“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?”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Dimka was with Khrushchev at the Black Sea holiday resort of Pitsunda, on Monday, October 12, 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 paneled 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.