Dimka had no answer.

Natalya drove along the coast road to a forested peninsula and turned in at a massive iron gate in a long stucco wall. Set amid immaculate lawns was a white villa with a long balcony on the upper floor. Beside the house was a full-size swimming pool. Dimka had never seen a home with its own pool.

“He’s down by the sea,” a guard told Dimka, jerking his head toward the far side of the house.

Dimka found his way through the trees to a shingle beach. A soldier with a submachine gun looked hard at him, then waved him on.

He found Khrushchev under a palm tree. The second-most powerful man in the world was short, fat, bald, and ugly. He wore the trousers of a suit, held up by suspenders, and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled. He was sitting on a wicker beach chair, and on a small table in front of him were a jug of water and a glass tumbler. He seemed to be doing nothing.

He looked at Dimka and said: “Where did you get those shorts?”

“My mother made them.”

“I should have a pair of shorts.”

Dimka said the words he had rehearsed. “Comrade First Secretary, I offer you my immediate resignation.”

Khrushchev ignored that. “We will overtake the United States, in military might and economic prosperity, within the next twenty years,” he said, as if he were continuing an ongoing discussion. “But, meanwhile, how do we prevent the stronger power from dominating global politics and holding back the spread of world Communism?”

“I don’t know,” said Dimka.

“Watch this,” said Khrushchev. “I am the Soviet Union.” He picked up the jug and poured water slowly into the glass until it was full to the brim. Then he handed the jug to Dimka. “You are the United States,” he said. “Now you pour water into the glass.”

Dimka did as he was told. The glass overflowed, and water soaked into the white tablecloth.

“You see?” said Khrushchev as if he had proved a point. “When the glass is full, no more can be added without making a mess.”

Dimka was mystified. He asked the expected question. “What’s the significance of this, Nikita Sergeyevich?”

“International politics is like a glass. Aggressive moves by either side pour water in. The overflow is war.”

Dimka saw the point. “When tension is at its maximum, no one can make a move without causing a war.”

“Well done. And the Americans do not want war, any more than we do. So, if we maintain international tension at the maximum—full to the brim—the American president is helpless. He cannot do anything without causing war, so he must do nothing!”

Dimka realized this was brilliant. It showed how the weaker power could dominate. “So Kennedy is now powerless?” he said.

“Because his next move is war!”

Had this been Khrushchev’s long-term plan, Dimka wondered? Or had he just made it up as a hindsight justification? He was nothing if not an improviser. But it hardly mattered. “So, what are we going to do about the crisis in Berlin?” he said.