“What’s the flaw?”
“You have to find explanations for the inexplicable. And they have to be the truth or very near it.”
“Give me a for instance.”
“I asked him about his reaction to Moscow’s pact with the Nazis. He said it was to buy time and the Brits had done the same when they sold the Czechs down the river. Moscow’s line was very different but when Aarons talked to his people he told them the truth, because he understood their revulsion.” Malloy shrugged. “He saw both sides. And if you do that you end up in an ivory tower—or a psychiatric ward.”
“So why did he decide to help us? Way back.”
Malloy smiled and shook his head. “He didn’t—he helped humanity. You’ve only got to look at his personal life—he loved humanity, but he didn’t love individual people. He barely noticed that they existed.”
“What about his wives and his family? You told me they’re very fond of him.”
“They are. But it’s a one-way traffic. I think his women loved him like they would love some deprived child. He was responsible for his family when his father died and in practical terms he did a good job. But it was from the head, not the heart.”
“You make him sound like a pretty cold fish.”
“I think he was. He got stuck with Communism because of his old man. The Party ruled his life. He went wherever they sent him. He did whatever they asked—and did it well.”
“But how could he believe in it—Communism?”
“I’m not sure he did believe in it—he cared about humanity but you could say that about Christians. They go to church out of habit but I doubt if they believe in it. If they do they don’t make much effort to put it into practice. They don’t turn the other cheek and they don’t love their neighbours.” Malloy smiled. “I once told him that there was really no difference between Communism and Christianity. Both would work if it weren’t for people.” He paused. “That’s why he went to Israel. Moscow couldn’t live up to his ideals, neither could we—no country could. So he escaped to Israel with all its tensions and problems. But they’re not his problems. And it’s worked for him. He has friends there which he never dared have here. I’ve even seen signs of affection for his wife.”
“But he was so shrewd in his judgments of people.”
“No, sir. He wasn’t. He made assessments of people but he never made judgments. He accepted people as what they were—frail, flawed—all the vices—to be observed, not judged.”
“I always thought you liked him.”
For a few moments Malloy was silent, then he said, “I did. Maybe on reflection it was more admiration than liking. I admired his sharp mind. He would have made a great lawyer but I also admired his courage. He ran an espionage network for years without getting caught. If he had been caught it could have been a life sentence or even the electric chair. He fitted so well into his cover as a bookseller that it’s hard to believe that in fact he was a spy.” Malloy smiled. “Were you ever tempted to look at the FBI files to see if they had spotted him?”
Bush grinned, the blue eyes twinkling. “I’m not saying.” He paused. “I think they were looking at the wrong member of the family. The brother—Ivan, wasn’t it?”
“Anyway, even when he was helping us he didn’t ask for any protection if he got caught spying. Just think what a deal he could have done with us if he’d chosen to defect. And I’d swear it never entered his mind. He was all of a piece, that man, and he took what the fates handed out to him and got on with it.” Malloy shrugged. “But to answer your question I guess I liked his mind. And his innocence.”
“Innocence? How come?”
“Just think of what he knew. About Moscow, about us. And despite that he never played Machiavelli. He played no games and ground no axes. He could be a rich man but he lives in Jaffa, just getting by comfortably because of Tania’s photography.”
“What about a pension?”
“No. He’d never accept it and he wouldn’t even be grateful for the kind thought.”
Bush smiled. “What are we talking about—a saint or a hero?”
Malloy shook his head slowly. “I don’t know. I really don’t know.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ted Allbeury was a lieutenant-colonel in the British Intelligence Corps during World War II, and later a successful executive in the fields of marketing, advertising, and radio. He began his writing career in the early 1970s and became well known for his espionage novels, but also published one highly praised general novel, The Choice, and a short story collection, Other Kinds of Treason. His novels have been published in twenty-three languages, including Russian. He died on 4th December 2005.
Also by Ted Allbeury
The Seeds of Treason
The Crossing
Pay Any Price
The Twentieth Day of January
www.doverpublications.com
