Tania’s assignment stretched out to four months but when she got back he had his reward. She had loved the work but had hated New York, and was desperately glad to be back in their old routine.
Aarons had been co-opted onto a committee working on a Constitution for the State of Israel. His old skills of analysis, quiet argument and diplomacy were much respected and valued. He taught full-time now at the university but the journey to Ramat Gan was beginning to be a strain. Approaching his late seventies and suffering from the onset of arthritis, Aarons retired and Tania took on fewer assignments so that she could be with him. Still mentally alert, he suffered from time to time enough pain in his hands to make normal life difficult.
The Malloys visited them most years for a few weeks and Aarons heard the gossip of New York and Washington and was glad that he was not involved.
Malloy had phoned Tania first, to ask her if Aarons was well enough to travel.
“He never goes anywhere these days, Bill. His arthritis gives him almost continuous pain. And he’s an old man. Why do you ask?”
“The new man heard about what happened about the Cuba thing. He’s desperate to have a talk with Andrei.”
“He left all that sort of thing decades ago, Bill.”
“There’s no crisis. He just wants Andrei’s opinion about Gorbachev and perestroika. Nothing more. I promise.”
“I don’t think he’ll want to come. Where would it be?”
“At Camp David. Just for a weekend. You too of course. VIP travel all the way.”
“Are you phoning because you want me to ask him?”
“No. Just to find out what you thought, before I raised it with him.”
“I think he should be left in peace.”
“It’s a personal request from the President, Tania.”
“We’re Israelis, Bill. He doesn’t even involve himself in those old games over here.”
“This country is a very good friend to Israel, my love, you know that.”
For several seconds she was silent and then she said, “All right. Speak to him. He’s asleep now. Call him in a couple of hours, OK?”
“Bless you, honey. And thanks.”
She had said nothing about the call from Malloy and she made sure that Andrei took the call himself. And two minutes later she realised that she’d been suckered. Andrei was listening intently and his replies were laced with “Mr. Presidents.” Nobody was going to refuse a personal request from George Bush.
CHAPTER 56
They stopped Malloy’s car outside the gate at Camp David and made him get out. It was an official car and they had seen Malloy around the place dozens of times but they stuck strictly to the book. That’s what the Secret Service men were there for. They were both young, as soberly dressed as any IBM salesman and Malloy stood patiently as they checked his ID. One of them standing a few paces away, shining a torch on his face, the other man with his torch on the ID card. The young man handed back the card and unhooked a small transceiver from inside the pocket of his jacket. He pressed a rocker switch and then several numbers on the key-pad. He was intent on what he was doing and turned slightly away from Malloy as he listened. Malloy heard him say “Cactus to Royal Crown” and he waited. Cactus was the radio code for Camp David and Royal Crown the code for High Priority White House Communications. With the radio to his ear he waited, his face lit by the beam of the other man’s torch. They looked so young and earnest, Dan Quayle lookalikes. Then the man said “Yes” and nodded as if the listener could see the nod. He closed down the aerial and slid the transceiver back into his pocket. He nodded to Malloy. “The Chief wants to see you. I’ll take you over, sir,” and he touched Malloy’s arm and guided him along the gravel path, shining his torch in front of them despite the fact that inside the grounds were well-lit.
It was quite a long walk to the President’s quarters where he was handed over to an older Secret Service man watched by a US Marine. He was taken inside and led down a short corridor to the private room next to the general living room where the door was ajar and he could hear Ella Fitzgerald singing “Manhattan”—“… we’ll go to Coney and eat baloney on a roll—in Central Park we’ll stroll …”
The music stopped, the door opened and the President waved him inside, a glass in his hand, smiling as he said, “I love that song and nobody does it like she does … anyway, take a seat.” He paused, still smiling. “A Coke, white wine or would you rather have a whisky?”
“A malt if you’ve got it.”
Bush grinned. “We’ve got everything. How about a Glen Livet?”
“Fine, thank you, sir.”
When he had poured Malloy’s drink and handed it to him Bush said, “How’s Kathy?”
“She’s OK, thank you.”
“You got time for a chat?”
“Sure.”
“Did he get off OK?”
“Yeah. He was flying back via Toronto.”
“Why Toronto? Why not direct?”
Malloy shrugged. “I guess old habits die hard.”
“He’s a strange man. Not easy to understand. But we could have made a lot of silly blunders without his advice.”
“Was he useful on this trip?”
“Yes. He’s got an instinct for what matters and what doesn’t.”
“What don’t you understand about him?”
“How can a man with a brain like his choose to be a communist? I don’t get it.”
Malloy put down his glass and leaned back in his chair. “He didn’t choose Communism. He heard it all from his father when he was a kid and growing up. Like some American kid
