Back Channel: A novel

by Stephen L Carter

  Niemeyer nodded. “We model the Kremlin as a zero-sum game. There’s only so much authority to go around. Whatever flows out of one set of hands flows into another. The General Secretary never holds all the power. Not even Stalin could act entirely unilaterally, although he had more freedom than the poor bastards who’ve held the office since.” He was talking to fill the void while he thought. “We saw this coming, you know—the missiles. We told Eisenhower. We told Kennedy. Nobody would listen. We have our water borders, we’ve never been successfully invaded—if you don’t count that small unpleasantness in 1812, when the Brits burned the White House—and, come to think of it, that particular unpleasantness is celebrating its sesquicentennial this year, isn’t it?”

  Automatically, her mind recorded the six-syllable word with the accent on the fourth syllable, but tonight she derived no pleasure from adding to her list.

  “And that tale has an instructive provenance.” Niemeyer was still racing out ahead of her. “Consider, Miss Jensen. Have you ever wondered why precisely the Brits were able to burn the White House? Because we saw the troops coming up through Maryland and thought they were headed to Baltimore. Because the President’s military advisers were sure that any attack on Washington would come from the west or the southwest. Nobody had them coming from the southeast, and there wasn’t enough army to defend every approach. They chose our soft underbelly while we looked the wrong way, Miss Jensen, and they’re doing it again. We have early-warning radars in Alaska and all across Canada, we have listening stations in Greenland, England, Europe, Japan, the Philippines, Guam, and none of it—none of it—would be of the slightest utility should the attack come from Cuba. It’s the oldest story of warfare, and it’s been true all through history. Nobody ever defeated the enemy by building walls to keep him out. When you retreat behind your walls, you’ve already lost. Ask Athens. Ask Carthage. Ask France, twice in this century alone. Ask anybody.” He nodded his heavy head, the way he did in class when confirming his own analysis. “You go after your enemy in his lair. If you sit back and wait for him to come, the war’s as good as over.”

  Margo said nothing. She wasn’t sure whether she was supposed to respond. Her own preternatural calm continued to surprise her. Harrington was right: having once experienced the excitement of the secret world, she found it more real than the rest of life.

  “This is what we’re going to do,” said Niemeyer. His contemplative moment had passed; he was the spymaster again. “Vale will drive you back to your dormitory. You won’t tell anybody about Fomin, or about our conversation. Not a word. I’ll do a little bit of checking, and Vale or Mrs. Khorozian will get a message to you tomorrow or, at the latest, the day after. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.” She restrained an urge to thank him.

  “Until you get the message, you live your normal life.”

  “I will.”

  “Including with your friends, with young Jellinek, with everyone.” He was up again, striding, unable to sit still. He took the poker, prodded the fire. The cinders made a red swirl. “And don’t lie in bed, sick with worry. Don’t ditch your classes. You have to behave as if this never happened. Do you understand me, Miss Jensen?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you know who Aleksandr Fomin is?” He didn’t wait for an answer as he continued toying with the fire. “He is the head of the KGB’s Washington station. Formerly he headed up their spying operation out of the United Nations. We believe that he was involved in that Rosenberg business. The point is, he’s as high as the KGB goes over here. This is the top table, Miss Jensen. Oh, and Fomin isn’t his real name. Alas, we haven’t worked that one out yet.”

  “The top table,” she echoed.

  “Indeed. If he says he has the General Secretary’s ear, he might actually be telling the truth.” He put the poker down, sat beside her on the sofa. “Doubtless you are wondering why Fomin came to you. I’ll tell you. He interrogated you in Varna. He trusts you, by which I mean he knows you’re unofficial, and brave, and dependable. Those are the qualities he needs to run a back channel.”

  “A what?”

  “Back channel. An unofficial negotiation that runs parallel to the official one. Typically, the official negotiators know nothing about it.” He touched her knee, but his mien was fatherly. “If things work out as I expect, Miss Jensen, this won’t be the only message you’ll carry.”

  “But—but—”

  “The missiles in Cuba are now a crisis, Miss Jensen. The crisis could lead to the planet’s last war. Like it or not, you’re in the middle of it.” That curt nod. “You are the back channel.”

  “I’m not the right person.”

  “On the contrary, Miss Jensen. Aleks Fomin’s presence in upstate New York proves exactly the opposite. By coming here, he is as much as instructing the President that he will deal with no one else. The back channel will be through you, or there will be no back channel.” He was on his feet again. “Now, go back to your dorm and leave matters in my hands. Such events as these are measured in hours, not days.”

  In the foyer, it was her turn to ask a question.

  “Can you tell me about my father?”

  “Tell you what, Miss Jensen?”

  “How you came to work together. Why it’s all still such a big secret.” She hesitated. “If he really died the way Fomin said.”

  He considered. “I met your father in North Africa. He was a corporal in a transport battalion, just as you’ve been told. A colleague of mine and I had to … well, we had to go on a mission. Our usual driver had just been shot, and your father’s lieutenant recommended him as the best they had. The journey was long, and very dangerous. The truck was attacked by the Luftwaffe. My colleague was killed. He had a specialized function that I was not trained to fulfill. Your father was an engineer. I hadn’t realized this. There was a device. It had been damaged in the attack. He examined it and announced that he could make it work. I told him to go ahead. He took about fifteen minutes. We completed the mission. The device worked as designed, perhaps a bit better. I swore him to secrecy. When we got back, I hopped the next plane to SHAEF in Tunisia, and I asked for his transfer to my unit. They insisted that the transfer be informal, as OSS field units were not permitted to have Negroes. I was angry, but your father said it made no difference to him. He joined me in Europe, and we did some things I can’t talk about. Your father received several secret commendations and two secret medals. But when he died, he was still formally a corporal in the transport battalion.”

  “But why the secrecy even now? I don’t understand.”

  “I am not at liberty to discuss the matter further, Miss Jensen. I’ve probably told you already more than I should.”

  She considered. “And the way he died?”

  “That I cannot discuss.”

  “But if he was a hero—”

  “He was, Miss Jensen. You will have to take my word for it.” He had the door open. “And as to the other matter you raised, I have known Doris Harrington for twenty years. She is a thorough patriot. You haven’t even persuaded me that there was a leak. But if you’re right, you must look elsewhere for the culprit.”

  “If I was betrayed—and if I do wind up functioning as the—the back channel—then it’s possible I’ll be betrayed again.”

  “Indeed. For that reason, I would be careful to remain well clear of anyone with whom you worked on SANTA GREEN.”

  III

  The car was grand and shiny and old, a Cadillac Imperial Landau, vintage 1930s: Nana had a photograph of one just like it that her cousin used to drive. The green fenders sparkled. The headlights were as big as portholes. The engine, Margo knew, was an improbable V16. As she climbed in, the gray mist swirled like an encircling army. She had no idea how Vale could see where they were going, but he never faltered.

  Like it or not, you’re in the middle of it.

  True, some part of her had always longed to be at the center of great events, but now that she was there,
she was frightened half to death. She had spent those terrible hours at DS headquarters in Bulgaria, she had the dream almost every night, and she jumped at every shadow. She wanted to be a little girl again. She wanted Nana. No, that was a lie. She wanted Tom. She had missed their study date tonight, and to make things worse she would never be able to tell him why. He would be hurt. Probably angry. Still, just now she craved the comfort of another human being who wanted her back. The two of them had never slept together, but if she were headed to his place rather than her dorm, she had no doubt that tonight would be the night.

  Which was why it was a good thing she was heading to the dorm.

  Sort of a good thing.

  Riding with Vale was like being driven by a ghost. Not only because of his alabaster flesh and distant, sepulchral manner; not only because he neither addressed a single word to her nor turned his face in her direction; not only because he drove with such gentle skill that the car seemed to glide through the October night without actually touching the road, and at times, even as he sped along Ithaca’s winding lanes, seemed not to move at all; but also because Vale’s very presence somehow reached down to some ancient and atavistic part of her brain and chilled her, exciting her fight-or-flight reflex—for Vale, like every incorporeal creature of her nightmares, exuded an aura of being able to do enormous harm even though he himself could never be touched.

  She realized, as she climbed out at her dormitory, that in certain ways the chauffeur reminded her of Agatha, whom she suddenly missed: Agatha, of whom everyone on the intelligence side seemed unreasonably frightened, even though she struck Margo as mousy and benignant; Agatha, who had been beaten badly the night Margo was arrested, and whom she had neither seen nor heard from since.

  “Good night, miss,” said Vale in his reedy voice, his first words since she had climbed in. He was holding the door for her and even touched his cap. She watched the shiny Landau until the luteous glow of its lamps grew faint and finally vanished in the mist.

  She slept poorly, and dreamed about the bomb.

  TWENTY-ONE

  The Committee

  I

  “The President is considering three options,” said Jack Ziegler. “His advisers seem deeply divided. Some of them favor a blockade of Cuba, except that they’d call it a quarantine, to get around certain problems in international law. Some of them want to attack immediately, to blow the launchers to kingdom come before your people can finish assembling them. And a couple are willing to remove our Jupiter missiles from Italy and Turkey if you’ll remove yours from Cuba.” He took a bite of his hot dog. They were walking through the zoo, nearly deserted on an autumn weekday afternoon. “I’m told that the President was furious about that last suggestion. He considers it tantamount to blackmail. It isn’t going to happen.”

  Viktor Vaganian’s English was excellent but not perfect, and it took him several seconds to work out such words as quarantine and tantamount. He suspected that Ziegler used complicated constructions just to annoy him.

  “Your sources in the ExComm are quite competent,” the Russian said: “ExComm” being the Executive Committee of the National Security Council, the body the President had empaneled to advise him in the crisis.

  “More than competent,” bragged Ziegler. “I have sources in the room.”

  Viktor frowned to hide his satisfaction. The fool shared information too casually. Viktor decided to toss out a little more bait.

  “In the Soviet Union, we would find the traitors and shoot them.”

  Ziegler chuckled. “Here, we’d strap them into the electric chair.” Serious again. “But nobody’s going to get caught. A lot of people are worried about the direction this thing is going to take. People in powerful positions. They’ll protect each other, believe me.”

  Viktor considered. They were in the monkey house now, and the American was making faces at the creatures. “There is no word of negotiations?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Preventing a successful negotiation is the purpose of our collaboration.”

  Ziegler was still clowning for the apes. A few were up against the bars, baring their teeth. He spoke without turning around. “I don’t think I’m likely to forget, Viktor. Don’t worry so much. As soon as they start talking, I’ll know about it, and then you … well, you can do what you do.”

  II

  That same evening, Harrington was in Gwynn’s office. As usual, he had made her wait until the end of the day. As usual, he had only a moment to spare, because he was due on the Georgetown party circuit. This time, he had added another device to keep her in her proper place. When she walked in, he smiled and told her to have a seat, he would only be a second. Then he resumed studying the file that was open on his otherwise uncluttered desktop. Precious seconds ticked past. He turned a page, made a note, turned another. Harrington understood the technique entirely; she used it herself. The idea was to create a growing impatience in the visitor, and then to use that agitation to gain control of the conversation. You knew you’d won when your visitor spoke first, thus becoming a supplicant.

  But knowing how the technique worked did nothing to reduce its effectiveness. Once she realized that Gwynn was prepared to read and wait until it was time for him to go, she finally spoke up.

  “You win,” she said. “You can put the file away now.”

  He turned a page. “In a minute, Doctor. Just be patient.”

  “Alfred,” she said.

  He made a note.

  “Alfred!”

  Finally, the clever eyes lifted to hers. “Sorry, Doctor. I have to be up to speed. Been going to the White House for the ExComm, you see. Have to keep up with the reports.”

  So now she knew why he had agreed to meet: to rub his little surprise in her face.

  “I’m pleased to hear it,” said Harrington, remaining as calm as she could. No matter what she might think of Gwynn, he was deputy assistant secretary for intelligence and analysis. It made perfect sense that he would accompany the secretary. “How do things look?”

  “You know I can’t tell you that, Doctor.”

  “Well, that’s why I’m here. I want in.” She circled a finger to indicate the rest of the floor. “Half the analysts in this department are working on Cuba. And you have me doing corruption in the Diem regime.”

  “Vietnam’s important. We could be heading for war there.”

  “Not if we go to war with the Soviets first.”

  He shrugged. “That’s not your problem any more, Dr. Harrington.”

  “I’ve been on Cuba since January, as you’re perfectly aware. I know as much about what’s been going on there as anybody.”

  “Maybe you did before. You don’t now. You’re not cleared for these details.” Spreading his fingers lovingly over the red-bordered folder. “This is strictly need-to-know. I’m sure you understand, Doctor. You were in the war.”

  Drawling the last word.

  “You seem to be forgetting that it was my operation that—”

  “Your operation blew up in your face. I warned you that would happen, and I was right.”

  Harrington took her time. This was her last shot, and she knew it. In the intelligence world just now, Cuba was the only industry: anybody working on something else might as well have been unemployed. You could tell who was on the way out by checking the subscription lists on the Cuba material and seeing which names were omitted.

  Hers, for instance.

  “Have you even looked at GREENHILL’s debriefing, Alfred? It contains priceless information—”

  “I can’t tell you what we have and haven’t looked at.”

  She chafed at the plural pronoun. “Don’t make this personal between us. We haven’t always gotten along, and that’s more my fault than yours. There’s still a tremendous amount I could contribute—”

  But Gwynn was tucking the folder into his briefcase and locking it with a key. “You’re out of the loop, Doctor. It’s been decided at the highest levels.” He reached f
or his coat. “Oh, and a word to the wise. I wouldn’t try going to my friends this time. I’ve warned them, and they agree. Nobody’s interested in bureaucratic battles just now. Not when there’s a nuclear war to avert.”

  “You wicked little horror,” she whispered, but he was already out the door.

  III

  On Wednesday morning at ten, the ExComm reassembled in the Cabinet Room. Mostly, the members went over the same ground as yesterday: the President could attack the missile sites, or declare a blockade, or rely on diplomacy. The fact that the options never changed confirmed Bundy’s secret belief that the ExComm was a waste of time, that a very few senior people should be meeting, without staff, to thrash this out. Half the comments around the table seemed aimed at getting the speaker a mention in the minutes. McGeorge Bundy, the President’s special assistant for national security affairs, tried to hide his frustration. He sat with his head down, taking scrupulous notes with his gold pen.

  Bundy knew committees well—from academia, from industry, from government—and he loathed them. A committee is like crab-grass, he told himself: it sits forever, swaying with every breeze, and is impossible to eliminate once it takes root. He had urged the President to avoid too large a group of advisers on how to deal with the missiles in Cuba. Great men made swift, reasoned decisions after consulting a few trusted advisers, not after batting ideas around for hours with a dozen or more egomaniacs.

  President Kennedy, however, had an almost childlike belief in the importance of hearing everybody out. Must come from growing up in a large family, Bundy decided.

  Last night’s meeting had been dominated by the generals and their reasons for preferring an invasion. This morning, Secretary of State Rusk did most of the talking. Bundy had some difficulty figuring out the secretary’s position, and the expressions of others around the table suggested that he was not the only one confused. A blockade would violate international law and show that we wouldn’t be intimidated, and an attack would be illegal and might be the only way to …

  Bundy tuned him out, and spent the time outlining the memorandum of the meeting he would later place in his classified files. The inability to work out a plan worried him. The United States was the mightiest power on the planet, but was dithering and dickering over how to handle the installation of nuclear missiles a few miles off its shore. The President of the United States sat serenely, if a bit embarrassed, a bystander at a stranger’s family quarrel.