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  Even so, he thought, I look forward to seeing her next Sunday. The days will pass quickly. How different the world looks when you have hope in your heart.

  PART THREE

  Mutually Assured Destruction

  July – September 1962

  22

  Operation Anadyr, named after a river in Siberia, was launched with the utmost secrecy. In order to disguise its true purpose, the soldiers and engineers allocated to the troopships were issued fur hats, fleece-lined parkas, felt boots and skis. The rocket teams were given to understand that their destination was Novaya Zemlya, in the Arctic. The dockworkers who loaded the ships worked in fenced compounds guarded by the KGB. The ships’ captains were instructed to open their sealed orders revealing their route only once they were well out to sea.

  The first ship in the armada, the Maria Ulyanova, sailed out of a Soviet port on July 5 1962. Eighty-five merchant ships followed, carrying everything needed for a nuclear army. The big weapons were the twenty-four R-12 missiles, and the sixteen R-14s, each designed to carry a one-megaton nuclear warhead. In support, the Army sent two tank battalions equipped with the new T-55s, a MiG-21 fighter wing, forty-two Il-28 light bombers, four motorised regiments, two cruise missile regiments and twelve SA-2 surface-to-air missile units. The Navy sent two cruisers, four destroyers and twelve Komar ships. Future plans called for a submarine base to be built on Cuba that would house a squadron of eleven submarines. To service this massive deployment the Soviet merchant ships also transported three 200-bed hospitals, seven food warehouses, a bakery, twenty prefab barracks, ten prefab houses, ten cranes, twenty bulldozers and two thousand tons of cement. In all, Operation Anadyr carried over forty thousand Soviet personnel across the ocean.

  To avoid surveillance from the air the troops remained mostly below deck. Soldiers sailing on the Khabarovsk, caught by a NATO plane, improvised a spontaneous party on deck, dancing with the female nurses, to dispel any hint of military purpose. On arrival in Cuba they were issued with plaid shirts and ordered to blend in with the local population.

  To Khrushchev’s great relief, virtually the entire maskirovka fleet reached Cuba undetected. To protect his bold plan he instructed Anatoly Dobrynin, his ambassador in Washington, to repeat his assurances to the American president that he would never deploy offensive weapons on Cuba. This deception was vital to the success of Operation Anadyr. The cause was great. What did he value more highly, his own personal honour or the survival of socialism?

  ‘Diplomacy is a game,’ he told his friend and adviser Oleg Troyanovsky. ‘No one takes the words of a diplomat literally. We look for the truth between the words.’

  ‘Might that not also be true for Kennedy?’ said Troyanovsky.

  ‘Of course,’ said Khrushchev, troubled.

  After some thought, he determined to send a second message through a very different channel. His son-in-law Alexei Adzhubei had a friend called Georgi Bolshakov, who was a junior cultural attaché in the Soviet embassy in Washington. Bolshakov had an American friend, a journalist called Frank Holeman. Holeman in turn was friendly with Ed Guthman, Robert Kennedy’s press secretary. Through this chain of contacts Bolshakov had achieved several face-to-face meetings with the president’s brother. Both Kennedy and Khrushchev trusted information passed down this back channel precisely because it was unofficial, and permitted questions to be asked and positions to be presented that could never be admitted in public.

  Georgi Bolshakov was an officer in the GRU, the intelligence section of the Red Army. He was considered to be 100 per cent loyal to the Party. Even so, he was not entrusted with the secret of Operation Anadyr. He was told to repeat the assurance that the only weapons the Soviets would ever send to Cuba were for defensive purposes.

  ‘He will convey our message more convincingly if he believes it,’ said Khrushchev. He then told Troyanovsky his favourite anecdote about the two old Jews on a train.

  ‘The first old Jew says to the second, “So where are you going?” The second Jew answers, “I’m going to Zhitomir.” The first Jew nods and smiles and thinks to himself, “That sly old fox doesn’t fool me. He tells me he’s going to Zhitomir so I’ll think he’s going to Zhmerinka. So now I know he’s really going to Zhitomir.”’

  *

  Now that the armada had sailed, Khrushchev turned his attention to the next stage in the deception. The unloading and deploying of the nuclear missiles within Cuba had to be achieved in as complete secrecy as the loading. All local people within two kilometres of the new bases were forced to leave their homes and crops. Only Russians were permitted inside the bases. The new concrete launch pads began to be built behind high fences, screened by palm trees.

  One window remained open wide. Neither the Cubans nor the Russians could fence in the sky.

  Marshall Malinowsky warned Khrushchev that sooner or later the missiles would be detected by the high-flying US reconnaissance planes. The U2s flew at seventy thousand feet, out of range of Cuban anti-aircraft batteries. The Soviet SA-2s could bring down a U2, and had already done so, over Soviet airspace in 1960. Khrushchev therefore ordered that the SA-2 units be deployed first, before the huge R-12s and R-14s became operational. At the same time he began to put pressure on the Americans to cease their surveillance flights. He spoke out publicly against the U2s that flew over international waters, and most of all over the island of Cuba, calling them harassment and warmongering.

  Troyanovsky, who thought privately that the missile deployment was bound to be discovered, nevertheless did what he could to minimise the risks.

  ‘The Americans don’t respond well to name-calling,’ he said. ‘What they understand is making deals.’

  ‘What do you mean, deals?’

  ‘If you want something from them, offer them something they want in exchange.’

  ‘What do they want?’

  ‘Ask them.’

  Khrushchev reflected on this advice. Then he sent a message, through Bolshakov, that in order to get the U2s grounded he was willing to trade.

  *

  The record player in the little gym by the White House pool was pumping out Hank Williams. Jack Kennedy, groaning in time to the music, was going through his round of stretch exercises to ease the pain in his back. Mac Bundy sat on the edge of the massage couch, watching him through his clear-plastic-frame glasses.

  ‘This damn bomb,’ said Kennedy between pulls. ‘Can’t stop thinking about it.’

  ‘Hell of a thing,’ said Bundy.

  ‘Your dad knew Henry Stimson pretty well, right?’

  Mac Bundy nodded. He had known Truman’s Secretary for War pretty well himself. As a young man he had ghost-written Stimson’s memoirs. He had more or less authored Stimson’s famous Harper’s article in 1947 that proved once and for all the president had had no choice but to drop the bomb.

  ‘Was it Truman’s decision in the end?’ said Kennedy. ‘Or was it the military?’

  ‘The chiefs were all against it,’ said Bundy. ‘Eisenhower, MacArthur, all of them. It was Truman’s decision, all right.’

  ‘And Stimson’s.’

  ‘You want to know something, Mr President. Henry never forgave himself for that. By September of ’45 he knew he’d started an arms race we’d never be able to stop.’

  ‘We sure as hell got that.’

  Kennedy climbed to his feet and mopped the sweat off his face with a towel. Hank Williams started singing ‘I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry’.

  ‘Turn it off, will you?’

  Bundy shut down the music.

  ‘You know, Mac, the chiefs tell me, “You just give the order, Mr President, and we’ll deal with the rest.” Like I’m not to worry my silly little head with the details. Like it’s just another war.’

  ‘Lauris Norstad says it’s only a matter of time,’ said Bundy.

  ‘They scare me,’ said Kennedy. ‘They royally screwed me over the Bay of Pigs. They knew that dumb operation was going to fail. They just assumed I’d never b
e able to take the humiliation, and I’d send in the Marines. So I end up with the fucking humiliation.’

  He stripped off and ran a shower. Taking showers helped with the back pain too. Sometimes he had five showers a day.

  Out of the shower, towelling, dressing, he reverted to his fascination with the momentous decision made at Potsdam.

  ‘Sometimes I wonder how it would be if we hadn’t dropped the bomb.’

  ‘It’d still exist,’ said Bundy. ‘The Russians would have built their bomb.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. There’s no going back. But seeing what that first bomb did to Hiroshima – you can’t really believe it till you see it. That’s what changes history.’

  They walked back to the Oval Office together.

  ‘You know Henry Stimson’s whole idea about the atom bomb,’ said Bundy. ‘His idea was that it was so terrible it would make war impossible. It was the ultimate peace weapon.’

  ‘And here we are, relying on it for our first line of defence. Hell, what do we do if they roll their tanks into West Berlin?’

  Both men knew the Soviets had eighty divisions at the gates of Berlin. Only nuclear missiles could defend that embattled island of freedom.

  ‘You think I want to go down in history as the president who started a nuclear war?’

  In the Oval Office they found Bobby Kennedy pacing up and down, looking agitated.

  ‘I’ve just had a visit from Bolshakov,’ he said. ‘You know how Khrushchev’s been getting all worked up over violations of Cuban air space? Looks like he wants to do a deal.’

  ‘Jesus! Fucking Cuba!’ exclaimed the president. ‘Why does everyone go on about Cuba?’

  ‘Cuba’s Khrushchev’s Berlin,’ said Bundy.

  ‘So what’s this deal, Bobby?’

  ‘According to Bolshakov,’ said Bobby Kennedy, ‘he wants to know our price for grounding the U2s.’

  ‘Do we believe this?’

  ‘We believe he wants something. And when a guy wants something, there’s usually business to be done.’

  Kennedy was under pressure on multiple fronts. His prime objective at this point was to make it to the mid-term elections without any nasty surprises.

  ‘What’s bugging him about Cuba?’ he said to Bobby.

  ‘He’s stuffing Cuba with guns.’

  ‘And we let him do that?’

  ‘You want another Bay of Pigs?’

  ‘I’ve got that prick Keating on my back day and night, acting like if I don’t force regime change in Cuba I’m exposing the country to – to what? Is Castro supposed to scare us?’

  ‘I say forget Cuba,’ said Bobby. ‘Cuba’s a pimple on our backside. But if we can use it as a bargaining chip, hey, why not?’

  ‘To get what?’

  Bobby shrugged.

  ‘Berlin. We tell him, you leave Berlin alone, we’ll leave Cuba alone. At least until after the mid-terms.’

  The president nodded. He turned to Bundy.

  ‘How does that look to you, Mac?’

  ‘Looks pretty good, Mr President,’ said Bundy. ‘If we think we can trust him.’

  ‘I don’t trust him to keep his word. But I do trust him to do what’s in his interests. Ask yourself what it is Khrushchev wants. He wants to look good on the world stage. He wants his people to see him as a successful leader. Kind of like I do.’

  The others laughed.

  ‘Except he doesn’t have to win a popularity contest every two years.’

  ‘So what do I tell Bolshakov?’ said Bobby.

  ‘Try your trade on him. Tell him if Khrushchev guarantees to lay off Berlin until after the elections, I’ll ground the U2s.’

  *

  The message passed back to Khrushchev through the Bolshakov channel was that Kennedy wanted Berlin put ‘on ice’. Khrushchev hadn’t met this expression before. When Troyanovsky explained it to him, he liked it a lot.

  ‘Let’s put their balls on ice,’ he said.

  The Presidium authorised Bolshakov to tell President Kennedy that his offer was acceptable. Kennedy ordered the U2s to be grounded.

  The window in the sky was closed.

  23

  The taxi pulled up outside a house in Mayfair. There was nothing to distinguish the address: the same blank house front, the same three steps rising to a front door. The tall windows either side of the front door were shuttered on the inside.

  André took out a ring of keys and unlocked the door. He stood there in his perfectly tailored dove-grey suit, his silky hair brushed back on his head, his handsome high-cheeked profile towards her, and smiled as if he was about to reveal a mystery.

  ‘This is where it’s all going to happen.’

  He opened the door and ushered Pamela in ahead of him. A wide empty hall faced her, from which rose a handsome staircase. The house seemed much bigger inside than outside. Doors to left and right stood open.

  ‘Go ahead. Look round.’

  The rooms were immense, and entirely empty. She stood gazing at the expanse of polished boards, the high plastered walls rising to ornate cornices.

  ‘There’s nothing here.’

  ‘Almost nothing.’ He was watching her closely, expectantly, seeing if she could guess. ‘Space,’ he said. ‘The house is full of space.’

  She moved from empty room to empty room, and there was nothing, not a chair, not a rug, not a lamp. And yet for all its emptiness the house didn’t feel abandoned. The paintwork on the walls was pristine. The brass door-plates and door handles gleamed. The floors had been polished to a golden glow.

  ‘Is this how it was when you bought it?’ she asked.

  ‘Lord, no!’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s taken a lot of work and a lot of money to make this emptiness. The rooms were full of junk. Most of the plasterwork has had to be stripped and replaced. There were internal walls in this room. There was a narrow passage right where you’re standing. They had four rooms in here. It was used as offices for an insurance company.’

  She looked round in wonder.

  ‘You’ve made it so beautiful. It’s not like a house at all. It’s like a different world.’

  ‘All parties should happen in a different world.’

  ‘Yes, of course. The party.’

  He led her back into the hall.

  ‘Go on up the stairs,’ he said.

  She climbed the stairs. At the top there was a wide landing, with closed double doors facing her.

  ‘Open the doors.’

  She opened the doors, and found herself standing on a platform or stage. Wide steps descended a short distance from this stage to a great room, a ballroom, lit by tall windows on either side. Like the rooms below, this too was empty.

  ‘I bought the house for this room,’ André said.

  It was the width of the entire house, and deeper than it was wide. Supporting columns ran down either side, between the windows. The ceiling was arched, with a long glazed lantern down the centre through which sunlight was streaming.

  How rich do you have to be, thought Pamela, to buy a house so you can hold a party?

  ‘This is where my guests will make their entrée,’ he said, sweeping one arm from the double doors over the raised platform.

  ‘Make their entrée?’

  ‘For a party like this, people go to a lot of trouble over their appearance. They deserve their moment.’

  ‘Like coming on stage.’

  ‘Everyone a star.’

  Pamela stood just inside the entrance doors and imagined the moment.

  ‘How will you decorate the room?’

  ‘With beautiful people,’ he said, smiling.

  She turned to him, about to ask a question, and then looked away again.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I suppose your party will be very smart,’ she said.

  ‘My guests are a very mixed crowd,’ he said. ‘I hope my party will be beautiful, and surprising, and joyful.’

  She said nothing.

  ‘I think you’re concerned abou
t what to wear.’

  ‘How did you know?’ she said, amazed.

  ‘I could tell you that whatever you wear you will be the most beautiful of all. But instead I will make myself useful. Will you allow me the pleasure of buying a dress for you?’

  Even as he spoke in this quaintly formal way, his gaze was moving over her like a caress. He combined perfect manners with something quite different: the wordless impression that he was used to getting what he wanted. Because he never raised his voice, and because his face habitually wore an expression of sadness, as if he lived with the memory of some great loss, she had at first taken him to be weak-willed. Then she had come to realise that he was simply lazy, with the golden laziness of the privileged. Great wealth and natural beauty had made exertion unnecessary.

  ‘Please let me. You know I can afford it.’

  ‘Have you always been rich?’

  ‘Yes, always.’ Then as they descended the stairs, ‘Never be born rich. Desire puts down roots in stony soil.’

  Did that mean he desired her, or that he wanted to desire her and couldn’t? As yet she had no idea how to respond to him. She didn’t believe herself to be in love with him. All she knew was that everything in her life was transformed by his attentions, and she didn’t want them to stop.

  She was also a little frightened. She was afraid he would discover her ignorance, and so spoke very little. She was afraid he would grow bored with her, and so cultivated an air of being bored with him.

  ‘Don’t you find shopping rather tiresome?’ she said.

  ‘Shopping for oneself is a melancholy business, like eating alone. But shopping for someone else is joyful.’

  It was the second time he’d used this word. Joyful.

  *

  The following day they met by arrangement at the showroom of a designer Pamela had never heard of. It was in a smartly converted stable-block on Pavilion Road, just off Sloane Street, and was called Bellville Sassoon. The main floor was a cross between a shop and a dressmaker’s, with ready-to-wear gowns on display, and dressmaker’s dummies wearing half-made garments that bristled with pins.