by Roland Perry
“I see you are a businessman as well as a scientist,” Muller said, with a sly look.
“I hope you will be able to show me the design for the whole network, so I may judge where I may be of greatest value.”
“The master plan itself?”
“Yes.”
“Absolutely out of the question. It is highly classified. However, you will be given general information.” He looked at his watch, stood up and moved over to a coat rack. “If you are ready, Mr. Radford, I think we should visit the chief Soviet scientist on the project, Dr. Yuri Nolotov, at the network center. It’s about one mile from here. Let us take the underground.”
Five minutes later they entered the underground at V.I. Lenin Central station and caught a train for three stops—each one a glittering ballroom. Outside the underground they were soon on Kirov Street and heading for a modern twelve-story building surrounded by a high concrete wall. Graham noted the construction of an almost identical building going on behind it.
The entrance gate was well manned. Six guards could be seen in and around a guardhouse. Identification was checked and they were screened electronically.
Once inside, it quickly became obvious that the building was impenetrable. Every imaginable alarm and surveillance device, including closed-circuit cameras that could see into every corner, were operating.
Muller escorted Graham down one of five parallel glass corridors which ran from a front administration section to the main body of the building behind. They took an elevator to five stories below ground level. There was more checking until they finally reached a guarded double doorway.
On the other side was the biggest single computer operations room the Australian had seen. A bank of perhaps twenty unmarked big computers surrounded the room against the four walls. In the center were about thirty smaller machines. Hundreds of television terminals were suspended from the ceiling. About a hundred people manned the equipment.
Muller stopped to speak briefly with two scientists in English and was directed to an office in a far corner of the floor. There Graham was introduced to Nolotov, a stout, middle-aged man with bushy, unruly black hair. Dressed in a drab sports coat and casual trousers, he remained seated at an aluminum desk almost completely covered with flow charts and computer printout sheets. The walls of the small office were covered with shelf upon shelf of manuals, and thick looseleaf folders. Many carried the Lasercomp Cheetah logo.
All through Muller’s quick pen-sketch of “Mr. Radford” from London, Nolotov kept his sad blue eyes on the Australian. The scientist welcomed Graham in halting English and asked him what he would like to know.
“I’d like to take notes,” he said, turning to Muller.
The German shook his head. “I shall record any request you have. If it is possible we shall send you information.” He took a notebook from his coat pocket and opened it. The Australian deliberately looked surprised. Turning to Nolotov again, he said, “The best start is for you to outline the master system. Then you can tell me your main requirements and problems, if any … and then we can take it from there …”
The scientist looked at Muller for approval. A lengthy discussion in Russian ensued. Muller did most of the talking. He was laying down firm guidelines about what could be said.
The scientist began haltingly. Occasionally he stopped to ask the German for the correct English word. It soon became clear that the discussion was heading away from the military use of computers and more toward the “master network to control the whole economy,” which the Australian understood as the KGB’s network for political control.
Graham was concentrating hard. He was picking up new, vital details with everything the scientist touched on. However, time was short. The Australian wanted most to learn about the military build-up. Picking each word carefully, he adroitly steered the scientist back into the areas concerning military computers. Sometimes it would be a question about a particular part of the computer hardware. Other times it would be about a program. There was never a direct reference to weapons as such. But each time Nolotov was telling him something important in his response. Gradually the scientist became more voluble as he gained confidence in speaking to this extremely knowledgeable Westerner. His technical knowledge was nothing like that of the others.
Muller became concerned. Intermittently he made terse comments to Nolotov. Even these gave the Australian new insights.
After the discussion had run on for nearly two hours, Muller interjected once more. Turning to Graham he said, “I did not realize you could be of assistance with military computers.” Graham sensed a trace of suspicion. “Of course we can,” he said confidently; “you would be surprised at what we can supply.”
Muller frowned thoughtfully. “I’m sure Herman told me you could only help us with regular computers.”
“As I said to you before, Herr Muller, my organization is expanding. We shall soon be the biggest supplier to the Soviet network, no matter what the requirement.”
The German looked impatiently at his watch. “I’m afraid that’s all we have time for,” he said, standing up.
Nolotov seemed confused. Just when the discussion was warming up, it was ended. He shrugged and shook hands with Graham.
“Please. On another visit, come to us again …” he said, managing a wan smile.
“Absolutely, Doctor. Thank you so much.…” The Australian followed Muller out at the office. They made their way in silence to the front of the building. At the entrance checkpoint Muller stopped and said, “Will you be able to find your way?”
“Of course. I know Moscow …”
They were both distracted by the approach of a chauffeur-driven Ford Customline. Graham got a nasty shock as he recognized the occupant. He turned his back on the car and pumped Muller’s hand vigorously. ‘This has been most helpful,” he said. “I shall await your requests for equipment.”
He waved goodbye and moved off briskly.
Muller was more concerned with the car than Graham’s hurried farewell. He rushed forward when he saw it was Professor Letovsky, the Russian in charge of IOSWOP in Vienna.
Greeting him, Muller opened the car door.
“Tell me,” Letovsky said, as they walked toward the main building, “who was that man?”
“Our main English supplier of Cheetah, Harold Radford.”
They both looked back. Graham was almost out of sight.
“Would you like to meet him?”
“No, no” Letovsky said testily. “I have more important matters at this moment. Brogan Senior is making a surprise visit here in about an hour to see the network before we go to Mineva’s banquet.”
Paul Mineva’s flying visit to Moscow got under way on Thursday evening with a glittering state banquet in the St. George Hall at the Great Palace in the Kremlin. Soviet Premier Brechinov toasted his guest with a clinking of glasses and show of teeth for the press and TV cameras. There was little substance in the affair, with only a passing reference to Mineva’s forthcoming election battle. Brechinov commented that “the Soviet people and government” saw Mineva as “a man of peace” and wished him every success in the fight for the presidency. Mineva replied to this with a short, veiled speech which attacked “warmongers in every part of the globe,” and praised the Soviet administration for its peacekeeping efforts in several continents where “war machines had gotten out of hand.” He ended by saying it would be wrong for him to comment on the foreign policy of his own country’s administration, but promised “changes in America’s attitude and direction,” when he was elected President. This drew long applause from the banquet guests.
At 10:30 P.M. Mineva and his entourage left the Kremlin in three Ford limousines and headed south out of the city to a district of narrow roads and quaint old-fashioned houses dating back to the 1920s and 1930s. The streets were busy and it took them twenty-five minutes to reach their destination—a cul-de-sac, Karolisakaya Street—which was sealed off by a barricade of cars and militia. At the end
of the street was a three-story mansion in mock Italian baroque built in the early 1950s. Mineva, in overcoat and fur hat, left his aides and bodyguards and strode purposefully to the entrance, which was manned by four guards.
Graham took the subway back to the Hotel Berlin, his stomach bound in a nervous knot since the close call at the computer center.
He strutted into the lobby, feigned irritation at being kept waiting at the reception counter, and asked for his room key.
“What is your number?”
“I’ve forgotten. Please, I’m a busy man …” Graham said arrogantly.
“Your name?” the female desk clerk said tersely.
“Harold Radford.”
The clerk reached across to 290 and handed him the key.
“Thank you,” Graham said as he moved to the elevator. His heart was pounding hard. Radford three had arrived. Everything was going according to plan. He hurried to the room and found the luggage MI-6’s man had left. There was a change of clothes for him and toilet items for washing away Radford. Graham went straight to the bathroom and took three or four minutes there. He then changed quickly into the clothes and hung the Radford suit in the closet, being careful to leave all the forged documents there.
Placing a prepared scribbled note on the bedside table requesting that the suit be pressed for Monday, Graham hurried to the elevator and down to the lobby. Realizing that he would be seen by several people, he strolled casually to the front entrance and into the street.
Once away from the hotel he took a devious route of back streets, every so often breaking into a jog, until he reached the Bolshoi Ballet on Sverdlov Square. There waiting for him was Irena, looking radiant under a smart fur hat.
Graham found it impossible to relax during the performance. Apart from the close call with Letovsky at the front entrance, he had a nagging fear about Muller’s reaction to his discussion with Nolotov. The Australian was almost certain the German would check on Radford at the Hotel Berlin, and probably contact London. How long would it be before he confessed the blunder to the KGB?
For a moment or two he was able to think about his progress on the assignment. The meeting with Nolotov had been a tremendous breakthrough and had helped him piece together the broad picture of the Soviet master plan for military, and internal political control. But there were still two or three pieces missing. He did not have any hard information on exactly how the military was using the Cheetah machines smuggled in. Nor did he have the design specifications for the master plan itself. For that he needed the help of the woman sitting next to him, obviously enjoying the ballet. So far she had not made her move.
At ten, when the ballet had finished, Graham invited her back to the National for a drink. He hailed a taxi. The city traffic was heavy.
When they were near the city center they were held up for several minutes until a motorcade passed.
Irena gripped Graham’s arm.
“Isn’t that Mineva, the American candidate?”
Looking around sharply, Graham caught sight of him in the middle car of the motorcade flanked by two lines of motorcycle militia.
“Get the driver to follow him,” Graham urged.
The driver, a fat fellow, whose flabby red neck fell over his collar, mumbled a protest at Irena’s instruction.
The motorcade was slipping ahead and almost out of sight when the taxi was allowed to move on.
“Can’t he go faster?” Graham asked impatiently.
Irena and the driver began to argue and he slowed down almost to a stop, gesticulating wildly.
“Tell him to forget it,” Graham said as the motorcade disappeared ahead. Irena ordered the driver to continue to his original destination. She watched his beady, scowling eyes as they kept looking up into the rear mirror. Dropping her hands out of the driver’s sight, she scribbled on a piece of paper and shoved it into Graham’s hand. In the half-light that fell from the street light he managed to read it: Mineva meets Brogans at Andropolov’s home tonight.
Graham wanted to look at her but resisted the temptation with the driver looking on. It was a fascinating bit of intelligence from MI-6’s contact. He wanted to know more.
At the National, Irena got out with Graham and told the driver to wait. They walked out of earshot.
“Let us forget the drink tonight,” she said quietly. “Tomorrow night. My place. It’s important.” She turned on her heel and got back into the taxi. Graham waved as it moved out of sight.
A light drizzle had begun to fall and the Australian pulled his coat collar up as he strolled toward the front doors of the National.
Graham moved into the lobby and was surprised to see several people unpacking pieces of luggage and film equipment. As he moved past them he recognized a tall ruggedly handsome middle-aged man. It was Charles Sullivan, a political reporter for the Los Angeles Times.
Sullivan looked across. Graham moved to the elevator.
“Ed!” came the cry across the lobby. Several heads turned. The Australian ignored him and walked toward the open staircase.
“Ed Graham!” Sullivan called, but Graham had already disappeared up the stairs.
An hour later, Graham rang the desk clerk and asked for Sullivan’s room number. He had befriended the American earlier in the year when they were both covering the early primary campaigns.
The Australian knocked on his door at 1:30 A.M. Sullivan opened the door and Graham immediately motioned for silence. He entered the room and, looking around, picked up a large transistor radio. Beckoning to the bemused American, he led him into the bathroom and ran the shower hard. He turned on the radio.
“You sonofabitch.” Sullivan laughed. “What gives?”
“Maybe bugs,” Graham whispered. “I’m here on a false passport.”
“Jesus Christ!” Sullivan breathed. “I’m sorry. No wonder you didn’t answer me in the lobby.… I remember now. You wrote that article on Soviet computer smuggling.”
“Why are you here?”
“Mineva’s giving a press conference here tomorrow morning.”
Graham looked thoughtful for a moment. “Have you some good questions for him?”
“Perhaps. But we hear it’s going to be a tight, give nothing, cosmetic affair for television. The print media will probably take back seats.”
“Would you like to nail Mineva?”
“You bet.”
“Good. I’ve come across a few things that might just embarrass his little TV show.…”
Paul Mineva, wearing a conservative gray suit, white shirt and blue tie, looked supremely confident sitting at the official table facing a battery of television cameras, photographers and more than fifty journalists. They had gathered for breakfast, to be followed by a press conference in the cramped reception room at the National.
The conference began with a few introductory remarks from a Mineva aide and a Soviet official who spoke of the previous night’s “highly useful and successful” reception at the Kremlin. Then Mineva stood up and gave one of his clockwork smiles which could be flashed twenty times a minute while he was glad-handing.
“Ladies and gentlemen. Welcome,” he said. “I’d like to throw the conference open to you.”
Notebooks and pens appeared as a Mineva aide, Leroy Hammond, an underweight chain-smoker, pointed to a journalist in the front row, who got to his feet. “Al Green, Newsweek. What do you think your discussions with Premier Brechinov have achieved?”
“The answer to that takes just one word: Understanding with a capital U. The Soviet premier understands my position on many world issues, and I understand his.”
Several journalists were on their feet as Hammond picked another out.
“Georg Krause, Frankfurter Allgemeine. Governor Mineva, have you not contravened the American Logan Act by coming here for discussions?”
“At no stage have I contravened the act. Our discussions were about private views. About moves toward peace. Lasting, tangible peace on this planet.”
For twenty minutes questions were fielded, or side-stepped with consummate ease, as Mineva’s aide mainly picked those journalists who had flown to Moscow with the governor to ask questions.
Just as Mineva reached for a glass of water, an outside journalist was selected.
“Charlie Sullivan, Los Angeles Times. Governor Mineva, after your reception last night, you visited the home of KGB chief Andropolov. Could you explain the nature of this meeting and what discussions took place?”
All heads turned to see who had asked the question and then back to Mineva.
He forced a quick laugh. “I’ve heard of state surveillance, but this is ridiculous.” It drew an odd chortle from the official table, but the press waited silently for a reply. “Let me say this,” Mineva went on, “our Soviet hosts have been hospitable, as they always are, and I have had several conversations with leaders, ah, since we arrived last night at six P.M.”
“Are you going to answer my question?” Sullivan asked pointedly.
Mineva’s self-assured smile was replaced by an icy stare. “Let me repeat that we did not discuss American foreign policy. It was a private, social gathering …”
“Who was present?” Sullivan called out, as Mineva tried to ignore him.
Several reporters simultaneously rose to their feet and began shouting.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen!” Hammond implored above the uproar. “One at a time, please!” He took the chance to deflect the line of questioning to the back of the room and picked Philpott, dressed in a trendy off-white double-breasted Dacron suit and red open-necked shirt.
“Mr. Candidate,” he said, as his television crew turned their camera on him, “how do you propose to use commodities such as food in dealing with the Soviet Union?”
Mineva’s composure appeared to return. “Unlike the current administration, we would not resort to political blackmail. Nor would we interfere in internal Soviet affairs. We wouldn’t say, do this or we won’t send grain and you’ll starve. No, we’d look at the whole range of commodities the Soviet Union wanted. Everything from Pepsi-Cola to electronics and heavy machinery would be considered in any bargaining.”