Aarons had slept for just over two hours when the girl woke him, waited for him to dress and took him up to the sixth floor and a luxurious suite of rooms that were obviously used as an office and meeting area with living accommodation for some very senior officer. He bathed, shaved and changed his shirt and underwear which had been laid out in the marble bathroom from his travel bag.
There was fruit and coffee laid out for them on a side table and as she poured the coffee she said, “The man you’re going to meet is nothing to do with your Chief Directorate. The material you have been producing recently is being handled by 8th Chief Directorate who cover communications and cryptography. His name is Rabinovich. Lev Rabinovich. Very civilised. Going to the top. Too good at his job to need to be political.” She smiled. “A bit like you.” She walked to the door and stopped. “Tell him what travel arrangements you want and I’ll put them in hand.”
He nodded. “Thanks.”
A few minutes after the girl had left the door opened and a man came in. He was in his mid-fifties but he looked younger. Well-dressed, he could have easily been a top manager in some New York company. He held out his hand, “Rabinovich. Lev. We owe you an apology. Two little bureaucrats who don’t know what they’re doing can cause a lot of trouble. One is already on his way to the KGB office in Yerevan and the other will soon be on his way to one of our frontier units on the Chinese border. Again our apologies.” He paused, smiling. “I’ve arranged for us to do our talking at my place in Peredelkino. You’ll like it. Right on the edge of the forest.” He paused. “Is that agreeable to you?”
Aarons nodded. “Whatever you want.”
The dacha could have fitted happily into any New England rural setting. Outside it was painted a pale pink with blue surrounds to the windows. Inside it was all polished and waxed wood and the well-designed furniture looked as if it was either Czech or Swedish.
A young woman had poured them coffee and then left them alone.
They talked for two hours about the material that Aarons had brought over, with Rabinovich explaining carefully which parts were particularly important. He also talked about other areas on which information would be of vital importance in planning their anti-surveillance systems.
Rabinovich had suggested a walk before lunch and had found Aarons a thick jacket and a pair of fur gloves against the cold.
They walked as far as the edge of the frozen lake, their breath hanging in the cold air, their cheeks stinging from the cold as they turned back to the dacha.
“Do you own the dacha?”
“It’s on permanent loan but I can buy it at a fixed price when I retire. If I want to.”
“Are you married?”
“Yes. My wife works for Sovfilm as a director. She’s away in Cuba at the moment, doing a film about Castro.”
“My wife is a photographer. Still photography.”
“Who does she work for?”
“She’s independent. She doesn’t work for anyone. She’s a freelance.”
“How much can she earn in a year that way?”
“It varies. I guess last year she made about thirty thousand dollars.”
Rabinovich stopped as they got to the garden’s picket fence, his gloved hand resting on the gate. “You mean just one woman earned that money in one year?”
“Yes. It’s quite good but there will be photographers earning more.”
Rabinovich shook his head as if in wonderment and Aarons followed him into the dacha.
The girl had laid out a tray of sandwiches and fresh fruit and as they ate Rabinovich said, “Do you like living in New York?”
Aarons shrugged. “It’s OK. I get by.”
Rabinovich smiled. “The place isn’t bugged. None of the dachas here are bugged. It’s one of our privileges.” He laughed. “And just as a precaution my men sweep it every day.”
“Do you have to get involved in politics?”
“It would help if I did but it isn’t essential. And I would find it terribly boring.”
“You’re very fortunate in a way.”
Rabinovich laughed. “How?”
“All your work is passive—listening—keeping surveillance—nobody gets killed, nobody gets hurt even. There’s no way you can be aggressive.”
“The same applies to what you do.”
“Do you think that what we are doing is justified?”
Rabinovich smiled and said quietly, “Who knows? I have asked myself that question a hundred times.”
“You must have some views.”
For a long time Rabinovich was silent, and then he said, “I console myself that the work I do gives power to those who still want to make the dream work. A balance against the so-called men of action who could lead us into war.”
“Who will win—the dreamers or the missile-men?”
“I don’t know—I’m not sure that I want either of them to win.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means that I think—perhaps—that nuclear weapons on both sides do more to prevent war than anything else. But nuclear weapons and dreams don’t go together and it’s the dreamers that really matter.” He hesitated. “For me, that is.”
Aarons smiled. “How soon can you get me back to New York?”
Rabinovich stood up. “Are you prepared to fly all night if there are suitable connections?”
“Yes.”
It was no more than ten minutes later when Rabinovich came back. “We leave in ten minutes. I’ll drive you to Sheremetyevo. Oslo, Reykjavik, Ottawa, Newark. That’s the best I could do.”
“That’s OK.”
“Is there anything you want to take back with you? Vodka, caviar, books?”
“No. I never buy anything on my journeys.”
“What do you do about passports and visas?”
Aaron smiled. “I get by. That’s my business. All those Russian Jews in Brooklyn got the rules worked out long ago.”
As the plane
