Program for a Puppet

by Roland Perry

  Allen & Unwin’s House of Books aims to bring Australia’s cultural and literary heritage to a broad audience by creating affordable print and ebook editions of the nation’s most significant and enduring writers and their work. The fiction, non-fiction, plays and poetry of generations of Australian writers that were published before the advent of ebooks will now be available to new readers, alongside a selection of more recently published books that had fallen out of circulation.

  The House of Books is an eloquent collection of Australia’s finest literary achievements.

  Roland Perry is one of Australia’s best-known authors. Born in 1946, he began his writing career at The Age newspaper in Melbourne, starting in 1969. After five years spent in the United Kingdom making documentary films, he published his first novel, Program for a Puppet, which was an international bestseller, in 1979. He has since written over twenty-five more books, many of which have gone on to become non-fiction bestsellers, including The Don, the definitive biography of Donald Bradman, Miller’s Luck, The Changi Brownlow, The Australian Light Horse and Monash: The Outsider Who Won a War.

  HOUSE of BOOKS

  ROLAND

  PERRY

  Program for

  a Puppet

  To the memory of my parents, Trevor and Lillian

  This edition published by Allen & Unwin House of Books in 2012

  First published by W.H. Allen, London, in 1979

  Copyright © Roland Perry 1979

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.

  Allen & Unwin

  Sydney, Melbourne, Auckland, London

  83 Alexander Street

  Crows Nest NSW 2065

  Australia

  Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100

  Email: info@allenandunwin.com

  Web: www.allenandunwin.com

  Cataloguing-in-Publication details are available from the National Library of Australia

  www.trove.nla.gov.au

  ISBN 978 1 74331 437 1 (pbk)

  ISBN 978 1 74343 092 7 (ebook)

  Contents

  Part 1

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Part 2

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Part 3

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  PART 1

  THE

  COMPUTER

  CONNECTION

  “This computer … is the greatest expansion

  of the human mind since writing.”

  1

  It was drizzling in the early morning of a July day in Paris as a black Maserati pulled up opposite a hotel at number 31 Boulevard Duval in the city’s Latin Quarter.

  A tall, attractive woman with short auburn hair alighted from the car and waved to the driver as she turned to cross the boulevard. Just as she stepped off the road onto the sidewalk, the car swung over toward her. There was a dull “whack” as the car mounted the sidewalk and hit her. The woman was knocked unconscious and thrown about four yards against a brick wall. The driver had stopped the car about ten yards farther along. He looked in the side mirror at the crumpled body and calmly steered the car back over the woman, changed gear and drove away with a squeal of tires.

  In less than thirty seconds, lights went on in apartments and hotels on both sides of the street as people moved to the motionless figure. First on the scene was an elderly man who shone a flashlight at the woman. At first sight the woman seemed undamaged, her long black evening dress intact. But seconds later, when a woman tried to move her, blood had begun to seep around the body….

  Edwin Graham was stunned. A voice on the other end of the line was telling him his girl friend had been killed in a hit-and-run accident in Paris. He tried to speak but the meaningless words got in the way.

  After a long silence Graham replaced the receiver. He ran both hands through his black hair from the temples to the back of his head and stared out through the glass of the press office in the ballroom of the Washington Hotel. A look of anguish covered his rugged features as his serious dark blue eyes narrowed on the convention going on to elect a candidate for the presidency of the United States. For a moment the thousands of party faithfuls waving banners and chanting the names of the winning candidates appeared to be out of focus, dancing a silent ghostly pantomime.

  He sank into a chair. For a few minutes he sat in front of the typewriter, his face buried in his hands, and wept. As fellow journalists gathered around him his brain began to telegraph uncoordinated messages. Stand up. Shuffle papers. Sit down. Collect things. Try to dial London. He found the number he wanted and minutes later in a conversation he would never recall, the shocking news was confirmed by a close relative of the dead girl.

  Fifteen hours later, during a flight from Washington to London, Graham was able to think more rationally. Yet he could not stop his brain from going over the depressing realization of what was lost. With Jane Ryder he could have made it, had it all. Since he had left his native Australia a decade ago she was the first with whom he had had the confidence to take on a more permanent relationship.

  It had taken a long time to find the right chemistry. There had been many affairs in Graham’s free-wheeling, hard-living existence as a journalist. But he was the first to admit they were superficial. Never as good as the deeper, warmer, more meaningful real thing. Dead.… He shook his head and fought more tears by gritting his teeth. Read a book—impossible.

  What had made it worse was his guilt. He had left her to grab the opportunity to cover a U.S. presidential election for a London publisher. At thirty-five, it was the big break he felt he had to take to enhance his career. Ultimately the move was to be for both of them. But the vivacious, attractive, tempestuous Jane had said no. She didn’t like the idea of giving up her job as a reporter on a London daily to live out of a suitcase the length and breadth of the States. For a start, she did not have his love for the place. And after a year of living together Jane wanted marriage and children. At twenty-nine the timing for her was now. Not in the promise of another year.

  Graham had argued that the time would go quickly. He would be able to take trips back from Washington to see her and they could go on that holiday to Greece together. There had been arguments and no compromises.

  The finality was unbearable.

  The Australian tried hard to think about the circumstances leading up to her death. Before he had left for Washington he had suggested she go after a big writing assignment herself. Something to challenge her journalistic skills. He had thrown her a few casual suggestions.

  One of them had been about a computer scientist in Paris who had recently delivered a lecture on the “uncontrolled flow of strategic equipment from the West to the Soviet Union.” He had read of the lecture and filed the idea away. It was the kind of story he might follow up himself, if he had more time. Yet the Australian thought he had bigger fish to fry. An American presidential election.

  Due partly to bitterness, frustration and ambition, Jane had managed to get six months’ leave from her job to chase the story. She had convinced her book-publisher grandfather, Sir Alfred Ryder, that it would make a successful fa
ct-novel. He had given it his indulgent blessing with a handsome advance. It was partly an attempt to appease her. Sir Alfred had given Graham the contact with a newspaper publisher which led to the Australian’s American assignment.

  After her initial research, Jane decided her story would center on advanced Western computers being smuggled into the Soviet Union against American and NATO regulations. She was not a computer specialist writer, she needed good contacts.

  Although Jane had tried to interview the scientist who had given the controversial lecture in Paris, he had refused to speak to her when she telephoned him from London.

  That was all Graham knew when he touched down in London at 6:00 A.M. on July 25. He felt uneasy about the whole affair because of his knowledge of computers, which stretched back sixteen years.

  After a brilliant college record in computer sciences, and a lot of soul-searching, he had made the switch to journalism. First, because of his background, as a science correspondent, then a political writer. Always in the background, as a hobby, almost, he kept a keen interest in computers. He loved the logic of systems analysis—the design of computer networks. Networks that controlled air traffic, hospitals, rocket systems, nuclear reactors. Networks for everything. Yet Graham cared as much for how the metal beasts affected society and what they meant for mankind.

  He often went on complex part-time courses, some of them run by universities, others by private organizations—the leading computer corporations.

  He became aware of the power wielded by the corporations in business and politics. Over the years the Australian learned of the interrelationship. And his instincts and knowledge told him that if Jane Ryder had been right about computer smuggling, she could have run into trouble.

  His fears intensified when he returned to his apartment in King’s Road, Chelsea, where he and Jane had lived together for six months before he went to the States. Jane’s relatives had asked him to sort out her belongings. It was a depressing task. Her books, records, guitar and many objets d’art were agonizing reminders of the tragedy.

  As he was going through her filing cabinet, he came across his own name in the index. Graham had no idea the file existed. In it was a sealed package marked clearly in Jane’s handwriting: Ed. Open in the event of my death.

  He stared at the package, and turned it over a few times. Then he took a deep breath and tore off the top. A small note accompanied about sixty pages of unedited material—background material to her computer smuggling operation. “If you are reading this, Ed darling, then something has happened to me. Follow it through. For once in your wavering life follow through. I love you always, Jane.”

  A cruel, slightly bitter joke? His failure to follow through with her? Had he not many times explained the reasons … why he had to take the American assignment?

  Perhaps Jane meant his failure to make it as an actor? Or because he had not gone on with his career as a scientist …?

  His thoughts gave him the answers.

  The Australian began to read the notes, which took him well into the night until jet lag caught up with him. He got to bed around 2:00 A.M., and was glad of a sound sleep.

  The next day Jane was to be cremated.

  Graham could not help thinking about her investigation as he drove his battered old red Alfa Romeo saloon in the funeral procession to a small crematorium just north of London. Questions that had been swimming around in his subconscious during the night were percolating forward. Why had she left the background material for him to find? And why “in the event” of her death? Did she fear for her life? Had she been threatened?

  In the church these thoughts were temporarily blotted out by sadness and emotion as the minister delivered the address. Graham could not help staring at the knotted pine coffin and thinking how unreal everything seemed. A thousand thoughts, all incoherent, rushed through his mind. He thought of the laughing, dynamic personality that had been Jane. He had loved her deeply, passionately. Then the irrational feelings of guilt returned and his eyes welled with tears. He felt weak at the knees and was sure he was going to break down like several of her family around him.

  The minister had finished. He walked across to the front of the coffin and pushed an invisible button. The coffin was lowered on a conveyor belt. At that moment it really struck Graham. He had been thinking about the past. In seconds, Jane would be ashes. The shock of seeing the coffin slide away transformed all his emotions into anger. Anger, that he had left her, anger at her impatience, anger at her death and the person or persons responsible. Was it murder? he wondered almost aloud. He made up his mind there and then. He had to know the truth.

  Outside in the afternoon sun, he spoke briefly with a few of Jane’s close friends and relatives. In the solemn crowd he spotted Sir Alfred Ryder. If anyone knew anything it would be Sir Alfred. Graham edged his way through the crowd toward the tall, slightly stooped figure and was struck by the deterioration in his appearance. The last time Graham had seen him, he had been alert and bustling. Now he looked every bit his seventy-five years. The loss of his favorite grandchild had taken its toll, and Graham realized then that the older man’s feelings of guilt were probably stronger than his because he had financed her abortive mission into investigative journalism.

  Graham shook hands and gripped Sir Alfred’s forearm as he did so. They had met through journalism eight years ago. A strong bond had been built between them in that time, and the publisher had introduced the Australian to Jane.

  “Sir Alfred, I was wondering if we could have a talk before I return to Washington?”

  As Graham entered the reading room of Sir Alfred’s Pall Mall club and looked for him, the dignity and hallowed atmosphere reminded the Australian of the publisher’s considerable influence. He had built a publishing empire over the last forty years which had spread its tentacles into twenty-five countries. He also had other financial and property interests around the world, and especially in France, which he regarded as his second home.

  Sir Alfred rose from his armchair and greeted the Australian. They discussed the latter’s American assignment and the battle for the presidency before Graham got quickly to the point of the meeting.

  “I’m not convinced Jane’s death was an accident.”

  All the anguish of the last few days returned to the publisher’s face. “I’ve had my doubts too,” he sighed. “The French police are doing everything they can.”

  “What evidence have they got? Do they know what kind of car killed her?”

  “Not yet.”

  “But in a collision,” Graham began in an exasperated tone, “there must have been some damage to the car. A dented fender that has to be repaired in some garage, somewhere in Paris.”

  “The French police will let me know the minute they have a lead. I’ve been on to the commissaire of police himself.”

  “Did you know much about Jane’s investigation?” Graham asked.

  “I read some of her notes.”

  “I’ve a feeling she was on to something very big indeed. The Soviet attempts to build their own super range of computers to compete with the best the Americans were producing; did she tell you about that?”

  “Yes. She was under the impression they couldn’t match American technology.” Sir Alfred frowned. “That was something I never really understood,” he said. “Why were the Russians behind? I thought they were highly advanced in science, space, technology and so on.”

  “Stalin’s fault really. He set the Soviet Union back a decade in computer development when he claimed it ‘alienated man from his labor.’ When the Soviets woke up at the end of the 1950s, they were way behind the Americans. The combination of tremendous computer development in the military and free enterprise, and spinoff and cross-pollination between them, pushed the Americans miles ahead.”

  “So you think the Russians may be smuggling in computers to keep pace with the West?”

  “That was Jane’s theory. It could be right. Computers form the backbone of all s
cientific development. And that includes the military. You must have computers to fire weapons with precision and accuracy.”

  “Haven’t the Russians’ missiles become more accurate lately?”

  “Yes, and it fits Jane’s theory. If the smuggling is going on, then the Russians will be getting the technology they so desperately want. Eventually they would have to reach parity with the U.S. in the precision use of all weapons. Then just watch the Russians begin to throw their weight around.”

  Sir Alfred was suddenly agitated. “You think she may have been murdered?”

  Graham stared at Sir Alfred. “I wouldn’t discount it,” he said, lighting a cigarette. “You say you’ve contacted the French police. I’d like to talk with them before I head back to the States.”

  “I think that could be arranged.” As an afterthought Sir Alfred added, “Was there anything in Jane’s notes that gave you any clues to why she may have been killed?”

  “No. But she did send me a letter a few weeks ago saying a public relations representative from a New York-based corporation approached her soon after she began her investigation. They didn’t like her probing one little bit. They wanted to buy her off it, and offer a PR writing exercise for big money instead.”

  “And?”

  “She told them what they could do with their money.…”

  “Which corporation was it?”

  “Lasercomp.”

  Clifford I. Brogan, Sr., a wiry eighty-one-year-old megalomaniac, had bullied, cajoled and preached Lasercomp into existence, starting from nothing as a door-to-door salesman in America’s Midwest more than six decades ago.

  He had pushed the corporation on the way to being the most secret, ruthless and ambitious of organizations and as big in financial terms as many medium-sized nations. It generated enough income to buy and sell a couple of Canadas, and had more political muscle than even bigger countries.

  Brogan had made Lasercomp a nation unto itself with people and property, territory and assets, to be protected and expanded in a never-ending march to greater production, higher revenue and profit.