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.