by Roland Perry
Lasercomp had pushed in front of him a very large carrot, and maybe the men in the alley had been the stick, he thought, running his hand over his bristly chin. Well, he would play the donkey…
At 8:30 A.M. he pulled on a tracksuit, jogged to the telephone booth at Kew Bridge and rang Huntsman.
“I’ve thought about your offer,” Graham said evenly. “I’d like to work for you.”
“That’s fantastic,” Huntsman wheezed with genuine pleasure. “But you’ll be working with us, Ed, not for us … I have a contract.…”
“I’ll be in the States in about two weeks to wrap up my presidential assignment.”
“You’re going to stop, er … writing your book on computers too?”
“Yes. I’ll be in touch when I arrive in New York.”
“Great, Ed. I’ll have a contract ready. See you then. Take care …”
“Yeah, you too,” Graham said, and replaced the receiver.
He imagined the shifty-eyed Huntsman shuffling his way to the nearest telex to inform HQ: “Carrot and stick successful. Stop. Donkey works for us. Stop. Mission accomplished. Stop. Return soonest.” Within three weeks someone would ask about the donkey. Telephone calls would be made to Ryder Publications. The Australian figured he had twenty days at the most before the corporation started hunting for him.
There was not a day to waste. Later that morning he rang Computer Increments.
“Is that the managing director’s secretary? My name is Walker. I’m from the Evening Standard.”
“Oh, yes. A representative rang yesterday about the Secretary of the Year Competition,” the girl said with a soft French accent, “but I really don’t think—”
“I would like a quick interview with you,” Graham broke in. “It will only take about twenty minutes of your time.”
“I don’t think my boss would like the publicity.”
“That only comes if you win the award for this week. I have to interview several girls. If you do win, then you can ask him if it’s okay. We won’t publish if he doesn’t agree.”
“I don’t know …”
“Don’t forget Secretary of the Week is worth fifty pounds. Secretary of the Year, five hundred.”
“Why have you chosen me?”
“Someone from your company has recommended you.”
The girl laughed. “That’s a surprise. Who?”
“We are sworn to secrecy,” Graham said cheerfully. “Can we meet for a drink after work?”
“I suppose there is no harm in that. What was your name again?”
Françoise le Gras was not classically attractive. Her bust was small for her height and her legs could have been a shade slimmer. On the plus side were her long black hair, almond-shaped hazel eyes, which gave her a slightly Oriental appearance, generous lips, and well-rounded curves. Most importantly, she had an unmistakably sensual presence which radiated a rare warmth. It touched Graham the instant they met at a West End bar for drinks.
Fortunately for him, there was a quick and easy rapport between them. The drink after work extended to a two-hour discussion and then dinner. The Australian turned on the charm and soon had Françoise talking.
She had a French father and English mother and had lived most of her life in Paris. The past year she had lived in London, partly for a change and partly to escape the memory of a broken affair.
Her job with Computer Increments would run out in six months, after which she intended to work as a stewardess for British Airways.
After dinner and a little dancing, it looked as if the wine and the atmosphere might open Françoise up.
“Really,” she giggled, “you have the wrong girl. I would never want to be involved in any award for this company.”
“Why not?”
“Well,” she said, with a typical French pout of indifference, “I don’t like my boss …” She broke off and looked quizzically at Graham for a few moments. “You journalists are nosy, aren’t you?”
Graham fondled his nose. “There’s no need to get personal,” he said, with a look of mock hurt.
Françoise hesitated, not sure whether she had used the colloquialism correctly. Then she laughed, reached across the dining table and touched Graham’s arm affectionately. “You know what I mean.”
The Australian laughed. He decided not to push any further tonight. Pleased that he had at least made contact, he reflected on that touch on the arm. It went further than skin deep. Graham knew it would be some time before he would allow himself another emotional involvement. Thoughts of Jane Ryder were too near. Yet his physical needs were strong and this was the first chance in some time for that familiar stirring in his blood.
Graham was hoping for a successful encounter, if he used his experience and tact wisely.
Four nights later on their third date, the Australian was in a dilemma. Over dinner at a quiet little French restaurant it was clear that the timing was right for trying to bed her and he wondered whether he should tell her the truth before or after.
Preferring to gain her confidence completely, he had not asked her anything more about the company, but she had become curious about his work and his life. The deceit was beginning to make him feel uncomfortable. And despite trying to keep an objective head about his reason for meeting her, the Australian had become increasingly attracted to her warm, demure charm.
As Françoise was driving him back to his apartment, she stole a glance at Graham. “That is a long way back to Strand-on-the-Green. Are you sure you know the way?”
“I know the way,” Graham said, running his hand across the back of her shoulders and neck. “Just keep your eyes on the road.”
Back in his room he switched on a bedside lamp and some late-night radio music. He opened the balcony to a warm, clear, early autumn night. While she looked out over the still Thames, he poured them both a cognac.
Walking over to Françoise he silently admired her curves, accentuated by tight-fitting slacks and knee-length boots. His desire had reached a tantalizing peak.
He handed her the drink and she caressed the bottom of the glass with her fine long-fingered hands. He moved close and kissed her. She draped one thin arm around his neck and responded willingly.
Graham pulled away gently, cleared his throat and sipped his drink. He looked into her eyes.
“Look, ah, there are a few things,” he began with a sigh, looking away from her and then back. “I want to make love to you now very much.…”
“So do I.” She smiled widely. “Can we finish our drinks?”
He nodded, threw his head back and laughed.
“Is there a problem?” she asked, frowning slightly.
“Yes, well, no … you see … I’ve not told you everything. The truth, I mean really …”
Françoise pulled away and put her drink down. She moved to her handbag on the bed and took some Gauloises filters from it. She lit one and gave the Australian one.
“I am not so naïve,” she said softly. “This is not your home. You were worried about being followed here. You are probably married with children. Your name is not Ed Walker …”
“That’s not what I mean … how did you know my name wasn’t Walker?”
“You’ve been careful not to let me see you sign your name on the three occasions we’ve been at a restaurant…”
“You have it wrong.”
“Oh?” she said inquisitively. The romance seemed to have faded.
“Partly wrong. I have no wife or children. Not even a girl friend. My name is Graham.” He looked hard at her. “I am a journalist, but I don’t make a living out of interviewing secretaries. I have an assignment, part of which is investigating the company you work for …”
“About what?”
“Smuggling.”
Françoise’s expression was a mixture of surprise and disdain.
“So this …” she said, moving to the balcony, “and the dating—all a softening-up process?”
“No,” Graham said, annoye
d with himself. “I really do want…”
She went to pick up her handbag. Graham held her gently. “Don’t run off. Stay. Have another drink. Talk it out …”
Françoise looked annoyed but said nothing.
“Don’t you see? Why would I tell you all this at this moment?”
Françoise stood staring at him for several seconds. “You say your name is Graham,” she said, puzzled.
The Australian nodded.
“Now I remember.” Her expression opened. “Your photo is filed in our office.” She sat on the bed. “You’re Edwin Graham. You wrote that article about smuggling in Vienna.”
“Correct.”
“Yes,” she said reflectively, “it caused quite a stir. You’re not very popular with my boss.”
Graham sat next to her. “Maybe you believe me now …”
“I am not sure … perhaps you should tell me exactly what you are doing.”
“And then you’ll give me information?”
“I don’t know until I hear your story.”
Graham’s eyes searched her expression. “But if you run to your boss …”
She smiled triumphantly. “I suppose you would say the boots are on the other legs.”
“The boot is on the other foot …”
She laughed. “Pardon.”
“Yes. You’re right. I must trust you….”
Graham was apprehensive. It was difficult to gauge her intentions. He would be gambling on her attraction to him.
“Okay,” he said slowly, as he leaned forward to kiss her, “I’ll tell you all in the morning….”
“Oh, no, no, no, no, no,” she said, pushing him gently away. “Now …”
Graham sighed and leaned back on the bed. He lit another cigarette and looked at her.
“You win …”
For the next twenty minutes he carefully outlined the salient points of the investigation without telling her anything that her company or Lasercomp would not already know he knew. Françoise sat, fascinated, occasionally asking him a question. Graham felt by her response that she was with him. But he was not sure.
At the end he said, “Now, can you tell me anything?”
She smiled mysteriously. “Maybe in the morning …”
They both laughed. Graham moved close and kissed her. Françoise slowly responded.
She looked at him with mock circumspection as they began to undress.
“You’re really a spy, aren’t you?”
“No. I am a journalist.”
“I’ve never made love to a spy … nor someone with such a hairy chest …”
They pulled back the bedclothes and lay beside each other, touching and kissing.
“Have you been in love?” Françoise asked.
“Yes, once.”
“Tell me about her.”
“She was the one … the one that was killed … I just told you about …”
“Oh, I am sorry. Tell me about your first …”
“I’m more interested in the next…”
First light squeezed through the half-open curtains and fell across Graham and Françoise.
Half an hour ago they had made love for the fourth time so vigorously that the bed was now a good foot clear of the wall it had been hard up against before they started.
Her hand rested on his thickly matted chest which rose and fell to the gentle tempo of a light snore. She had time to reflect as she snuggled close to him.
At first she had been stunned by the fact that he had met her under false pretenses. But his eventual honesty and protestations during the night that his affections for her were genuine overcame her initial misgivings. Françoise was a great believer in the theory that a person could not deceive another about their feelings in bed. Certainly not repeatedly. She was also influenced by his telling her about his love and lingering emotion for Jane Ryder. That challenged her and warned her to be patient if the relationship was to develop. Françoise wanted to believe in him. He attracted her greatly.
When Graham awoke, he wandered into the kitchen, put on coffee and returned a few minutes later with two cups. She sat up in the bed and admired the magnificent morning view. Turning to him she said, “I want to help you. But you must promise not to involve me.”
Graham sipped his coffee. “You have my word. Don’t worry.”
“Do you have a robe?”
The Australian took one from a clothes closet. She put it on and wandered out to the balcony. He followed her.
“Do you always come out here like that?” She laughed.
“Only the birds can see me,” he said, opening his arms to the trees. “I like to give them something to chirp at.”
“Exhibitionist.”
“You look at birds, don’t you? They never wear clothes …” She went to kick him. Seconds later her expression changed as she said, “Apart from anything else, I want to give you information because Computer Increments’ operations are, I think, crooked.”
“In what way?”
“They are heavily involved in some sort of smuggling chain—a link in a chain of middlemen moving computers into the Soviet Union.”
“Can you get me any written evidence of this?”
“Anything to do with contraband is under lock and key. Difficult to get hold of. Sometimes I see material. But everyone there is very careful and secretive. Only occasionally there is a slip-up.”
“For instance?”
“A Russian from the Soviet trade mission here in London arrives unannounced on the doorstep every so often. It causes much embarrassment. He usually rings the office from a phone booth.”
“Name?”
“It starts with Z. I can easily find it for you.”
“Please.”
Graham walked into the bedroom, pulled a pair of jeans from a rack in a closet and hauled them on. “Your news is giving me goose pimples. Is there a file on this Russian?”
“Yes. It’s hardly seen by anyone except my boss. He never lets anyone near it.”
“You mentioned links. What other companies is Computer Increments involved with?”
“Several.”
“The big ones …”
“The biggest is Lasercomp. The head of its Soviet marketing operations, a Frenchman I hate to say, named Cheznoir, and a German named Herman Znorel, met my boss a few weeks ago just after the Russian visited the office for the last time.”
“This is the sort of information I want. Cheznoir and Znorel, fantastic!”
“The whole office was jumping. My boss, a typically cool upper-class type of Englishman, was extremely nervous. They were both very important to him.”
“Any idea what the meeting was about?”
“Again, it was all kept very quiet. But my boss planned to visit the Soviet Union. I had to go to the Soviet Embassy for a visa. An itinerary was mapped out.”
“When is he going?”
“He’s not. He has been very ill with a serious blood virus for the last week. It looks as if it’s off indefinitely. He has dictated letters of apology over the phone from the hospital.”
“To whom?”
“Znorel in Stuttgart and Znorel’s Soviet director in Moscow.”
“Hmmm. That’s bad luck. He might have brought back some important information you could have been on the lookout for.…
“Could I have some more coffee?”
Graham hastened to oblige. “Anything, dear lady, anything …”
He returned with the percolator, and a tape recorder. Switching the tape on, he said, “I think we better get all this down…. What’s your boss’s name?”
“Harold Clarence Radford….”
Brogan Senior was annoyed at the slow progress being made in the efforts to smear Rickard. On the morning of Sunday, September 7, the Old Man stepped off his private jet after a brief visit to the Soviet Union and was immediately chauffeur-driven straight to Hitchcock Presbyterian Church in Scarsdale, New York. There he knew he would find Huntsman and most of Las
ercomp’s senior management. They were all aware of the Brogans’ strong family religious tradition going back long before his grandfather, John Clifford Brogan, and his family of five had been driven by poverty from Scotland to Ireland and finally to the U.S. in 1840.
In the eighty-five-minute drive the Old Man briefed himself fully on the PPP via a small terminal in the back of the Rolls, and had time to view a cassette replay of the Rickard-MacGregor debate.
Outside the church, after a string of deferential nods from Lasercomp people, Brogan Senior spotted the PR man and pulled him aside.
“I watched the replay of the Rickard-MacGregor interview this morning. It wasn’t good enough, Alan.”
“To my mind, MacGregor and Mineva acquitted themselves well,” Huntsman said defensively.
“No, they did not!” the Old Man said vehemently. “Philpott should have called the shots as chairman. Instead, he let Rickard get right on top! I thought you said Philpott was with us. You spoke to him last week, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but, C.B., it was an open debate. He had to handle three interviewers. Rickard is skilled at handling open debates. No one could control him.”
“All right. It was difficult for Philpott. But his failure to embarrass Rickard highlights a weakness in our efforts to get him out of office.”
The Old Man nodded to an executive making sure he was seen moving into the church. “We must step up our efforts. A lot more has to be done. By tomorrow night you’ll have PPP directives involving certain media personnel. You will not have to rely simply on Philpott. You have to go right to the top. To the network presidents. To people such as Cary Bilby.”
Huntsman’s flesh crawled. The old bastard was going to push all the way.
Brogan sighed. “I don’t want you telling me there is no way of getting to him. We’ve got to have him on our side to crush Rickard.” The tone of his voice hinted that he knew there was a way. “Once we have an important network president convinced our cause is right, the TV programming might come out a little differently.”
“I know we need the media, but—”
“No buts, man!” the Old Man said, glowering as they moved into the church. “What the hell do you think we hired you for?” he sneered. “Your good looks?” He fumbled for his wallet in an inside coat pocket. “You’re supposed to know all the skeletons. Dig them up and earn that goddamn three hundred thousand dollars I pay you!”
