Program for a Puppet

by Roland Perry

  “We appreciate your enthusiasm in this case. But we all must appreciate the situation. Lasercomp is concerned that neutralizing this man may focus too much attention on Operation Ten, especially now he seems to be cooperating with the U.S. Government. I have just spoken to the main Western coordinator of supplies. We don’t want anything to stop the flow of machines here.”

  Bromovitch stared at the KGB chief, who added, “Now, comrade, should this journalist fail to cooperate with Lasercomp, or should he give us any more trouble, then he will be liquidated.”

  Bromovitch nodded.

  Andropolov looked at his watch and dismissed the assassin. “That covers item fifteen.” the KGB chief said. “Could we now look at item sixteen, Professor Letovsky’s report on progress at IOSWOP…”

  Bromovitch left the meeting. To him item fifteen was still wide open.

  President Rickard directed that the FBI should take charge of the investigation into MacGregor’s assassination. The local police and the rest of the nation’s law enforcement agencies coordinated their efforts in the biggest manhunt in Washington’s history. FBI chief James Dent first ordered that the city should be tipped upside down and shaken.

  In the early hours of the morning of Friday, September 26, every Washington hotel from the smartest and most expensive to the sleaziest whorehouse was checked. Bars, nightclubs, restaurants, cabarets and cafés were haunted by every available cop and volunteer, who described the assassin to waiters, barmen and bouncers.

  The home or hangout of every known political activist, from the most juvenile student Trotskyite to the local lobbyists for the Ku Klux Klan, was raided and turned over. There were arrests of people with everything from a German accent to a speech impediment, on the advice from one of the guards who described the assassin’s accent as “not American and kinda funny.” Those arrested were kept in custody for hours, and only released the next day, often without apology. Anyone in the street was picked up. Roadblocks appeared on all major access points to Washington and all transport out of the city was halted for twelve hours.

  In the Washington underground, every Mafia mover and shaker and black leader was at work slipping through the haunts of pimps, prostitutes, hustlers, thieves, pickpockets, hoodlums and con men. The city was alive all night, because a man was dead.

  The world watched a nation once more in agony and confusion, via the naked all-pervasive eye of satellite television. The cameras caught it all.

  On the lawn outside the Old Senate Building, MacGregor’s assistant chief of security, Mick Hallaway, told his version of events with thirty microphones pushed under his nose.

  “I saw this film director go out of the building, and I thought to myself, ‘He wasn’t with … the … the … Senator long …’”

  “But why didn’t you check him properly in the first place?”

  “Why didn’t you stop him on the way out?”

  “Why? Why? Why?”

  On Delaware Avenue an ambulance arrived for MacGregor’s wife, Judith. Bedraggled and hysterical, she had collapsed after seeing the crumpled body with two-thirds of the brain shattered.

  Across the road at the Capitol, thousands of people gathered after hearing the assassination on late-night television.

  Washington’s ABC, NBC, CBS and FBS morning news programs told America two salient facts that had become highly embellished. Senator MacGregor had been assassinated. The assassin had not been caught. Most of the coverages included speculation and repetitive comment from leading politicians, and others, including the Vice-President, and several spokesmen for the dead candidate’s party, including Paul Mineva. When asked who would now be the new nominee, he denied he would seek the nomination, telling interviewers indignantly that this was a “tragic” time. Not the moment to speculate on who would take Ronald MacGregor’s place.

  By midmorning the assassination squad was airborne from a field in southeast Florida. Each member of the squad had been met by a woman and driven to a place close to the field. The run had taken a leisurely eight hours and the couples had acted like holidaymakers fleeing the cold that was beginning to creep over the rest of the country. There were a few anxious moments with police patrols, and especially for Rodriguez’s car, which had been stopped a hundred miles out of Florida. The police had found all they would expect from innocents heading to the Florida coast, including beach gear and golf clubs in the trunk.

  Rodriguez had been supplied with a false driver’s license and insurance details. His cool manner in the crisis covered for the woman driver, who had nearly panicked. Each woman had been told very little about her assignment except that each would earn $2,500 in cash on completion.

  The nation had been alerted quickly to the assassin’s act, but there were limits to the coordinated mobilization to round up the killers. One was the use of radar to track unspecified planes leaving the country. This allowed the two-engine private jet carrying the squad to avoid detection as it flew as low as possible to Cuba.

  It wasn’t until six days later that a group of hikers stumbled on three camouflaged cars in scrubland about a mile from the field. In each was the body of a woman with a neat bullet hole through the temple.

  It did not take the FBI long to piece together the background to the assassination.

  The most important evidence had come from MacGregor’s own closest aides, especially Lionel Bannerman, his gangling six-foot, five-inch campaign chairman. Ever since MacGregor had won the nomination, his office had been inundated with requests from foreign media, not to mention myriad local requests, for interviews. Bannerman produced a list of ninety-nine approaches from foreign film companies, and 456 from foreign journalists. He had tried to group interviews every second Saturday afternoon, wherever MacGregor might be campaigning. Many, however, asked for exclusives.

  One such group that intermittently kept in touch was Krupper Films of Munich, West Germany. A man calling himself Wolfgang Himmel, and purporting to be a Krupper representative, visited MacGregor’s offices six times. He agreed to join ten other film crews one afternoon if Krupper was allowed an earlier ten-minute sound interview only with MacGregor. Himmel had explained that his Krupper film group planned to have many of their questions “voice-over” while film would show various MacGregor shots on the campaign trail. The sound interview had been arranged for Thursday, September 25, at 8:00 P.M. and it was agreed that a Heinrich Sneller, who, it was claimed, was a leading producer/director with Krupper, would meet MacGregor at the Old Senate Building.

  Bannerman had been able to produce the only two pieces of written communication between the MacGregor offices and Krupper Films sent on official Krupper letterhead paper. All other communications had been by personal contact, or telephone from inside America, and from France and West Germany. Bannerman had asked an aide to check out every organization that had contacted the office, a most tedious task assigned to a young girl undergraduate who was helping the MacGregor campaign for practically nothing. She confirmed that Krupper Films had a crew in the U.S. for three months from August. But she had not asked the reasons for the crew’s visit. If the girl had taken that one little step, the bona fide Krupper would have told her that their crew was filming a special documentary: on sharks in the Pacific.

  Identikit composites of the assassin and “Himmel” were flashed across the U.S. and around the world. President Rickard stepped in for the second time and directed that the FBI work in conjunction with the CIA, but FBI Director Dent would maintain overall control unless there were international developments in the hunt. It soon became rumored that a foreign-based squad could have been responsible.

  This added fuel to speculation in the media. Some argued that the assassination had all the earmarks of a CIA operation. The President was castigated for bringing in the CIA at all, and so early. Other papers and magazines, such as U.S. News & World Report, postulated that only the KGB could be behind such a professional effort. But they were hard put to explain the motivation. If anything, the U
.S.S.R. would be better off with MacGregor, who seemed to be promising a softer line on foreign policy than the incumbent. Others looked for still more obscure political groups with grievances against MacGregor.

  His every word on foreign and domestic policy was put through an exhaustive sieve. Was he pro-Israel or pro-Arab? What were his views on Africa? And Southeast Asia? Himmel was described as looking Spanish, and could have been South American. Which way did MacGregor saddle up in that part of the world? Still others started by asking, “Who stood to lose most with MacGregor as President?” or, “Who stood to gain most by having Rickard remain in power?”

  Analysis led to innuendo. And it spared no one. Not even the President of the United States himself.

  5

  Graham’s tour flew out of Kiev on Thursday afternoon, bound for the ancient Ukrainian city of Poltava for a twenty-four-hour stay, and then on to Leningrad. They arrived midafternoon, and Graham found that after checking in at the Soveyetsky Hotel he had a few hours to kill before a night at the Kirov Ballet.

  He took a taxi to the Nevsky Prospect, Leningrad’s main street. The autumn afternoon air was brisk, and despite the sun, many Russians were already wearing overcoats and fur-lined hats.

  Graham sauntered toward the gilded steeple of the Russian Admiralty facing the Neva River, and stopped occasionally to photograph the blended styles of the prospect’s austere classical façades alternated with baroque statuary. He found that every time he stopped, the young street merchants and illegal money-changers surrounded him. Just as in Kiev, they wanted to buy every item on him from sunglasses to shoes. He refused the offers of rubles for his clothes or his foreign currency and had to keep moving to avoid a crowd building up.

  When he had almost reached the Hermitage, the former entrance to the Winter Palace of the czars, he crossed the prospect and walked back.

  At the Griboyedov Canal running at right angles to and under the prospect, the silhouette of a multidomed structure caught his eye. He squinted into the sun and moved closer along the side of the canal to get a better view. It was the church of the Savior-on-the-Spilled-Blood, which was under repair. Scaffolding wound halfway around the front façade. Graham crossed a small footbridge which drew him up close to the church, and began to take snapshots. A woman came into view about fifty yards past the church, heading in his direction.

  She was about thirty, tall and strikingly attractive. Dressed in a gray skirt, matching jacket and white silk blouse, she waltzed along swinging a handbag, her long legs pivoting with every step.

  The woman stopped about ten yards from Graham. Shading her eyes, she looked up at the rococo structure, and diverted her attention to him momentarily. Graham’s camera was pointed at her. She hurried on toward the prospect, twice looking back angrily.

  Graham dined alone at the Hotel Europa on the Nevsky Prospect, and was in time for the start of the ballet at 8:30 in the opulent gold Kirov theater.

  The powerful ballet, A Legend of Love, set in ancient Arabian times, had a quaint Marxist twist at the finish. (After winning the heart of the princess, the handsome worker decided to ditch her and stay with his fellow workers.)

  The Australian was seated at the back of the first balcony. While the orchestra warmed up, he surveyed the glittering scene with opera glasses. The theater was packed with people well turned out in expensive attire. Some were foreign diplomats and their families, but Graham guessed the great majority were from Russia’s elite, from the arts, sciences, the military and government. Just as he spotted people from his tour, a woman sitting alone near to them caught his attention. She was the one he had seen hours earlier at the church. At first he was not sure she was the same person, because her flaxen hair was now piled high to expose an elegant neck. But when she looked around there was no mistaking the fine straight nose and high cheekbones.

  Graham watched her until the lights dimmed for the first act of the ballet.

  After act one, he moved into a refreshment bar on the first floor. He ordered champagne and found a seat at a table occupied by a Frenchwoman and her young daughter, who had dropped a melting chocolate on her frilly white frock. The mother chastised her and dragged her off to the washroom. When Graham looked around again, one of the seats had been taken. It was the unwilling subject of his photography. She was looking the other way, sipping champagne.

  “Good evening,” he said softly.

  She looked at him and feigned surprise.

  “You with the camera.”

  The Australian smiled and nodded.

  “Why did you photograph me?”

  Graham looked directly into her wide blue eyes, which had more than a hint of fading youth at the corners. “I collect pictures of beautiful women.”

  Seemingly embarrassed, her eyes dropped momentarily. “Where are you from?”

  “Australia.”

  “What is your work?”

  “Anthropology. And yours?”

  “I am an economist.” She looked around the room each time she spoke. It seemed to be a nervous habit.

  “Where do you stay?”

  “Soveyetsky.”

  “You like Leningrad?”

  “Yes. It is very beautiful.”

  Bells began ringing for the second act.

  “Many parts of the Soviet Union are attractive.” She smiled. “Do you go to Moscow?”

  “Yes. Wednesday.” He stood up to leave.

  “Can we meet?”

  Graham was slightly taken aback. “After the ballet?” he asked, thinking his luck was in.

  “If you wish. In front at the finish?” She stood up and shook hands. “My name is Svetlana.”

  He nodded and smiled, and then moved off. The woman sipped her champagne, and allowed herself the faintest reflective smile.

  A gusty wind drove rain through the streets of Miami as the power brokers of MacGregor’s party reconvened at the Doral Hotel on Saturday, September 27, to choose a new nominee for the presidency. About thirty had quickly entrenched themselves in the hotel to organize the new contest, and to attempt to rekindle the fire of the traditional convention. There could not be the same revelry and style associated with normal selection. However, the media would be there in force to capture the one thing left to the party—its spirit.

  The convention would be a close-fought, determined affair. Already fierce and intense lobbying had started across the country. On Saturday no potential candidate stood head and shoulders above the rest as MacGregor had done. Death had been a great leveler. Perhaps only Paul Mineva was a name that seemed to crop up more consistently than any other. Although no one seemed particularly inspired by the former Nevada governor, the media was widely predicting he would figure prominently. He had run second to MacGregor in well over half the state primaries. Despite the lukewarm popularity of the man within the party itself, he seemed to have a well-oiled team pushing him along.

  As the telephones ran hot from the Doral across the nation, the organizers continued to canvass opinion, debate began about who should run, and who should be invited to run. By 10:00 A.M., in an attempt to assist delegates as they rolled into Miami, a list of possibles had been drawn up.

  An hour later, the fight had been quickly whittled down to four contenders: Governor Mineva and Senators Seargent, Nelson and Kenneally—if he would run. Seargent, like Mineva, had fought hard but unsuccessfully right through the primaries but had never gained popular enough support to be a serious challenge to MacGregor. Nelson, a seasoned performer who had figured prominently at two past conventions, had shown up in the California primary in July as a last-minute possible and, predictably, had done poorly. Now, as an experienced, steadying influence, he had an outside chance. Out of the four, Kenneally would be the popular choice because of his name and good reputation throughout the party and the nation. However, by midmorning, he narrowed the choice to three, when he called from Washington to tell the party national committee chairman he would definitely not be a starter.

  As t
he delegates showed up, the lobbying in the hotel rooms, in the bars and over brunch in the dining room reached a peak and continued until around 3:00 P.M. Then it became clear that Nelson had failed once more to get support. He had been vacationing on the Italian coast at Amalfi and had not heard about the assassination until late Friday. The committee was told he was trying to catch a plane from Rome’s Leonardo da Vinci airport, back to Miami.

  An airport strike had grounded Nelson and he could not possibly get to the Doral until late Sunday night. He was already being outlobbied to such an extent that the battle now was really down to two men: Paul Mineva and Daniel Seargent.

  Graham was taken by Svetlana to the Hotel Astoria opposite St. Isaac’s Cathedral for a drink after the Kirov Ballet. She introduced him to several friends, including a couple named Mars and Marina Gorsky, who said they planned to visit Moscow at the same time as the Australian.

  Graham had been attracted by Svetlana’s charm and beauty and was more than willing to enjoy himself with her until the early hours of the morning. With jacket and tie off, and shirt buttons undone to the waist, he danced with her to the Greek music of Theodorakis. As the hours slipped away, and the French champagne and atmosphere took hold of Graham, warnings from British Intelligence about Russian women faded with the prospect of bedding Svetlana. She seductively played up to him and eventually invited him to take a taxi back to her west Leningrad apartment.

  Its lavish appointments—everything was Western-made, from the stereo to the marble coffee table—triggered a feeling of apprehension in Graham’s stomach. Everything now smacked of a classic set-up by the Soviet secret police. He knew no ordinary Soviet citizen could obtain, let alone afford, such luxury. The Australian began to think through everything about their chance meeting as Svetlana made coffee, poured him a large cognac and put on some modern Western soul music. He decided there was little point in leaving her now and anyway it was 4:00 A.M. and probably difficult to get a taxi. As long as he didn’t divulge anything that could incriminate him or make her suspicious …