“You still haven’t told me how I come into all this.”
“In the time that you’re here—no, before I say that let me say that your work has been read by many, many people. Important people. Influential people. Some of them set great store by your opinions. Others question them. So in the time that you’re here you’ll be talking with a lot of different people. I want you to be aware of these internecine rivalries that are going on. Not to be afraid to say what you mean but to say it bearing in mind that all your listeners have axes to grind that might be blunted by what you say. You understand what I’m getting at?”
Aarons smiled. “I guess so. Tell me about Stalin.”
Lensky shook his head. “Let me know what you hear before you go back. By the way, there are two names I’ll mention to you among the others you’ll meet. Petrenko and Noskov. They’re significant. So watch your step.”
As Aarons lay in bed that night he was aware that despite what Lensky had said he was obviously expected to justify some of his reports and actions over the years in America. Lensky was obviously a man of great power in the Kremlin. He was no less friendly than he had always been but Aarons was aware that there had been none of the usual enquiries about his family. And no mention of Chantal’s death. He also found it not so easy to speak Russian again. He found that he missed the easy fluency of New York slang.
The next morning the two of them had strolled through the Aleksandrovskii Gardens to the Kutafia Tower where both guards had checked Lensky’s identity card and read carefully an official letter giving clearance for Aarons. They were checked again as they crossed over the bridge to the Trotskalia Tower. From there they had been escorted around a courtyard where young guards in uniform were goose-stepping, rehearsing for their watch at Lenin’s tomb.
Aarons noticed that everywhere was spotlessly clean, paved with new stones, the buildings freshly painted and restored to look like new. The people seemed to be visitors. To the obvious disapproval of their escort Lensky stopped to show him one of the falconers with a goshawk attached by jesses to his leather gauntlet. The Kremlin area had always been pestered by too many crows and because the sound of gunfire in the Kremlin would be an embarrassment the falcons were used to keep down the crows.
Inside the Council of Ministers building they walked down long corridors on crimson carpeting, past offices with names on their doors. There was no name on the door that the guard opened. Inside was a room with comfortable leather armchairs, at least a dozen of them and a row of telephones on a trolley near the window. Tall, wooden double-doors gave onto a large room with a long table. There was a group of men, some in uniform, some talking, hands in pockets, some drinking coffee. They stopped talking and turned when Lensky led him into the room. After brief greetings they took their places at the table and a man in the grey clothes that junior intelligence officers tended to wear, placed triangular cards giving the name of each man around the table. One by one Lensky introduced them but without any identification of their jobs. One man half-smiled but the rest of them just nodded, their faces impassive. Only Petrenko of the two names Lensky had mentioned was among the people around the table.
When the introductions were over Lensky said, “You’ve all read the summary that my staff have made giving details of the work done for the Comintern and for us by Andrei Grigorovich Aarons— and perhaps I should mention that he was recently promoted to colonel. He’s on detachment in the United States. He is attached to Directorate S of the First Chief Directorate.
“Let me emphasise that this is an informal meeting. No notes to be made of questions or answers. This is only a short visit to Moscow by Colonel Aarons but there will be opportunities for individual interviews with him if it seems useful to me. So—please go ahead. Rykov, perhaps you’ll start and we’ll go round the table clockwise from you.”
There were eight men around the table and Rykov was sitting opposite Aarons.
“The discontent in the American army, comrade, what can we do to help it along?”
“It’s too late to do anything now. Most of them are already back home. It’s no longer an issue.”
“What part did our people play in the protests?”
“My own network was not involved at all, but there were a lot of our people in the army, ex-CIO men and union officials used to organising protests. But most of it was spontaneous.”
“Why did the officers let them get away with it?”
Aarons smiled. “The officers wanted to go home too. You have to remember that Americans have a natural dislike for any kind of discipline. Their constitution is based on individual rights. There’s very little about a man’s obligations to the state or the government. You have to see them as what they are. Rather like children in many ways. Irresponsible, rather selfish and living in a society which tells them that it’s every man for himself.”
A man at the far end of the table said, “Oranskii. When we arranged for your documentation in New York we included a driver’s licence in your cover name. You refused to accept it. Why?”
Aarons shrugged. “Because I can’t drive a car. If I came under suspicion and it was discovered that I had a licence to drive but wasn’t able to drive they would ask why I needed a licence and how I’d obtained it.”
“There are plenty of reasons you could give them.”
“Comrade Oranskii, I’m a bookseller not a lawyer.”
“That’s just
