Program for a Puppet

by Roland Perry

  For most of the time Brogan’s zeal had been the driving force behind an enterprise selling products ranging from foodstuffs to business equipment. The corporation was his religion, his god, his way of life.

  Over the last two decades the other figure to have a major influence on Lasercomp was his ambitious son, fifty-seven-year-old Brogan Junior.

  Where the father was volatile, crude in his business tactics and unpredictable, the son was urbane, subtle in his ways, cultured and conventional. He was a modern manager, Harvard educated, and trained in the unemotional decision-making necessary for survival in tomorrow’s business world.

  When the son first entered the corporation he was completely overshadowed by his father to the extent that he developed a speech impediment in the older man’s presence.

  In an attempt to make his own way in the corporation, Brogan Junior eventually showed even greater vision than his father. Instead of putting his faith in the corporation, and many products, he put it in the development of just one product: the computer.

  Brogan Junior poached the best computer brains from other companies. If he couldn’t buy them, he literally stole and patented their designs and ideas.

  He finally won some funds from his father to test the new metal beasts in the marketplace. And when in the first two years computers dragged in more revenue than all the corporation’s other products combined, the old man agreed to concentrate resources on one product.

  It marked the end of the one-man rule at Lasercomp.

  Father and son, with their opposite but complementary styles, worked together to make the corporation one of the world’s biggest computer manufacturers. But that wasn’t enough for the Brogans. They wanted to be number one.

  The chance came with the advent of laser technology. Brogan Junior suggested harnessing the new power to computers. He wanted to combine the coming era of even smaller silicon chips—where billions of pieces of information could be stored electronically on minute chips—with lasers so that information could be stored by powerful light concentration. The Old Man gave his blessing to expensive research and optimistically changed the corporation’s name to Lasercomp to imbue its shareholders and the market pundits with confidence. More and more money was poured into laser development and it soon became one of the biggest gambles in American capitalism’s history.

  The promising laser beam proved a difficult wild horse to tame and train, not just in computers but in most areas of science. Lasercomp’s machines carried laser technology but initially proved to be no better than others on the market. The Brogans, however, were confident that a breakthrough was around the corner.

  Secretly and meticulously, using the developing laser technology and their own best scientific brains, they began to plan a master program to make Lasercomp the most powerful corporate force on earth.

  The master program was the result of calculations that took into account literally billions of different factors affecting the market for computers and everything the corporation did. Lasercomp’s scientists took the approach that if something existed, it could be quantified. Factors ranging from the financial position of a rival to Lasercomp’s influence over a head of government were given a value and became part of the program, which could be continually updated. After a decade of developing a laser computer and the master program, Lasercomp finally came up with a computer that was a giant step ahead of the rest.

  The Brogans called it the Cheetah.

  Cheetah was a super computer that soon began to knock out all competition. It gave the master program credibility and the Brogans’ ambitions took on a new dimension. Suddenly they were having visions of the future they never dared contemplate before. They began to look beyond the time when Lasercomp would be the world’s number-one corporation, and to think in terms of a corporate dynasty, indestructible because of its hold on society, and indispensable because of its computer superiority.

  Absolute power became the secret long-term aim and obsession. Nothing was going to be allowed to stop the advance. Even opposition from the American presidency—the biggest single threat to Lasercomp’s plans—was being catered for. From its beginning, the Brogans had had built into the master program a plan to have their own man as President. They secretly selected him and called the ten-year plan the PPP—Program for a Potential President.

  2

  The night before Graham was due to fly to Paris, Sir Alfred phoned him at his apartment to confirm an appointment. But it wasn’t the French police as planned.

  “The investigation has been transferred to a special unit of French intelligence known as NAP 1,” Sir Alfred said with a note of concern.

  “What’s that?”

  “It was set up in the mid-1970s to counter terrorism.”

  “Why are they involved?”

  “I’d better let NAP 1’s chief tell you. He happens to be a personal contact of mine I first met in 1941 when he was over here with the French Resistance and I was in Army Intelligence. His name is Colonel Claude Guichard. Would you be able to meet him at noon tomorrow?”

  Graham reached for a diary. “I think so. Where?”

  “First floor, 93 Avenue Kleber. Oddly enough, the building was once occupied by the Gestapo for the Paris sector. Could you ring me as soon as you’ve spoken to him?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good night and good luck tomorrow.”

  The Australian put the phone down slowly and stared at it for several seconds. What the hell had Jane stumbled onto? he wondered.

  Graham arrived in Paris at 8:30 A.M. He spent two hours reading Jane’s notes once more, just in case they became relevant to his meeting with French Intelligence. Minutes before noon he arrived at the imposing, typically French baroque building on Avenue Kleber. When Graham’s arrival was announced over the desk intercom Colonel Guichard asked for five minutes before Graham was sent to his office.

  The colonel felt he was one of the busiest men in France. Often he looked more than his sixty years. With his unsmiling, drawn features he had a permanent look of harassment about him. If it was not a minister of state hounding him, it might be the President of France making his life hell. His worries had made him bald and thin as a greyhound.

  Yet he had always loved his work, first with the French Resistance, then during the troubled 1950s in the Algerian conflict, and latterly as a counterforce to French and foreign terrorists and assassins. The last two weeks, however, had been an exceptionally bitter time for him. News had come to him that hiding out in France was one of the world’s most wanted men, a terrorist-assassin named Alexandro Emanuel Rodriguez. The colonel desperately wanted to see the man captured. Guichard had a personal score to settle.

  Five years ago, his NAP 1 team had had the assassin cornered, but he had escaped, machine-gunning to death three NAP 1 men and one civilian hostage. Two of the NAP 1 team had been Claude Guichard’s dearest friends.

  Guichard was thorough in his dealings with the media. He had files on every French political journalist and many foreigners. Graham was one of them because of his writing about the French nuclear industry.

  The colonel spent a few minutes skimming the limited computer printout dossier on Graham, which mainly contained articles written by the Australian. There were two photographs of him, both taken three years ago at an antinuclear rally in Paris. They showed him balancing precariously on scaffolding, preparing to photograph French police scuffling with students. Finally, he was satisfied and put the file in his desk drawer and buzzed his secretary to escort Graham from the receptionist to his office. The two men shook hands as they greeted each other, and Guichard felt his knuckles pressed close under the strength of the Australian’s grip. He looked hard at Graham for several seconds. The Australian would win no beauty prizes, Guichard thought, yet there was an immediate substance about the man which commanded respect. This was perhaps accentuated by Graham’s trim and well-dressed appearance. The visitor was about medium height. His thick but not unruly, curly bla
ck hair, which failed to completely cover large ears, was swept back with no parting. The cheekbones were wide and flat, and seemingly disproportionate to a thin, bumped nose, which on second inspection was slightly crooked. The determinedly set jaw and upper lip, and the finely drawn slightly cruel mouth added to a face which showed more than a hint of aggression.

  What bothered the Colonel, however, were the penetrating dark blue eyes. Those eyes mirrored a tenaciously inquiring mind, the last thing Guichard wanted around at that moment.

  He was in no mood for any meddling in this affair, even if there was only the slightest chance that a recent hit-and-run killing had a connection with Rodriguez. He planned to make that quite clear to this visitor, albeit politely because of the man’s connection with Sir Alfred Ryder, one of the few Englishmen he knew and respected.

  Graham quickly realized from the colonel’s brisk manner that he was not going to have much time there.

  “Sir Alfred tells me you are here to investigate the death of his granddaughter.”

  The Australian nodded expectantly.

  “That is not possible, monsieur,” he said abruptly. “And if I tell you why, not a word is to be repeated outside this room, except, of course, to Sir Alfred.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “Your friend was last seen in the company of a man who may be connected with an assassin. A very dangerous man. Alex Rodriguez. You will no doubt have heard of him.”

  Graham nodded.

  “We have little to go on,” Guichard added, sighing, “but a few days before Jane Ryder’s death, we learned that Rodriguez had been seen in a Normandy seaside resort with a man. He fitted the description of the fellow who was last seen with her.”

  “Which was?”

  “The man is either German or Czech, about fifty. He has a scar below the left earlobe, and a slight limp. He dresses well.”

  “And that’s all?”

  “As I said, not much to go on.”

  “Who gave the information?”

  “An informant.”

  “Could I speak to him?”

  The colonel’s eyes narrowed on Graham. “It’s out of the question. We want to catch these men. More than you can imagine. Besides …” He paused. The colonel was finding Graham’s eyes more disturbing as information was revealed. The Australian had an unconscious habit of swelling the irises noticeably whenever he was probing for facts. His gaze pierced searchingly into Guichard. The colonel felt obliged to put him off…. “Believe me, monsieur, you will end up like your friend if you investigate further. These men, if they are involved, are professional killers. They do not hesitate to destroy anyone who stands in their way. Leave the work of finding them to us.”

  The bluntness of the words sent a chill through Graham. “Okay. But do you know why Jane was murdered?”

  “I did not say she was murdered. We have no proof of this.”

  “But it is likely …”

  “It is only a possibility.” The colonel shrugged.

  “You know she was investigating—”

  “Of course,” Guichard butted in. “Sir Alfred told us what she was doing here. Nevertheless, there is not as yet a shred of evidence to connect her death with a theory about computers being smuggled into Russia.”

  “I was under the impression that Rodriguez was never completely absolved of a strong Kremlin/KGB connection.”

  “Rodriguez has become a mercenary. He is now up to the highest bidder. He has become rich. It seems to suit his life-style much better than working for the Soviet export of revolutionary terror.”

  “Then why has he resurfaced in France?”

  Guichard stroked his bald pate. “He may be on assignment.”

  “In Europe?”

  “It’s possible, but who, where, what, how? We do not know. I am doing all I can to find out.” The colonel’s voice trailed off. He felt he had said enough. Looking at his watch, he said, “If you have no further questions …”

  “Just one more. I believe Jane was trying to see an American scientist, Dr. Donald Gordon, here in Paris. Do you know where I might find the man?”

  “Oui. We had him questioned by American authorities the day after she died. We believe he is back in his home near Washington.”

  “Jane never actually saw him then?”

  “No. But they did speak over the phone. Gordon spoke to her about the computer smuggling.”

  “Was there just the one conversation?”

  “Yes, but she tried to speak with him again.”

  “Oh?”

  “It was after Gordon had left Paris. She left a message at his hotel asking him if he had told anyone to contact her.”

  “Had he?”

  “He said definitely not.”

  “Then it could have been the man she was last seen with?”

  Guichard nodded.

  “How did he get her Paris address?”

  The colonel took a deep breath. “We went through Gordon’s hotel room thoroughly the day after Jane Ryder was killed. It was bugged.”

  “Bugged? Do you know anything else about Gordon?”

  “He was once with a computer company, but has since retired. He still does the odd invitation lecture. That’s why he was in Paris.”

  “You don’t know which computer company he used to work for?”

  “I think it was one of the big ones. IBM, Univac, or Lasercomp.”

  “Thank you for your time,” Graham said.

  “Monsieur,” Guichard said firmly, “I must impress upon you once more not to continue your inquiries in France.”

  “Don’t worry, Colonel,” Graham said ruefully, “I’m leaving Paris this afternoon.”

  Graham had to give himself time to think before he called Sir Alfred. He taxied to the Champs Élysées, and drank a cup of coffee at one of the sidewalk cafés near the Arc de Triomphe. He had no intention of probing further into Jane’s death. Yet the ramifications of her investigation were beginning to intrigue him.

  As he sat in the warm afternoon sun watching the Parisians and tourists pass by, several questions nagged him. Were computers really being smuggled thousands of miles deep into Soviet territory? If so, why? Was Lasercomp involved? And Rodriguez. What was his connection?

  The Australian called for the check from a waiter scurrying to and fro beneath the sun-drenched canopy. Graham had made a decision. The American assignment would have to wait at least another week while he looked into the smuggling. Since he knew this would not be tolerated by the English newspaper publisher for whom he was working, Graham realized he would have to resign the assignment or be fired.

  What did Jane say in that note? he thought, as he stubbed out his cigarette. “For once in your wavering life follow through.” Easier said than done.

  To do it he would have to dump the American writing which he had considered the biggest break in his career.

  On returning to London, Graham immediately booked a flight for Vienna.

  Jane’s notes indicated that she had planned to go there because she believed Austria could be the main East-West link for the computer smuggling. Graham decided to make a quick, cautious probe there. He didn’t have much to go on. Just a few names and telephone numbers. He wanted more. Again he decided to ask for Sir Alfred’s help.

  The publisher was at first in two minds about Graham’s following up Jane’s assignment. On the one hand, he was obsessed with finding the truth behind her death; on the other, he didn’t want to see Graham risk his life.

  When he saw the Australian’s determination to investigate further, he reluctantly agreed to the request for contacts. But they were to be contacts that would possibly protect as well as assist the journalist. The publisher once more turned to his connections in Intelligence, this time closer to home at MI-6.

  Most of the old-boy network Sir Alfred had known since the Second World War were now retired or had passed on. His one contact at Intelligence now was Commander Kendall Gould, the son of a close friend who ha
d served with him in Intelligence during the war.

  It always amazed Sir Alfred to see Gould. Dressed in his customary plain dark suit with tight-fitting vest, he looked almost a perfect replica of his father, now dead five years. They were the same medium height and weight. There was that same high intelligent forehead, deep-set gray eyes, and full beard with reddish hue on the tip.

  As they strolled in the midday sun through Green Park, a stone’s throw from Buckingham Palace, the old man found it a little disturbing to look at the Intelligence man. It brought back too many memories of the father. They had been close friends.

  Sir Alfred kept his eyes on the green in front of them. Occasionally he looked up to watch a game of lunchtime cricket some boys were playing nearby.

  “Why is your man going to Vienna?” Gould asked, although he had been informed of the circumstances surrounding Jane Ryder’s death.

  “Jane’s notes indicate there may be some sort of base for the smuggling in Austria.”

  “Any proof?”

  “No.”

  There was a short silence before Gould said, “Coincidentally, we are watching Vienna very closely at the moment. There has been a disturbing build-up of KGB operatives there in recent years. They come and go at short intervals for all sorts of minor reasons. We’d like to know what’s going on.”

  He paused and added, “There are of course several East-West link-ups there to do with scientific research and so on. All convenient KGB covers.”

  “Graham wants contacts there.”

  “Hmmm … could be a little delicate. We are having trouble planting our people. We don’t want them exposed.…”

  The publisher gave an understanding nod. It was what he was half hoping he would hear.

  Gould looked up at Sir Alfred. “Tell me about him.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Oh … his background, education … interests …”

  Sir Alfred glanced briefly at the commander. “You may be able to help?”