone woke him. It was Verena Marquand. She was weeping and barely coherent. “What happened?” George asked her.

“Medgar,” she said, and then something he could not understand.

“Are you talking about Medgar Evers?” George knew the man, a black activist in Jackson, Mississippi. He was a full-time employee of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People, the most moderate of the civil rights groups. He had investigated the murder of Emmett Till and organized a boycott of white stores. His work had made him a national figure.

“They shot him,” Verena sobbed. “Right outside his house.”

“Is he dead?”

“Yes. He has three children, George—three! His kids heard the shot and went out and found their father bleeding to death on their driveway.”

“Oh, Christ.”

“What is wrong with these white people? Why do they do this to us, George? Why?”

“I don’t know, baby,” said George. “I just don’t know.”

Once again, Bobby Kennedy sent George to Atlanta with a message for Martin Luther King.

When George called Verena to make the appointment, he said: “I’d love to see your apartment.”

He could not figure Verena out. That night in Birmingham they had made love and survived a racist bomb, and he had felt very close to her. But days had gone by, then weeks, without another opportunity to make love, and their intimacy had evaporated. Yet, when she had been distraught with the news of the murder of Medgar Evers, she had not phoned Martin Luther King, nor her father, but George. Now he did not know what their relationship was.

“Sure,” she said. “Why not?”

“I’ll bring a bottle of vodka.” He had learned that vodka was her favorite booze.

“I share the place with another girl.”

“Shall I bring two bottles?”

She laughed. “Easy, tiger. Laura will be happy to go out for the evening. I’ve done it often enough for her.”

“Does that mean you’ll make dinner?”

“I’m not much of a cook.”

“How about if you fry a couple of steaks and I make a salad?”

“You have sophisticated taste.”

“That’s why I like you.”

“Smooth talker.”

He flew there the next day. He was hoping to spend the night with her, but he did not want her to feel taken for granted, so he checked into a hotel, then got a taxi to her place.

He had more than seduction on his mind. Last time he had brought a message from Bobby to King, he had felt ambivalent about it. This time Bobby was right and King was wrong, and George was determined to change King’s mind. So first he would try to change Verena’s.

Atlanta in June was hot, and she greeted him wearing a sleeveless tennis dress that showed her long light-tan arms. Her feet were bare, and that made him wonder whether she had anything on under the dress. She kissed him on the lips, but briefly, so that he was not sure what it meant.

She had a classy modern apartment with contemporary furniture. She could not afford it on the salary Martin Luther King was giving her, George guessed. Percy Marquand’s record royalties must have been paying the rent.

He put the vodka down on the kitchen counter and she handed him a bottle of vermouth and a cocktail shaker. Before making the drinks he said: “I want to be sure you understand something. President Kennedy is in the greatest trouble of his political career. This is much worse than the Bay of Pigs.”

She was shocked, as he had intended. “Tell me why,” she said.

“Because of his civil rights bill. The morning after his television broadcast—the morning after you called to tell me that Medgar had been murdered—the House majority leader telephoned the president. He said it was going to be impossible to pass the farm bill, mass-transit funding, foreign aid, and the space budget. Kennedy’s program of legislation has been completely derailed. Just as we feared, those Southern Democrats are taking their revenge. And the president’s rating in the opinion polls dropped ten points overnight.”

“It’s done him good internationally, though,” she pointed out. “You may just have to tough it out at home.”

“Believe me, we are,” George said. “Lyndon Johnson has come into his own.”

“Johnson? Are you kidding me?”

“No, I’m not.” George was friendly with one of the vice president’s aides, Skip Dickerson. “Did you know that the city of Houston shut off dockside electricity to protest the navy’s new policy on shore leave integration?”

“Yes, the bastards.”

“Lyndon solved that problem.”

“How?”

“NASA is planning to build a tracking station worth millions of dollars in Houston. Lyndon just threatened to cancel it. The city turned the power back on seconds later. Never underestimate Lyndon Johnson.”

“We could do with more of that attitude in the administration.”

“True.” But the Kennedy brothers were fastidious. They did not want to dirty their hands. They preferred to win the argument by sweet reason. Consequently, they did not make much use of Johnson, in fact they looked down on him for his arm-twisting skills.

George filled the cocktail shaker with ice, then poured in some vodka and shook it up. Verena opened the refrigerator and took out two cocktail glasses. George poured a teaspoonful of vermouth into each frosted glass, swirled it around to coat the sides, then added the cold vodka. Verena dropped an olive into each glass.

George liked the feeling of doing something together. “We make a good team, don’t we?” he said.

Verena raised her glass and drank. “You make a good martini,” she said.

George smiled ruefully. He had been hoping for a different answer, one that affirmed their relationship. He sipped and said: “Yeah, I do.”

Verena got out lettuce and tomatoes and two sirloin steaks. George began to wash the lettuce. As he did so he turned the conversation to the real purpose of his visit. “I know that we’ve talked about this before, but it doesn’t help the White House that Dr. King has Communist associates.”

“Who says he does?”

“The FBI.”

Verena snorted contemptuously. “That famously reliable source of information on the civil rights movement. Knock it off, George. You know that J. Edgar Hoover believes that anyone who disagrees with him is a Communist, including Bobby Kennedy. Where’s the evidence?”

“Apparently the FBI has evidence.”

“Apparently? So you haven’t seen any. Has Bobby?”

George felt embarrassed. “Hoover says the source is sensitive.”

“Hoover has refused to show the evidence to the attorney general? Who does Hoover think he’s working for?” She sipped her drink thoughtfully. “Has the president seen the evidence?”

George said nothing.

Verena’s incredulity mounted. “Hoover can’t say no to the president.”

“I believe the president decided not to push the matter to a confrontation.”

“How naïve are you people? George, listen to me. There is no evidence.”

George decided to concede the point. “You’re probably right. I don’t believe that Jack O’Dell and Stanley Levison are Communists, though probably they used to be; but don’t you see that the truth doesn’t matter? There are grounds for suspicion, and that’s enough to discredit the civil rights movement. And, now that the president has proposed a civil rights bill, he gets discredited too.” George wrapped the washed lettuce in a towel and windmilled his arm to dry the leaves. Irritation made him do it more energetically than necessary. “Jack Kennedy has put his political life on the line for civil rights, and we can’t let him be brought down by charges of Communist association.” He tipped the lettuce into a bowl. “Just get rid of those two guys, and solve the problem!”

Verena spoke patiently. “O’Dell is an employee of Martin Luther King’s organization, just as I am, but Levison isn’t even on the payroll. He’s just a friend and adviser to Martin. Do you really want to give J. Edgar Hoover the power to choose Martin’s friends?”

“Verena, they’re standing in the way of the civil rights bill. Just tell Dr. King to get rid of them—please.”

Verena sighed. “I think he will. It’s taking a while for his Christian conscience to get around to the idea of spurning loyal longtime supporters, but in the end he’ll do it.”

“Thank the Lord for that.” George’s spirits lifted: for once he could go back to Bobby with good news.

Verena salted the steaks and put them in a frying pan. “And now I’ll tell you something,” she said. “It won’t make any goddamn difference. Hoover will continue to leak stories to the press about how the civil rights movement is a Communist front. He would do it if we were all lifelong Republicans. J. Edgar Hoover is a pathological liar who hates Negroes, and it’s a damn shame your boss doesn’t have the balls to fire him.”

George wanted to protest but unfortunately the accusation was true. He sliced a tomato into the salad.

Verena said: “Do you like your steak well cooked?”

“Not too much.”

“The French way? So do I.”

George made a couple more drinks and they sat at the small table to eat. George embarked on the second half of his message. “It would help the president if Dr. King would call off this damn Washington sit-in.”

“That isn’t going to happen.”

King had called for a “massive, militant, and monumental sit-in demonstration” in Washington, coinciding with nationwide acts of civil disobedience. The Kennedy brothers were appalled. “Consider this,” George said. “In Congress, there are some people who will always vote for civil rights and some who never will. The ones who matter are those who could go either way.”

“Swing voters,” said Verena, using a phrase that had come into vogue.

“Exactly. They know that the bill is morally right but politically unpopular, and they’re looking for excuses to vote against it. Your demonstration will give them the chance to say: ‘I’m for civil rights, but not at the point of a gun.’ The timing is wrong.”

“As Martin says, the timing is always wrong for white people.”

George grinned. “You’re whiter than I am.”

She tossed her head. “And prettier.”

“That’s the truth. You’re just about the prettiest sight I’ve ever seen.”

“Thank you. Eat up.”

George picked up his knife and fork. They ate mostly in silence. George complimented Verena on the steaks, and she said he made a good salad, for a man.

When they had finished they carried their drinks into the living room and sat on the couch, and George resumed the argument. “It’s different, now, don’t you see? The administration is on our side. The president is trying his best to pass the bill we’ve been demanding for years.”

She shook her head. “If we’ve learned one thing, it’s that change comes faster when we keep up the pressure. Did you know that Negroes are getting served by white waitresses in Birmingham restaurants now?”

“Yes, I did know that. What an incredible turnaround.”

“And it wasn’t achieved by waiting patiently. It happened because they threw rocks and started fires.”

“The situation has changed.”

“Martin won’t cancel the demonstration.”

“Would he modify it?”

“What do you mean?”

This was George’s Plan B. “Could it become a simple law-abiding march, rather than a sit-in? Congressmen might feel less threatened.”

“I don’t know. Martin might consider that.”

“Hold it on a Wednesday, to discourage people from staying in the city all weekend, and end it early so that the marchers leave well before nightfall.”

“You’re trying to draw the sting.”

“If we must have a demonstration, we should do everything possible to make sure the occasion is nonviolent and makes a good impression, especially on television.”

“In that case, how about stationing portable toilets all along the route? I guess Bobby can get that done, even if he can’t fire Hoover.”

“Great idea.”

“And how about rounding up some white supporters? The whole thing will look better on TV if there are white marchers as well as black.”

George considered. “I bet Bobby could get the unions to send contingents.”

“If you can promise both of those things as sweeteners, I think we have a chance of changing Martin’s mind.”

George saw that Verena had come around to his point of view and was now discussing how to persuade King. That was half a victory. He said: “And if you can persuade Dr. King to change the sit-in to a march, I think we might get the president to endorse it.” He was sticking his neck out, but it was possible.

“I’ll do my best,” she said.

George put his arm around her. “See, we are a good team,” he said. She smiled and said nothing. He persisted. “Don’t you agree?”

She kissed him. It was the same as the last kiss: more than just friendly, less than sexy. She said thoughtfully: “After that bomb smashed the window of my hotel room, you crossed the room barefoot to fetch my shoes.”

“I remember,” he said. “There was broken glass all over the floor.”

“That was it,” she said. “That was your mistake.”

George frowned. “I don’t get it. I thought I was being nice.”

“Exactly. You’re too good for me, George.”

“What? That’s insane!”

She was serious. “I sleep around, George. I get drunk. I’m unfaithful. I had sex with Martin, once.”

George raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

“You deserve better,” Verena went on. “You’re going to have a wonderful career. You might be our first Negro president. You need a wife who will be true to you and work alongside you and support you and be a credit to you. That’s not me.”

George was bemused. “I wasn’t looking that far ahead,” he said. “I was just hoping to kiss you some more.”

She smiled. “That, I can do,” she said.

He kissed her long and slow. After a while he stroked the outside of her thigh, up inside the skirt of her tennis dress. His hand went as far as her hip. He had been right: no underwear.

She knew what he was thinking. “See?” she said. “Bad girl.”

“I know,” he said. “I’m crazy about you anyway.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

It had been hard for Walli to leave Berlin. Karolin was there, and he wanted to be near her. But that made no sense when they were separated by the Wall. Although they had been only a mile apart he could never see her. He could not risk crossing the border again: it was only by luck that he had not been killed last time. All the same it had been hard for him to move to Hamburg.

Walli told himself he understood why Karolin had chosen to stay with her family to have the baby. Who was best qualified to help her when she gave birth—her mother, or a seventeen-year-old guitar player? But the logic of her decision was small consolation to him.

He thought about her when he went to bed at night and as soon as he woke up in the morning. When he saw a pretty girl in the street it just made him sad about Karolin. He wondered how she was. Did the pregnancy make her uncomfortable and nauseous, or was she glowing? Were her parents angry with her, or thrilled at the prospect of a grandchild?

They exchanged letters, and both always wrote “I love you.” But they hesitated to say more about their emotions, knowing that every word would be scrutinized by a secret policeman in the censorship office, perhaps someone they knew, such as Hans Hoffmann. It was like declaring your feelings in front of a scornful audience.

They were on opposite sides of the Wall, and they might as well have been a thousand miles apart.

So Walli came to Hamburg and moved into his sister’s spacious apartment.

Rebecca never nagged him. His parents, in their letters, badgered him to go back to school, or perhaps college. Their stupid suggestions had included that he should study to become an electrician, a lawyer, and a schoolteacher like Rebecca and Bernd. But Rebecca herself said nothing. If he spent all day in his room practising the guitar, she made no objection, just asked him to wash up his coffee cup instead of leaving it dirty in the sink. If ever he talked to her about his future, she said: “What’s the rush? You’re seventeen. Do what you want, and see what happens.” Bernd was equally tolerant. Walli adored Rebecca and liked Bernd more every day.

He had not yet got used to West Germany. People had bigger cars and newer clothes and nicer homes. The government was openly criticized in the newspapers and even on television. Reading some attack on the aging Chancellor Adenauer, Walli would find himself looking guiltily over his shoulder, fearful that someone might observe him reading subversive material; and he would have to remind himself that this was the West, where he had freedom of speech.

He was sad to move away from Berlin but, he now discovered to his delight, Hamburg was the pounding heart of the German music scene. It was a port city, entertaining sailors from all over the world. A street called the Reeperbahn was the center of the red-light district, with bars, strip joints, semi-secret homosexual clubs, and many music venues.

Walli longed for only two things in life: to live with Karolin, and to be a professional musician.

One day soon after moving to Hamburg he walked along the Reeperbahn with his guitar slung over his shoulder and went into every bar to ask if they would like a singer-guitarist to entertain their customers. He believed he was good. He could sing, he could play, and he could please an audience. All he needed was a chance.

After a dozen or so rejections he struck lucky at a beer cellar called El Paso. The decor was evidently intended to be American, with the skull of a longhorn steer over the door and posters of cowboy films on the walls. The proprietor wore a Stetson, but his name was Dieter and he spoke with a Low German accent. “Can you play American music?” he said.

“You betcha,” said Walli in English.

“Come back at seven thirty. I’ll give you a trial.”

“How much would you pay me?” said Walli. Although he still got an allowance from Enok Andersen, the accountant at his father’s factory, he was desperate to prove he could be financially independent, and justify his refusal to follow his parents’ career advice.

But Dieter looked mildly offended, as if Walli had said something impolite. “Play for half an hour or so,” he said airily. “If I like you, then we can talk about money.”

Walli was inexperienced, but not stupid, and he felt sure that such evasiveness was a sign that the money would be low. However, this was the only offer he had got in two hours, and he accepted it.

He went home and spent the afternoon putting together half an hour of American songs. He would start with “If I Had a Hammer,” he decided; the audience at the Europe Hotel had liked it. He would do “This Land Is Your Land” and “A Mess of Blues.” He practised all his choices several times, though he hardly needed to.

When Rebecca and Bernd came home from work and heard his news, Rebecca announced that she would go with him. “I’ve never seen you play to an audience,” she said. “I’ve just heard you messing about at home and never finishing the song you started.”

It was kind of her, particularly as tonight she and Bernd were excited about something else: the visit to Germany of President Kennedy.

Walli and Rebecca’s parents believed that only American firmness had prevented the Soviet Union from taking over West Berlin and incorporating it into East Germany. Kennedy was a hero to them. Walli himself liked anyone who gave the tyrannical East German government a hard time.

Walli laid the table while Rebecca prepared supper. “Mother always taught us that if you want something you join a political party and campaign for it,” she said. “Bernd and I want East and West Germany to be reunited, so that we and thousands more Germans can be with their families again. That’s why we’ve joined the Free Democratic Party.”

Walli wanted the same thing, with all his heart, but he could not imagine how it might happen. “What do you think Kennedy will do?” he asked.

“He may say that we have to learn to live with East Germany, at least for now. That’s true, but it’s not what we want to hear. I’m hoping he’ll give the Communists a poke in the eye, if you want to know the truth.”

They watched the news after they ate. The picture was in clear shades of gray on the screen of their up-to-the-minute Franck television—not blurred green like the old sets.

Today Kennedy had been in West Berlin.

He had made a speech from the steps of Schöneberg town hall. In front of the building was a vast plaza that was jam-packed with spectators. According to the newsreader, there were four hundred fifty thousand people in the crowd.

The handsome young president spoke in the open air, a huge stars-and-stripes flag behind him, the breeze tousling his thick hair. He came out fighting. “There are some who say that Communism is the wave of the future,” he said. “Let them come to Berlin!” The audience roared their agreement. The cheers were even louder when he repeated the sentence in German. “Lass’ sie nach Berlin kommen!”

Walli saw that Rebecca and Bernd were delighted by this. “He’s not talking about normalization, or realistically accepting the status quo,” Rebecca said approvingly.

Kennedy was defiant. “Freedom has many difficulties, and democracy is not perfect,” he said.

Bernd commented: “He’s referring to the Negroes.”

Then Kennedy said scornfully: “But we have never had to put up a wall to keep our people in!”

“Right!” Walli shouted.

The June sun shone down on the president’s head. “All free men, wherever they live, are citizens of Berlin,” he said. “And therefore, as a free man, I take pride in the words: Ich bin ein Berliner!”

The crowd went wild. Kennedy stepped back from the microphone and slid his notes into his jacket pocket.

Bernd was smiling broadly. “I think the Soviets will get that message,” he said.

Rebecca said: “Khrushchev is going to be mad as hell.”

Walli said: “The madder the better.”

He and Rebecca were in an upbeat mood as they drove to the Reeperbahn in the van she had adapted for Bernd and his wheelchair. El Paso had been empty during the afternoon, and now it had only a handful of customers. Dieter in the Stetson had been less than friendly earlier, and this evening he was grumpy. He pretended to have forgotten to ask Walli to come back, and Walli feared he was going to withdraw the offer of a tryout; but then he jerked his thumb toward a tiny stage in the corner.

As well as Dieter there was a middle-aged barmaid with a big bust wearing a check shirt and a bandana: Dieter’s wife, Walli guessed. Clearly they wanted to give their bar a distinctive character, but neither had much charm, and they were not attracting many customers, American or otherwise.

Walli hoped that he might be the magic ingredient that pulled in the crowds.

Rebecca bought two beers. Walli plugged in his amplifier and switched the microphone on. He felt excited. This was what he loved, and what he was good at. He looked at Dieter and his wife, wondering when they wanted him to begin, but neither showed any interest in him, so he strummed a chord and started singing “If I Had a Hammer.”

The few customers glanced at him with curiosity for a moment, then went back to their conversations. Rebecca clapped along with the beat enthusiastically, but no one else did. Nevertheless Walli gave it everything, strumming rhythmically and singing loudly. It might take two or three numbers, but he could win this crowd around, he told himself.

Halfway through the song, the microphone went dead. So did Walli’s amplifier. The power to the stage had obviously failed. Walli finished the song without amplification, figuring that was slightly less embarrassing than stopping in the middle.

He put down his guitar and went to the bar. “The power’s gone dead onstage,” he said to Dieter.

“I know,” said Dieter. “I switched it off.”

Walli was baffled. “Why?”

“I don’t want to listen to that rubbish.”

Walli felt as if he had been slapped. Every time he had ever performed in public, people had liked what he did. He had never been told that his music was rubbish. His stomach went cold with shock. He hardly knew what to do or say.

Dieter added: “I asked for American music.”

That made no sense. Walli said indignantly: “That song was a number one hit in America!”

“This place is named after ‘El Paso’ by Marty Robbins—the greatest song ever written. I thought you would play that sort of thing. ‘Tennessee Waltz,’ or ‘On Top of Old Smoky,’ songs by Johnny Cash, Hank Williams, Jim Reeves.”

Jim Reeves was the most boring musician the world had ever known. “You’re talking about country-and-western music,” Walli said.

Dieter did not feel he needed to be enlightened. “I’m talking about American music,” he said with the confidence of ignorance.

There was no point in arguing with such a fool. Even if Walli had realized what was wanted, he would not have played it. He was not going into the music business to play “On Top of Old Smoky.”

He returned to the stage and put his guitar in its case.

Rebecca looked bewildered. “What happened?” she said.

“The landlord didn’t like my repertoire.”

“But he didn’t even listen to one song all through!”

“He feels he knows a lot about music.”

“Poor Walli!”

Walli could deal with Dieter’s boneheaded scorn, but Rebecca’s sympathy made him want to cry. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to work for such an asshole.”

“I’m going to give him a piece of my mind,” said Rebecca.

“No, please don’t,” Walli said. “It won’t help to have my big sister tell him off.”

“I suppose not,” she said.

“Come on.” Walli picked up his guitar and amplifier. “Let’s go home.”

Dave Williams and Plum Nellie arrived in Hamburg with high hopes. They were on a roll. They were becoming popular in London, and now they were going to wow Germany.

The manager of the Dive was called Herr Fluck, which Plum Nellie found hilarious. Not so funny was the fact that he did not like Plum Nellie much. Even worse, after two evenings Dave thought he was right. The group was not giving the punters what they wanted.

“Make dance!” Herr Fluck said in English. “Make dance!” The people in the club, all in their teens and twenties, were mainly interested in dancing. The most successful numbers were the ones that got the girls out on the floor, bopping with one another, so that the men could then cut in and get paired off.

But mostly the group fell short of generating the kind of excitement that got everyone moving. Dave was appalled. This was their big chance and they were fluffing it. If they did not improve, they would be sent home. “For the first time in my life, I’m a success at something,” he had said to his skeptical father; and in the end his father had let him come to Hamburg. Would he have to go home and admit that he had failed at this, too?

He could not figure out what the problem was, but Lenny could. “It’s Geoff,” he said. Geoffrey was the lead guitarist. “He’s homesick.”

“Does that make him play badly?”

“No, it makes him drink, and the drink makes him play badly.”

Dave took to standing right next to the drum kit and hitting his guitar strings harder and more rhythmically, but it did not make much difference. He realized that when one musician underperformed, it brought down the whole group.

On his fourth day he went to visit Rebecca.

He was delighted to discover that he had not one but two relations in Hamburg, and the second was a guitar-playing seventeen-year-old boy. Dave had schoolboy German, and Walli had picked up some English from his grandmother Maud; but they both spoke the language of music, and they spent an afternoon trading chords and guitar licks. That evening Dave took Walli to the Dive, and suggested that the club hire Walli to play in the intervals between Plum Nellie’s sets. Walli played a new American hit called “Blowin’ in the Wind,” which the manager liked, and he got the job.

A week later, Rebecca and Bernd invited the group for a meal. Walli explained to her that the boys worked late into the night and got up at midday, so they liked to eat at around six in the evening, before going onstage. That was fine with Rebecca.

Four of the five accepted the invitation: Geoff would not come.

Rebecca had cooked a pile of pork chops in a rich sauce, with great bowls of fried potatoes, mushrooms, and cabbage. Dave guessed she wanted, in a motherly way, to make sure they got one good meal in the course of a week. She was right to worry: they were living mainly on beer and cigarettes.

Her husband, Bernd, helped with the cooking and serving, moving himself around with surprising agility. Dave was struck by how happy Rebecca was, and how much in love with Bernd.

The group tucked into the food eagerly. They all talked in mixed English and German, and the atmosphere was amiable even if they did not understand everything that was said.

After eating they all thanked Rebecca profusely, then got the bus to the Reeperbahn.

Hamburg’s red-light district was like London’s Soho but more open, less discreet. Until he came here, Dave had not known that there were male prostitutes as well as female.

The Dive was a grubby basement. By comparison, the Jump Club was plush. At the Dive the furniture was broken, there was no heating or ventilation, and the toilets were in the backyard.

When they arrived, still full of Rebecca’s food, they found Geoff in the bar, drinking beer.

The group went onstage at eight. With breaks, they would play until three in the morning. Every night they played every song they knew at least once, and their favorites three times. Herr Fluck made them work hard.

Tonight they played worse than ever.

Throughout the first set Geoff was all over the place, playing wrong notes and fumbling his solos; and that put everyone else off. Instead of concentrating on entertaining people, they were struggling to cover Geoff’s mistakes. By the end of the set Lenny was angry.

In the interval, Walli sat on a stool, front of stage, and played the guitar and sang Bob Dylan songs. Dave sat and watched. Walli had a cheap harmonica on a rack that fitted around his neck, so that he could blow and strum at the same time, just as Dylan did. Walli was a good musician, Dave thought, and smart enough to recognize that Dylan was the latest craze. The clientele of the Dive mostly preferred rock and roll, but some listened, and when Walli went offstage he got a round of enthusiastic applause from a table of girls in the corner.

Dave accompanied Walli to the dressing room, and there they discovered a full-scale crisis.

Geoff was on the floor, drunk and incapable of standing upright without assistance. Lenny, kneeling over him, slapped his face hard every now and again. That probably relieved Lenny’s feelings, but it did not bring Geoff round. Dave got a mug of black coffee from the bar, and they forced Geoff to drink some, but that made no difference either.

“We’ll have to go on without no fucking lead guitarist,” said Lenny. “Unless you can play Geoff’s solos, Dave.”

“I can do the Chuck Berry stuff, but that’s all,” said Dave.

“We’ll just have to leave the rest out. This fucking audience probably won’t notice.”

Dave was not sure Lenny was right. Guitar solos were part of the dynamic of good dance music, creating light and shade and preventing the repetitive pop tunes from becoming boring.

Walli said: “I can play Geoff’s part.”

Lenny looked scornful. “You’ve never played with us.”

“I hear your whole act three nights,” Walli said. “I can play all those songs.”

Dave looked at Walli and saw in his eyes an eagerness that was touching. He was evidently yearning for this opportunity.

Lenny was skeptical. “Really?”

“I can play. Is not difficult.”

“Oh, isn’t it?” Lenny was a bit miffed.

Dave was keen to give Walli a chance. “He’s a better guitarist than I am, Lenny.”

“That’s not saying fucking much.”

“He’s better than Geoff, too.”

“Has he ever been in a group?”

Walli understood the question. “In a duo. With a girl singer.”

“He hasn’t worked with a drummer, then.”

That was a key point, Dave knew. He recalled how startled he had been, the first time he played with the Guardsmen, to discover the tight discipline imposed on his playing by the drumbeat. But he had managed, and Walli could surely do the same. “Let him try, Lenny,” Dave pleaded. “If you don’t like what he does, you can send him off after the first number.”

Herr Fluck put his head around the door and said: “Raus! Raus! It’s showtime!”

“All right, all right, wir kommen,” Lenny replied. He stood up. “Pick up your axe and get onstage, Walli.”

Walli went on.

The opening number of the second set was “Dizzy, Miss Lizzy,” which was guitar-led. Dave said to Walli: “Do you want to warm up with an easier one?”

“No, thanks,” said Walli.

Dave hoped his confidence was justified.

Lew, the drummer, counted: “Three, four, one.”

Walli came in right on cue and played the riff.

The group came in a bar later. They played the intro. Just before Lenny started to sing, Dave caught his eye, and Lenny nodded approvingly.

Walli played the guitar part perfectly without apparent effort.

At the end of the song, Dave gave Walli a wink.

They did the set. Walli played every number well, and even joined in some of the backing vocals. His performance lifted the group’s energy and they got the girls out on the floor.

It was the best set they had played since they got to Germany.

As they went off, Lenny put his arm around Walli and said: “Welcome to the group.”

Walli hardly slept that night. Playing with Plum Nellie, he had felt he belonged, musically, and that he enhanced the group. It had made him so happy that he began to fear it might not last. Had Lenny really meant it when he said: “Welcome to the group”?

Next day Walli went to the cheap boardinghouse in the St. Pauli district where the group lodged. He arrived at midday, just as they were getting up.

He hung out for a couple of hours with Dave and Buzz, the bass player, going through the group’s repertoire, polishing up beginnings and endings of songs. They seemed to assume he would be playing with them again. He wanted confirmation.

Lenny and Lew, the drummer, surfaced around three in the afternoon. Lenny was direct. “Do you definitely want to join this group?”

“Yes,” Walli said.

“That’s it, then,” said Lenny. “You’re in.”

Walli was not convinced. “What about Geoff?”

“I’ll talk to him when he gets up.”

They went to a café called Harald’s on Grosse Freiheit and had coffee and cigarettes for an hour, then they came back and woke Geoff. He looked ill, which was not surprising after drinking so much that he had passed out. He sat on the edge of his bed while Lenny talked to him and the others listened from the doorway. “You’re out of the group,” Lenny said. “I’m sorry about it, but you let us down badly last night. You were too drunk to stand up, let alone play. Walli took your place and I’m making him permanent.”

“He’s just a punk kid,” Geoff managed.

Lenny said: “Not only is he sober, he’s a better guitarist than you.”

“I need coffee,” said Geoff.

“Go to Harald’s.”

They did not see Geoff again before they left for the club.

They were setting up onstage just before eight when Geoff walked in, sober, guitar in hand.

Walli stared at him in consternation. Earlier he had got the impression Geoff had accepted that he was fired. Maybe he had just been too hungover to argue.

Whatever the reason, he had not packed his bag and left, and Walli became anxious. He had suffered so many setbacks: the police smashing up his guitar so that he could not appear at the Minnesänger; Karolin withdrawing from the gig at the Europe Hotel; and the proprietor of El Paso pulling the plug halfway through his first song. Surely this would not turn into another disappointment?

They all stopped what they were doing and watched as Geoff climbed onstage and opened his guitar case.

At that point Lenny said: “What are you doing, Geoff?”

“I’m going to show you that I’m the best guitarist you’ve ever heard.”

“For Pete’s sake! You’re fired and that’s that. Just fuck off to the station and catch a train to Hook.”

Geoff changed his tone and became wheedling. “We’ve been playing together for six years, Lenny. That has to count for something. You have to give me one chance.”

This seemed so reasonable that Walli, to his alarm, felt sure Lenny would agree. But Lenny shook his head. “You’re an all right guitar player, but you’re no genius, and you’re an awkward bastard too. Since we got here you’ve been playing so badly that we were on the point of being fired last night when Walli joined us.”

Geoff looked around. “What do the others think?” he said.

“Who told you this group was a democracy?” Lenny said.

“Who told you it’s not?” Geoff turned to Lew, the drummer, who was adjusting a foot pedal. “What do you think?”

Lew was Geoff’s cousin. “Give him another chance,” Lew said.

Geoff addressed the bassist. “What about you, Buzz?”

Buzz was an easygoing character who would go along with whoever shouted loudest. “I’d give him a chance.”

Geoff looked triumphant. “That makes three of us against one of you, Lenny.”

Dave put in: “No, it doesn’t. In a democracy, you have to be able to count. It’s you three against Lenny, me, and Walli—which makes it even.”

Lenny said: “Don’t bother about the votes. This is my group and I make the decisions. Geoff is fired. Put your instrument away, Geoff, or I’ll sling it right out the fucking door.”

At this point Geoff seemed to accept that Lenny was serious. He put his guitar back in its case and slammed the lid. Picking it up, he said: “I’ll promise you something, you bastards. If I go, you’ll all go.”

Walli wondered what that meant. Perhaps it was just an empty threat. Anyway, there was no time to think about it. A couple of minutes later they started to play.

All Walli’s fears departed. He could tell he was good and the group was good with him in it. Time passed quickly. In the interval, he went back onstage alone and sang Bob Dylan songs. He included a number he had written himself, called “Karolin.” The audience seemed to like it. Afterward he went straight back onstage to open the second set with “Dizzy, Miss Lizzy.”

While he was playing “You Can’t Catch Me” he saw a couple of uniformed policemen at the back talking to the proprietor, Herr Fluck, but he thought nothing of it.

When they came off at midnight, Herr Fluck was waiting in their dressing room. Without preamble he said to Dave: “How old are you?”

“Twenty-one,” said Dave.

“Don’t give me that shit.”

“What do you care?”

“In Germany we have laws about employing minors in bars.”

“I’m eighteen.”

“The police say you’re fifteen.”

“What do the police know about it?”

“They’ve been talking to the guitar player you just fired—Geoff.”

Lenny said: “The bastard, he’s shopped us.”

Herr Fluck said: “I run a nightclub. Prostitutes come in here, drug dealers, criminals of all kinds. I must constantly prove to the police that I do my best to obey the law. They say I have to send you home—all of you. So, good-bye.”

Lenny said: “When do we have to go?”

“You leave the club now. You leave Germany tomorrow.”

Lenny said: “That’s outrageous!”

“When you’re a club owner, you do as the police tell you.” He pointed at Walli. “He does not have to leave the country, being German.”

“Fuck it,” said Lenny. “I’ve lost two guitarists in one day.”

“No, you haven’t,” said Walli. “I’m coming with you.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Jasper Murray fell in love with the USA. They had all-night radio and three channels of television and a different morning newspaper in every city. The people were generous and their houses were spacious and their manners were relaxed and informal. Back home, English people acted as if they were perpetually taking tea in a Victorian drawing room, even when they were doing business deals or giving television interviews or playing sports. Jasper’s father, an army officer, could not see this, but his German-Jewish mother did. Here in the States, people were direct. In restaurants, waiters were efficient and helpful without bowing and scraping. No one was obsequious.

Jasper was planning a series of articles about his travels for St. Julian’s News, but he also had a higher ambition. Before leaving London, he had spoken to Barry Pugh and asked if the Daily Echo might be interested to see what he wrote. “Yeah, sure, if you come across something, you know, special,” Pugh had said without enthusiasm. Last week in Detroit, Jasper had got an interview with Smokey Robinson, lead singer of the Miracles, and had sent the article to the Echo by express post. He reckoned it should have got there by now. He had given the Dewars’ number, but Pugh had not phoned. Jasper was still hopeful, though, and he would call Pugh today.

He was staying at the Dewar family apartment in Washington. It was a big place in a swanky building a few blocks from the White House. “My grandfather Cameron Dewar bought this before the First World War,” Woody Dewar explained to Jasper at the breakfast table. “Both he and my father were senators.”

A colored maid called Miss Betsy poured orange juice for Jasper and asked if he would like some eggs. “No, thanks, just coffee,” he said. “I’m meeting a family friend for breakfast in an hour.”

Jasper had met the Dewars at the house in Great Peter Street during the year the family had spent in London. He had not been close to them except, briefly, to Beep, but all the same they had welcomed him to their home, more than a year later, with open-handed hospitality. Like the Williamses, they were casually generous, especially toward young people. Lloyd and Daisy were always happy to accommodate stray teenagers for a night or a week—or, in Jasper’s case, several years. The Dewars seemed the same. “It’s so kind of you to let me stay here,” Jasper said to Bella.

“Oh, you’re welcome, it’s nothing,” she said, and she meant it.

Jasper turned to Woody. “I assume you’ll be photographing today’s civil rights march for Life magazine?”

“That’s right,” said Woody. “I’ll mingle with the crowd, taking discreet candid shots with a small thirty-five-millimeter camera. Someone else will do the essential formal pictures of the celebrities on the platform.”

He was dressed casually, in chinos and a short-sleeved shirt, but all the same it would be difficult for such a tall man to be inconspicuous. However, Woody’s revealing news photographs were world famous. “I’m familiar with your work, as is everyone who’s interested in journalism,” said Jasper.

“Does any particular subject attract you?” Woody asked. “Crime, politics, war?”

“No. I’d be happy to cover everything—as you seem to.”

“I’m interested in faces. Whatever the story—a funeral, a football game, a murder investigation—I photograph faces.”

“What do you expect today?”

“No one knows. Martin Luther King is predicting a hundred thousand people. If he gets that many, it will be the biggest civil rights march ever. We all hope it will be happy and peaceful, but we’re not counting on it. Look what happened in Birmingham.”

“Washington is different,” Bella put in. “We have colored police officers here.”

“Not many,” Woody said. “Although you can bet they will all be at the forefront today.”

Beep Dewar came into the dining room. She was fifteen and petite. “Who’s going to be at the forefront?” she said.

“Not you, I hope,” said her mother. “You stay clear of trouble, please.”

“Of course, Mama.”

Jasper noted that Beep had learned a measure of discretion in the two years since he had last seen her. Today she looked cute, but not especially sexy, in tan jeans and a loose-fitting cowboy shirt—a sensible outfit for a day that might turn disorderly.

She acted toward Jasper as if she had completely forgotten about their flirtation in London. She was signaling that he should not expect to take up where he had left off. No doubt she had had boyfriends since then. For his part, he was relieved that she did not feel he belonged to her.

The last member of the Dewar family to appear at breakfast was Cameron, Beep’s older brother by two years. He was dressed like a middle-aged man, in a linen jacket with a white shirt and a tie. “You stay out of trouble too, Cam,” said his mother.

“I have no intention of going anywhere near the march,” he said prissily. “I’m planning to visit the Smithsonian.”

Beep said: “Don’t you believe colored people should be able to vote?”

“I don’t believe they should cause trouble.”

“If they were allowed to vote, they wouldn’t need to make their point in other ways.”

Bella said: “That’s enough, you two.”

Jasper finished his coffee. “I need to make a transatlantic phone call,” he said. He felt obliged to add: “I’ll pay for it, of course,” though he was not sure he had enough money.

“Go right ahead,” Bella said. “Use the phone in the study. And please don’t trouble about paying.”

Jasper was relieved. “You’re so kind,” he said.

Bella waved that aside. “I think Life magazine probably takes care of our phone bill, anyway,” she said vaguely.

Jasper went into the study. He called the Daily Echo in London and reached Barry Pugh, who said: “Hi, Jasper, how are you enjoying the USA?”

“It’s great.” Jasper swallowed nervously. “Did you get my Smokey Robinson piece?”

“Yes, thanks. Well written, Jasper, but it doesn’t make it for the Echo. Try the New Musical Express.”

Jasper was disheartened. He had no interest in writing for the pop press. “Okay,” he said. Not ready to give up, he added: “I thought the fact that Smokey is the Beatles’ favorite singer might give the interview extra interest.”

“Not enough. Nice try, though.”

Jasper tried hard to keep the disappointment out of his voice. “Thanks.”

Pugh said: “Isn’t there some kind of demonstration in Washington today?”

“Yes, civil rights.” Jasper’s hopes rose again. “I’ll be there—if you’d like a report?”

“Hmm . . . Give us a ring if it gets violent.”

And not otherwise, Jasper inferred. Disappointed, he said: “Okay, will do.”

Jasper cradled the phone and stared at it pensively. He had worked hard on the Smokey Robinson piece and he felt the Beatles connection made it special. But he had been wrong, and all he could do was try again.

He returned to the dining room. “I must go,” he said. “I’m meeting Senator Peshkov at the Willard Hotel.”

Woody said: “The Willard is where Martin Luther King stays.”

Jasper brightened. “Maybe I could get an interview.” The Echo would surely be interested in that.

Woody smiled. “There will be several hundred reporters hoping for an interview with King today.”

Jasper turned to Beep. “Will I see you later?”

“We’re meeting at the Washington Monument at ten,” she said. “There’s a rumor that Joan Baez is going to sing.”

“I’ll look for you there.”

Woody said: “Did you say you’re meeting Greg Peshkov?”

“Yes. He’s the half brother of Daisy Williams.”

“I know. The domestic arrangements of Greg’s father, Lev Peshkov, were hot gossip when your mother and I were teenagers in Buffalo. Please give Greg my regards.”

“Of course,” said Jasper, and he went out.

George Jakes entered the coffee shop at the Willard and looked around for Verena, but she had not yet arrived. However, he saw his father, Greg Peshkov, having breakfast with a good-looking man of about twenty who had a blond Beatle haircut. George sat at their table and said: “Good morning.”

Greg said: “This is Jasper Murray, a student from London, England. He’s the son of an old friend. Jasper, meet George Jakes.”

They shook hands. Jasper looked faintly startled, as people often did when they saw Greg and George together; but, like most people, he was too polite to ask for an explanation.

Greg said to George: “Jasper’s mother was a refugee from Nazi Germany.”

Jasper said: “My mother has never forgotten how the American people welcomed her that summer.”

George said to Jasper: “So the subject of racial discrimination is familiar to you, I guess.”

“Not really. My mother doesn’t like to talk about the old days too much.” He smiled engagingly. “At school in England I was called Jasper Jewboy for a while, but it didn’t stick. Are you involved in today’s march, George?”

“Kind of. I work for Bobby Kennedy. Our concern is to make sure the day goes smoothly.”

Jasper was interested. “How are you able to do that?”

“The Mall is full of temporary drinking fountains, first aid stations, portable toilets, and even a check-cashing facility. A church in New York has made eighty thousand sandwich lunches for the organizers to distribute free. All speeches are limited to seven minutes, so that the event will end on time and visitors can leave town well before dark. And Washington has banned the sale of liquor for the day.”

“Will it work?”

George did not know. “Frankly, everything depends on the white people. It only takes a few cops to start throwing their weight around, using billy clubs or fire hoses or attack dogs, to turn a prayer meeting into a riot.”

Greg said: “Washington isn’t the Deep South.”

“It isn’t the North, either,” said George. “So there’s no telling what will happen.”

Jasper persisted with his questions. “And if there is a riot?”

Greg answered him. “There are four thousand troops stationed in the suburbs, and fifteen thousand paratroopers close by in North Carolina. Washington hospitals have canceled all non-urgent surgery to make room for the wounded.”

“Blimey,” said Jasper. “You’re serious.”

George frowned. These precautions were not public knowledge. Greg had been briefed, as a senator; but he should not have told Jasper.

Verena appeared and came to their table. All three men stood up. She spoke to Greg. “Good morning, Senator. Good to see you again.”

Greg introduced her to Jasper, whose eyes were popping out. Verena had that effect on white and black men. “Verena works for Martin Luther King,” Greg said.

Jasper turned a hundred-watt smile on Verena. “Could you get me an interview with him?”

George snapped: “Why?”

“I’m a student journalist. Didn’t I mention that?”

“No, you did not,” George said with irritation.

“I’m sorry.”

Verena was not immune to Jasper’s charm. “I’m so sorry,” she said with a rueful smile. “An interview with the Reverend Dr. King is out of the question today.”

George was annoyed. Greg should have warned him that Jasper was a journalist. Last time George talked to a reporter he had embarrassed Bobby Kennedy. He hoped he had not said anything indiscreet today.

Verena turned to George, and her tone changed to annoyance. “I just talked to Charlton Heston. FBI agents are phoning our celebrity supporters this morning, telling them to stay in their hotel rooms for the day because there’s going to be violence.”

George made a disgusted noise. “The FBI is worried, not that the march will be violent, but that it will be a success.”

Verena was not satisfied with that. “Can’t you stop them trying to sabotage the whole event?”

“I’ll speak to Bobby, but I don’t think he’ll want to cross swords with J. Edgar Hoover on something so minor.” George touched Greg’s arm. “Verena and I have to talk. Excuse us, please.”

Verena said: “My table is over there.”

They crossed the room. George forgot about the sneaky Jasper Murray. As they sat down, he said to Verena: “What’s the situation?”

She leaned across the table and spoke in a low voice, but she was bursting with excitement. “It’s going to be bigger than we thought,” she said, her eyes shining. “A hundred thousand people is an underestimate.”

“How do you know?”

“Every scheduled bus, train, and plane to Washington today is full,” she said. “At least twenty chartered trains arrived this morning. At Union Station you can’t hear yourself think for the people singing ‘We Shall Not Be Moved.’ Special buses are coming through the Baltimore tunnel at the rate of one hundred per hour. My father chartered a plane from Los Angeles for all the movie stars. Marlon Brando is here, and James Garner. CBS is broadcasting the whole thing live.”

“How many people do you think will show up altogether?”

“Right now we’re guessing double the original estimate.”

George was flabbergasted. “Two hundred thousand people?”

“That’s what we think now. It could go higher.”

“I don’t know whether that’s good or bad.”

She frowned in irritation. “How could it be bad?”

“We just haven’t planned for that many. I don’t want trouble.”

“George, this is a protest movement—it’s about trouble.”

“I wanted us to show that a hundred thousand Negroes could meet in a park without starting a goddamn fight.”

“We’re in a fight already, and the whites started it. Hell, George, they broke your wrist for trying to go to the airport.”

George touched his left arm reflexively. The doctor said it had healed, but it still gave him a twinge sometimes. “Did you see Meet the Press?” he asked her. Dr. King had been questioned by a panel of journalists on the NBC news show.

“Of course I did.”

“Every question was about either Negro violence or Communists in the civil rights movement. We must not let these become the issues!”

“We can’t let our strategy be dictated by Meet the Press. What do you think those white journalists are going to talk about? Don’t expect them to ask Martin about violent white cops, dishonest Southern juries, corrupt white judges, and the Ku Klux Klan!”

“Let me put it to you another way,” George said calmly. “Suppose today goes off peacefully, but Congress rejects the civil rights bill, and then there are riots. Dr. King will be able to say: ‘A hundred thousand Negroes came here in peace, singing hymns, giving you the chance to do the right thing—but you spurned the opportunity we offered, and now you see the consequences of your obstinacy. If there are riots now, you have no one to blame but yourselves.’ How about that?”

Verena smiled reluctantly and nodded assent. “You’re pretty smart, George,” she said. “Did you know that?”

The National Mall was a three-hundred-acre park, long and narrow, stretching for two miles from the Capitol at one end to the Lincoln Memorial at the other. The marchers assembled in the middle, at the Washington Monument, an obelisk more than five hundred feet tall. A stage had been set up and, when George arrived, the pure, thrilling voice of Joan Baez was ringing out “Oh, Freedom.”

Jasper looked for Beep Dewar, but the crowd was already at least fifty thousand strong, and not surprisingly he could not see her.

He was having the most interesting day of his life, and it was not yet eleven in the morning. Greg Peshkov and George Jakes were Washington insiders who had casually given him exclusive information: how he wished the Daily Echo was interested. And green-eyed Verena Marquand was possibly the most beautiful woman Jasper had ever seen. Was George sleeping with her? Lucky man, if so.

Joan Baez was followed by Odetta and Josh White, but the crowd went wild when Peter, Paul and Mary appeared. Jasper could hardly believe he was seeing these huge stars live onstage without even buying a ticket. Peter, Paul and Mary sang their latest hit, “Blowin’ in the Wind,” a song written by Bob Dylan. It seemed to be about the civil rights movement, and included the line: “How many years can some people exist before they’re allowed to be free?”

The audience became even more madly enthusiastic when Dylan himself walked on. He sang a new song about the murder of Medgar Evers, called “Only a Pawn in Their Game.” The song sounded enigmatic to Jasper, but the listeners were oblivious to ambiguity, and rejoiced that the hottest new music star in America seemed to be on their side.

The throng was swelling minute by minute. Jasper was tall, and could look over most heads, but he could no longer see the edge of the multitude. To the west, the famous long reflecting pool led to the Greek temple commemorating Abraham Lincoln. The demonstrators were supposed to march to the Lincoln Memorial later, but Jasper could see that many were already migrating to the western end of the park, probably intent on securing the best seats for the speeches.

So far there had been no hint of violence, despite media pessimism—or had it been media wishful thinking?

There seemed to be news photographers and television cameras everywhere. They often focused on Jasper, perhaps because of his pop-star haircut.

He started to write an article in his head. The event was a picnic in a forest, he decided, with revelers lunching in a sunlit glade while bloodthirsty predators skulked in the deep shade of the surrounding woods.

He strolled west with the crowd. The Negroes were dressed in their Sunday best, he noticed, the men in ties and straw hats, the women in bright print dresses and head scarves; whereas the whites were casual. The issue had widened from segregation, and the placards called for votes, jobs, and housing. There were delegations from trade unions, churches, and synagogues.

Near the Lincoln Memorial he ran into Beep. She was with a group of girls heading in the same direction. They found a spot where they had a clear view of the stage that had been set up on the steps.

The girls passed around a large bottle of warm Coca-Cola. Some of them were Beep’s friends, Jasper discovered; others had simply tagged along. They were interested in him as an exotic foreigner. He lay in the August sun chatting idly to them until the speeches began. By that time the crowd stretched farther than Jasper could see. He felt sure there were more than the one hundred thousand expected.

The lectern stood in front of the giant statue of the brooding President Lincoln, seated on a huge marble throne, his massive hands on the arms of the chair, his beetle brows drawn, his expression stern.

Most of the speakers were black, but there were a few whites, including a rabbi. Marlon Brando was on the platform, brandishing an electric cattle prod of the kind used on Negroes by the police in Gadsden, Alabama. Jasper liked the sharp-tongued union leader Walter Reuther, who said scathingly: “We cannot defend freedom in Berlin as long as we deny freedom in Birmingham.”

But the crowd grew restless and began to shout for Martin Luther King.

He was almost the last speaker.

King was a preacher, and a good one, Jasper knew immediately. His diction was crisp, his voice a vibrant baritone. He had the power to move the crowd’s emotions, a valuable skill that Jasper admired.

However, King had probably never before preached to so many people. Few men had.

He cautioned that the demonstration, triumphant though it was, meant nothing if it did not lead to real change. “Those who hope that the Negro needed to blow off steam, and will now be content, will have a rude awakening if the nation returns to business as usual.” The audience cheered and whooped at every resonant phrase. “There will be neither rest nor tranquillity in America until the Negro is granted his citizenship rights,” King warned. “The whirlwinds of revolt will continue to shake the foundations of our nation until the bright day of justice emerges.”

As he drew near to the end of his seven minutes, King became more biblical. “We can never be satisfied as long as our children are stripped of their selfhood, and robbed of their dignity, by signs stating ‘For Whites Only,’” he said. “We will not be satisfied until justice runs down like waters, and righteousness like a mighty stream.”

On the platform behind him, the gospel singer Mahalia Jackson cried: “My Lord! My Lord!”

“Even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream,” he said.

Jasper sensed that King had thrown away his prepared speech, for he was no longer manipulating his audience emotionally. Instead, he seemed to be drawing his words from a deep, cold well of suffering and pain, a well created by centuries of cruelty. Jasper realized that Negroes described their suffering in the words of the Old Testament prophets, and bore their pain with the consolation of Jesus’s gospel of hope.

King’s voice shook with emotion as he said: “I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal.’

“I have a dream that one day, on the red hills of Georgia, the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood—I have a dream.

“That one day even the state of Mississippi—a state sweltering with the heat of injustice, sweltering with the heat of oppression—will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice. I have a dream.”

He had hit a rhythm, and two hundred thousand people felt it sway their souls. It was more than a speech: it was a poem and a canticle and a prayer as deep as the grave. The heartbreaking phrase “I have a dream” came like an amen at the end of each ringing sentence.

“That my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character—I have a dream today.

“I have a dream that one day down in Alabama—with its vicious racists, with its governor having his lips dripping with the words of interposition and nullification—one day right there in Alabama, little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers—I have a dream today.

“With this faith we will be able to hew, out of the mountain of despair, a stone of hope.

“With this faith we will be able to transform the jangling discords of our nation into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood.

“With this faith we will be able to work together, to pray together, to struggle together, to go to jail together, to stand up for freedom together, knowing that we will be free one day.”

Looking around, Jasper saw that black and white faces alike were running with tears. Even he felt moved, and he had thought himself immune to this kind of thing.

“And when this happens; when we allow freedom to ring; when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city; we will be able to speed up that day when all of God’s children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands . . .”

Here he slowed down, and the crowd was almost silent.

King’s voice trembled with the earthquake force of his passion. “. . . and sing, in the words of the old Negro spiritual:

“Free at last!

“Free at last!

“Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!”

He stepped back from the microphone.

The crowd gave a roar such as Jasper had never heard. They rose to their feet in a surge of rapturous hope. The applause rolled on, seeming as endless as the ocean waves.

It went on until King’s distinguished white-haired mentor Benjamin Mays stepped up to the microphone and pronounced a blessing. Then people knew it was over, and at last they turned away reluctantly from the stage to go home.

Jasper felt as if he had come through a storm, or a battle, or a love affair: he was spent but jubilant.

He and Beep headed for the Dewar apartment, hardly speaking. Surely, Jasper thought, the Echo would be interested in this? Hundreds of thousands of people had heard a heart-stopping plea for justice. Surely British politics, with its dismal sex scandals, could not compete with this for space on the front page of a newspaper?

He was right.

Beep’s mother, Bella, was sitting at the kitchen table, shelling peas, while Miss Betsy peeled potatoes. As soon as Jasper walked in, Bella said to him: “The Daily Echo in London has called twice for you. A Mr. Pugh.”

“Thank you,” said Jasper, his heart beating faster. “Do you mind if I return the call?”

“Of course not, go right ahead.”

Jasper went to the study and phoned Pugh. “Did you take part in the march?” said Pugh. “Did you hear the speech?”

“Yes, and yes,” said Jasper. “It was incredible—”

“I know. We’re going all out with it. Can you give us an I-was-there piece? As personal and impressionistic as you like. Don’t worry too much about facts and figures, we’ll have all those in the main report.”

“I’d be happy to,” said Jasper. It was an understatement: he was ecstatic.

“Let it run. About a thousand words. We can always cut if necessary.”

“All right.”

“Call me in half an hour and I’ll put you through to a copy taker.”

“Couldn’t I have longer?” said Jasper; but Pugh had already hung up.

“Blimey,” said Jasper to the wall.

There was an American-style yellow legal pad on Woody Dewar’s desk. Jasper pulled it toward him and picked up a pencil. He thought for a minute, then wrote:

“Today I stood in a crowd of two hundred thousand people and heard Martin Luther King redefine what it means to be American.”

Maria Summers felt high.

The television set had been on in the press office, and she had stopped work to watch Martin Luther King, as had just about everyone else in the White House, including President Kennedy.

When it ended she was walking on air. She could hardly wait to hear what the president thought of the speech. A few minutes later she was summoned to the Oval Office. The temptation to hug Kennedy was even harder for her to resist than usual. “He’s damn good,” was Kennedy’s slightly detached reaction. Then he said: “He’s on his way here now,” and Maria was overjoyed.

Jack Kennedy had changed. When Maria had first fallen in love with him, he had been in favor of civil rights intellectually, but not emotionally. The change was not due to their affair. Rather, it was the relentless brutality and lawlessness of the segregationists that had shocked him into a heartfelt personal commitment. And he had risked everything by bringing forward the new civil rights bill. She knew better than anyone how worried he was about it.

George Jakes came in, immaculately dressed as always, today in a dark-blue suit with a pale gray shirt and a striped tie. He smiled warmly at her. She was fond of him: he had been a friend in need. He was, she thought, the second-most attractive man she had ever met.

Maria knew that she and George were here for show, because they were among the small number of colored people in the administration. They were both reconciled to being used as symbols. It was not dishonest: though their number was small, Kennedy had appointed more Negroes to high-level posts than any previous president.

When Martin Luther King walked in, President Kennedy shook his hand and said: “I have a dream!”

It was meant well, Maria knew, but she felt it was ill judged. King’s dream came from the depths of vicious repression. Jack Kennedy had been born into America’s privileged elite, powerful and rich: how could he claim to have a dream of freedom and equality? Dr. King obviously felt this too, for he looked embarrassed and changed the subject. Later, in bed, the president would ask Maria where he had taken a wrong step, she knew; and she would have to find a loving and reassuring way to explain it to him.

King and the other civil rights leaders had not eaten since breakfast. When the president realized this, he ordered coffee and sandwiches for them from the White House kitchen.

Maria got them all to line up for a formal photograph, then the discussion began.

King and the others were riding a wave of elation. After today’s demonstration, they told the president, the civil rights bill could be toughened up. There should be a new section banning racial discrimination in employment. Young black men were dropping out of school at an alarming rate, seeing no future.

President Kennedy suggested that Negroes should copy the Jews, who valued education and made their kids study. Maria came from a Negro family who did exactly that, and she agreed with him. If black kids dropped out of school, was that the government’s problem? But she also saw how cleverly Kennedy had shifted the discussion away from the real issue, which was millions of jobs that were reserved for whites only.

They asked Kennedy to lead the crusade for civil rights. Maria knew that he was thinking something he could not say: that if he became too strongly identified with the Negro cause, then all the white people would vote Republican.

The shrewd Walter Reuther offered different advice. Identify the businessmen behind the Republican party and pick them off in small groups, he said. Tell them that if they don’t cooperate, their profits will suffer. Maria knew this as the Lyndon Johnson approach, a combination of cajolery and threats. The advice went over the president’s head: it just was not his style.

Kennedy went through the voting intentions of congressmen and senators, ticking off on his fingers those likely to oppose the civil rights bill. It was a dismal register of prejudice, apathy, and timidity. He was going to have trouble passing even a watered-down version of the bill, he made clear; anything tougher was doomed.

Gloom seemed to fall on Maria like a funeral shawl. She felt tired, depressed, and pessimistic. Her head ached and she wanted to go home.

The meeting lasted more than an hour. By the time it finished, all the euphoria had evaporated. The civil rights leaders filed out, their faces showing disenchantment and frustration. It was all very well for King to have a dream, but it seemed the American people did not share it.

Maria could hardly believe it but, despite all that had happened today, it seemed the great cause of equality and freedom was no farther forward.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Jasper Murray felt confident he would get the post of editor of St. Julian’s News. With his application he had sent in a clipping of his article in the Daily Echo about Martin Luther King’s “I have a dream” speech. Everyone said it was a great piece. He had been paid twenty-five pounds, less than he had got for the interview with Evie: politics was not as lucrative as celebrity scandal.

“Toby Jenkins has never had a paragraph published anywhere outside the student press,” Jasper told Daisy Williams, sitting in the kitchen in Great Peter Street.

“Is he your only rival?” she asked.

“As far as I know, yes.”

“When will you hear the decision?”

Jasper looked at his watch, although he knew the time. “The committee is meeting now. They’ll put up a notice outside Lord Jane’s office when they break for lunch at twelve thirty. My friend Pete Donegan is there. He’ll be my deputy editor. He’s going to phone me immediately.”

“Why do you want the post so badly?”

Because I know how bloody good I am, Jasper thought; twice as good as Cakebread and ten times better than Toby Jenkins. I deserve this job. But he did not open his heart to Daisy Williams. He was a little wary of her. She loved his mother, not him. When the interview with Evie had appeared in the Echo, and Jasper had pretended to be dismayed, it had seemed to him that Daisy had not been completely deceived. He worried that she saw through him. However, she always treated him kindly, for his mother’s sake.

Now he gave her a softened version of the truth. “I can turn St. Julian’s News into a better paper. Right now it’s like a parish magazine. It tells you what’s going on, but it’s frightened of conflict and controversy.” He thought of something that would appeal to Daisy’s ideals. “For example, St. Julian’s College has a board of governors, some of whom have investments in apartheid South Africa. I’d publish that information and ask what such men are doing governing a famous liberal college.”

“Good idea,” Daisy said with relish. “That’ll stir them up.”

Walli Franck came into the kitchen. It was midday, but he had evidently just got up: he kept rock-and-roll hours.

Daisy said to him: “Now that Dave’s back in school, what are you going to do?”

Walli put instant coffee into a cup. “Practise the guitar,” he said.

Daisy smiled. “If your mother were here, I guess she would ask if you shouldn’t try to earn some money.”

“I don’t want to earn money. But I must. That’s why I have a job.”

Walli’s grammar was sometimes so correct that it was hard to understand. Daisy said: “You don’t want money, but you do have a job?”

“Washing beer glasses at the Jump Club.”

“Well done!”

The doorbell rang, and a minute later a maid showed Hank Remington into the kitchen. He had classic Irish charm. He was a chirpy redhead with a big smile for everyone. “Hello, Mrs. Williams,” he said. “I’ve come to take your daughter out to lunch—unless you’re available!”

Women enjoyed Hank’s flattery. “Hello, Hank,” Daisy said warmly. She turned to the maid and said: “Make sure Evie knows Mr. Remington is here.”

“Is it Mr. Remington, now?” said Hank. “Don’t give people the idea that I’m respectable—it could ruin my reputation.” He shook hands with Jasper. “Evie showed me your article about Martin Luther King—that was great, well done.” Then he turned to Walli. “Hi, I’m Hank Remington.”

Walli was awestruck, but managed to introduce himself. “I’m Dave’s cousin, and I play guitar in Plum Nellie.”

“How was Hamburg?”

“Great, until we got thrown out because Dave was too young.”

“The Kords used to play in Hamburg,” Hank said. “It was great. I was born in Dublin but I grew up on the Reeperbahn, if you know what I mean.”

Jasper found Hank fascinating. He was rich and famous, one of the biggest pop stars in the world, yet he was working hard to be nice to everyone in the room. Did he have an insatiable desire to be liked—and was that the secret of his success?

Evie came in looking great. Her hair had been cut in a short bob that mimicked the Beatles, and she wore a simple Mary Quant A-line dress that showed off her legs. Hank pretended to be bowled over. “Jesus, I’ll have to take you somewhere posh, looking like that,” he said. “I was thinking of a Wimpy bar.”

“Wherever we go, it will have to be quick,” Evie said. “I’ve got an audition at three thirty.”

“What for?”

“A new play called A Woman’s Trial. It’s a courtroom drama.”

Hank was pleased. “You’ll be making your stage debut!”

“If I get the part.”

“Oh, you’ll get it. Come on, we’d better go, my Mini’s parked on a yellow line.”

They went out and Walli returned to his room. Jasper looked at his watch: it was twelve thirty. The editor would be announced any minute now.

Making conversation, he said: “I loved the States.”

“Would you like to live there?” Daisy asked.

“More than anything. And I want to work in television. St. Julian’s News will be a great first step, but basically newspapers are obsolete. TV news is the thing now.”

“America is my home,” Daisy said musingly, “but I found love in London.”

The phone rang. The editor had been chosen. Was it Jasper, or Toby Jenkins?

Daisy answered. “He’s right here,” she said, and handed the receiver to Jasper, whose heart was thudding.

The caller was Pete Donegan. He said: “Valerie Cakebread got it.”

At first Jasper did not understand. “What?” he said. “Who?”

“Valerie Cakebread is the new editor of St. Julian’s News. Sam Cakebread fixed it for his sister.”

“Valerie?” When Jasper understood he was flabbergasted. “She’s never written anything but fashion puffs!”

“And she made the tea at Vogue magazine.”

“How could they do this?”

“Beats me.”

“I knew Lord Jane was a prick, but this . . .”

“Shall I come to your place?”

“What for?”

“We should go out and drown our sorrows.”

“Okay.” Jasper hung up the phone.

Daisy said: “Bad news, obviously. I’m sorry.”

Jasper was rocked. “They gave the job to the current editor’s sister! I never saw that coming.” He recalled his conversation with Sam and Valerie in the coffee bar of the student union. The treacherous pair, neither had even hinted that Valerie was in the running.

He had been outmaneuvered by someone more guileful than himself, he realized bitterly.

Daisy said: “What a shame.”

It was the British way, Jasper thought resentfully; family connections were more important than talent. His father had fallen victim to the same syndrome, and in consequence was still only a colonel.

“What will you do?” Daisy said.

“Emigrate,” Jasper said. His resolve was now stronger than ever.

“Finish college first,” Daisy said. “Americans value education.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Jasper said. But his studies had always come second to his journalism. “I can’t work for St. Julian’s News under Valerie. I gave in gracefully last year, after Sam beat me to the job, but I can’t do it again.”

“I agree,” Daisy said. “It makes you look like a second-rater.”

Jasper was struck by a thought. A plan began to form in his mind. He said: “The worst of it is that now there won’t be a newspaper to expose such things as the scandal of college governors having investments in South Africa.”

Daisy took the bait. “Maybe someone will start a rival newspaper.”

Jasper pretended to be skeptical. “I doubt it.”

“It’s what Dave’s grandmother and Walli’s grandmother did in 1916. It was called The Soldier’s Wife. If they could do it . . .”

Jasper put on an innocent face and asked the key question. “Where did they get the money?”

“Maud’s family were rich. But it can’t cost much to print a couple of thousand copies. Then you pay for the second issue with the income from the first.”

“I got twenty-five pounds from the Echo for my piece on Martin Luther King. But I don’t think that would be enough . . .”

“I might help.”

Jasper pretended reluctance. “You might never get your money back.”

“Draw up a budget.”

“Jack’s on his way over here now. We can make some calls.”

“If you put in your own money, I’ll match it.”

“Thank you!” Jasper had no intention of spending his own money. But a budget was like a newspaper gossip column: most of it could be fiction, because no one ever knew the truth. “We could get the first issue together for the beginning of term, if we’re quick.”

“You should run that story about South African investments on the front page.”

Jasper’s spirits had lifted again. This might even be better. “Yeah . . . St. Julian’s News will have a bland front page saying ‘Welcome to London,’ or something. Ours will be the real newspaper.” He began to feel excited.

“Show me your budget as soon as you can,” Daisy said. “I’m sure we can work something out.”

“Thank you,” said Jasper.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

In September of 1963 George Jakes bought a car. He could afford it and he liked the idea, even though in Washington it was easy enough to get around on public transport. He preferred foreign cars: he thought they were more stylish. He found a dark-blue five-year-old two-door Mercedes-Benz 220S convertible that had a classy look. On the third Sunday in September he drove to Prince George’s County, Maryland, to visit his mother. She would cook him dinner, then they would drive together to Bethel Evangelical Church for the evening service. These days it was not often he had time to visit her, even on a Sunday.

Driving along Suitland Parkway with the top down in the mild September sunshine, he thought about all the questions she would ask him and what answers he would give. First, she would want to know about Verena. “She says she’s not good enough for me, Mom,” he would say. “What do you think of that?”

“She’s right,” his mother would probably say. Not many girls were good enough for her son, in her opinion.

She would ask how he was getting on with Bobby Kennedy. The truth was that Bobby was a man of extremes. There were people he hated implacably: J. Edgar Hoover was one. That was fine by George: Hoover was contemptible. But Lyndon Johnson was another. George thought it was a pity that Bobby hated Johnson, who could have been a powerful ally. Sadly, they were oil and water. George tried to imagine the big, boisterous vice president hanging out with the ultra-chic Kennedy clan on a boat at Hyannis Port. The image made him smile: Lyndon would be like a rhinoceros in a ballet class.

Bobby liked as hard as he hated, and fortunately George was someone he liked. George was one of a small inner group who were trusted so much that even when they made mistakes it was assumed they were well intentioned and so they were forgiven. What would George say to his mother about Bobby? “He’s a smart man who sincerely wants to make America a better country.”

She would want to know why the Kennedy brothers were moving so slowly on civil rights. George would say: “If they push harder there will be a white backlash, and that will have two results. One, we’ll lose the civil rights bill in Congress. Two, Jack Kennedy will lose the 1964 presidential election. And if Kennedy loses, who will win? Dick Nixon? Barry Goldwater? It could even be George Wallace, heaven forbid.”

These were his musings as he parked in the driveway of Jacky Jakes’s small, pleasant ranch-style house and let himself in at the front door.

All those thoughts fled his mind instantly when he heard the sound of his mother weeping.

He suffered a moment of childish fear. He had not often known his mother to cry: she had always been a tower of strength in the landscape of his youth. But, on the few occasions when she had given in, and howled her grief and fear uncontrollably, little Georgy had been bewildered and terrified. And now, just for a second, he had to suppress the revival of that boyhood terror, and remind himself that he was a grown man, not to be scared by a mother’s tears.

He slammed the door and strode across the little hallway into the living room. Jacky was sitting on the tan velvet couch in front of the television set. Her hands were pressed to her cheeks as if to hold her head on. Tears streamed down her face. Her mouth was open, and she was wailing. She was staring wide-eyed at the TV.

George said: “Mama, what is it, for God’s sake, what happened?”

“Four little girls!” she sobbed.

George looked at the monochrome picture on the screen. He saw two cars that looked as if they had been in a smash. Then the camera moved to a building and panned along damaged walls and broken windows. It pulled back, and he recognized the building. His heart lurched. “My God, that’s the Sixteenth Street Baptist Church in Birmingham!” he said. “What did they do?”

His mother said: “The whites bombed the Sunday school!”

“No! No!” George’s mind refused to accept it. Even in Alabama, men would not bomb a Sunday school.

“They killed four girls,” Jacky said. “Why did God let this happen?”

On television, a newsreader’s voice-over said: “The dead have been identified as Denise McNair, aged eleven—”

“Eleven!” said George. “This can’t be true!”

“—Addie Mae Collins, fourteen; Carole Robertson, fourteen; and Cynthia Wesley, fourteen.”

“But they’re children!” said George.

“More than twenty other people were injured by the blast,” the newsreader intoned in a voice devoid of emotion, and the camera showed an ambulance pulling away from the scene.

George sat down next to his mother and put his arms around her. “What are we going to do?” he said.

“Pray,” she replied.

The newsreader continued remorselessly. “This was the twenty-first bomb attack on Negroes in Birmingham in the last eight years,” he said. “The city police have never brought any perpetrators to justice for any of the bombings.”

“Pray?” said George, his voice trembling with grief.

Right then he wanted to kill someone.

The Sunday school bomb horrified the world. As far away as Wales, a group of coal miners started a collection to pay for a new stained-glass window to replace one smashed in the Sixteenth Street Baptist Church.

At the funeral, Martin Luther King said: “In spite of the darkness of this hour, we must not lose faith in our white brothers.” George tried to follow that counsel, but he found it hard.

For a while George felt public opinion swinging toward civil rights. A congressional committee toughened Kennedy’s bill, adding the ban on employment discrimination that the campaigners wanted so badly.

But a few weeks later the segregationists came out of their corner fighting.

In mid-October an envelope was delivered to the Justice Department and passed to George. It contained a slim bound report from the FBI entitled:

COMMUNISM AND THE NEGRO MOVEMENT

A CURRENT ANALYSIS

“What the fuck?” George murmured to himself.

He read it quickly. The report was eleven pages long and devastating. It called Martin Luther King “an unprincipled man.” It claimed that he took advice from Communists “knowingly, willingly and regularly.” With an assured air of inside knowledge it said: “Communist Party officials visualize the possibility of creating a situation whereby it could be said that, as the Communist Party goes, so goes Martin Luther King.”

These confident assertions were not backed up by a single scrap of evidence.

George picked up the phone and called Joe Hugo at FBI headquarters, which was on another floor in the same Justice Department building. “What is this shit?” he said.

Joe knew immediately what he was talking about and did not bother to pretend otherwise. “It’s not my fault your friends are Commies,” he said. “Don’t shoot the messenger.”

“This is not a report. It’s a smear of unsupported allegations.”

“We have evidence.”

“Evidence that can’t be produced is not evidence, Joe, it’s hearsay—weren’t you listening in law school?”

“Sources of intelligence have to be protected.”

“Who have you sent this crap to?”

“Let me check. Ah . . . the White House, the secretary of state, the defense secretary, the CIA, the army, the navy, and the air force.”

“So it’s all over Washington, you asshole.”

“Obviously we don’t try to conceal information about our nation’s enemies.”

“This is a deliberate attempt to sabotage the president’s civil rights bill.”

“We would never do a thing like that, George. We’re just a law enforcement agency.” Joe hung up.

George took a few minutes to recover his temper. Then he went through the report underlining the most outrageous allegations. He typed a note listing the government departments to which the report had been sent, according to Joe. Then he took the document in to Bobby.

As always, Bobby sat at his desk with his jacket off, his tie loosened, and his glasses on. He was smoking a cigar. “You’re not going to like this,” George said. He handed over the report, then summarized it.

“That cocksucker Hoover,” said Bobby.

It was the second time George had heard Bobby call Hoover a cocksucker. “You don’t mean that literally,” George said.

“Don’t I?”

George was startled. “Is Hoover a homo?” It was hard to imagine. Hoover was a short, overweight man with thinning hair, a squashed nose, lopsided features, and a thick neck. He was the opposite of a fairy.

Bobby said: “I hear the Mob has photos of him in a woman’s dress.”

“Is that why he goes around saying there is no such thing as the Mafia?”

“It’s one theory.”

“Jesus.”

“Make an appointment for me to see him tomorrow.”

“Okay. In the meantime, let me go through the Levison wiretaps. If Levison is influencing King toward Communism, there must be evidence in those phone calls. Levison would have to talk about the bourgeoisie, the masses, class struggle, revolution, the dictatorship of the proletariat, Lenin, Marx, the Soviet Union, like that. I’ll make a note of every such reference and see what they add up to.”

“That’s not a bad idea. Let me have a memo before I meet with Hoover.”

George returned to his office and sent for the transcripts of the wiretap on Stanley Levison’s phone—faithfully copied to the Justice Department by Hoover’s FBI. Half an hour later a file clerk wheeled a cart into the room.

George started work. Next time he looked up was when a cleaner opened his door and asked if she could sweep his office. He stayed at his desk while she worked around him. He remembered “pulling all-nighters” at Harvard Law, especially during the absurdly demanding first year.

Long before he finished, it was clear to him that Levison’s conversations with King had nothing to do with Communism. They did not use a single one of George’s key words, from alienation to Zapata. They talked about a book King was writing; they discussed fund-raising; they planned the march on Washington. King admitted fears and doubts to his friend: even though he advocated nonviolence, was he to blame for riots and bombings provoked by peaceful demonstrations? They rarely touched on wider political issues, never on the Cold War conflicts that obsessed every Communist: Berlin, Cuba, Vietnam.

At four A.M. George put his head down on the desk and napped. At eight he took a clean shirt from his desk drawer, still in its laundry wrapper, and went to the men’s room to wash. Then he typed the note Bobby had requested, saying that in two years of phone calls Stanley Levison and Martin Luther King had never spoken about Communism or any subject remotely associated therewith. “If Levison is a Moscow propagandist, he must be the worst one in history,” George finished.

Later that day, Bobby went to see Hoover at the FBI. When he came back he said to George: “He agreed to withdraw the report. Tomorrow his liaison men will go to every recipient and retrieve all copies, saying it needs to be revised.”

“Good,” George said. “But it’s too late, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Bobby. “The damage is done.”

As if President Kennedy did not have enough to worry about in the autumn of 1963, the crisis in Vietnam boiled over on the first Saturday in November.

Encouraged by Kennedy, the South Vietnamese military deposed their unpopular president, Ngo Dinh Diem. In Washington, National Security Adviser McGeorge Bundy woke Kennedy at three A.M. to tell him the coup he had authorized had now taken place. Diem and his brother, Nhu, had been arrested. Kennedy ordered that Diem and his family be given safe passage to exile.

Bobby summoned George to go with him to a meeting in the Cabinet Room at ten A.M.

During the meeting an aide came in with a cable announcing that both Ngo Dinh brothers had committed suicide.

President Kennedy was more shocked than George had ever seen him. He looked stricken. He paled beneath his tan, jumped to his feet, and rushed from the room.

“They didn’t commit suicide,” Bobby said to George after the meeting. “They’re devout Catholics.”

George knew that Tim Tedder was in Saigon, liaising between the CIA and the Army of the Republic of Vietnam, the ARVN, pronounced “Arvin.” No one would be surprised if it turned out that Tedder had fouled up.

Around midday a CIA cable revealed that the Ngo Dinh brothers had been executed in the back of an army personnel carrier.

“We can’t control anything over there,” George said to Bobby in frustration. “We’re trying to help those people find their way to freedom and democracy, but nothing we do works.”

“Just hang on another year,” said Bobby. “We can’t lose Vietnam to the Communists now—my brother would be defeated in the presidential election next November. But as soon as he’s reelected, he’ll pull out faster than you can blink. You’ll see.”

A gloomy group of aides sat in the office next to Bobby’s one evening that November. Hoover’s intervention had worked, and the civil rights bill was in trouble. Congressmen who were ashamed to be racists were looking for a pretext to vote against the bill, and Hoover had given them one.

The bill had been routinely passed to the Committee on Rules, whose chair, Howard W. Smith, from Virginia, was one of the more rabid conservative Southern Democrats. Emboldened by the FBI’s accusations of Communism in the civil rights movement, Smith had announced that his committee would keep the bill bottled up indefinitely.

It made George furious. Could these men not see that their attitudes had led to the murder of the Sunday school girls? As long as respectable people said it was all right to treat Negroes as if they were not quite human, ignorant thugs would think they had permission to kill children.

And there was worse. With a year to go before the presidential election, Jack Kennedy was losing popularity. He and Bobby were especially worried about Texas. Kennedy had won Texas in 1960 because he had a popular Texan running mate, Lyndon Johnson. Unfortunately, three years of association with the liberal Kennedy administration had just about destroyed Johnson’s credibility with the conservative business elite.

“It’s not just civil rights,” George argued. “We’re proposing to abolish the oil depletion allowance. Texas oilmen haven’t paid the taxes they ought to for decades, and they hate us for wanting to scrap their privileges.”

“Whatever it is,” said Dennis Wilson, “thousands of Texas conservatives have left the Democrats and joined the Republicans. And they love Senator Goldwater.” Barry Goldwater was a right-wing Republican who wanted to scrap Social Security and drop nuclear bombs on Vietnam. “If Barry runs for president, he’s going to take Texas.”

Another aide said: “We need the president to go down there and romance those shitkickers.”

“He will,” said Dennis. “And Jackie’s going with him.”

“When?”

“They’re going to Houston on November twenty-first,” Dennis replied. “And then, the next day, they’ll go to Dallas.”

CHAPTER THIRTY

Maria Summers was watching on TV, in the White House press office, as Air Force One touched down in brilliant sunshine at the Dallas airport called Love Field.

A ramp was maneuvered into place at the rear door. Vice President Lyndon Johnson and his wife, Lady Bird Johnson, took up their positions at the foot of the ramp, waiting to greet the president. A chain-link fence kept back a crowd of two thousand.

The aircraft door opened. There was a suspenseful pause, then Jackie Kennedy emerged, wearing a Chanel suit and a matching pillbox hat. Right behind her was her husband, Maria’s lover, President John F. Kennedy. Secretly, Maria thought of him as Johnny, the name his brothers occasionally used.

The television commentator, a local man, said: “I can see his suntan all the way from here!” He was a novice, Maria guessed: although the television picture was monochrome he failed to tell his audience the colors of things. Every woman watching would have been interested to know that Jackie’s outfit was pink.

Maria asked herself whether she would change places with Jackie, given the chance. In her heart Maria yearned to own him, to tell people she loved him, to point to him and say: “That’s my husband.” But there would be sadness as well as pleasure in the marriage. President Kennedy betrayed his wife constantly, and not just with Maria. Although he never admitted it, Maria had gradually realized that she was only one of a number of girlfriends, maybe dozens. It was hard enough to be his mistress and share him: how much more painful it must be to be his wife, knowing that he was intimate with other women, that he kissed them and touched their private parts and put his cock in their mouths every chance he got. Maria had to be content: she got what a mistress was entitled to. But Jackie did not have what a wife was entitled to. Maria did not know which was worse.

The presidential couple descended the ramp and began to shake hands with the Texas bigwigs waiting for them. Maria wondered how many of the people who were so pleased to be seen with Kennedy today would support him in next year’s election—and how many were already planning, behind their smiles, to betray him.

The Texas press was hostile. The Dallas Morning News, owned by a rabid conservative, had in the past two years called Kennedy a crook, a Communist sympathizer, a thief, and “fifty times a fool.” This morning it was struggling to find something negative to say about the triumphant tour by Jack and Jackie. It had settled for the feeble STORM OF POLITICAL CONTROVERSY SWIRLS AROUND KENNEDY ON VISIT. Inside, however, there was a pugnacious full-page advertisement paid for by “the American Fact-Finding Committee” with a list of sinister questions addressed to the president, such as: “Why has Gus Hall, head of the U.S. Communist Party, praised almost every one of your policies?” The political ideas were about as stupid as could be, Maria thought. Anyone who believed that President Kennedy was a secret Communist had to be certifiably insane, in her opinion. But the tone was deeply nasty, and she shivered.

A press officer interrupted her thoughts. “Maria, if you’re not busy . . .”

She was not, evidently, since she was watching television. “What can I do for you?” she said.

“I want you to run down to the archives.” The National Archives building was less than a mile from the White House. “Here’s what I need.” He handed her a sheet of paper.

Maria often wrote press releases, or at least drafted them, but she had not been promoted to press officer: no woman ever had. She was still a researcher after more than two years. She would have moved on long ago, were it not for her love affair. She looked at the list and said: “I’ll get on it right away.”

“Thanks.”

She took a last glance at the television. The president moved away from the official party and went to the crowd, reaching over the fence to shake hands, Jackie behind him in her pillbox hat. The people roared with excitement at the prospect of actually touching the golden couple. Maria could see the Secret Service men she knew well trying to stay close to the president, hard eyes scanning the throng, alert for trouble.

In her mind she said: Please take good care of my Johnny.

Then she left.

That morning George Jakes drove his Mercedes convertible out to McLean, Virginia, eight miles from the White House. Bobby Kennedy lived there with his large family in a thirteen-bedroom white-painted brick house called Hickory Hill. The attorney general had scheduled a lunch meeting there to discuss organized crime. This subject was outside George’s area of expertise, but he was getting invited to a wider range of meetings as he became closer to Bobby.

George stood in the living room with his rival Dennis Wilson, watching the TV coverage from Dallas. The president and Jackie were doing what George and everyone else in the administration wanted them to do, charming the socks off the Texans, chatting with them and touching them, Jackie giving her famous irresistible smile and extending a gloved hand to shake.

George glimpsed his friend Skip Dickerson in the background, close to Vice President Johnson.

At last the Kennedys retreated to their limousine. It was a stretched Lincoln Continental four-door convertible, and the top was down. The people were going to see their president in the flesh, without even a window intervening. Texas governor John Connally stood at the open door wearing a white ten-gallon hat. The president and Jackie got into the rear seat. Kennedy rested his right elbow on the edge, looking relaxed and happy. The car pulled away slowly, and the motorcade followed. Three buses of reporters brought up the rear.

The convoy drove out of the airport and onto the road, and the television coverage came to an end. George switched off the set.

It was a fine day in Washington, too, and Bobby had decided to have the meeting outside, so they all trooped through the back door and across the lawn to the pool patio, where chairs and tables had been set out ready. Looking back toward the house, George saw that a new wing had been built. It was not finished, for some workmen were painting it, and they had a transistor radio playing, its sound a mere susurration at this distance.

George admired what Bobby had done about organized crime. He had different government departments working together to target individual heads of crime families. The Federal Bureau of Narcotics had been gingered up. The Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms had been enlisted. Bobby had ordered the Internal Revenue Service to investigate mobsters’ tax returns. He had got the Immigration and Naturalization Service to deport those who were not citizens. It all amounted to the most effective attack ever on American crime.

Only the FBI let him down. The man who should have been the attorney general’s staunchest ally in the fight, J. Edgar Hoover, stood aloof, claiming there was no such thing as the Mafia, perhaps—George now knew—because the Mob was blackmailing him over his homosexuality.

Bobby’s crusade, like so much that the Kennedy administration did, was disdained in Texas. Illegal gambling, prostitution, and drug use were popular among many leading citizens. The Dallas Morning News had attacked Bobby for making the federal government too powerful, and argued that crime should remain the responsibility of local law enforcement authorities—who were mostly incompetent or corrupt, as everyone knew.

The meeting was interrupted when Bobby’s wife, Ethel, brought out lunch: tuna sandwiches and chowder. George looked at her with admiration. She was a slim, attractive woman of thirty-five, and it was hard to believe that four months ago she had given birth to their eighth child. She was dressed with the understated chic that George now recognized as the trademark of the Kennedy women.

A phone beside the pool rang and Ethel picked it up. “Yes,” she said, and she carried the phone on its long lead to Bobby. “It’s J. Edgar Hoover,” she said.

George was startled. Was it possible that Hoover knew they were discussing organized crime without him, and was calling to reprimand them? Could he have bugged Bobby’s patio?

Bobby took the phone from Ethel. “Hello?”

Across the grass, George noticed one of the house painters behaving oddly. He picked up his portable radio, spun around, and started running toward Bobby and the group on the patio.

George looked again at the attorney general. A look of horror came over Bobby’s face, and suddenly George felt scared. Bobby turned away from the group and clasped his hand over his mouth. George thought, What is that bastard Hoover saying to him?

Then Bobby turned back to the group eating lunch and cried: “Jack’s been shot! It might be fatal!”

George’s thoughts moved with underwater slowness. Jack. That means the president. He’s been shot. Shot in Dallas, it must be. It might be fatal. He might be dead.

The president might be dead.

Ethel ran to Bobby. All the men jumped to their feet. The painter arrived at the poolside, holding up his radio, unable to speak.

Then everyone began talking at the same time.

George still felt submerged. He thought of the important people in his life. Verena was in Atlanta, and she would hear the news on the radio. His mother was at work, in the University Women’s Club; she would hear in minutes. Congress was in session, and Greg would be there. Maria—

Maria Summers. Her secret lover had been shot. She would be grief-stricken—and she would have no one to comfort her.

George had to go to her.

He ran across the lawn and through the house to the parking lot in front, jumped into his open Mercedes, and drove off at top speed.

It was just before two in the afternoon in Washington, one in Dallas, and eleven in the morning in San Francisco, where Cam Dewar was in a math class, studying differential equations and finding them hard to understand—a new experience for him, for until now all schoolwork had been easy.

His year in a London school had done him no harm. In fact the English kids were a little ahead, because they started school younger. Only his ego had been damaged, by Evie Williams’s scornful rejection.

Cameron had little respect for the hip young math teacher, Mark “Fabian” Fanshore, with his crew cut and his knitted ties. He wanted to be the pupils’ friend. Cameron thought a teacher should be authoritative.

The principal, Dr. Douglas, stepped into the room. Cameron liked him better. The school’s leader was a dry, aloof academic, who did not care whether people liked him or not as long as they did what he told them.

“Fabian” looked up in surprise: Dr. Douglas was not often seen in classrooms. Douglas said something to him in a low voice. It must have been shocking, for Fabian’s handsome face paled beneath his tan. They talked for a minute, then Fabian nodded and Douglas walked out.

The bell rang for the midmorning break, but Fabian said firmly: “Stay in your seats, please, and listen to me in silence, all right?” He had the odd speech habit of muttering “All right?” and “Okay?” with unnecessary frequency. “I’ve got some bad news for you,” he went on. “Terribly bad news, in fact, okay? There has been a dreadful event in Dallas, Texas.”

Cameron said: “The president is in Dallas today.”

“Correct, but don’t interrupt me, okay? The very shocking news is that our president has been shot. We don’t yet know if he’s dead, all right?”

Someone said: “Fuck!” out loud but, astonishingly, Fabian ignored it.

“Now I want you to keep calm. Some of the girls in the school may be very upset.” There were no girls in the math class. “The younger children will need reassurance. I expect you to behave like the young men you are and help others who may be more vulnerable, okay? Take your break now as usual, and look out for alterations in the school timetable later. Off you go.”

Cameron picked up his books and walked out into the corridor, where all hope of quiet and order evaporated in seconds. The voices of children and adolescents pouring out of classrooms rose to a roar. Some kids were running, some standing dumbstruck, some crying, most shouting.

Everyone was asking whether the president was dead.

Cam did not like Jack Kennedy’s liberal politics, but suddenly that did not matter. If Cam had been old enough, he would have voted for Nixon, but all the same he felt personally outraged. Kennedy was the American president, elected by the American people, and an attack on him was an attack on them.

Who shot my president? he thought. Was it the Russians? Fidel Castro? The Mafia? The Ku Klux Klan?

He spotted his younger sister, Beep. She yelled: “Is the president dead?”

“Nobody knows,” Cam said. “Who’s got a radio?”

She thought for a moment. “Dr. Duggie has one.”

That was true, there was an old-fashioned mahogany wireless set in the head’s study. “I’m going to see him,” Cam said.

He made his way through the corridors to the head’s room and knocked on the door. Dr. Douglas’s voice called: “Come!” Cameron went in. The head was there with three other teachers, listening to the radio. “What do you want, Dewar?” said Douglas in his customary irritated tone.

“Sir, everyone in the school would like to listen to the radio.”

“Well, we can’t get them all in here, boy.”

“I thought you might put the radio in the school hall and turn up the volume.”

“Oh, did you, now?” Douglas looked about to issue a scornful dismissal.

But his deputy, Mrs. Elcot, murmured: “Not a bad idea.”

Douglas hesitated a moment, then nodded. “All right, Dewar. Good thinking. Go to the hall and I’ll bring the radio.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Cameron.

Jasper Murray was invited to the opening night of A Woman’s Trial at the King’s Theatre in London’s West End. Student journalists did not normally get such invitations, but Evie Williams was in the cast, and she had made sure he was on the list.

Jasper’s newspaper, The Real Thing, was going well, so well that he had dropped out of classes to run it for a year. The first issue had sold out after Lord Jane attacked it, in an uncharacteristically incontinent outburst during Freshers’ Week, for smearing members of the governing body. Jasper was delighted to have enraged Lord Jane, who was a pillar of the British establishment that disfavored people such as Jasper and his father. The second issue, containing further revelations about college bigwigs and their dubious investments, had broken even financially, and the third had made a profit. Jasper had been obliged to conceal the extent of his success from Daisy Williams, who might have wanted her loan repaid.

The fourth issue would go to the printer tomorrow. He was not so happy with this one: there was no big controversy.

He put that out of his mind for the moment and settled in his seat. Evie’s career had overtaken her education: there was no point in going to drama school when you were already getting film parts and West End roles. The girl who had once had an adolescent crush on Jasper was now a confident adult, still discovering her powers but in no doubt about where she was going.

Her distinguished boyfriend sat next to Jasper. Hank Remington was the same age as Jasper. Although Hank was a millionaire and world famous, he did not look down on a mere student. In fact, having left school at the age of fifteen, he was inclined to defer to people he thought were educated. This pleased Jasper, who did not say what he knew to be true, that Hank’s raw genius counted for a lot more than school exams.

Evie’s parents were in the same row, as was her grandmother Eth Leckwith. The major absence was her brother, Dave, whose group had a gig.

The curtain went up. The play was a legal drama. Jasper had heard Evie learning her lines, and he knew that the third act took place in a courtroom; but the action started in the prosecuting barrister’s chambers. Evie, playing his daughter, came in halfway through the first act and had an argument with her father.

Jasper was awestruck by Evie’s confidence and the authority of her performance. He had to keep reminding himself that this was the kid who lived in the same house as he. He found himself resenting the father’s smug condescension and sharing the daughter’s indignation and frustration. Evie’s anger grew and, as the end of the act drew near, she began an impassioned plea for mercy that had the audience silently mesmerized.

Then something happened.

People began to mutter.

At first the actors onstage did not notice. Jasper looked around, wondering whether someone had fainted or thrown up, but he could see nothing to explain the talking. On the other side of the auditorium two people left their seats and walked out with a third man who appeared to have come to summon them. Hank, sitting beside Jasper, hissed: “Why don’t these bastards keep quiet?”

After a minute Evie’s magisterial performance faltered, and Jasper knew that she had become aware of something going on. She tried to win back the attention of the audience by becoming more histrionic: she spoke louder, her voice cracked with emotion, and she strode about the stage making large gestures. It was a brave effort, and Jasper’s admiration rose even higher; but it did not work. The murmur of conversation rose to a buzz, then to a roar.

Hank stood up, turned around, and said to the people behind him: “Will you lot just bloody well shut up?”

Onstage, Evie stumbled. “Think of what that woman . . .” She hesitated. “Think of how that woman has lived—has suffered—has been through . . .” She fell silent.

The veteran actor playing her barrister father got up from behind his desk, saying, “There, there, dear,” a line that might or might not have been in the script. He came downstage to where Evie was standing and put his arm around her shoulder. Then he turned, squinting into the spotlights, and spoke directly to the audience.

“If you please, ladies and gentlemen,” he said in the fruity baritone for which he was famous, “will someone kindly tell us what on earth has happened?”

Rebecca Held was in a hurry. She came home from work with Bernd, made supper for them both, and got ready to go to a meeting while Bernd cleared away. She had recently been elected to the parliament that governed the Hamburg city-state—one of a growing number of female members. “Are you sure you don’t mind me rushing out?” she said to Bernd.

He spun his wheelchair around to face her. “Never give anything up for me,” he said. “Never sacrifice anything. Never say you can’t go somewhere or do something because you have to take care of your crippled husband. I want you to have a full life that gives you everything you ever hoped for. That way you’ll be happy, you’ll stay with me, and you’ll go on loving me.”

Rebecca’s question had been little more than a courtesy, but clearly Bernd had been thinking about this. His speech moved her. “You’re so good,” she said. “You’re like Werner, my father. You’re strong. And you must be right, because I do love you, now more than ever.”

“Speaking of Werner,” he said, “what do you make of Carla’s letter?”

All post in East Germany was liable to be read by the secret police. The sender could be jailed for saying the wrong thing, especially in letters to the West. Any mention of hardship, shortages, unemployment, or the secret police themselves would get you in trouble. So Carla wrote in hints. “She says that Karolin is now living with her and Werner,” Rebecca said. “So I think we have to infer that the poor girl was thrown out by her parents—probably under pressure from the Stasi, maybe from Hans himself.”

“Is there no end to that man’s vengefulness?” said Bernd.

“Anyway, Karolin has been befriended by Lili, who is almost fifteen, just the right age to be fascinated by a pregnancy. And the mother-to-be will get plenty of good advice from Grandma Maud. That house will be a safe haven for Karolin, the way it was for me when my parents were killed.”

Bernd nodded. “Are you not tempted to get back in touch with your roots?” he asked. “You never talk about being Jewish.”

She shook her head. “My parents were secular. I know that Walter and Maud used to go to church, but Carla got out of the habit, and religion has never meant anything to me. And race is best forgotten. I want to honor my parents’ memory by working for democracy and freedom throughout Germany, East and West.” She smiled wryly. “Sorry to make a speech. I should save it for the parliament.” She picked up her briefcase with the papers for the meeting.

Bernd looked at his watch. “Check the news before you go, in case there’s something you need to know about.”

Rebecca turned on the TV. The bulletin was just beginning. The newsreader said: “The American president, John F. Kennedy, was shot and killed today in Dallas, Texas.”

“No!” Rebecca’s exclamation was almost a scream.

“The young president and his wife, Jackie, were driving through the city in an open car when a gunman fired several shots, hitting the president, who was pronounced dead minutes later at a local hospital.”

“His poor wife!” said Rebecca. “His children!”

“Vice President Lyndon B. Johnson, who was in the motorcade, is believed to be on his way back to Washington to take over as the new president.”

“Kennedy was the defender of West Berlin,” said Rebecca, distraught. “He said: ‘I am a Berliner.’ He was our champion.”

“He was,” said Bernd.

“What will happen to us now?”

“I made a terrible mistake,” said Karolin to Lili, sitting in the kitchen of the town house in Berlin-Mitte. “I should have gone with Walli. Would you fill a hottie for me? I’ve got a backache again.”

Lili took a rubber bottle from the cupboard and filled it at the hot tap. She felt Karolin was too hard on herself. She said: “You did what you thought was best for your baby.”

“I was timid,” Karolin said.

Lili arranged the bottle behind Karolin. “Would you like some warm milk?”

“Yes, please.”

Lili poured milk into a pan and put it on to heat.

“I acted from fear,” Karolin went on. “I thought Walli was too young to be trustworthy. I thought my parents could be relied upon. It was the reverse of the truth.”

Karolin’s father had thrown her out after the Stasi threatened to get him fired from his job as a bus station supervisor. Lili had been shocked. She had not known there were parents who would do such things. “I can’t imagine my parents turning on me,” Lili said.

“They never would,” Karolin said. “And when I turned up on their doorstep, homeless and penniless and six months pregnant, they took me in without a moment’s hesitation.” She winced at another pang.

Lili poured warm milk into a cup and gave it to Karolin.

Karolin took a sip and said: “I’m so grateful to you and your family. But the truth is I’ll never trust anyone again. The only person you can rely upon in this life is yourself. That’s what I’ve learned.” She frowned, then she said: “Oh, God!”

“What?”

“I’ve wet myself.” A damp patch spread across the front of her skirt.

“Your waters have broken,” Lili said. “That means the baby is coming.”

“I’ve got to clean myself up.” Karolin stood up, then groaned. “I don’t think I can make it to the bathroom,” she said.

Lili heard the front door open, then shut. “Mother’s home,” she said. “Thank God!” A moment later Carla came into the kitchen. She took in the scene at a glance and said: “How often are the pains coming?”

“Every minute or two,” Karolin replied.

“Goodness, we don’t have much time,” said Carla. “I’m not even going to try to get you upstairs.” Briskly, she started putting towels on the floor. “Lie down right here,” she said. “I gave birth to Walli on this floor,” she added brightly, “so I expect it will do for you.” Karolin lay down, and Carla pulled off the soaked underwear.

Lili was frightened, even though her competent mother was now here. Lili could not imagine how a whole baby could emerge through such a tiny opening. Her fear grew worse, not better, a few minutes later when she saw the opening begin to enlarge.

“This is nice and quick,” said Carla calmly. “Lucky you.”

Karolin’s groans of agony seemed restrained: Lili felt she would have been screaming her head off.

Carla said to Lili: “Put your hand here, and hold the head when it comes out.” Lili hesitated, and Carla said: “Go on, it will be all right.”

The kitchen door opened, and Lili’s father appeared. “Have you heard the news?” he said.

“This is no place for men,” Carla said without looking at him. “Go to the bedroom, open the bottom drawer of the chest, and bring me the light-blue cashmere shawl.”

“All right,” Werner said. “But someone shot President Kennedy. He’s dead.”

“Tell me later,” said Carla. “Bring me that shawl.”

Werner disappeared.

“What did he say about Kennedy?” Carla asked a minute later.

“I think the baby’s coming out,” Lili said fearfully.

Karolin gave a huge wail of pain and effort, and the baby’s head squeezed out. Lili supported it with one hand. It was wet and slimy and warm. “It’s alive!” she said. She found herself overflowing with an emotion of love and protectiveness for the tiny scrap of new life.

And she was no longer frightened.

Jasper’s newspaper was produced in a tiny office in the student union building. The room contained one desk, two phones, and three chairs. Jasper met Pete Donegan there half an hour after leaving the theater.

“There are five thousand students in this college and another twenty thousand or more at other London colleges, and a lot are American,” Jasper said as soon as Pete walked in. “We need to call all our writers and get them working straightaway. They must talk to every American student they can think of, preferably tonight, tomorrow morning at the latest. If we do this right we can make a huge profit.”

“What’s the splash?”

“Probably HEARTBREAK OF U.S. STUDENTS. Get a mug shot of anyone who gives a good quote. I’ll do the American teachers: Heslop in English, Rawlings in engineering . . . Cooper in philosophy will say something outrageous, he always does.”

“We ought to have a biography of Kennedy as a sidebar,” said Donegan. “And maybe a page of pictures of his life—Harvard, the navy, his wedding to Jackie—”

“Wait a minute,” said Jasper. “Didn’t he study in London at one point? His father was American ambassador here—a right-wing Hitler-supporting bastard, apparently—but I seem to recall that the son went to the London School of Economics.”

“That’s right, it comes back to me now,” said Donegan. “But his studies were cut short, after only a few weeks.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Jasper excitedly. “Someone there must have met him. It makes no difference if they spoke to him for less than five minutes. We just need one quote, I don’t care if it’s only: ‘He was quite tall.’ Our splash is THE STUDENT JFK I KNEW, BY LSE PROF.”

“I’ll get on it right away,” said Donegan.

When George Jakes was a mile from the White House, traffic slowed to a stop for no apparent reason. He banged on his steering wheel in frustration. He pictured Maria weeping alone somewhere.

People started to blare their horns. Several cars ahead, a driver got out and spoke to someone on the sidewalk. At the corner, half a dozen people were gathered around a parked car with its windows open, listening, presumably to the car radio. George saw a well-dressed woman clap her hand to her mouth in horror.

In front of George’s Mercedes was a new white Chevrolet Impala. The door opened and the driver got out. He was wearing a suit and hat, and might have been a salesman making calls. He looked around, saw George in his open-top car, and said: “Is it true?”

“Yes,” George said. “The president has been shot.”

“Is he dead?”

“I don’t know.” There was no radio in George’s car.

The salesman approached the open window of a Buick. “Is the president dead?”

George did not hear the reply.

The traffic was not moving.

George turned off his engine, jumped out of the car, and started to run.

He was dismayed to realize that he had got out of shape. He always seemed too busy to work out. He tried to think when was the last time he had done some vigorous exercise, and he could not remember. He found himself perspiring and breathing hard. Despite his impatience, he had to alternate jogging with fast walking.

His shirt was soaked with sweat when he reached the White House. Maria was not in the press office. “She went to the National Archives Building to do some research,” said Nelly Fordham, whose face was wet with tears. “She probably hasn’t even heard the news yet.”

“Do we know whether the president is dead?”

“Yes, he is,” said Nelly, and she sobbed afresh.

“I don’t want Maria to hear it from a stranger,” George said, and he left the building and ran along Pennsylvania Avenue toward the National Archives.

Dimka had been married to Nina for a year, and their child, Grigor, was six months old, when he finally admitted to himself that he was in love with Natalya.

She and her friends frequently went for a drink at the Riverside Bar after work, and Dimka got into the habit of joining the group when Khrushchev did not keep him late. Sometimes it was more than one drink, and often Dimka and Natalya were the last two left.

He found he was able to make her laugh. He was not generally considered a comedian, but he relished the many ironies of Soviet life, and so did she. “A worker showed how a bicycle factory could make mudguards more quickly by molding one long strip of tin, then cutting it, instead of cutting it first, then bending the pieces one by one. He was reprimanded and disciplined for endangering the five-year plan.”

Natalya laughed, opening her wide mouth and showing her teeth. The way she laughed suggested a potential for reckless abandon that made Dimka’s heart beat faster. He imagined her throwing her head back like that while they were making love. Then he imagined seeing her laugh like that every day for the next fifty years, and he realized that was the life he wanted.

He did not tell her, though. She had a husband, and seemed to be happy with him; at least, she said nothing bad about him, although she was never in a hurry to go home to him. More importantly, Dimka had a wife and a child, and he owed them his loyalty.

He wanted to say: I love you. I’m going to leave my family. Will you leave your husband, live with me, and be my friend and lover for the rest of our lives?

Instead he said: “It’s late, I’d better go.”

“Let me drive you,” she said. “It’s too cold for your motorcycle.”

She pulled up at the corner near Government House. He leaned across to kiss her good night. She let him kiss her lips, briefly, then pulled back. He got out of the car and went into the building.

On the way up in the elevator he thought about the excuse he would make to Nina for being late. There was a genuine crisis at the Kremlin: this year’s grain harvest had been a catastrophe, and the Soviet government was desperately trying to buy foreign wheat to feed its people.

When he entered the apartment, Grigor was asleep and Nina was watching TV. He kissed her forehead and said: “I was kept late at the office, sorry. We had to finish a report on the bad harvest.”

“You shit-faced liar,” said Nina. “Your office has been calling here every ten minutes, trying to find you, to tell you that President Kennedy has been killed.”

Maria’s tummy rumbled. She looked at her watch and realized she had forgotten to have lunch. The work she was doing had absorbed her, and for two or three hours no one had come into this area to disturb her. But she was almost done, so she decided to finish off, then get a sandwich.

She bent her head over the old-fashioned ledger she was reading, then looked up again when she heard a noise. She was astonished to see George Jakes come in, panting, his suit jacket wet with perspiration, his eyes a little wild. “George!” she said. “What the heck . . . ?” She stood up.

“Maria,” he said, “I’m so sorry.” He came around the table and put his hands on her shoulders, a gesture that was a little too intimate for their strictly platonic friendship.

“Why are you sorry?” she said. “What have you done?”

“Nothing.” She tried to pull back, but he tightened his grip. “They shot him,” he said.

Maria saw that George was close to tears. She stopped resisting him and stepped closer. “Who was shot?” she said.

“In Dallas,” he said.

Then she began to understand, and a terrible dread rose inside her. “No,” she said.

George nodded. In a quiet voice he said: “The president is dead. I’m so sorry.”

“Dead,” Maria said. “He can’t be dead.” Her legs felt weak, and she sank to her knees. George knelt with her and folded her in his arms. “Not my Johnny,” she said, and a huge sob erupted from inside her. “Johnny, my Johnny,” she moaned. “Don’t leave me, please. Please, Johnny. Please don’t leave.” She saw the world turn gray, she slumped helplessly, then her eyes closed and she lost consciousness.

Onstage at the Jump Club in London, Plum Nellie performed a storming version of “Dizzy, Miss Lizzy” and came off to shouts of: “More!”

Backstage, Lenny said: “That was great, lads, best we’ve ever played!”

Dave looked at Walli and they both grinned. The group was getting better fast, and every gig was the best ever.

Dave was surprised to find his sister waiting in the dressing room. “How did the play go?” he said. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be there.”

“It stopped in the first act,” she said. “President Kennedy has been shot dead.”

“The president!” said Dave. “When did this happen?”

“A couple of hours ago.”

Dave thought of their American mother. “Is Mam upset?”

“Terribly.”

“Who shot him?”

“No one knows. He was in Texas, in a place called Dallas.”

“Never heard of it.”

Buzz, the bass player, said: “What shall we do for an encore?”

Lenny said: “We can’t do an encore, it would be disrespectful. President Kennedy has been assassinated. We have to do a minute’s silence, or something.”

Walli said: “Or a sad song.”

Evie said: “Dave, you know what we should do.”

“Do I?” He thought for a second, then said: “Oh, yeah.”

“Come on, then.”

Dave went onstage with Evie and plugged in his guitar. They stood at the microphone together. The rest of the group watched from the wings.

Dave spoke into the microphone. “My sister and I are half British, half American, but we feel very American tonight.” He paused. “Most of you probably know by now that President Kennedy has been shot dead.”

He heard several gasps from the audience, indicating that some had not heard, and the room went quiet. “We would like to play a special song now, a song for all of us, but especially for Americans.”

He played a G chord.

Evie sang:

O say can you see, by the dawn’s early light,

What so proudly we hail’d at the twilight’s last gleaming,

The room was dead silent.

Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight

O’er the ramparts we watch’d were so gallantly streaming?

Evie’s voice rose thrillingly.

And the rocket’s red glare, the bombs bursting in air,

Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there,

Several people in the audience were crying openly now, Dave saw.

O say does that star-spangled banner yet wave

O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave?

“Thank you for listening,” said Dave. “And God bless America.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Maria was not allowed to go to the funeral.

The day after the assassination was a Saturday, but like most White House staff she went into work, performing her duties in the press office with tears streaming down her face. It was not noticed: half the people there were crying.

She was better off here than at home alone. Work distracted her a little from her grief, and there was no end of work: the world’s press wanted to know every detail of the funeral arrangements.

Everything was on TV. Millions of American families sat in front of their sets all weekend. The three networks canceled all their regular programs. The news consisted entirely of stories linked to the assassination, and between bulletins there were documentaries about John F. Kennedy, his life, his family, his career, and his presidency. With merciless pathos they reran the happy footage of Jack and Jackie greeting the crowds at Love Field on Friday morning, an hour before his death. Maria recalled how she had idly asked herself if she would change places with Jackie. Now both of them had lost him.

At midday on Sunday, in the basement of the Dallas police station, the prime suspect, Lee Harvey Oswald, was himself murdered, live on television, by a minor mobster called Jack Ruby; a sinister mystery piled on top of an insupportable tragedy.

On Sunday afternoon Maria asked Nelly Fordham if they needed tickets for the funeral. “Oh, honey, I’m sorry, no one from this office is invited,” Nelly said gently. “Only Pierre Salinger.”

Maria felt panicky. Her heart fluttered. How could she not be there when they lowered the man she loved into his grave? “I have to go!” she said. “I’ll speak to Pierre.”

“Maria, you can’t go,” Nelly said. “You absolutely can’t.”

Something in Nelly’s tone rang an alarm bell. She was not just giving advice. She almost sounded scared.

Maria said: “Why not?”

Nelly lowered her voice. “Jackie knows about you.”

This was the first time anyone in the office had acknowledged that Maria had a relationship with the president; but in her distress Maria hardly noticed that milestone. “She can’t possibly know! I was always careful.”

“Don’t ask me how, I have no idea.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Nelly might have been offended, but she just shook her head sadly. “From what little I understand of such things, I believe the wife always knows.”

Maria wanted to deny it indignantly, but then she thought of the secretaries Jenny and Jerry, and the socialites Mary Meyer and Judith Campbell, and others. Maria was sure they all had sexual relations with President Kennedy. She had no proof, but when she saw them with him she just sort of knew. And Jackie had feminine intuition too.

Which meant Maria could not go to the funeral. She saw that now. The widow could not be forced to face her husband’s mistress at such a time. Maria understood that with total, miserable certainty.

So she stayed at home on Monday to watch it on TV.

The body had been lying in state in the rotunda at the Capitol. At half past ten the flag-draped coffin was carried out of the building and placed on a caisson, a type of gun carriage, drawn by six white horses. The procession then headed toward the White House.

Two men stood out in the funeral cortege, being inches taller than the rest: French president Charles de Gaulle, and the new American president, Lyndon Johnson.

Maria was all cried out. She had been sobbing for almost three days. Now when she looked at the television she just saw a pageant, a show organized for the benefit of the world. For her this was not about drums and flags and uniforms. She had lost a man; a warm, smiling, sexy man; a man with a bad back and faint wrinkles in the corners of his hazel eyes and a set of rubber ducks on the edge of his bathtub. She would never look at him again. Life without him stretched long and empty ahead of her.

When the cameras zoomed in on Jackie, her beautiful face visible despite the veil, Maria thought that she, too, looked numb. “I wronged you,” Maria said to the face on the screen. “God forgive me.”

She was startled by a ring at the door. It was George Jakes. He said: “You shouldn’t be alone for this.”

She felt a surge of helpless gratitude. When she really needed a friend, George was there. “Come in,” she said. “I’m sorry I look like a slattern.” She was wearing a nightdress and an old bathrobe.

“You look fine to me.” George had seen her worse than shabby.

He had brought a bag of Danish pastries. Maria put them on a plate. She had not had breakfast but, all the same, she did not eat a pastry. She did not feel hungry.

A million people lined the route, according to the television commentary. The coffin was taken from the White House to St. Matthew’s Cathedral, where there was a mass.

At twelve noon there was a five-minute silence, and traffic stopped all over America. The cameras showed crowds standing silent on city streets. It was strange to be in Washington and hear no cars outside. Maria and George stood in front of the TV set in her little apartment. They bowed their heads. George took her hand and held it. She felt a wave of affection for him.

When the five-minute silence ended, Maria made coffee. Her appetite returned, and they ate the pastries. No cameras were allowed in the church, so for a while there was nothing to watch. George talked to distract her, and she appreciated it. He said: “Will you stay in the press office?”

She had hardly thought about it, but she knew the answer. “No. I’m going to leave the White House.”

“Good idea.”

“Apart from everything else, I don’t see a future for myself in the press office. They never promote women, and I’m not going to spend my life as a researcher. I’m in government because I want to get things done.”

“There’s an opening in the Justice Department that might suit you.” George spoke as if the thought had just occurred to him, but Maria suspected he had planned to say this. “Dealing with corporations that disobey government regulations. They call it compliance. Could be interesting.”

“Do you think I’d have a chance?”

“With a degree from Chicago Law and two years’ experience in the White House? Absolutely.”

“They don’t hire many Negroes, though.”

“You know something? I think Lyndon may change that.”

“Really? He’s a Southerner!”

“Don’t prejudge him. To be honest, our people have treated him badly. Bobby hates him, don’t ask me why. Maybe because he calls his dick Jumbo.”

Maria giggled for the first time in three days. “You’re kidding.”

“Apparently it’s large. If he wants to intimidate someone, he pulls it out and says: ‘Meet Jumbo.’ That’s what people say.”

Men told such stories, Maria knew. It might be true and it might not. She grew serious again. “Everyone in the White House thinks Johnson’s behavior has been callous, especially toward the Kennedys.”

“I don’t buy that. Look, when the president had just died and no one knew what to do next, America was terribly vulnerable. What if the Soviets had chosen that moment to take over West Berlin? We are the government of the most powerful country in the world, and we have to do our job, without a second’s pause, no matter how deep our sadness. Lyndon picked up the reins immediately, and a darn good thing he did, because no one else was thinking about it.”

“Not even Bobby?”

“Least of all Bobby. I love the man, you know that, but he surrendered to his grief. He’s comforting Jackie and he’s organizing his brother’s funeral, and he’s not governing America. Frankly, most of our people are just as bad. They may think Lyndon is being callous. I think he’s being presidential.”

At the end of the mass, the coffin was brought out of the church and again placed on the caisson for the journey to Arlington National Cemetery. This time the mourners traveled in a long line of black limousines. The procession passed the Lincoln Memorial and crossed the Potomac River.

Maria said: “What will Johnson do about the civil rights bill?”

“That’s the big question. Right now the bill is doomed. It’s with the rules committee, whose chairman, Howard Smith, won’t even say when they will begin discussing it.”

Maria thought of the Sunday school bombing. How could anyone side with those Southern racists? “Can’t his committee overrule him?”

“Theoretically, yes, but when the Republicans ally with the Southern Democrats they have a majority, and they always defeat civil rights, no matter what the public thinks. I don’t know how these people can pretend they believe in democracy.”

On television, Jackie Kennedy lit an eternal flame to burn perpetually over the grave. George took Maria’s hand again, and she saw tears in his eyes. They watched in silence as the casket was slowly lowered into the ground.

Jack Kennedy was gone.

Maria said: “Oh, God, what will happen to us all now?”

“I don’t know,” said George.

George left Maria reluctantly. She was sexier than she knew in her cotton nightdress and her old velvet bathrobe, with her hair naturally curly and untidy instead of laboriously straightened. But she no longer needed him: she was planning to meet Nelly Fordham and some other girls from the White House at a Chinese restaurant that evening for a private wake, so she would not be alone.

George had dinner with Greg. They ate at the dark-paneled Occidental Grill, a stone’s throw from the White House. George smiled at his father’s appearance: as always, he wore expensive clothes as if they were rags. His slim black satin tie was awry, his shirt cuffs were unbuttoned, and there was a whitish mark on the lapel of his black suit. Fortunately, George had not inherited his slovenliness.

“I thought we might need cheering up,” said Greg. He loved high-class restaurants and refined cuisine, and this was a trait George had inherited. They ordered lobster and Chablis.

George had felt closer to his father since the Cuban missile crisis, when the threat of imminent annihilation had caused Greg to open his heart. George had always felt, as an illegitimate child, that he was an embarrassment, and that when Greg played the role of father he did so dutifully but without enthusiasm. However, since that surprising conversation he had understood that Greg really loved him. Their relationship continued to be unusual and rather distant, but George now believed it was founded on something genuine and lasting.

While they were waiting for their food, George’s friend Skip Dickerson approached their table. He was dressed for the funeral in a dark suit and a black tie, which looked dramatic against his white-blond hair and pale skin. In his Southern accent, he drawled: “Hi, George. Good evening, Senator. May I join you for just a minute?”

George said: “This is Skip Dickerson, who works for Lyndon. For the president, I should say.”

“Pull up a chair,” said Greg.

Skip drew up a red leather chair, leaned forward, and spoke intensely to Greg. “The president knows you’re a scientist.”

Now, thought George, what the heck is this about? Skip never wasted time in small talk.

Greg smiled. “My major in college was physics, yes.”

“You graduated summa cum laude from Harvard.”

“Lyndon is more impressed by that sort of thing than he should be.”

“But you were one of the scientists who developed the atom bomb.”

“I worked on the Manhattan Project, that’s true.”

“President Johnson wants to make sure you approve of the plans for the Lake Erie study.”

George knew what Skip was talking about. The federal government was financing a waterfront study for the city of Buffalo that would probably lead to a major harbor construction project. It was worth millions of dollars to several companies in upstate New York.

Greg said: “Well, Skip, we’d like to be sure the study isn’t going to be pruned in the budget.”

“You can count on that, sir. The president feels this project is top priority.”

“I’m glad to hear that, thank you.”

The conversation had nothing to do with science, George felt sure. It was about what congressmen called “pork”—the allocation of federal spending projects to favored states.

Skip said: “You’re welcome, and enjoy your dinner. Oh, before I go—can we count on you to support the president on this darn wheat bill?”

The Soviets had had a bad harvest, and they were desperate for grain. As part of the process of trying to get along a little better with the Soviet Union, President Kennedy had sold them surplus American wheat on credit.

Greg sat back and spoke thoughtfully. “Members of Congress feel that if the Communists can’t feed their people it’s not up to us to help them out. Senator Mundt’s wheat bill would cancel Kennedy’s deal, and I kind of think Mundt is right.”

“And President Johnson agrees with you!” said Skip. “He sure doesn’t want to help Communists. But this will be the first vote after the funeral. Do we really want it to be a slap in the face for the dead president?”

George put in: “Is that really President Johnson’s concern? Or does he want to send a message saying that he’s in charge of foreign policy now, and he’s not going to have Congress second-guess every nickel-and-dime decision he makes?”

Greg chuckled. “Sometimes I forget how smart you are, George. That’s exactly what Lyndon wants.”

Skip said: “The president wants to work hand in glove with Congress on foreign policy. But he would really appreciate being able to count on your support tomorrow. He feels it would be a terrible dishonor to the memory of President Kennedy if the wheat bill passes.”

Neither man was willing to say what was really going on here, George noted. The simple truth was that Johnson was threatening to cancel the Buffalo dock project if Greg voted for the wheat bill.

And Greg caved. “Please tell the president that I understand his concern and he can count on my vote,” he said.

Skip stood up. “Thank you, Senator,” he said. “He’ll be very pleased.”

George said: “Before you go, Skip . . . I know the new president has a lot on his mind, but sometime in the next few days he’s going to turn his thoughts to the civil rights bill. Please call me if you think I can help in any way at all.”

“Thanks, George. I appreciate that.” Skip left.

Greg said: “Nicely done.”

“Just making sure he knows the door is open.”

“That kind of thing is so important in politics.”

Their food came. When the waiters had retreated, George picked up his knife and fork. “I’m a Bobby Kennedy man, through and through,” he said as he began to carve his lobster. “But Johnson shouldn’t be underestimated.”

“You’re right, but don’t overestimate him either.”

“What does that mean?”

“Lyndon has two failings. He’s intellectually weak. Oh, listen, he’s as cunning as a Texas polecat, but that’s not the same thing. He went to schoolteacher college, and never learned abstract thinking. He feels inferior to us Harvard-educated types, and he’s right. His grasp of international politics is feeble. The Chinese, the Buddhists, Cubans, Bolsheviks—such people have different ways of thinking that he will never understand.”

“What’s his other failing?”

“He’s morally weak, too. He has no principles. His support of civil rights is genuine, but it’s not ethical. He sympathizes with colored people as underdogs, and he thinks he’s an underdog, too, because he comes from a poor Texas family. It’s a gut reaction.”

George smiled: “He just got you to do exactly what he wanted.”

“Correct. Lyndon knows how to manipulate people one at a time. He’s the most skillful parliamentary politician I’ve ever met. But he’s not a statesman. Jack Kennedy was the opposite: hopelessly incompetent at managing Congress, superb on the international stage. Lyndon will deal with Congress masterfully, but as leader of the free world? I don’t know.”

“Do you think he has any chance of getting the civil rights bill past Congressman Howard Smith’s committee?”

Greg grinned. “I can’t wait to see what Lyndon will do. Eat your lobster.”

Next day Senator Mundt’s wheat bill was defeated by fifty-seven votes to thirty-six.

The headline on the day after read:

Wheat Bill—First Johnson Victory

The funeral was over. Kennedy was gone, and Johnson was president. The world had changed, but George did not know what that meant, and nor did anyone else. What kind of president would Johnson be? How would he be different? A man most people did not know had suddenly become leader of the free world and ruler of its most powerful country. What was he going to do?

He was about to say.

The chamber of the House of Representatives was packed full. Television lights glared on the assembled congressmen and senators. The justices of the Supreme Court wore their black robes, and the Joint Chiefs of Staff glittered with medals.

George was seated next to Skip Dickerson in the gallery, which was equally full, with people sitting on the steps in the aisles. George studied Bobby Kennedy, down below at one end of the cabinet row, head bent, staring at the floor. Bobby had got thinner in the five days since the assassination. Also, he had taken to wearing his dead brother’s clothes, which did not fit him, and added to the impression of a man who had shrunk.

In the presidential box sat Lady Bird Johnson with her two daughters, one plain, one pretty, all three women having old-fashioned hairstyles. With them in the box were several Democratic Party luminaries: Mayor Daley of Chicago, Governor Lawrence of Pennsylvania, and Arthur Schlesinger, the Kennedys’ in-house intellectual, who—George happened to know—was already conspiring to unseat Johnson in next year’s presidential race. Surprisingly, there were also two black faces in the box. George knew who they were: Zephyr and Sammy Wright, cook and chauffeur to the Johnson family. Was that a good sign?

The big double doors swung open. A doorkeeper with the comic name of Fishbait Miller shouted: “Mr. Speaker! The president of the United States!” Then Lyndon Johnson walked in, and everyone stood up and applauded.

George had two worrying questions about Lyndon Johnson, and both would be answered today. The first was: Would he abandon the troublesome civil rights bill? Pragmatists in the Democratic Party were urging him to do just that. Johnson would have a good excuse, if he wanted one: President Kennedy had failed to get congressional support for the bill and it was doomed to failure. The new president was entitled to give it up as a bad job. Johnson could say that legislation on the crippling, divisive issue of segregation must wait until after the election.

If he did say that, the civil rights movement would be set back years. The racists would celebrate victory, the Ku Klux Klan would feel that everything they had done was justified, and the corrupt white police, judges, church leaders, and politicians of the South would know they could carry on persecuting and beating and torturing and murdering Negroes with no fear of justice.

But if Johnson did not say that, if he affirmed his support for civil rights, there was another question: Would he have the authority to fill Kennedy’s shoes? That question, too, would be answered in the next hour, and the prospects were poor. Lyndon was a smooth operator one-on-one; he was at his least impressive when speaking to large groups on formal occasions—which was precisely what he had to do in a few moments’ time. For the American people, this was his first major appearance as their leader, and it would define him, for better or worse.

Skip Dickerson was biting his nails. George said to him: “Did you write the speech?”

“A few lines of it. It was a team effort.”

“What’s he going to say?”

Skip shook his head anxiously. “Wait and see.”

Washington insiders expected Johnson to screw up. He was a bad public speaker, tedious and stiff. Sometimes he rushed his words, sometimes he sounded ponderous. When he wanted to emphasize something he just shouted. His gestures were embarrassingly awkward: he would lift one hand and jab a finger in the air, or raise both arms and wave his fists. Speeches generally revealed Lyndon at his worst.

George could not read anything in Johnson’s demeanor as he walked through the applauding crowd, went up to the dais, stood at the lectern, and opened a black loose-leaf notebook. He showed neither confidence nor nervousness as he put on a pair of rimless spectacles, then waited patiently until the applause died down and the audience settled in their seats.

At last he spoke. In an even, measured tone of voice he said: “All I have I would have given, gladly, not to be standing here today.”

The chamber became hushed. He had struck exactly the right note of sorrowful humility. It was a good start, George thought.

Johnson continued in the same vein, speaking with slow dignity. If he felt the impulse to rush, he was controlling it firmly. He wore a dark-blue suit and tie, and a shirt with a tab-fastened collar, a style considered formal in the South. He looked occasionally from one side to the other, speaking to the whole of the chamber and at the same time seeming to command it.

Echoing Martin Luther King, he talked of dreams: Kennedy’s dreams of conquering space, of education for all children, of the Peace Corps. “This is our challenge,” he said. “Not to hesitate, not to pause, not to turn about and linger over this evil moment, but to continue on our course so that we may fulfill the destiny that history has set for us.”

He had to stop, then, because of the applause.

Then he said: “Our most immediate tasks are here on this hill.”

This was the crunch. Capitol Hill, where Congress sat, had been at war with the president for most of 1963. Congress had the power to delay legislation, and used it often, even when the president had campaigned and won public support for his plans. But since John Kennedy announced his civil rights bill they had gone on strike, like a factory full of militant workers, delaying everything, mulishly refusing to pass even routine bills, scorning public opinion and the democratic process.

“First,” said Johnson, and George held his breath while he waited to hear what the new president would put first.

“No memorial oration or eulogy could more eloquently honor President Kennedy’s memory than the earliest possible passage of the civil rights bill for which he fought so long.”

George leaped to his feet, clapping for joy. He was not the only one: the applause burst out again, and this time went on longer than previously.

Johnson waited for it to die down, then said: “We have talked long enough in this country about civil rights. We have talked for one hundred years or more. It is time, now, to write the next chapter—and to write it in the books of law.”

They applauded again.

Euphoric, George looked at the few black faces in the chamber: five Negro congressmen, including Gus Hawkins of California, who actually looked white; Mr. and Mrs. Wright in the presidential box, clapping; a scatter of dark faces among the spectators in the gallery. Their expressions showed relief, hope, and gladness.

Then his eye fell on the rows of seats behind the cabinet, where the senior senators sat, most of them Southerners, sullen and resentful.

Not a single one was joining in the applause.

Skip Dickerson laid it out to George six days later in the small study next to the Oval Office. “Our only chance is a discharge petition.”

“What’s that?”

Dickerson pushed his blond forelock out of his eyes. “It’s a resolution passed by Congress discharging the rules committee from control of the bill and forcing it to be sent to the floor for debate.”

George felt frustrated that these arcane procedures had to be gone through so that Maria’s grandfather would not be thrown in jail for registering to vote. “I’ve never heard of that,” he said.

“We need a majority vote. Southern Democrats will be against us, so I calculate we’re fifty-eight votes short.”

“Shit. We need fifty-eight Republicans to support us before we can do the right thing?”

“Yes. And that’s where you come in.”

“Me?”

“A lot of Republicans claim to support civil rights. After all, theirs is the party of Abraham Lincoln, who freed the slaves. We want Martin Luther King and all the Negro leaders to call their Republican supporters, explain this situation to them, and tell them to vote for the petition. The message is that you can’t be in favor of civil rights unless you’re in favor of the petition.”

George nodded. “That’s good.”

“Some will say they’re in favor of civil rights but they don’t like this procedural hurry-up. They need to understand that Senator Howard Smith is a hard-core segregationist who will make sure his committee debates the rules until it’s too late to pass the bill. What he’s doing is not delay, it’s sabotage.”

“Okay.”

A secretary put her head around the door and said: “He’s ready for you.”

The two young men stood up and walked into the Oval Office.

As always, George was struck by the sheer size of Lyndon Johnson. He was six foot three, but height was only part of it. His head was big, his nose was long, his earlobes were like pancakes. He shook George’s hand, then held on to it, grasping George’s shoulder with his other hand, standing close enough to make George feel uncomfortable at the intimacy.

Johnson said: “George, I’ve asked all the Kennedy people to stay on at the White House and help me. You’re all Harvard educated and I went to Southwest Texas State Teachers’ College. See, I need y’all more than he did.”

George did not know what to say. This level of humility was embarrassing. After a hesitation he said: “I’m here to help you any way I can, Mr. President.”

By now a thousand people must have said that or something similar, but Johnson reacted as if he had never heard it before. “I sure appreciate you saying that, George,” he said fervently. “Thank you.” Then he got down to business. “A lot of people have asked me to soften up the civil rights bill to make it easier for Southerners to swallow. They’ve suggested taking out the prohibition against segregation in public accommodations. I’m not willing to do that, George, for two reasons. The first is that they’re going to hate the bill regardless of how hard or soft it is, and I don’t believe they’ll support it no matter how much I draw its teeth.”

That sounded right to George. “If you’re going to have a fight, you might as well fight for what you really want.”

“Exactly. And I’ll tell you the second reason. I have a friend and employee called Mrs. Zephyr Wright.”

George recalled Mr. and Mrs. Wright, who had been in the presidential box at the House of Representatives.

Johnson went on: “One time when she was about to drive to Texas I asked her to take my dog with her. She said: ‘Please don’t ask me to do that.’ I had to ask why. ‘Driving through the South is tough enough just being black,’ she said. ‘You can’t find a place to eat or sleep or even go to the bathroom. With a dog it’s going to be just impossible.’ That hurt me, George; it almost brought me to tears. Mrs. Wright is a college graduate, you know. That was when I realized how important public accommodations are when we’re talking about segregation. I know what it is to be looked down on, George, and I sure don’t wish it on anyone else.”

“It’s good to hear that,” said George.

He knew he was being romanced. Johnson still had hold of his hand and shoulder, was still leaning in a little too close, his dark eyes looking at George with remarkable intensity. George knew what Johnson was doing—but it was working just the same. George felt moved by the story about Zephyr, and believed Johnson when he said he knew what it was to be looked down upon. He felt a surge of admiration and affection for this big, awkward, emotional man who seemed to be on the side of the Negroes.

“It’s going to be tough, but I think we can win it,” said Johnson. “Do your best, George.”

“Yes, sir,” said George. “I will.”

George explained President Johnson’s strategy to Verena Marquand shortly before Martin Luther King went to the Oval Office. She looked stunning in a bright red PVC raincoat but, for once, George was not distracted by her beauty. “We have to put everything we’ve got into this effort,” he said urgently. “If the petition fails, the bill fails, and Southern Negroes will be back where they started.”

He gave Verena a list of Republican congressmen who had not yet signed the petition.

She was impressed. “President Kennedy talked to us about votes, but he never had a list like this,” she said.

“That’s Lyndon,” said George. “If the whips tell him how many votes they think they’ve got, he says: ‘Thinking isn’t good enough—I need to know!’ He has to have the names. And he’s right. This is too important for guesswork.”

He told her that civil rights leaders had to put pressure on liberal Republicans. “Every one of these men must get a call from someone whose approval he cares about.”

“Is that what the president is going to tell Dr. King this morning?”

“Precisely.” Johnson had seen all the most important civil rights leaders one by one. Jack Kennedy would have had them all in a room together, but Lyndon could not work his magic so well in large groups.

“Does Johnson think the civil rights leaders can turn all these Republicans around?” Verena said skeptically.

“Not on their own, but he’s enlisting others. He’s seeing all the union leaders. He had breakfast with George Meany this morning.”

Verena shook her beautiful head in wonder. “You have to give him credit for energy.” She looked thoughtful. “Why couldn’t President Kennedy do this?”

“Same reason Lyndon can’t sail a yacht—he doesn’t know how.”

Johnson’s meeting with King went well. But next morning George’s optimism was punctured by a segregationist backlash.

Leading Republicans denounced the petition. McCulloch of Ohio said it had irritated people who might otherwise have supported the civil rights bill. Gerald Ford told reporters that the rules committee should be allowed time to hold hearings, which was rubbish: everyone knew that Smith wanted to kill the bill, not debate it. All the same, reporters were briefed that the petition had failed.

But Johnson was not discouraged. Wednesday morning he spoke to the Business Advisory Council, eighty-nine of the most important American businessmen, and he said: “I am the only president you have; if you would have me fail, then you fail, for the country fails.”

Then he addressed the executive council of the AFL-CIO, the largest federation of unions, and said: “I need you, I want you, and I believe you should be at my side.” He got a standing ovation, and the Steelworkers’ thirty-three lobbyists stormed Capitol Hill.

George was sitting down to dinner with Verena in one of the restaurants there when Skip Dickerson passed their table and hissed: “Clarence Brown has gone to see Howard Smith.”

George explained to Verena: “Brown is the senior Republican on Smith’s committee. Either he’s telling Smith to tough it out, and ignore the lobbying . . . or he’s saying that Republicans can’t take this pressure much longer. If two people on the committee turn against Smith, his decisions can be overturned by a majority vote.”

“Could it all be over so quickly?” Verena marveled.

“Smith may jump before he’s pushed. It looks more dignified.” George moved his plate away. Tension had ruined his appetite.

Half an hour later Dickerson came by again. “Smith caved,” he crowed. “There will be a formal statement tomorrow.” He walked on, spreading the news.

George and Verena grinned at one another. Verena said: “Well, God bless Lyndon Johnson.”

“Amen,” said George. “We have to celebrate.”

“What shall we do?”

“Come to my apartment,” said George. “I’ll think of something.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

There was no uniform at Dave’s school, but boys were mocked for being overdressed. Dave took some ribbing on the day he showed up in a four-button jacket, a white shirt with long collar points, a paisley tie, and blue hipster trousers with a white plastic belt. He did not care about the teasing. He had a mission.

Lenny’s group had been on the fringes of show business for years. As things stood, they could spend another decade playing rock and roll in clubs and pubs. Dave wanted more than that in 1964. And the way forward was to make a record.

After school he took the Tube to Tottenham Court Road and walked from there to an address in Denmark Street. On the ground floor of the building was a guitar shop, but beside it was a door leading to an office above, and a nameplate that said CLASSIC RECORDS.

Dave had spoken to Lenny about getting a recording contract, but Lenny had been discouraging. “I’ve tried that,” he had said. “You can’t get through the door. It’s a closed circle.”

That made no sense. There had to be a way in, otherwise no one would ever make records. But Dave knew better than to chop logic with Lenny. So he decided to do it on his own.

He had begun by studying the names of the record companies in the hit parade. It was a complicated exercise, because there were many labels, all owned by a few companies. The phone book had helped him sort them out, and he had picked Classic as his target.

He had called their number and said: “This is British Railways Lost Property. We have a tape in a box marked: ‘Head of Artists and Recording, Classic Records.’ Who should we send it to?” The girl who answered the phone had given him a name and this address in Denmark Street.

At the top of the stairs he found a receptionist, probably the one he had spoken to on the phone. Assuming a confident air, he used the name she had given him. “I’m here to see Eric Chapman,” he said.

“What name shall I say?”

“Dave Williams. Tell him Byron Chesterfield sent me.”

This was a lie, but Dave had nothing to lose.

The receptionist disappeared through a door. Dave looked around. The lobby was decorated with framed gold and silver discs. A photograph of Percy Marquand, the Negro Bing Crosby, was inscribed: “To Eric, with thanks for everything.” Dave noticed that all the discs were at least five years old. Eric needed fresh talent.

Dave felt nervous. He was not accustomed to deception. He told himself not to be timid. He was not breaking the law. If he were found out, the worst that could happen was that he would be told to get out and stop wasting people’s time. It was worth risking that.

The secretary came out, and a middle-aged man stood in the doorway. He wore a green cardigan over a white shirt and a nondescript tie. He had thinning gray hair. He leaned on the doorpost, looking Dave up and down. After a moment he said: “So Byron sent you to me, did he?”

His tone was skeptical: obviously he did not believe the story. Dave avoided repeating the lie by telling another. “Byron said: ‘EMI has the Beatles, Decca has the Rolling Stones, Classic needs Plum Nellie.’” Byron had said nothing of the kind. Dave had figured it out for himself, reading the music press.

“Plum what?”

Dave handed Chapman a photo of the group. “We’ve done a stint at the Dive in Hamburg, as the Beatles did, and we’ve played the Jump Club in London, like the Stones.” He was surprised he had not yet been thrown out, and he wondered how much longer his luck would hold.

“How do you know Byron?”

“He’s our manager.” Another lie.

“What sort of music?”

“Rock and roll, but with a lot of vocal harmonies.”

“Just like every other pop group at the moment.”

“But we’re better.”

There was a long pause. Dave was pleased that Chapman was even talking to him. Lenny had said: “You can’t get through the door.” Dave had proved him wrong there.

Then Chapman said: “You’re a bloody liar.”

Dave opened his mouth to protest, but Chapman held up a hand to silence him. “Don’t tell me any more whoppers. Byron isn’t your manager and he didn’t send you here. You might have met him, but he didn’t say Classic Records needs Plum Nellie.”

Dave said nothing. He had been caught out. This was humiliating. He had tried to bluff his way into a record company and he had failed.

Chapman said: “What’s your name, again?”

“Dave Williams.”

“What do you want from me, Dave?”

“A recording contract.”

“There’s a surprise.”

“Give us an audition. I promise you won’t regret it.”

“I’ll tell you a secret, Dave. When I was eighteen, I got my first job in a recording studio by saying I was a qualified electrician. I lied. The only qualification I had was grade seven piano.”

Dave’s heart leaped in hope.

“I like your cheek,” Chapman said. A little sadly, he added: “If I could turn back the clock, I wouldn’t mind being a young chancer all over again.”

Dave held his breath.

“I’ll audition you.”

“Thanks!”

“Come into the recording studio after Christmas.” He jerked a thumb at the receptionist. “Cherry will give you an appointment.” He went back into his room and closed the door.

Dave could hardly believe his luck. He had been caught out in his silly lies—but he had got an audition just the same!

He made a provisional appointment with Cherry, and said he would phone to confirm when he had checked with the rest of the group. Then he went home, walking on air.

As soon as he got back to the house in Great Peter Street he picked up the phone in the hall and called Lenny. “I got us an audition with Classic Records!” he said triumphantly.

Lenny was not as enthusiastic as Dave expected. “Who told you to do that?” He was miffed because Dave had taken the initiative.

Dave refused to be deflated. “What have we got to lose?”

“How did you manage it?”

“Bluffed my way in. I saw Eric Chapman, and he said okay.”

“Blind luck,” said Lenny. “It happens sometimes.”

“Yeah,” said Dave, though he was thinking: I wouldn’t have got lucky if I’d stayed home sitting on my arse.

“Classic isn’t really a pop label,” Lenny said.

“That’s why they need us.” Dave was running out of patience. “Lenny, how can this be bad?”

“No, it’s fine, we’ll see if it comes to anything.”

“Now we have to decide what to play at the audition. The secretary told me we’ll get to record two songs.”

“Well, we should do ‘Shake, Rattle and Roll,’ obviously.”

Dave’s heart sank. “Why?”

“It’s our best number. Always goes down well.”

“You don’t think it’s a bit old-fashioned?”

“It’s a classic.”

Dave knew he could not fight Lenny about this, not right now. Lenny had already swallowed his pride once. He could be pushed, but not too far. However, they could do two songs: perhaps the second could be more distinctive. “How about a blues?” Dave said desperately. “For a contrast. Show our range.”

“Yeah. ‘Hoochie Coochie Man.’”

That was a bit better, more like the material the Rolling Stones were doing. “Okay,” said Dave.

He went into the drawing room. Walli was there with a guitar on his knee. He had been living with the Williams family ever since coming from Hamburg with the group. He and Dave often sat in this room, playing and singing, between school and dinner.

Dave told him the news. Walli was pleased, but worried about Lenny’s choice of material. “Two songs that were hits in the fifties,” he said. His English was improving fast.

“It’s Lenny’s group,” said Dave helplessly. “If you think you can change his mind, please try.”

Walli shrugged. He was a great musician but a bit passive, Dave found. Evie said everyone was passive by comparison with the Williams family.

They were pondering Lenny’s taste when Evie came in with Hank Remington. A Woman’s Trial was a hit, despite the catastrophic opening on the day President Kennedy was killed. Hank was recording a new album with the Kords. They spent their afternoons together, then went off to their separate jobs.

Hank was wearing crushed-velvet hipster trousers and a polka-dot shirt. He sat with Dave and Walli while Evie went upstairs to change. As always he was charming and amusing, telling stories about the Kords on tour.

He picked up Walli’s guitar and strummed some chords absentmindedly, then said: “Do you want to hear a new song?”

They did, of course.

It was a sentimental ballad called “Love Is It.” The appeal was instant. It was a lovely melody with a little shuffle in the beat. They asked him to play it again, and he did.

Walli said: “What was that chord at the start of the bridge?”

“C sharp minor.” Hank showed him, then passed him the guitar.

Walli played the chords, and Hank sang it a third time. Dave improvised a harmony.

“That sounded nice,” Hank said. “Such a pity we’re not going to record it.”

“What?” Dave was incredulous. “It’s beautiful!”

“The Kords think it’s soppy. We’re a rock outfit, they say; we don’t want to sound like Peter, Paul and Mary.”

“I think it’s a number one hit,” said Dave.

His mother put her head around the door. “Walli,” she said. “Phone call for you—from Germany.”

It would be Walli’s sister Rebecca in Hamburg, Dave guessed. Walli’s family in East Berlin could not phone him: the regime there did not allow phone calls to the West.

While Walli was out of the room, Evie reappeared. She had put her hair up and wore jeans and a T-shirt, ready for makeup and wardrobe artists to go to work on her. Hank was going to drop her at the theater on his way to the recording studio.

Dave was distracted, thinking about “Love Is It,” a great song that the Kords did not want.

Walli came back in, followed by Daisy. He said: “That was Rebecca.”

“I like Rebecca,” said Dave, remembering pork chops and fried potatoes.

“She just received a letter, very delayed, from Karolin in East Berlin.” Walli paused. He seemed to be in the grip of some emotion. At last he managed to say: “Karolin had the baby. It’s a girl.”

Everyone jumped up and congratulated him. Daisy and Evie kissed him. Daisy said: “When did this happen?”

“The twenty-second of November. Easy to remember: it was the day Kennedy was shot.”

“How much did she weigh?” Daisy asked.

“Weigh?” said Walli as if that was an incomprehensible question.

Daisy laughed. “It’s something people always tell you about new babies.”

“I didn’t ask what she weighed.”

“Never mind. What about her name?”

“Karolin suggests Alice.”

“That’s lovely,” said Daisy.

“Karolin will send me a photograph,” said Walli. “Of my daughter,” he added dazedly. “But she sends it via Rebecca, because letters to England are even more held up in the censor’s office.”

Daisy said: “I can’t wait to see the picture!”

Hank rattled his car keys impatiently. Maybe he found baby talk boring. Or, Dave thought, perhaps he did not like the baby taking the spotlight away from him.

Evie said: “Oh, my God, look at the time. Bye, everyone. Congratulations again, Walli.”

As they were leaving, Dave said: “Hank, are the Kords really not going to record ‘Love Is It’?”

“Really. When they take against something, they’re a stubborn lot.”

“In that case . . . could Walli and I have the song for Plum Nellie? We’ve got an audition in January with Classic Records.”

“Sure,” said Hank with a shrug. “Why not?”

Lloyd Williams asked Dave to step into his study on Saturday morning.

Dave was about to go out. He was wearing a horizontally striped blue-and-white sweater, jeans, and a leather jacket. “Why?” he said pugnaciously. “You’re no longer giving me an allowance.” The money he earned playing with Plum Nellie was not much, but it was enough for Tube fares, drinks, and occasionally a shirt or a new pair of boots.

“Is money the only reason for speaking to your father?”

Dave shrugged and followed him into the room. It had an antique desk and some leather chairs. A fire smoldered in the grate. On the wall was a picture of Lloyd at Cambridge in the thirties. The room was a shrine to everything that was out of date. It seemed to smell of obsolescence.

Lloyd said: “I ran into Will Furbelow at the Reform Club yesterday.”

Will Furbelow was the head of Dave’s school. Being bald, he was inevitably known as None Above.

“He says you’re in danger of failing all your exams.”

“He’s never been my biggest fan.”

“If you fail, you will not be allowed to continue at the school. That will be the end of your formal education.”

“Thank God for that.”

Lloyd was not going to be riled. “Every profession will be closed to you, from accountant to zoologist. They all require you to pass exams. The next possibility, for you, is an apprenticeship. You could learn to do something useful, and you should think about what you might like: bricklaying, cooking, motor mechanics . . .”

Dave wondered whether Dad was out of his mind. “Bricklaying?” he said. “Do you even know me? I’m Dave.”

“Don’t sound incredulous. These are the jobs people do if they can’t pass exams. Below that level, you could be a shop assistant or a factory hand.”

“I can’t believe I’m hearing this.”

“I was afraid you would do this, close your eyes to reality.”

Dad was the one closing his eyes, Dave thought.

“I realize you’re getting beyond the age where I can expect you to obey me.”

Dave was startled. This was a new approach. He said nothing.

“But I want you to be clear about where we stand. When you leave school, I expect you to work.”

“I am working, quite hard. I play three or four nights a week, and Walli and I have started trying to write songs.”

“I mean that I expect you to support yourself. Although your mother has inherited wealth, we agreed long ago that we would never support our children in idleness.”

“I’m not idle.”

“You think that what you do is work, but the world may not see it that way. In any event, if you want to continue living here you’ll have to pay your share.”

“You mean rent?”

“If you want to call it that, yes.”

“Jasper’s never paid rent, and he’s lived here for years!”

“He’s still a student. And he passes his exams.”

“What about Walli?”

“A special case, because of his background; but sooner or later he must pay his share, too.”

Dave was working out the implications. “So, if I don’t become a bricklayer or a shop assistant, and I don’t make enough money with the group to pay your rent, then . . .”

“Then you will have to look for alternative accommodation.”

“You’ll throw me out.”

Lloyd looked pained. “All your life, you’ve had the best of everything handed to you on a plate: a lovely home, a great school, the best food, toys and books, piano lessons, skiing holidays. But that was when you were a child. Now you’re almost an adult, and you have to face reality.”

“My reality, not yours.”

“You scorn the kind of work that ordinary people do. You’re different, you’re a rebel. Fine. Rebels pay a price. Sooner or later, you have to learn that. That’s all.”

Dave sat thoughtful for a minute. Then he stood up. “Okay,” he said. “I get the message.” He went to the door.

As he left, he glanced back, and saw his father watching him with an odd expression.

He thought about that as he went out of the house and slammed the front door. What was that look? What did it mean?

He was still thinking about it as he bought his Tube ticket. Going down on the escalator, he saw an advertisement for a play called Heartbreak House. That was it, he thought. That was his father’s facial expression.

He had looked heartbroken.

A small color photograph of Alice arrived in the post, and Walli studied it eagerly. It showed a baby like any other: a tiny pink face with alert blue eyes, a cap of thin dark-brown hair, a blotchy throat. The rest of her was tightly wrapped in a sky-blue blanket. All the same Walli felt an upsurge of love and a sudden need to protect and care for the helpless creature he had made.

He wondered if he would ever see her.

With the picture was a note from Karolin. She said that she loved Walli and missed him, and she was going to apply to the East German government for permission to emigrate to the West.

In the picture, Karolin was holding Alice and looking at the camera. Karolin had put on weight, and her face was more round. Her hair was pulled back, instead of framing her face like curtains. She no longer resembled all the other pretty girls in the Minnesänger folk club. She was a mother now. It made her even more desirable in Walli’s eyes.

He showed the photograph to Dave’s mother, Daisy. “Well, now, what a beautiful baby!” she said.

Walli smiled, though in his opinion no babies were beautiful, not even his own.

“I think she has your eyes, Walli,” Daisy went on.

Walli’s eyes had a slight Oriental look. He figured some long-ago ancestor must have been Chinese. He could not tell whether or not Alice’s eyes were similar.

Daisy continued to gush. “And this is Karolin.” Daisy had not seen her before: Walli had no photos. “What a pretty young woman.”

“Wait till you see her dressed up,” Walli said proudly. “People stop and stare.”

“I hope we will see her, sometime.”

A shadow fell over Walli’s happiness, as if a cloud had hidden the sun. “So do I,” he said.

He followed the news from East Berlin, reading the German newspapers in the public library, and he often questioned Lloyd Williams, whose specialty as a politician was foreign affairs. Walli knew that getting out of East Germany was ever more difficult: the Wall was being made larger and more formidable, with more guards and more towers. Karolin would never try to escape, especially now that she had a child. However, there might be another way. Officially, the East German government would not say whether legal emigration was possible; indeed, they would not even say which department dealt with applications. But Lloyd had learned, from the British embassy in Bonn, that about ten thousand people a year were given permission. Perhaps Karolin would be one of them.

“One day, I feel certain,” said Daisy; but she was just being nice.

Walli showed the picture to Evie and Hank Remington, who were sitting in the drawing room, reading a script. The Kords were hoping to make a movie, and Hank wanted Evie to be in it. They put down their papers to coo over the baby.

“We have our audition with Classic Records today,” Walli told Hank. “I’m meeting Dave after school.”

“Hey, good luck with that,” Hank said. “Are you going to do ‘Love Is It’?”

“I hope so. Lenny wants to do ‘Shake, Rattle and Roll.’”

Hank shook his head, making his long red hair swirl in a way that had caused a million adolescent girls to scream for joy. “Too old-fashioned.”

“I know.”

People were constantly coming and going at the house in Great Peter Street, and now Jasper came in with a woman Walli had not seen before. “This is my sister, Anna,” he said.

Anna was a dark-eyed beauty in her middle twenties. Jasper was good-looking, too: they must be a handsome family, Walli thought. Anna had a generously rounded figure, unfashionable now that all models were flat-chested like Jean “the Shrimp” Shrimpton.

Jasper introduced everyone. Hank stood up to shake hands with Anna and said: “I’ve been hoping to meet you. Jasper tells me you’re a book editor.”

“That’s right.”

“I’m thinking of writing my life story.”

Walli thought Hank was a bit young, at twenty, to be writing his autobiography; but Anna had a different view. “What a wonderful idea,” she said. “Millions of people would want to read it.”

“Oh, do you think so?”

“I know it, even though biography isn’t my field—I specialize in translations of German and East European literature.”

“I had a Polish uncle, would that help?”

Anna laughed, a rich chuckle, and Walli warmed to her. So did Hank, and they sat down to discuss the book.

Carrying two guitars, Walli left the house.

He had found Hamburg a startling contrast to East Germany, but London was unnervingly different, an anarchic riot. People wore all styles of clothing, from bowler hats to miniskirts. Boys with long hair were too commonplace even to be stared at. Political commentary was not just free, it was outrageous: Walli had been shocked to see a man on television impersonating Prime Minister Harold Macmillan, talking in his voice and wearing a little silver mustache and making idiotic pronouncements; though the Williams family had laughed heartily.

Walli was also struck by the number of dark faces. Germany had a few coffee-colored Turkish immigrants, but London had thousands of people from the Caribbean islands and the Indian subcontinent. They came to work in hospitals and factories and on the buses and trains. Walli noticed that the Caribbean girls were very stylishly dressed and sexy.

He met Dave at the school gates and they took the Tube to north London.

Dave was nervous, Walli could tell. Walli was not nervous. He knew he was a good musician. Working at the Jump Club every night he heard dozens of guitarists, and it was rare to come across one who was more accomplished than he. Most got by with a few chords and a lot of enthusiasm. When he did hear someone good he would stop washing glasses and watch the group, studying the guitarist’s technique, until the boss told him to get back to work; then, when he got home, he would sit in his room and imitate what he had heard until he could play it perfectly.

Unfortunately, virtuosity did not make you a pop star. There was more to it than that: charm, good looks, the right clothes, publicity, clever management, and, most of all, good songs.

And Plum Nellie had a good song. Walli and Dave had played “Love Is It” to the rest of the group, and they had performed it at several gigs over the busy Christmas season. It went down well, although—as Lenny pointed out—you could not dance to it.

But Lenny did not want to audition it. “Not our type of material,” he had said. He felt the same as the Kords: it was too pretty and sentimental for a rock group.

From the Tube station, Walli and Dave walked to a big old house that had been soundproofed and converted into recording studios. They waited in the hall. The others turned up a few minutes later. A receptionist asked them all to sign a piece of paper that she said was “for insurance.” To Walli it looked more like a contract. Dave frowned as he read it, but they all signed.

After a few minutes, an inner door opened and an unprepossessing young man slouched out. He wore a V-neck sweater with a shirt and tie, and he was smoking a hand-rolled cigarette. “Right,” he said by way of introduction, and pushed his hair out of his eyes. “We’re almost ready for you. Is this your first time in a recording studio?”

They admitted that it was.

“Well, our job is to make you sound your best, so just follow our guidance, okay?” He seemed to feel he was granting them a great favor. “Come into the studio and plug in, and we’ll take it from there.”

Dave said: “What’s your name?”

“Laurence Grant.” He did not say exactly what his role was, and Walli guessed he was a lowly assistant trying to make himself seem important.

Dave introduced himself and the group, which made Laurence fidget impatiently; then they went in.

The studio was a large room with low lighting. At one side was a full-size Steinway piano, very like the one in Walli’s home in East Berlin. It had a padded cover and was partly hidden by a screen draped in blankets. Lenny sat at it and played a series of chords all the way up the keyboard. It had the warm tone characteristic of Steinways. Lenny looked impressed.

A drum kit was set up ready. Lew had brought his own snare drum, and he set about making the change.

Laurence said: “Something wrong with our drums?”

“No, it’s just that I’m used to the feel of my own snare.”

“Ours is more suitable for recording.”

“Oh, okay.” Lew removed his own drum and put the studio snare back on its stand.

Three amplifiers stood on the floor, their lights showing that they were on and ready. Walli and Dave plugged into the two Vox AC30 models and Buzz took the larger Ampeg bass amp. They tuned to the piano.

Lenny said: “I can’t see the rest of the group. Do we have to have this screen?”

“Yeah, we do,” said Laurence.

“What’s it for?”

“It’s a baffle.”