by Roland Perry
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 hel
p 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.”
“Is that possible?”
“Very,” Rickard said, his steely blue eyes fiercely intent. “We want the Soviets to back down … we’re giving the Chinese those arms….”
On the night of September 30, Brogan Junior, Strasburg and Huntsman met in the HQ war room to discuss the PPP and Paul Mineva’s forthcoming trip to Moscow. The corporation had volunteered to help Mineva get media coverage from selected journalists and TV people by offering to fly them to Moscow. Brogan Senior was already in Moscow on business and preparing Mineva’s arrival.
“How many media guys have you gotten on board?” Brogan Junior asked Huntsman.
“Fourteen. About forty correspondents in all will be at the press conference in Moscow.”
“Where’ll that be held?” Strasburg asked.
“We’re putting on a breakfast at the National on Gorky Street next Friday morning.
“Will it be manageable?” the lawyer asked.
“Soviet officials will cooperate in setting it up. Several Soviet writers will ask the right questions as well. We’ll have to let a few questions from outsiders through. But it won’t be a problem. We’ll have control of who asks what.”
“This Logan Act that Rickard has threatened Mineva with,” Brogan Junior said to Strasburg, “is that bluff?”
“Mineva should let the Soviets answer the controversial questions on foreign policy. But if he gets a difficult one, I think he’s experienced enough to get around it.”
Brogan Junior nodded, satisfied that things would run smoothly in Moscow.
“Now I want to turn to the PPP,” he said, punching a button on his control panel. “Rickard’s popularity has dropped, but not enough according to the program’s analysis. This is despite the fact that Alan has fed the media with all the skeletons we could find on Rickard.”
“That sonofabitch is pretty clean,” Huntsman said. “Makes Billy Graham look like a Mafia boss.”
The latest PPP recommendations had appeared on the screen at the back of the room.
The program suggested fabricating tape-recorded conversations that would appear to involve Rickard in criminal activity.
“But he hardly tapes anything,” Huntsman said, frowning. “Haussermann says he’s extremely careful about what he records, even at innocuous staff briefings.”
“So we have to put something together,” Brogan Junior said. “According to the PPP, the right tape made public between now and November 4 could help sway the election.”
“What does the program suggest?” Strasburg asked. Brogan Junior punched another button and the screen flashed up a list of presidential crimes that could alter voting patterns. At the head of the list was:
INFERENCE OF POLITICAL ASSASSINATION, PRESIDENTIAL CANDIDATE.
“Political assassination,” Huntsman said incredulously. “That’s fine for the damned computer to throw up, but how the hell could we fabricate a tape implying Rickard’s involvement in that?”
“We have the electronic expertise, don’t we?” Brogan Junior said.
“Yes, but we need the right words.”
Brogan punched a button that wiped the PPP off the screen. He turned to Huntsman and said, “Find them!”
6
Graham was extremely relieved to fly out of Leningrad.
He spent the seventy-minute flight thinking deeply about the three days ahead of him in Moscow.
The Australian felt certain the surveillance on him would continue and this influenced him to decide not to try to meet several contacts lined up in the capital. The risks were too high after the Leningrad incident.
Graham had some misgivings too about letting MI-6 down, because the last thing on his mind now was impersonating Radford. He was not at all confident, either, about the possibility of MI-6’s Soviet agent trying to make contact with him. Would they be aware of how tight the surveillance on him was?
As the pilot banked the aircraft steeply for the descent into Sheremetyevo airport many in his tour group gasped at the beauty of sunbathed Moscow, which had been covered by a huge white crochet blanket of snow. Graham hardly noticed it. He was too busy thinking about the bed of professional spies that lay under that blanket, waiting
for the callow amateur who was about to join them.
Forty minutes after touchdown, a bus took the new arrivals past farmhouses, villages and tenements, and along roads flanked by massive blocks of modern flats. Entering Moscow from the north, they drove past impressive Sverdlov Square, with its beautiful palms, and along busy Okhotny Street.
The bus rumbled down Mokhayava Street, briefly glimpsed the massive Lenin Library, and finally pulled into Marx Prospect and the National Hotel overlooking the Kremlin, where the tour was staying.
Just as Graham began to unpack in his room, the phone rang. It was Victor, the tour guide. His interest in the Australian had picked up since the request to leave the tour early.
“Are you coming on today’s tours?”
“Probably.”
“You have paid for all the tours but sometimes you do not come.”
“Yeah, well, I like to find my own way around sometimes, Victor.”
“As you wish. But we would like to know in advance so the rest of the tour is not held up.”
No sooner had Graham replaced the receiver when it rang again.
“Room 508, Dr. Boulter?”
“Yes.”
“There is a message for you,” a Russian girl on the front desk said. “Mr. Mars Gorsky and his wife will meet you at the front entrance lobby at seven tonight.”
Graham racked his brains for several seconds before it clicked. This was the couple Svetlana had introduced to him at the Hotel Astoria in Leningrad. He vaguely remembered their saying they would look him up when he arrived in Moscow. But he had not told them his arrival date or hotel.
The Moscow screws were being tightened already.
Graham left the hotel at seven and strolled along the streets and in Red Square, stopping for half an hour to watch the changing of the guard at Lenin’s Mausoleum.
He wanted to avoid contact with the Gorskys. Anything to do with Svetlana spelled danger to him.
At nine he returned to the National’s lobby and moved to the front desk to see if there had been any message. There was a note from the Gorskys to say they would call him later. As he turned from the counter, he recognized a woman standing next to him. It was the one who had been staring at him in the boat restaurant the previous night.