Back Channel

Back Channel

4.5 2
by Stephen L. Carter
     
 

View All Available Formats & Editions

October 1962. The Soviet Union has smuggled missiles into Cuba. Kennedy and Khrushchev are in the midst of a military face-off that could lead to nuclear conflagration. Warships and submarines are on the move. Planes are in the air. Troops are at the ready. Both leaders are surrounded by advisers clamoring for war. The only way for the two leaders to negotiate

See more details below

Overview

October 1962. The Soviet Union has smuggled missiles into Cuba. Kennedy and Khrushchev are in the midst of a military face-off that could lead to nuclear conflagration. Warships and submarines are on the move. Planes are in the air. Troops are at the ready. Both leaders are surrounded by advisers clamoring for war. The only way for the two leaders to negotiate safely is to open a “back channel”—a surreptitious path of communication hidden from their own people. They need a clandestine emissary nobody would ever suspect. If the secret gets out, her life will be at risk . . . but they’re careful not to tell her that.

Stephen L. Carter’s gripping new novel, Back Channel, is a brilliant amalgam of fact and fiction—a suspenseful retelling of the Cuban Missile Crisis, in which the fate of the world rests unexpectedly on the shoulders of a young college student.

On the island of Curaçao, a visiting Soviet chess champion whispers state secrets to an American acquaintance.

In the Atlantic Ocean, a freighter struggles through a squall while trying to avoid surveillance.

And in Ithaca, New York, Margo Jensen, one of the few black women at Cornell, is asked to go to Eastern Europe to babysit a madman.

As the clock ticks toward World War III, Margo undertakes her harrowing journey. Pursued by the hawks on both sides, protected by nothing but her own ingenuity and courage, Margo is drawn ever more deeply into the crossfire—and into her own family’s hidden past.

Read More

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
06/30/2014
In the prologue of Carter’s intriguing what-if thriller, Margo Jensen, a bright 19-year-old Cornell student, meets privately in Washington, D.C., with President Kennedy, who is trying to navigate the Cuban Missile Crisis without triggering nuclear war. Earlier that fall, Margo became involved in a covert intelligence operation through a brilliant Cornell professor of hers, Lorenz Niemeyer, who’s an expert on Conflict Theory. Margo learns that a Russian chess champion, Vasily Smyslov, has alerted the U.S. to a surprise Soviet move in Cuba. The only way to get more details from Smyslov is to send an American counterpart, Bobby Fischer, to Russia to sound him out, and Fischer will only go if Margo, whom he considers to be a good-luck charm, accompanies him. Carter (The Impeachment of Abraham Lincoln) makes this audacious premise convincing and manages to build suspense around a historical event with a known outcome. Author tour. (Aug.)
Kirkus Reviews
2014-06-16
Mutually assured destruction meets the dawning civil rights era in legal scholar/novelist Carter’s (Yale Law School;The Impeachment of Abraham Lincoln, 2012, etc.) latest novel.Margo Jensen constantly has to prove herself, especially when she’s seated before someone like professor Niemeyer, who, though fearsome, teaches a course on conflict theory that is “among the most popular on the Cornell campus.” Margo, as her name suggests, is a woman, which lowers her categorically in the professor’s estimation. She's also African-American, which seems not to faze him, certainly not when he helps recruit her to the cause of a nation scrambling to keep up with and beat the Soviets. So it is that Margo jets off to Bulgaria, where she runs afoul of the security apparatus but proves herself sturdy enough to serve as a very much behind-the-scenes intermediary between president and premier, world leaders tasked not just with running their respective countries, but also containing the war factions that clamor for a showdown. Carter is particularly successful at creating an atmosphere of nearly oppressive suspense: As the story unfolds, everyone, it seems, is implicated, even the snotty BMOC who pesters Margo to test the mattresses in the fallout shelter with him. And despite the unlikeliness of the scenario—half a century ago, an African-American traveling either behind the Iron Curtain or outside the kitchen of the White House would attract more attention than Margo does—Carter does a very good job of placing the reader as fly on the wall. We’re treated to all kinds of spectacles from that viewpoint, from Bobby Kennedy clashing with Curtis LeMay to spy vs. spy action in the field (“Ainsley hit him hard in the groin and, as he doubled over, harder in the chin”) that features a welcome veteran ofother Carter adventures.The tale grinds too slowly at turns and runs a touch too long, but Carter delivers a satisfying historical thriller with some nice cliffhanging moments.
From the Publisher
“[His] best work of fiction yet. . . . Enough intrigue . . . to keep . . . the eyes of a well-informed reader glued to the page.” —The Boston Globe

“Smart, well written and well informed. . . . Pure, mile-a-minute entertainment.” —The Washington Post

 “Stephen L. Carter’s suspenseful novel will have readers burning the midnight oil. . . . Because the novel is based on an historical event, the real question is not will nuclear war be avoided but how.” —New York Journal of Books

Read More

Product Details

ISBN-13:
9780385349604
Publisher:
Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Publication date:
07/29/2014
Pages:
464
Sales rank:
724,174
Product dimensions:
6.50(w) x 9.40(h) x 1.70(d)

Read an Excerpt

PROLOGUE
The Sacrifice
 
The President was in one of his moods. He stood at the bedroom window, tugging the lace curtain aside with a finger, peering down onto East Capitol Street. Outside, Washington was dark. He picked up his bourbon, took a long pull, and rubbed at his lower back. Margo sensed that he would rather be pacing, except that he was in too much pain just now; he never complained, but she had spent enough time around him these last few days to tell. All the same, she marveled at the man’s aplomb, given that he was quite possibly presiding over the end of the world.
 
“Long day, Miss Jensen,” he said finally.
 
“Yes, Mr. President.”
 
“I’ve got people telling me I have to invade.” His suit jacket was slung over the back of a chair. His tie was loose. The thick brown hair was mussy, and before he departed would be a good deal mussier. Margo wondered who owned this townhouse. The bedroom was plush to the point of decadence. Her grandmother, her beloved Nana, would have been appalled at the thought that Margo was in such a place with a man, even if he was the President of the United States.
 
“Invade Cuba,” Kennedy clarified. He reached for his glass but didn’t drink. “My people keep telling me it’s my only choice. They seem to forget we tried already, just last year. And I don’t mean Keating and all those armchair generals on the Hill. I mean my own people. I’ve moved the troops to Georgia and Florida, just in case we decide to go in.” He let the curtain fall, turned half toward her, in profile tired but still dashingly young: the first President born in the twentieth century, as his supporters endlessly trumpeted.
 
Margo sat on the chaise longue, knees primly together in the evening dress. She had told her roommates that she was going to a party in Silver Spring, careful to sound nervous enough that they would guess she was lying. It was important that they suspect she was off on some other journey than the one she disclosed: important to the fiction that she was required to maintain.
 
As was tonight’s meeting: what historians in later years would suppose, wrongly, to have been an assignation.
 
The fiction. The vital fiction.
 
Margo Jensen was nineteen years old, as bright as morning, quick and curious and perhaps a bit fussy, more handsome than pretty, displaying a fleshiness that belonged to a more mature woman. From an oval face a shade or two shy of mahogany, curious eyes strove to find order in a world rushing toward chaos.
 
Kennedy moved to the gigantic bed, gave a small laugh; sat. “I say to them, ‘If we invade Cuba, take out those missiles, what does Khrushchev do?’ They can’t make up their minds.” Kennedy groaned. It occurred to her that in the midst of a crisis that could lead to nuclear war, the President had advisers galore, but nobody to whom he could simply vent without back talk; and so, given that the plan required him to see Margo daily in any case, he had chosen her as his foil.
 
It wasn’t as though she could tell anybody.
 
“LeMay says the Sovs are so scared of us, they won’t do a thing,” Kennedy continued. He was massaging the small of his back again, grimacing. Maybe he was hoping she would volunteer to help. “McNamara tells me they’ll have to respond, just to save face, but their response will be limited, probably in Berlin. Two or three others think they’ll press the button.”
 
Margo shut her eyes. She still could not quite grasp that any of this was happening. It was October 1962, and a month ago she had been nobody, a sophomore government major at Cornell University, chasing no larger goals than finishing college, going on to graduate school, and getting married. Now she was skulking around Washington, D.C., worried about being caught by someone who knew her—or, worse, by the people who would very much like her dead.
 
At odd moments, she asked God why she had been chosen for this role. She was no soldier and no spy; two years ago, she had been in high school. She was not equal to the tasks demanded of her. They should have picked someone else. She wanted more than anything not to be here. Her boyfriend, Tom, a physics major, liked to say that the universe was unpredictable but never absurd. Just now, however, “absurd” was the only word to describe the bizarre concatenation of circumstances that had led her to tonight’s secret meeting in this grand-luxe bedroom. But there was no escape. She was the only candidate: that was what they kept telling her. It was Margo or nobody.
 
“Those are my choices,” the President was saying. “Either live with nuclear missiles ninety miles off our shore—missiles that are capable of reaching two-thirds of the country—or risk thermonuclear war. Come over here.”
 
She tensed. “No, thank you.”
 
“It’s okay. Sit with me a minute.”
 
“I’m comfortable where I am, Mr. President.”
 
Kennedy seemed to understand. “We would spare you all of this if we could, Miss Jensen, believe me. We’re not the ones who chose you.” He drank. Drank again. “You do realize, don’t you, that there’s a good chance I’m going to be the last President of the United States?”
 
Margo swallowed. “I’m sure that’s not true, sir.”
 
Actually, she was lying. She believed exactly that. The likelihood that this was the end plagued her dreams.
 
Kennedy pinched the bridge of his nose. His exhaustion was palpable, a live creature in the room, and yet he tamed it and kept moving forward. “Some of my advisers have already sent their families out of the city. They want to know what provisions I’m making for Jackie and the kids. I tell them not to worry. There isn’t going to be a war. By keeping my family in Washington, I show them I mean what I say. Maybe that’s terrible of me. I don’t know.” He shook off the contemplative mood, stood up straight. “It’s time, Miss Jensen.”
 
Margo’s eyes snapped open. Now came the part of the evening she hated most. “Yes, sir,” she said, rising.
 
He was on his feet, turning back the comforter on the bed. She went around to the other side and helped. They tossed the extra pil- lows into the corner. Kennedy went to the bucket and poured her a glass of champagne. Margo drank it right off, knowing she would get tipsy, which was the point: otherwise, her courage would fail.
 
Besides, it was important that the Secret Service agent who would drive her home later smell the alcohol on her breath: again, the fiction.
 
The President poured her another glass. The room swam. She sat on the bed, trembling. She kicked off her shoes, let one of the shoulder straps slide down her upper arm. Kennedy undid his tie, dropped it on the floor, and walked toward her, smiling that crooked smile.
 
“Now,” he said, “let’s get some of that beautiful lipstick on my collar.”
 
More fiction. He took her hand, lifted her to her feet. Margo stepped into his arms and, once more, shut her eyes. You’re helping to save the country, a voice in her head reminded her. And the world. But as she turned her face upward toward his, Margo found herself wondering again what Nana would think, and all at once none of it mattered—not Kennedy, not Khrushchev, not her role in trying to stop the nuclear war that was about to start—none of it mattered, and none of it would have happened, if only she could turn back the clock to the day they came up from Washington to tell Margo that it was her patriotic duty to go to Bulgaria to babysit a madman.
 
She should have said no.

Read More

Customer Reviews

Average Review:

Write a Review

and post it to your social network

     

Most Helpful Customer Reviews

See all customer reviews >