“So what are you suggesting I should do?”
“Just use that analytical mind of yours. Look at the facts. You know more about American politics and policies than most Americans do. You’ve spent a life-time involved with Moscow and the Party. There’s propaganda on both sides but you can ignore that. Both sides are selling a dream. The same dream actually. Maybe one of them really means it. Which one? If you can decide that then maybe you have to think about where you stand.”
“That sounds like you’ve already decided.”
“All I decided was that the side I was on, the side I understood, consisted mainly of ruthless, greedy men, whose lives had nothing to do with Leninism or Marxism.” Lensky smiled, a very Jewish smile. “There’s an old Jewish saying, Andrei—‘Hoping and waiting turn wise men into fools.’ ”
“Is what you said advice or a warning?”
“Both, my friend, both.”
Aarons took a cab down to Tania’s studio. She was working with a large 8 x 10 camera. She pulled out from under the black cloth, smiling when she saw him.
“Just let me finish this. Just two more shots.” She waved him over. “Come and look at this.”
This was a tape-recorder, a Grundig, placed on a red velvet cloth. As she switched on the studio lights they caught the surface of the spools of tape and the golden locks and fittings sparkled like jewels. The knobs and switches and the line of control tabs cast sharp-edged shadows across the plastic fascia.
“Why the red flannel?”
She laughed. “It’s not flannel, you idiot, it’s velvet. Makes the product look valuable and distinguished. They aren’t on sale yet but they’re preparing the ads so that they can go to Germany for approval.”
“What do they do?”
“They’ll record anything. Radio programmes, records, phone conversations, family stuff. They’re very good. They demonstrated one for me.” She smiled. “I’m hoping they’ll let me keep this one as part of the deal.”
“How about we go out to dinner tonight?”
She looked pleasantly surprised. “You bet. Where’ll we go?”
“How about the Waldorf?”
“Great. Why don’t you phone through a reservation while I finish this job.”
They had actually closed the door of the apartment behind them when they heard the phone ringing inside. Aarons went back reluctantly and lifted the phone.
“Yes.”
“Andrei, it’s Bill. I’ve been asked to get you over here right away.”
“Over where?”
“Washington. He’ll send a car for you if it’ll help. Could be there in ten minutes.”
“I’m just taking Tania out to dinner. How about tomorrow morning?”
“You couldn’t put it off, could you?”
“No. Definitely not.”
“What time will you be back?”
“Midnight, something like that.”
“How about I send a car at one and you could have a nap on the journey?”
“Why the rush, Bill?” He sounded on the edge of anger.
“I’m sorry. There’s a crisis here, they need your help.”
“OK. Send the car.”
“It might take several days. Maybe you should warn Tania.” He paused. “I’m afraid it’s just you. This is for real, not just kicking ideas around.”
With his canvas hold-all on the seat beside him Aarons slept until the car stopped at a hotel. The driver said that his friend was waiting for him in the lobby.
Malloy was there, with a copy of Newsweek in his hand. He held out his free hand.
“Thanks for coming, Andy, they’re very grateful. I’ve booked you a room here for today. I need to get you photographed for an identity card that will get you in the White House and other places we might have to go to.” He looked at his watch. “The shops won’t be open for another hour so let’s have some breakfast.”
As they walked to the hotel’s coffee-shop Aarons said, “What’s this all about, Bill?”
“I can’t tell you now but when we’ve got your ID card fixed we’ll be going to the White House.” He paused and looked at Aarons. “It’s serious, Andy, very serious.”
It was mid-day before Malloy drove Aarons to the White House. Their identity and status were checked four times before they were in a complex of underground offices. On his ID card Aarons was described as “Interpreter/Translator—Presidential Level.” There was no name given but a typewritten note referred enquiries on a “need-to-know” basis to contact someone with just a seven-figure numerical reference. Malloy showed him into a room whose door had a stencilled panel that said, “Consultation Room 904.”
Inside the room the walls were white-painted concrete. There were no windows but the air was fresh and the ceiling lights gave a light that was like daylight. There was a long table with a continuous panel of electricity sockets on the wall behind it and a white screen on one wall surrounded by cork panels. A dozen or so folding chairs were stacked against a wall with two telephones on a panel above them. And in one corner were four leather armchairs set around a coffee table.
Malloy used one of the phones and then hung up and pointed to the armchair. “He’s coming down in a few minutes.”
“Who?”
“Bobby Kennedy. JFK is in his conference room with the intelligence people and the military. And people from State.”
“Is this Cuba?”
Malloy looked shocked. “Have you heard something?”
“Only what I’ve read in the papers and heard on the radio and TV.”
The door opened and Robert Kennedy spoke to somebody outside before he closed the door. He walked over and sat himself down, sighing as he ran his fingers through his unruly mop of hair. He looked at Aarons.
“Sorry to drag you over but we’d value your opinion on this situation. Has Bill explained the problem?”
Malloy interjected. “No. I haven’t told him anything.”
Robert Kennedy nodded. “OK. I’d better explain. You probably saw in the press the statements by Senator Keating that the Soviets were putting nuclear missiles with warheads in Cuba. The President denied it on advisement from the CIA. John McCone, the director
