“No enemies, Jakob?”
“Not really. I’m more like a crystal ball than a person and a crystal ball never harmed anyone. Like the women who read their astrological forecasts—if they like them—OK. If they don’t—forget them.”
“Are you still a spy?”
“Who told you I was a spy?”
“A girl who was on my training course way back. I met her again years later. She seemed surprised that I didn’t already know.”
“I never was.” He smiled. “But if somebody thinks I am—well, it does no harm.”
“So what are you?”
“Officially—what I get paid for—is as a consultant on Soviet history. In fact I guess I’m what Americans would call a dogsbody. A very discreet listener and an even more discreet commentator for any member of the Presidium who wants a shoulder to cry on or an audience for pent-up anger.”
“Are you safe from all the in-fighting?”
“I’m not sure, but I think so.” He stood up slowly. “We’d better get back to my place. They want to see you this afternoon. It’s Friday so they won’t take long—they all want to rush off to their dachas with their latest girl-friend.”
Aarons laughed. “I can’t imagine Khrushchev with a girl-friend.”
“Don’t be too sure, my friend. Don’t be too sure.”
The afternoon meeting had gone quite smoothly. There had been no mention of internal problems. A brief talk about Eisenhower and Dulles and then he was passed over to the technicians whose sole interest was about the functions of the installation at Fort Meade. This time it was just Beletsky and Denikin, Glazkova was in hospital with a broken leg. They both seemed pleased with the information that he was providing.
Denikin got down to business. He looked at some notes and then at Aarons. “First of all the main-frame computer. Your contact calls it a CRAY-1 and he says it’s made by …” he glanced again at his notes, “… an outfit at Chippewa Falls in Minnesota. We’d like to know more about that plant. What’s the name of the manufacturer and is there any significance in its name. Is CRAY-1 some sort of code-name or an acronym?
“And secondly we want to know its capacity. Your contact calls it a number-cruncher but we need to know more than that. Can he get you a specification or some reference? For instance how does it compare with an IBM 360? And why didn’t they use IBM as suppliers? OK?” He looked at Beletsky, smiling. “Your turn.”
Beletsky shoved a typed sheet across the table. “Try and memorise the questions, comrade. I want to know how the place is organised. Names of departments and special groups. Especially people concerned with evaluation. If they’re going to do surveillance on the scale your contact indicates they’ve got two more problems when they’ve got it. How do you print it out and how the hell do you evaluate it? You’d need thousands of people working round the clock. They must have some electronic system. What is it?”
Aarons asked, “Can I keep the notes overnight? I’ll leave them with Comrade Lensky when I go to the airport tomorrow.”
Beletsky nodded. “Just burn the sheet and flush it down the pan.”
Denikin said, “One last point. Can you find out what security checks are done on people they recruit? Especially lower-grade people.” He sighed. “How are your funds?”
“They’re OK.”
“Let us know if you need more. This is top priority for us.”
Lensky woke Aarons the next morning. There had been a telephone message. His flight back to Stockholm had been put back for a day. Khrushchev wanted to see him late that afternoon.
As they had coffee together Aarons said, “What does he want with me?”
Lensky shrugged. “I’ve no idea. I understand somebody mentioned that you were in Moscow and he said he wanted to see you before you went back. He wasn’t free until this afternoon. I was told that it would be just you and him.” He paused. “He’s almost certain to be made First Secretary sometime in the next few months.”
“What’s he like?”
“Well, you’ve met him. He’s not a dissembler. He’s much what he looks like. Did a good job in the war. Energetic and shrewd. Some people say he’s a reformer and could make a real difference to the Party.”
Aarons had been shown into a small room at the back of the domed building of the Council of Ministers. The guide who escorted him told him that this was where Lenin had lived and studied, and that sometimes his fourth floor study with its original furniture and books was opened for members of the public.
The room was furnished like any New York club. Leather armchairs and settees, panelled walls, high ceilings with chandelier lighting, one wall lined with books, a long table with seating for a dozen people and a drinks trolley with crystal glasses.
It was only a few minutes before Nikita Khrushchev bustled into the room followed by two men who he turned and waved away, turning to check their exit until the heavy door closed to behind them.
He waved to one of the armchairs. “Sit down, sit down.” He turned to the drinks trolley. “What do you want to drink?”
“Perhaps an orange juice.”
Khrushchev frowned in disbelief, “You got some illness, comrade?”
“No.”
“You mean you drink orange juice voluntarily?”
“I prefer milk but
