He sat at his desk, but found it difficult to concentrate. Civil rights had taken a backseat anyway: no one was thinking about equality for Negroes this week.

George felt the crisis was slipping out of President Kennedy’s control. Against his better judgment the president had ordered the Marucla to be boarded. The event had gone off without trouble, but what would happen next time? Now there were battlefield nuclear weapons in Cuba: America might still invade, but the price would be high. And just to add an extra element of risk, the CIA was playing its own games.

Everyone was desperate to cool the temperature, but the opposite kept happening, a nightmarish escalation of the crisis that no one wanted.

Later in the afternoon, Bobby came back from the Pentagon with a wire service report in his hand. “What the hell is this?” he said to the aides. He began to read: “In response to the speeded-up campaign to build missile launch sites in Cuba, fresh action by President Kennedy is expected imminently”—he held his hand in the air, finger pointing up—“according to sources close to the attorney general.” Bobby looked around the room. “Who blabbed?”

George said: “Oh, fuck.”

Everyone looked at him.

Bobby said: “Do you have something to tell me, George?”

George wanted to sink through the floor. “I’m sorry,” he said. “All I did was quote the president’s speech, saying the quarantine was only the beginning.”

“You can’t say that sort of thing to reporters! You’ve given him a new story.”

“Oh, boy, I know that now.”

“And you’ve escalated the crisis just when we were all trying to calm things down. The next story will speculate what action the president has in mind. Then if he does nothing they’ll say he’s dithering.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why were you talking to him at all?”

“He was introduced to me at the White House and he walked along Pennsylvania Avenue with me.”

Dennis Wilson said to Bobby: “Is that a Reuters report?”

“Yes, why?”

“It was probably written by Lee Montgomery.”

George groaned inwardly. He knew what was coming next. Wilson was deliberately making the incident look worse.

Bobby said: “What makes you say that, Dennis?”

Wilson hesitated, so George answered the question. “Montgomery is a Negro.”

Bobby said: “Is that why you talked to him, George?”

“I guess I didn’t want to tell him to drop dead.”

“Next time, that’s exactly what you say to him, and to any other reporter who tries to get a story out of you, no matter what his color.”

George was relieved to hear the words next time. It meant that he was not going to be fired. “Thank you,” he said. “I’ll remember that.”

“You’d better.” Bobby went into his office.

“You got away with it,” Wilson said to George. “Lucky bastard.”

“Yeah,” said George. He added sarcastically: “Thanks for your help, Dennis.”

Everyone returned to their work. George could hardly believe what he had done. He, too, had inadvertently poured fuel on the flames.