Program for a Puppet (16 page)

The conversation concerned MacGregor's campaign and general strategy.

“A lot of people have been urging me to go to Moscow,” MacGregor said casually to the Old Man, as he fished for a last elusive snail. “I hear you think it would be opportune also.”

“I most certainly do, Senator,” Brogan Senior said with conviction. “A public meeting with Brechinov would gain you votes.”

“Why?” MacGregor asked, as his steel claw utensil at last grasped the snail.

“Rickard's foreign policy is a failure. It's your chance to succeed where he has failed.”

“I can't speak on behalf of the American administration. What do you see as the point of my meeting the Russians?”

Brogan Junior broke in. “Things aren't exactly harmonious between Rickard and the Soviets. A goodwill visit from you could be seen to warm relations between the two nations.”

MacGregor looked skeptical. “What's in it for Lasercomp?” he asked with a wry smile.

“Plenty,” the Old Man said. “The Soviets are already getting tough because of Rickard's stupid belligerence. As I said on Philpott's show the other night, millions' worth of contracts could be lost.”

MacGregor looked far from convinced.

Brogan Junior tried to reassure him. “If you did make the trip,” he said, indicating that a waiter should fill the senator's glass, “we would make sure whatever transpired would be conveyed to the right people.”

MacGregor fell silent and examined the stem of his wineglass. On the one hand, he marveled at the enormous pull of the Brogans. They were able to command the attention of the head of any world government, with the exception of the Chinese. They were even guaranteeing the way a meeting would be conducted! On the other hand, he saw a caution light. It was public now that Lasercomp was advocating Rickard's ejection from office. If he went on the proposed trip, what would be the payoff? Pressure on the courts to lay off Lasercomp? An easing of restrictions of computer sales? So far there had been no mention of a quid pro
quo
.

His running mate, Mineva, spoke up. “I'd like to know how the media would react to such a trip.”

Huntsman emerged from the gastronomical bliss of his caviar. “Favorably, I'm certain about that.” He washed down the rest of his hors d'oeuvre with a mouthful of white wine, leaving a few black specks near the corner of his mouth.

Mineva seemed satisfied. “In that case, I don't think we have anything to lose,” he said, smiling at everyone.

MacGregor shook his head. He had never been for Mineva
as running mate but had been left little choice. Mineva, with his support in the Midwest, the South and from big business, some minorities, and some of the bigger unions, had been the halfhearted compromise choice. And now MacGregor was having to live with it.

“You spoke of the extra votes we would get from a trip like this,” he said, turning to Brogan Senior. “I'm not so sure it would be all that valuable. I'm beginning to think I'm spending a little too much time on foreign issues as it is. I've had more requests for interviews from foreign journalists, and film and television organizations than from our home media. Sure, they are all interested in any trip I take overseas. But American journalists want to know about taxes, federal welfare, urban planning, every day until November fourth. My campaign has to get its priorities right at this critical time. I'm not sure that backslapping with Brechinov right now will sway votes my way.

“In any case,” he added deliberately, “I agree with Rickard when it comes to dealing with the Soviet administration. He's right in confronting them over arms
and
human rights.”

An embarrassed silence was interrupted by the arrival of the main course.

Several waiters hovered around, serving from trolleys and opening more wine. When the diners were settled again, Brogan Senior turned to MacGregor.

“Senator, I guess one of your reservations about visiting the Kremlin is that you don't want it to look like a vote-gathering exercise.”

MacGregor looked a little exasperated. “That's partly right. But the question, as I said, Mr. Brogan, is whether or not it is a vote-gathering exercise!”

“Well, if it would help, we could arrange for the Kremlin to invite you on an unofficial visit.”

“I'll give it some thought,” he said noncommittally, and in a manner that indicated the topic was closed.

Huntsman, buried in his Chateaubriand, was asked by the manager for the third time if everything was in order. The PR man wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Just perfect,” he said with a satisfied smile.

Graham arrived back at his apartment from MI-6's crash
program at Oxford and immediately phoned Sir Alfred.

“How are you feeling?” the publisher asked.

“Not too bad considering we did about a year's work in four days. Why?”

“Some bad news, I'm afraid. Your flat was broken into yesterday.”

The Australian gripped the receiver.

“What?”

“Your porter rang here in a panic. Apparently he disturbed them.”

“Them?”

“Two men in blue overalls, masquerading as workmen.”

“Was anything stolen?”

“Only you could tell that. But certainly the stereo, TV and so on are still there.”

“Did you tell Gould?”

“A few minutes ago. Police have already been over the apartment for fingerprints.”

“What did he say?”

“He will have a look at the police report. He wants you to speak to him later today.”

“So the trip's off?”

“He didn't say that. It could have been an ordinary burglary. The police say hundreds of apartments are broken into each week in your area. On the other hand, nothing was taken. It could have been …”

After a few seconds' silence, Graham said thoughtfully, “Even if it was ‘them' it should not stop the trip. Could just mean they're getting desperate to find me.…”

“On the subject of your trip, we collected your mail from the bank as instructed. There's something from Intourist.”

“Could you open it?” Graham said nervously. There was a moment's pause.

“It's your visa and plane ticket”

Graham was determined to enjoy his last night in London after weeks of confinement. He took Françoise to a quiet romantic little Greek restaurant off the Bayswater Road. Toward the end of the meal, she said, “I don't want to spoil the evening, but hadn't we better discuss tactics?”

“I was saving it until last thing tomorrow,” Graham said,
“but you're right.” He leaned forward as a waiter hovered about filling their wineglasses. When he was out of earshot, Graham said, “Gould says you should leave at the first sniff of trouble. At the latest you must leave the company the day I'm scheduled to play Radford.”

“I'm staying until then.”

The Australian reached across the table and took both her hands.

“You have more courage than is good for you.”

“If your cover is broken, I should ring Gould?”

“Right. His operatives in Russia will inform me if something goes wrong.”

“Ed, I'm worried for you …”

He squeezed her hands.

“Don't be. At the slightest sign of trouble, I simply won't go through with the Radford impersonation bit. Promise. I don't plan to be a dead hero … besides …” he said, smiling cheerfully, “I've too much to look forward to back here.”

“So much could go wrong….”

“Not if I remember my lines. I told you, Gould and his mates have pumped everything into my thick skull. I know exactly what to look for … the blueprints to be memorized … I won't have to write anything. And I know all the do's and don'ts.”

“The …?”

“The rules. Do act like a tourist. Don't exchange money illegally. Don't talk to the Russian women …”

“The women?”

“Yes, I know it sounds like some cliché but the KGB are apparently likely to try to use a female contact. Gould says every prostitute either works for the KGB or ends up in jail. The smart ones learn to cooperate to stay out of trouble. They pass on to the KGB any little detail to keep them happy.”

“Stay away from the smart ones, s'il
vous plait.”

Graham smiled. “Jealous?”

“Bien sur!”

He leaned across the table and kissed her lightly on the lips. Looking for the waiter, he asked for the bill and took out his wallet. Taking a card from it, he wrote two telephone numbers on the back.

“Memorize those two numbers,” he said, handing the card
to her. “The top one is Sir Alfred's private line. Ring him and he'll give you a job with his publishing house until you start with British Airways. The second one is vital. It will reach MI-6 at any time.”

“I hope I don't have to …”

“You don't have a thing to worry about. You have police protection from now on anyway.”

Graham signed the bill. The waiter scurried away. “Forget about the company. They will never harm you. Radford and the rest of his executives will be hit hard by the police within the next few weeks.” He stood up to go. “No matter what happens to me …”

 

*
Coordinating Committee Machinery of the NATO Alliance.

“The computer is the common denominator of the worst excesses of Soviet Marxism and American Capitalism.”

Soviet Ambassador Boris Ustinov was led into the Oval Office by a presidential aide at precisely 9:00
A.M
. on Monday, September 22. Rickard moved forward to greet the Russian, a tall, bull-necked muscular man of sixty, dressed in a dark three-piece suit. Instead of offering his hand, he stood stiffly in front of the President's desk and unzipped his attaché case.

“President Rickard,” he began with a jerk of his head.

“Please sit down, Ambassador,” Rickard said, as he lowered himself into his own chair behind the desk. The ambassador remained standing.

“Mr. President, I have received a communiqué. I have been ordered to read it to you.”

“Read it, please,” Rickard said, his forthright instruction belying the apprehension and tension that bound his stomach.

Ambassador Ustinov put on reading spectacles, took out four yellow sheets from his attaché case, cleared his throat, and began to read the communiqué. It started with a flat denial of the breaking of any arms agreements, followed by accusations denouncing the President and saying that he had embarked on a dangerous course. In essence, Rickard thought, as the words rolled off Ustinov's tongue in clear, exact, uncolloquial English, the communiqué was simply an emasculated version of the attacks in the Soviet press. Only the last few paragraphs stiffened Rickard's insides.

The U.S.S.R. is forced to take the view that it cannot effectively negotiate with the United States under your administration and the present circumstances. The peoples of
the Soviet Socialist Republics will await the coming judgment of the peoples of the United States before reconsidering relations between our two nations.

Until then, all major negotiations will cease, and all trade and diplomatic relations will be kept to a minimum.

The ambassador's final words hung in the room as he placed the note on the President's desk, took a pace back and closed his attaché case.

Rickard, who had been staring out beyond the French doors all through the reading, swiveled his chair around to face the ambassador. “Very well.” He nodded vigorously, his voice steady. “Please inform your premier I have heard his note.”

“I shall pass the message to him, Mr. President.”

“Thank you, Ambassador,” Rickard said.

He got up and saw Ustinov out through the French doors. He watched the aide escort him up the colonnaded walk and out of sight. Then he went back to his desk and sat down again. His eyes fell on the stark communiqué. Now the pressure would surely be on.

Rickard looked at the communiqué again and shook his head. It could not be Brechinov's hand, he was sure. Perhaps only a private letter to the Soviet premier could draw a clearer picture of the Kremlin's position.

Two days before the meeting in the White House, an Irishwoman crossed herself and an old couple gripped their armrests as Aeroflot Flight 884 headed off from Gatwick airport, bound for Kiev, at noon on Saturday, September 20.

Graham's tour was made up of ninety-eight people from different countries. There were also five Ukrainian and Russian émigrés on limited visas to see relatives.

By the time the plane had flown the three hours to Kiev, most of them had become familiar with Graham, as he wandered up and down the cabin, striking up conversations, especially with the younger women on board, and in particular with four laughing and friendly Spanish women—a deliberate effort to act out an amicable disposition.

They arrived in clear, cool weather at Kiev airport and Graham felt the pressure mount as the group was herded through
customs. He was held up by a poker-faced young woman who insisted on giving his luggage a thorough search. She asked for all his literature and took some time examining The
Observer
, the Guardian, a small traveler's Russian dictionary, a novel by Patrick White, a book on anthropology, and the latest edition of
Playboy
.

Finally she decided to confiscate everything except the
Traveler's Russian
.

Graham packed his gear and moved to a lounge where the rest of the tour had gathered to listen to the chief tour guide, Victor, a handsome Russian with a shock of black hair which he brushed back in early Elvis Presley style.

The Australian could hardly believe he had made it. He half expected something dramatic to happen any moment.

During the first days in Kiev, Graham moved around as much as possible in the hope of giving contacts a chance of approaching him. He ran each morning around the nearby state park, attended organized tours and occasionally broke away from the group.