Program for a Puppet (23 page)

“We shall only know next Saturday morning. Officially your flight is still for two
P.M
.”

Graham put the receiver down hard. The almost meaningless concession meant he still had nearly five days left in Russia. At that moment the Australian felt certain his nerves would not last the distance.

Anatoli Bromovitch had had a mixed day. He had spent most of it deeply engrossed in his favorite hobby, tending cymbidium orchids in the hothouse in the back of his dacha outside Moscow. This he enjoyed immensely because it allowed him to breed competition flowers, for which he was fast becoming famous throughout the Soviet Union. It was a patient yet rewarding pastime, made less frustrating by a computer terminal in his dacha which allowed the assassin to do his calculations by hooking up with a big computer in Moscow normally used for KGB activities. Everyone at Dzerhinsky Square HQ had for years turned a blind eye to this little office perk which had never meant anything until the KGB recently began its installation of Cheetah machines. Now he was breeding prizewinners.

What had upset the tranquillity of his otherwise perfect day was the news that Edwin Graham had completely disappeared. Operatives in London instructed to locate the Australian and await orders for eliminating him, had found no trace of him for more than a week. Callers to Ryder Publications were being told that he was “indisposed” until further notice. Bromovitch's first thought was that the Australian had secretly left London. But for where? Another part of the United Kingdom? Another country? The United States maybe? Or even Australia?

Almost idly, the assassin began to key in on his computer terminal other reports for the day that he had to check through for more than three hours.

About an hour into the reports an item appeared which held his attention for marginally longer than the others.

FROM: OPERATION 10 COMMITTEE SECRETARY
TO: ALL OPERATIVES ASSIGNED TO OP. 10
PERSONNEL ASSIGNED TO PROFESSOR BORONOVSKY INVOLVED IN VIOLENT INCIDENT, AT 0700 HRS, SEPTEMBER 29. 3147 RECEIVED FRACTURED CHEEKBONE IN INCIDENT FROM UNKNOWN ASSAILANT. ADDRESS AT INCIDENT, MECHINOV STREET, LENINGRAD. BORONOVSKY TO BE INTERROGATED.

Had the person been almost anyone else but Boronovsky, Bromovitch would have pressed the file button on his terminal without a second thought. The professor was a well-known dissident scientist. There was nothing new in such people being detained or scrutinized. The difference here that alerted the assassin was that the professor was a computer scientist who had on two occasions protested that not enough information was being made public about the administration's plan for central planning by computer. This immediately gave him the status of “potential threat” to Operation Ten.

Bromovitch punched up a request on the terminal for a full report on the incident. The normal turn-around time for such a request was about an hour. So the assassin continued viewing his “in” file. Half an hour later another report appeared that had him thinking. It was from a highly placed Soviet agent in the American Federal administration, Gregor Haussermann, which read:

PICS COMMITTEE MEMBER GEORGE REVEL INVESTIGATING COMPUTER FLOW IN THE SOVIET UNION EXPECTS SOON FRESH INFORMATION FROM UNKNOWN SOURCE INSIDE SOVIET UNION.

Again the assassin called for more detail. Just as he had done so an expanded report came in on the first incident. Only one comment added anything significant. There had been two assailants in the incident where a KGB man had been attacked. One naturally was thought to be Boronovsky and the other was definitely unknown. Perhaps it was the quick, visual juxtaposition of these seemingly unrelated pieces of information that riveted Bromovitch's attention. Or perhaps it was the fact that in each case an “unknown” person was involved. The report from Gregor Haussermann was unable to pinpoint the source of the expected new information and no one had any idea who had accompanied Boronovsky….

Haussermann's report of “fresh” information indicated one of two things. An enemy agent in place in the Soviet Union would
pass it on, or perhaps someone on a Soviet mission would try to get it.

Bromovitch left the terminal and sauntered out to the hothouse deep in thought. One other fact sent his agile mind racing. Graham was missing. Could it possibly be that the Australian was connected with one or other of the two incidents inside the Soviet Union? It was a slim chance, but one he had to check out thoroughly. There was only one way he could sift quickly through the thousands of foreigners visiting the country, and that was by the Cheetah network. Fondling one of the prize orchids he was currently nurturing for an all-republics competition, the assassin pondered on the father of modern genetics, Gregor Mendel. How much better off he would have been in his lifetime of experiments with peas if he had had access to a large Cheetah….

Svetlana was annoyed and depressed by her superiors' action regarding her assignment. Just when she had hoped she would be allowed to follow the Australian to Moscow, the assignment had been snatched from her. No reason had been given.

The irony was that her exaggerated, highly imaginative report on “Dr. Boulter” apparently had been taken seriously. Svetlana's experience told her it may have been combined with other information on him. All indications were that the Australian was important to her superiors. The chillingly intriguing thought was that he could be a foreign spy…. Svetlana's final orders had been to stay with him on his last night in Leningrad. With this in mind, she had managed to persuade him to dine with her on board a floating restaurant called the Pirate.

Graham was at first reluctant to leave the hotel with Svetlana, but agreed when he learned the restaurant was within walking distance. He had ventured out with other members of the tour for lunch at the Europa Hotel and had felt gradually less tense as each hour since his meeting with Boronovsky slipped away. Yet he was far from completely relaxed and had been nervous about any unknown person near him in or outside the hotel. The nagging fear was that he would be arrested, yet reason told him that the police would most likely have swooped on him by now if he had been under suspicion of meeting Boronovsky, or if his cover had been blown.

They joined the Pirate just after 9:00
P.M
. at University Quay, under the lights opposite the Anthropology and Ethnography Museum, and made their way below deck to the dining area. Strobe lights of red and blue flashed intermittently to introduce a floor show to the eighty or so diners seated in cubicles on either side of the dance floor.

Graham tried to ease the tension by complimenting Svetlana on her appearance. Her flaxen hair was piled high, as it had been when they first met at the ballet, and she was dressed in a tantalizing low-cut, full-length black chiffon dress.

He had detected a change in her attitude once he had agreed to dine out with her. She seemed edgy. That habit of looking around when she was talking seemed worse. The conversation was strained. It fell away completely as they sat sipping champagne, watching a contortionist go through her back-breaking routine.

Later, when they were ordering a seafood meal, they were joined at the table by three young couples. One young Russian struck up a conversation with Graham on hearing the Australian's voice. The man said he was a purser on board a Soviet liner that took the Pacific route to Australia.

When there was a lull in the conversation, Svetlana whispered indignantly, “You speak to him, why?”

“Is there anything wrong?” Graham asked, looking hard at
her.

Svetlana wanted to tackle him about everything, from his photography to his reasons for coming to the Soviet Union. But she checked herself. Graham could sense she was holding back. He felt a great urge to find out why and verbally squeeze something out of her. But he couldn't risk an outburst that would put him under suspicion. He was already regretting that he had panicked by asking the tour guide to get him out of the Soviet Union earlier than planned.

Svetlana began to sulk, and Graham resumed his conversation with the others at the table. She excused herself. The Australian watched her leave the table and exchanged glances with one of the diners he had not noticed before—a casually dressed woman, in her late thirties, with chiseled, aquiline features, large mouth and huge emerald eyes. She was at a table a few yards away with a petite brunette of about the same age.

When Svetlana returned Graham seemed to be preoccupied with the people around him and especially the woman at the opposite table. When Svetlana noticed this she was crestfallen. The woman who had caught his eye was her replacement, special agent Irena Pavliovic, assigned to make contact with Graham in Moscow.

He and Svetlana left the boat just after midnight and took a taxi to her apartment. They rode along in silence until she asked, “You seemed to be in pain at the restaurant. What is wrong?”

“Yes, I was in a minor accident yesterday in the taxi coming back from your apartment.”

“Oh, what happened?”

“There was a collision with another car.”

“You were unlucky at that time in the morning.”

Graham paused and looked out of the window.

“The other car came racing out of a side street. The taxi was swung sideways. I got a few bruises.”

“You did not mention this before.”

“No. It's nothing to worry about.”

“Have you seen a doctor?”

“No. It's nothing.”

“Was the accident reported?”

Graham looked hard at her. “I don't know. You're full of questions, aren't you?”

“It should have been reported. All accidents must be. Did the police come?”

“No,” Graham said, restraining himself. “I told you it was a minor accident. The taxi drove away.”

Svetlana gave him a skeptical look and said nothing more until they arrived at her apartment.

“Are you staying with me?” she whispered as the driver stopped.

Graham shook his head. “No. I'd like to, but the tour leaves early for the airport tomorrow and I'm tired.”

She nuzzled close. “Please. This is our last night.”

Graham responded halfheartedly. Her hand pressed his stomach. He flinched.

“You are hurt,” she said, with a puzzled expression. “Let me help you …”

“No, Svetlana,” Graham said, leaning across and opening her door. She climbed out, slammed the door and stormed off.

The taxi driver, a big gruff individual, looked around at the foreigner.

“Soveyetsky,” Graham said. The driver grunted and drove him at high speed back to his hotel.

“Come in, Harry,” President Rickard said to his press secretary, in his quick-fire, imperious tone, when he heard the knock at his bedroom door early on September 30.

Forty-year-old Harry Emmery, a dapper, diminutive fellow with a neat, black mustache, poked his head in the door and was slightly taken aback at what he saw. The President was sitting naked on his fourposter brass bed pulling on socks. It wasn't so much his unclad condition as the presidential paunch that widened Emmery's eyes. A noticeable spare tire had appeared since those summer conferences around the White House pool, and fat pectorals hung loosely as he leaned forward to straighten his socks to the knees.

“What the hell are you staring at? Come in,” Rickard said, as he stood up and pulled on his shorts. “Oh, yes, I'm overweight. You'd better give me a game of squash soon. It must be months since I last played.”

“Whenever you like, sir.”

Rickard hauled on his suit trousers and fumbled in a closet for shoes, cursing his valet. “Harry, you've seen this morning's papers. Mineva plans to visit the Kremlin next Thursday. What do you think?”

“It's an obvious attempt to steal the limelight. Plenty of mileage in it. But with so little time, I'm frankly surprised they are going.”

“So am I, Harry.” Rickard sat on the bed and laced his shoes. “MacGregor got the invitation. But the day before he was murdered, he told me he would not go before the election. But this sonofabitch Mineva is playing it right for those in the Soviet administration who would like to see me out.”

“Andropolov and his KGB cohorts?”

“Right. They'll do most anything to embarrass me politically.”

“What about Brechinov?”

“I think he's in trouble.” Rickard put on a white shirt and cursed as he struggled with a top button. “He may be on the way out. He's struggling to hold power from Andropolov.”

“What makes you think that?”

“I sent Brechinov a letter, a personal appeal to the man's good senses. It stressed the need for the Soviet Union to cut back its arms build-up to within agreed limits. His reply was bellicose, rambling and illogical. Not at all like the man. I've known him for thirty years. He does not want confrontation with us. He must be under terrific pressure from the KGB….” Rickard yanked a tie from a crowded rack.

“Harry, I want you to put pressure on Mineva. Let your best media contacts know I've written to him on the delicacy of Soviet relations. It tells him to watch his step over there. I've also mentioned invoking the Logan Act to put him off balance.”

“The Logan Act?”

“It prohibits any American—and that's all Mineva is—trying to influence any foreign government without authority from the President.” Rickard ran a brush through his short hair. “I want to impress upon him the irregularity of his visit. Especially when things are going to get nasty between us and the Soviets.”

Emmery frowned. “What do you mean?”

Rickard turned to him.”Okay,” he said, sighing deeply. “What I'm about to tell you is absolutely top secret.” Rickard put on his jacket. His expression tightened. “The Russians and Chinese are at it again, but it looks very dangerous this time. The Chinese have asked us urgently for ten billion dollars' worth of conventional and nuclear arms. They're really desperate. There has been a dramatic build-up of Soviet troops and missile launchers on China's northern border. The Chinese think the Soviets might strike at any time.”