Aarons smiled. “People who I trust tell me that they do.”
“You say people who you trust. What people don’t you trust?”
Aarons shifted uneasily on his chair, at a loss as to what he could say, and Truman, feeling that he might be probing too deeply said, “Not names necessarily. Just your impression.”
Aarons sighed. “If we’re to do any good, you and me, I guess we have to be truthful. There is only one man in the Kremlin who I know well enough to trust. The others are just faces and names, they make the machinery work but only Stalin decides what should be done. Nobody knows what goes on in his mind. Those who are close to him, fear him. He’s ruthless but very shrewd. He’s a peasant.”
“Have you ever met him?”
“Once, briefly, and with other people.”
“What happened?”
“We shook hands, an aide mentioned my name to him and he stared at my face for a moment and then said he was grateful for the work that I was doing.”
“Here in America?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t look like a spy, but God knows enough people have told me I don’t look like a President. So what?” He paused. “How much notice do they take of the information supplied by the intelligence people? Do they mistrust them too?”
“It’s not a question of trust. It’s a question of where power lies at the time. If I was based in Moscow I wouldn’t be able to give my opinions as freely as I do now. The man I trust, I tell him as openly as I’m talking to you now, but he’s an exception. He influences other people.”
“Would he protect you if it were necessary?”
“He would try.”
“And?”
“Who knows?”
“D’you reckon we’re doing any good—you and me talking like this?”
Aarons nodded. “Yes, I do. I was never sure about whether America wouldn’t make a so-called pre-emptive strike against the Soviet Union. Now I’m sure you won’t.”
“You think the others will believe you?”
“I wasn’t thinking of them. I was thinking of me. I felt guilty about talking with you about Soviet attitudes. It seemed a bit like treason. I feel justified now. We both want the same thing for our countries. Maybe we can convince others as time goes by.”
Truman swung his leg down from the couch and sat there looking at Aarons.
“Don’t expect too much, my friend.”
“You think we’re wasting our time?”
Truman pushed his glasses back up his nose. “No. We were neither of us sure how it was going to turn out, this talk. It’s easy to say that we were hoping to make a contribution to peace, it’s a helluva lot different actually doing it.” He paused, looked away towards the window for a moment and then looked back at Aarons. “I meet a few Soviet officials, diplomats and so on. And we talk a few polite words through an interpreter. And I read summaries of CIA reports on the Communist Bloc but I’ve never had the chance to talk to an ordinary Russian about what he thinks about his country—and mine, of course. You’re not an ordinary Russian of course. You’re intelligent and well-informed but I get the impression that you’re telling me like it is. Not better or worse than it actually is.” He shrugged irritably. “The official reports I get are about numbers not people, and half of them are grinding some axe. More money for the Pentagon or funds for some crack-pot outfit who are supposed to be the saviours of some place in Africa or South America who’ll save the place from Communism.” He rocked slowly as he sat on the couch. “The least we’ve done is get to know each other.” He paused. “You still happy to keep in touch?”
“I’ll do anything I can to help you and my own people.”
Truman held out his hand. It was a quite leathery grip. Then he picked up his jacket, slinging it over his shoulder as he opened the door and let himself out. Aarons heard him shout, “Abe, where are you?” and then he was alone. A few minutes later he heard the voices, the car engines and then the rasp of the two Harley Davidsons. Ten minutes later Malloy came in with Abe Karney, both of them so obviously avoiding questions that they made it as embarrassing as if he’d had a furtive assignment with a girl.
Aarons was back in New York just after 2 a.m. Tania had waited up for him but she had fallen asleep in her armchair, a book on the floor beside her. He bent down, picked up the book, straightening a crumpled page before he looked at the title. It was The Catcher in the Rye. He made them both a glass of hot chocolate and after he had woken her they sat talking for almost an hour before they went to bed. He gave her no details of his talk with Truman but he told her that it seemed to be worth continuing if he was asked.
Aarons sat checking the
