Edge of Eternity (80 page)

‘Dmitriy Dvorkin. I’m moving into the little house next door.’

‘Lucky you – it’s a jewel.’

‘I was just exploring. I hope I haven’t trespassed.’

‘You’d better stay on your own side of that wall. This place belongs to Marshal Pushnoy.’

‘Oh!’ said Dimka. ‘Pushnoy? He’s a friend of my grandfather.’

‘Then that’s how you got the dacha,’ said the soldier.

‘Yes,’ said Dimka, and he felt vaguely troubled. ‘I suppose it is.’

34

George’s apartment was the top floor of a high, narrow Victorian terraced house in the Capitol Hill neighbourhood. He preferred this to a modern building: he liked the proportions of the nineteenth-century rooms. He had leather chairs, a high-fidelity record player, plenty of bookshelves, and plain canvas blinds at the windows instead of fussy drapes.

It looked even better with Verena in it.

He loved to see her doing everyday things in his home: sitting on the couch and kicking off her shoes, making coffee in her bra and panties, standing naked in the bathroom brushing her perfect teeth. Best of all he liked to see her asleep in his bed, as she was now, her soft lips slightly parted, her lovely face in repose, one long, slender arm thrown back to reveal the strangely sexy armpit. He leaned over her and kissed her there. She made a noise in her throat but did not wake up.

Verena stayed here every time she came to Washington, which was about once a month. It was driving George crazy. He wanted her all the time. But she was not willing to give up her job with Martin Luther King in Atlanta, and George could not leave Bobby Kennedy. So they were stuck.

George got up and walked naked into the kitchen. He started a pot of coffee and thought about Bobby, who was wearing his brother’s clothes, spending too much time at the graveside holding hands with Jackie, and letting his political career go to hell.

Bobby was the public’s favourite choice for Vice-President. President Johnson had not asked Bobby to be his running-mate in November, nor had he ruled him out. The two men disliked one another, but that did not necessarily prevent their teaming up for a Democrat victory.

Anyway, Bobby needed to make only a small effort to become Johnson’s friend. A little sucking-up went a long way with Lyndon. George had planned it with his friend Skip Dickerson, who was close to Johnson. A dinner party for Johnson at Bobby and Ethel’s Virginia mansion, Hickory Hill; a few warm handshakes in full view in the corridors of the Capitol; a speech in which Bobby said Lyndon was a worthy successor to his brother; it could be easily done.

George hoped it would happen. A campaign might bring Bobby out of his grief-stricken torpor. And George himself relished the prospect of working in a presidential election campaign.

Bobby could make something special of the normally insignificant post of Vice-President, just as he had revolutionized the role of Attorney General. He would become a high-profile advocate for the things he believed in, such as civil rights.

But first Bobby needed somehow to be reanimated.

George poured two mugs of coffee and returned to the bedroom. Before getting back under the covers he turned on the television. He had a TV set in every room, like Elvis: he felt uneasy if he was away from the news too long. ‘Let’s see who won the California Republican primary,’ he said.

Verena said sleepily: ‘You so romantic, baby, I like to die.’

George laughed. Verena often made him laugh. It was one of the best things about her. ‘Who are you trying to kid?’ he said. ‘You want to watch the news, too.’

‘Okay, you’re right.’ She sat up and sipped coffee. The sheet fell off her, and George had to tear his gaze away to look at the screen.

The leading candidates for the Republican nomination were Barry Goldwater, the right-wing senator from Arizona, and Nelson Rockefeller, the liberal governor of New York. Goldwater was an extremist who hated labour unions, welfare, the Soviet Union, and – most of all – civil rights. Rockefeller was an integrationist and an admirer of Martin Luther King.

They had fought a close contest so far, but the result of yesterday’s California primary would be decisive. The winner would take all the state’s delegates, about 15 per cent of the total attending the Republican Convention. Whoever had won last night would almost certainly be the Republican candidate for President.

The commercial break ended, the news came on, and the primary was the top story. Goldwater had won. It was a narrow victory – 52 per cent to 48 per cent – but Goldwater had all the California delegates.

‘Hell,’ said George.

‘Amen to that,’ said Verena.

‘This is really bad news. A serious racist is going to be one of the two presidential candidates.’

‘Maybe it’s good news,’ Verena argued. ‘Could be all the sensible Republicans will vote Democrat to keep Goldwater out.’

‘That’s worth hoping for.’

The phone rang and George picked up the bedside extension. He immediately recognized the Southern drawl of Skip Dickerson, saying: ‘Did you see the result?’

‘Fucking Goldwater won,’ said George.

‘We think it’s good news,’ said Skip. ‘Rockefeller might have beaten our man, but Goldwater is too conservative. Johnson will wipe the floor with him in November.’

‘That’s what Martin Luther King’s people think.’

‘How do you know that?’

George knew because Verena had told him. ‘I talked to . . . some of them.’

‘Already? The result has only just been announced. You’re not actually in bed with Dr King, are you, George?’

George laughed. ‘Never mind who I’m in bed with. What did Johnson say when you told him the result?’

Skip hesitated. ‘You won’t like it.’

‘Now I
have
to know.’

‘Well, he said: “Now I can win without the help of that little runt.” I apologize, but you did ask.’

‘Damn.’

The little runt was Bobby. George saw immediately the political calculation Johnson had made. If Rockefeller had been his opponent, Johnson would have had to work hard for liberal votes, and having Bobby on the ticket would have helped him win them. But running against Goldwater he could automatically count on all the liberal Democrats and many liberal Republicans too. His problem now would be securing the votes of the white working class, many of whom were racist. So he no longer needed Bobby – in fact, Bobby would now be a liability.

Skip said: ‘I’m sorry, George, but it’s, you know,
realpolitik
.’

‘Yeah. I’ll tell Bobby. Though he’s probably guessed. Thanks for letting me know.’

‘You bet.’

George hung up and said to Verena: ‘Johnson doesn’t want Bobby for his running-mate now.’

‘It makes sense. He doesn’t like Bobby, and now he doesn’t need him. Who will he pick instead?’

‘Gene McCarthy, Hubert Humphrey or Thomas Dodd.’

‘Where does this leave Bobby?’

‘That’s the problem.’ George got up and turned the volume of the television down to a murmur, then returned to bed. ‘Bobby’s been useless as Attorney General since the assassination. I still push on with lawsuits against Southern states that prevent Negroes voting, but he’s not really interested. He’s also forgotten all about organized crime – and he was doing so well! We got Jimmy Hoffa convicted, and Bobby hardly noticed.’

Shrewdly, Verena asked: ‘Where does that leave
you
?’ She was one of only a few people who thought ahead as fast as George himself.

‘I may quit,’ George said.

‘Wow.’

‘I’ve been treading water for six months, and I’m not going to do it much longer. If Bobby really is a spent force I’ll move on. I admire him more than any man, but I’m not going to sacrifice my life to him.’

‘What will you do?’

‘I could probably get a great job with a Washington law firm. I’ve had three years’ experience in the Department of Justice, and that’s worth a lot.’

‘They don’t hire many Negroes.’

‘That’s true, and a lot of firms wouldn’t even give me an interview. But others might hire me just to prove they’re liberal.’

‘Really?’

‘Things are changing. Lyndon is really hot on equal opportunities. He sent Bobby a note complaining about how few female lawyers the Justice Department hires.’

‘Good for Johnson!’

‘Bobby was mad as hell.’

‘So you’ll work for a law firm.’

‘If I stay in Washington.’

‘Where else would you go?’

‘Atlanta. If Dr King still wants me.’

‘You’d move to Atlanta,’ Verena said thoughtfully.

‘I could.’

There was a silence. They both looked at the screen. Ringo Starr had tonsillitis, the newsreader told them. George said: ‘If I moved to Atlanta, we could be together all the time.’

She looked pensive.

‘Would you like that?’ he asked her.

Still she said nothing.

He knew why. He had not said
how
they would be together. He had not planned this, but they had got to the point where they had to decide whether to get married.

Verena was waiting for him to propose.

An image of Maria Summers came into his mind, unbidden, unwanted. He hesitated.

The phone rang.

George picked it up. It was Bobby. ‘Hey, George, wake up,’ he said jocularly.

George concentrated, trying to put the thought of marriage out of his mind for a minute. Bobby sounded happier than he had for a long time. George said: ‘Did you see the California result?’

‘Yes. It means Lyndon doesn’t need me. So I’m going to run for Senator. What do you think of that?’

George was startled. ‘Senator! For what state?’

‘New York.’

So Bobby would be in the Senate. Maybe he could shake up those crusty old conservatives, with their filibusters and their delaying tactics. ‘That’s great!’ said George.

‘I want you to join my campaign team. What do you say?’

George looked at Verena. He had been on the brink of proposing marriage. But now he was not moving to Atlanta. He was going on the campaign trail, and if Bobby won, he would be back in Washington, working for Senator Kennedy. Everything had changed, again.

‘I say yes,’ George said. ‘When do we start?’

35

Dimka was with Khrushchev at the Black Sea holiday resort of Pitsunda, on Monday, 12 October 1964, when Brezhnev called.

Khrushchev was not at his best. He lacked energy and talked about the need for old men to retire and make way for the next generation. Dimka missed the old Khrushchev, the podgy gnome full of mischievous ideas, and wondered when he would come back.

The study was a panelled room with an oriental rug and a bank of telephones on a mahogany desk. The phone that rang was a special high-frequency instrument connecting party and government offices. Dimka picked it up, heard the subterranean rumble of Brezhnev’s voice, and handed the phone to Khrushchev.

Dimka heard only Khrushchev’s half of the conversation. Whatever Brezhnev was saying, it caused the leader to say: ‘Why? . . . On what issue? . . . I’m on vacation, what could be so urgent? What do you mean, you all got together? . . . Tomorrow? . . . All right!’

After he hung up, he explained. The Presidium wanted him to return to Moscow to discuss urgent agricultural problems. Brezhnev had been insistent.

Khrushchev sat thoughtfully for a long time. He did not dismiss Dimka. Eventually, he said: ‘They haven’t got any urgent agricultural problems. This is what you warned me of six months ago, on my birthday. They’re going to throw me out.’

Dimka was shocked. So Natalya had been right.

Dimka had believed Khrushchev’s reassurances, and his faith had seemed justified in June, when Khrushchev came back from Scandinavia and the threatened arrest did not take place. At that point, Natalya had admitted that she no longer knew what was happening. Dimka assumed the plot had come to nothing.

Now it seemed that it had merely been postponed.

Khrushchev had always been a fighter. ‘What will you do?’ Dimka asked him.

‘Nothing,’ said Khrushchev.

That was even more shocking.

Khrushchev went on: ‘If Brezhnev thinks he can do better, let him try, the big turd.’

‘But what will happen with him in charge? He doesn’t have the imagination and energy to drive reforms through the bureaucracy.’

‘He doesn’t even see much need for change,’ the old man said. ‘Maybe he’s right.’

Dimka was aghast.

Back in April, he had considered whether to leave Khrushchev and try for a job with another senior Kremlin figure, but he had decided against it. Now that was beginning to look like a mistake.

Khrushchev became practical. ‘We’ll leave tomorrow. Cancel my lunch with the French minister of state.’

Beneath a thundercloud of gloom Dimka set about making the arrangements: getting the French delegation to come earlier, ensuring that the plane and Khrushchev’s personal pilot would be ready, and altering tomorrow’s diary. But he did it all as if in a trance. How could the end come so easily?

No previous Soviet leader had retired. Both Lenin and Stalin had died in office. Would Khrushchev be killed now? What about his aides?

Dimka asked himself how much longer he had to live.

He wondered if they would even let him see little Grigor again.

He pushed the thought to the back of his mind. He could not operate if he were paralysed by fear.

They took off at one the following afternoon.

The flight to Moscow took two and a half hours, with no change of time zone. Dimka had no idea what awaited them at the end of the trip.

They flew to Vnukovo-2, south of Moscow, the airport for official flights. When Dimka got off the plane behind Khrushchev, a small group of minor officials greeted them, instead of the usual crowd of top government ministers. At that point, Dimka knew for sure that it was all over.

Two cars were parked on the runway: a ZIL-111 limousine and a five-seater Moskvitch 403. Khrushchev walked to the limousine, and Dimka was ushered to the modest saloon.

Khrushchev realized they were being separated. Before getting into his car, he turned and said: ‘Dimka.’