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.”