Program for a Puppet

by Roland Perry

  “So it has leaked already,” Philpott said nonchalantly, as he picked up two heavy dumbbells and began biceps curls in front of a wall mirror.

  “Yeah. It’s around town. I hear you are chairing it.”

  “Right,” Philpott said, as he grimaced his way through the exercise.

  Then he lay on his back on an inclined bench and rested before pushing weights vertically.

  Huntsman waited until he had finished this before he said, “We hope you are going to make it tough on Rickard.”

  Philpott stopped preening in front of a mirror, and turned to Huntsman. “That will be pretty difficult, Alan. There will be three interviewers, and I’m only chairing the goddamn debate.”

  Huntsman moved close to him and looked around at others training nearby. They were out of earshot.

  “You know what I mean, Doug,” he said softly.

  “Yes,” Philpott said sullenly.

  “Good,” Huntsman said with a grin. “I’m going to have a sauna. I’ll be in touch.”

  Philpott dumped a barbell down hard and moved across to a pile of boxing gloves. He pulled a tight-fitting pair on and started a two-fisted attack on a heavy punching bag suspended from the middle of the ceiling. Sweat flew everywhere as he furiously belted the bag so that it stayed at forty-five degrees under the weight of his onslaught.

  On his mind was the sudden realization that he was not really his own man any more. Philpott belonged to Lasercomp, not only because he was on its payroll, but because of a letter, a few scribbled pages from FBS President Cary Bilby to him. It had fallen into Huntsman’s hands and Philpott knew that if it ever resurfaced it would destroy both his and Bilby’s careers.

  It was a love letter.

  Fear kept Graham in his hotel hideout for the first two days back in London. His mind continually ran feverishly over the possible retaliatory actions of the KGB, who he was convinced would attempt to track him down.

  He managed only three or four hours’ fitful sleep a night as he repeatedly woke in a cold sweat after having a vivid nightmare of the struggle with the Skull on the train. The dual horror of the nearness to his own death and the fact that he had taken another human life tormented him.

  To preserve his sanity, the Australian forced himself to venture out of the apartment on the third day. He drove to a nearby shopping center, bought papers and a stock of food to last himself several weeks. He found himself perpetually checking the rearview mirror and watching the faces of people driving past.

  The outing turned out to have a settling effect, and later in the day he began to think rationally for the first time since his narrow escape.

  After weighing up the options carefully he decided to tell absolutely no one about the train murder. If, as he thought, the man on the train had been a KGB agent, it would hardly be announced in the daily news. There would be little logic in announcing his culpability for the moment, or perhaps at any time. Murder or not, he was sure to be hunted.

  Graham could only adjust as well as possible to his situation.

  As the days drifted by and nothing happened, his confidence slowly returned and he began to think that the only way out of his cornered position was to cautiously attempt to go on with the investigation in the hope that he could expose something that would move the heat off him and on to his adversaries. It was a slim hope, but the only one left.

  The Australian decided to focus his investigation on any connection with the smuggling in England. He first turned his attention to a small, London-based company, Computer Increments, of Upper St. Martin’s Lane. Jane had noted that it had been blacklisted by companies with which it once did business. She suspected this was because it might be somehow mixed up in the smuggling.

  Graham met Sir Alfred at his Cambridgeshire estate ten days after escaping from Vienna. The old publisher liked to spend his weekends there, usually alone, and the Australian thought the isolated, large two-story mansion was safe enough for a visit late one night. He hired a car under an assumed name and drove there, being careful to take an obscure route along back country roads.

  Over a port in the huge drawing room, Graham outlined his findings in Vienna without mentioning the murder on the train. He explained his being in hiding by saying the investigation was definitely extremely dangerous, especially since the Russian gentleman and his two friends had asked for him at his hotel in Vienna.

  This greatly worried Sir Alfred. But he could see from the Australian’s determination that there would be no stopping him. He resigned himself to assisting him.

  “Where do you go from here?” he asked.

  “I’ve found a possible way into Computer Increments,” Graham said, “but I’ll need your help.”

  “Which is?”

  “I’m going to pretend I’m from a London paper interviewing secretaries for a Secretary of the Year award. This is given each year to secretaries from small to large companies.”

  “I can fix that. But be discreet and careful,” Sir Alfred said. He paused to light a cigar. “Tell me, why a secretary?”

  “How much does your secretary know about you, your work and your private life?”

  “Too much.” Sir Alfred laughed ruefully.

  “It’s a long shot,” Graham said, lighting a cigarette, “but it’s worth a try.”

  George Revel was still reeling from the events of the past week as he sat back and loosened his tie aboard a Brussels-bound 747 from Washington. Time to have a vodka martini and read the newspapers’ flattering accounts of the Justice Department’s comeback in the legal wrangle with Lasercomp. Six days earlier he had received a phone call from Secretary of State Edward Grove, who wanted to arrange a rendezvous at the U.S. attorney general’s New York office.

  Grove outlined to him President Rickard’s team—called PICS, for Probe Into Computer Smuggling—set up to examine the flow of computers into the U.S.S.R. His role would be to head corporate investigations, especially in Europe. He would file a report on the accounts and business activities of American corporations which might be involved in the smuggling of computers into communist countries.

  Revel was given twenty-four hours to think it over. From his point of view, the timing was perfect, because the Justice Department versus Lasercomp battle was over. There was, of course, always the problem of behind-the-scenes maneuvering by Lasercomp to delay the judge’s decision and influence his judgment in some way. This had happened several times. Yet this might not be a major problem. Revel’s subordinates could handle most things, and if any emergency arose, he could go back to the case.

  Revel was excited by the PICS assignment. Anything to do with curtailing the illegal power of Lasercomp interested him greatly. He accepted the appointment, and was ordered to appear in Washington three days later to meet the rest of the PICS team, and to be briefed on his assignment.

  At this meeting he learned of his official cover for his investigation. European Economic Community government prosecutors, who wanted to put more stringent legal controls on multinationals, had issued a long-standing invitation to U.S. Justice Department officials and lawers to come and help them. George Revel would accept the invitation and visit Brussels, Paris, Stuttgart, Milan and London, and would have a couple of days’ “rest” in Vienna. In all these places except Vienna he would have special EEC authority to examine the accounts and files of any multinational.

  Brussels would be his first call. It was to be fairly routine with some publicity given to his visit, to promote the idea that a highly esteemed U.S. Justice Department official had come to help EEC in their legal fight against the big multinational corporations.

  Revel would be in London in less than two weeks. There, among other things, he hoped to arrange a meeting with the journalist who had written an article on computer smuggling.

  “Oh, and there was a call from a Mr. Huntsman of Lasercomp,” the private secretary to Sir Alfred said, sending a chill through Graham as he made his daily call to Ryder Publications.

&nbs
p; He had arranged for an answering service to pass all calls to his apartment on to Ryder. “He’s staying at the Savoy. He wants you to contact him.”

  “A Lasercomp reaction!” Graham thought nervously, as he strode away from the telephone booth near Kew Bridge, a few hundred yards from his apartment. His first feelings were to avoid any contact with the corporation, the possible enemy. Then he had a second thought. Why not meet this Huntsman and at least find out what the corporation wanted? Hadn’t they got in touch with Jane? Suddenly he remembered. A man by the same name had met her a few weeks after she had begun the investigation. He had wanted to buy her off. An attempt at a subtle bribe. Big money for a PR book about Lasercomp. She had refused …

  Graham turned and walked back to the telephone booth. He looked up the Savoy’s number, called the hotel, and asked for Huntsman.

  “Yes?” a rasping voice said.

  “Ed Graham here.”

  “Ed Graham,” the voice repeated, implying familiarity. “I’m on a flying visit to London. Name’s Alan Huntsman, Vice-President, Communications, at Lasercomp HQ, New York. Really would love to meet you …”

  “I’m very busy at the moment …”

  “I have a little proposition. I think you might like it … could we meet for lunch or dinner, maybe?”

  “What’s the proposition?”

  “It’s a little difficult to explain over the phone. How about meeting me at the Savoy for dinner? I’ve only got a couple of days in London….”

  Graham shoved another coin in the box. “Tonight is about the only—”

  “Fine by me. See you at, say, nine, hotel lobby …”

  “Okay, Mr. Huntsman.”

  The Australian walked slowly away from the telephone, this time deep in thought. A vague tactic was beginning to form in the back of his mind. He would keep the appointment. There would be no way anyone could trace him if he arrived by taxi. The only trouble was leaving the hotel….

  Graham arrived at the Savoy three hours earlier than the appointment time and familiarized himself with the hotel and its surroundings. It took him only twenty minutes to find an exit which would allow him to slip away unnoticed. It went through the hotel kitchen on the ground floor. This led to a deserted back alley and apartments which ran down to the Thames embankment. He had only one seven-foot-high wall to scale into the apartment block nearest the hotel.

  Huntsman’s brief on his trip to London was simple. Locate Graham, make an offer and return to New York with the response. To achieve this the chunky, ruddy-faced PR man decided on a familiar drinks-softening-up-and-lavish-meal-routine in order to evaluate the Australian.

  After a few drinks in the hotel bar and another hour in the dining room Huntsman found it was not quite working out the way it usually did. He was doing most of the talking about himself and the corporation.

  He tried money talk. It was tough going. He learned that the Australian was never short of work. A couple of major assignments he had recently written had brought him in some “good” money. That was all the PR man was told. Neither would Graham be drawn when Huntsman turned the conversation to his interest in the computer industry. Toward the end of their dinner he even found himself on the defensive and trying hard not to show it, as Graham began to ask questions about Lasercomp’s court battle with the U.S. Government.

  Huntsman managed to stave off queries by inviting Graham to his room for a nightcap and a look at the direct telecast from Washington of the debate between Rickard and Cosgrove, and MacGregor and Mineva. The show began at seven Washington time, midnight in London. When he switched on the set, Douglas Philpott was introducing the two teams and the three interviewers. Huntsman fixed his guest a very large cognac and an even bigger one for himself and they both sank back into red velvet chairs facing the television.

  Huntsman had taken off his coat to reveal a hefty paunch. Loosening his necktie, he said casually, “I believe you’re writing a book.”

  Graham nodded.

  “How far have you gotten?” Huntsman wheezed. His asthma was playing up.

  “I’m well into the research.”

  “It’s about the computer industry?”

  “Yes. But predominantly about Lasercomp.”

  Huntsman kept his eyes on the debate, which had begun in earnest. This guy, he thought, would pull no punches. He geared himself for some blunt responses.

  “Have you a publisher?” he wheezed.

  “Yes.”

  “Who?”

  “Ryder.”

  “We could help you in the U.S.”

  “Ryder will handle it okay,” Graham said. He paused to look at the debate, then turned to Huntsman. “You didn’t look me up to foster my publishing interests. What’s on your mind?”

  Huntsman’s expression tightened. “We are concerned that you get the right information,” he said, having to squeeze out the words. His asthma always gave him hell when he was under pressure.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Sometimes writers can be misinformed,” Huntsman said, swirling his brandy. He added hesitantly, “We would like to have a look …”

  Graham shook his head. “No way,” he said adamantly, and focused on the debate. Rickard was making a point forcefully.

  The debate almost got out of hand as Ronald MacGregor, his features knit in concentration, thrashed a reply back at the President and the two running mates joined in. Douglas Philpott adroitly called for a commercial break while the verbal punches flew.

  Huntsman stood up and poured himself more brandy. “You’re a good journalist, Mr. Graham,” he said, trying hard not to sound condescending. “You’re obviously interested in Lasercomp’s internal affairs.” He sat down and added pompously, “We understand that. We are damned big and successful.” Taking a sip of his drink, Huntsman added, “I want to put a little proposition to you.”

  “Fire away,” Graham said casually.

  “We are looking for a top-line writer to put a big story on Lasercomp together.”

  So that was it, Graham thought. They were going to try to buy him off, the same thing attempted with Jane Ryder.

  “PR?” he asked.

  “Not exactly. Would you be interested?”

  Graham shrugged. “Keep talking.”

  “We’d give you every assistance. And you would be paid well.”

  “How much?”

  “Two hundred and fifty thousand,” Huntsman replied, without batting an eye. “Travel and expenses on top.”

  Graham was amazed at the figure. They must really be worried about his investigation.

  “With all Lasercomp files open to me?” he asked.

  “Those that are relevant.”

  “No one would interfere with what I wrote?”

  “We would have to have a look, of course, for the sake of accuracy.”

  Graham appeared to be contemplating the offer. He had to stall for time.

  The debate was a verbal free-for-all once more. Mineva seemed to have lost his cool. So had the Vice-President Adrian Cosgrove.

  After Douglas Philpott had reined them in, Graham looked at his watch.

  “I’ll give your offer some thought,” he said. “It’s very tempting. I’ll get back to you soon.” He stood up. “I have an early start tomorrow. Thanks for the evening.”

  Huntsman got up from his chair to shake hands. “Have you an after-hours number I can catch you on?” the PR man said as he opened the door for Graham.

  “Unfortunately not,” the Australian replied apologetically. “But you can always leave a message with Ryder Publications.”

  “When do you think you can give us an answer?”

  “I’ll ring you within a week,” the Australian said, backing down the corridor. “Good night, Mr. Huntsman.”

  Graham moved to the elevator and pressed the call button. He waited five seconds or so and then made for the stairs. When he reached the ground floor he hurried to the kitchen and passed four of the staff who were cleaning up di
shes.

  They looked surprised as he ran out of the back door and into the alley.

  The Australian slowed to a walk, went round a corner and along a straight stretch of about thirty yards. There was practically no light, but he remembered that if he kept about two yards from the right wall he would not bump into anything. There was a loud clatter of a trash can lid near the end of the alley. Graham stopped and listened. Above the pounding of his heart he could hear the sound of scurrying feet. Small animal feet. Then the reassuring howl of a cat. Graham walked on, slowly this time, until he could make out the wall in front of him that led to a block of flats.

  He stood there listening for about thirty seconds and then gripped the top of it.

  Hoisting himself to the top he heard something behind him. He looked back along the alley. In the light thrown from the kitchen he could see the figures of two men. They moved toward him. Graham jumped to the ground and sprinted round the back of the building and down a winding narrow street to the Thames embankment and the underground.

  He didn’t bother to buy a ticket but hurried through and down three flights of stairs. He had to wait three minutes for the next train. No one else came onto the platform. Once on the train, he felt safe.

  On a tortuous route underneath the streets of London on the last trains of the night that took him near his hotel, the Australian wondered if the two figures in the alley intended harm, or if they were simply a tail. Maybe they had just been the kitchen staff. But why had they not called out? And why had they moved after him? He concluded they must have been following him.

  That would have to be the last time he could come into the open and take such a risk.

  Graham was haunted by the specter of the shadowy figures in the alley all through the night. He awoke to the sun streaming through an open window on his second-story bedroom and lay on his bed looking at the fine view along the Thames and Strand-on-the-Green, with its quaint terrace houses fronting the river.

  A cup of steaming black percolated coffee and the peace—interrupted only by a small boat which chugged slowly toward Kew Bridge—helped Graham sort his thoughts since last night’s meeting with Huntsman.