Program for a Puppet

by Roland Perry

  The Old Man placed two fifty-dollar bills on a plate and found a seat in a front aisle.

  FBS President Cary Bilby did not know how to take what had just been said to him by Huntsman. His former colleague had just attempted to blackmail him over an issue he believed had been buried twenty years ago. It concerned a love letter Bilby had written. The problem was that the recipient happened to be a man, Douglas Philpott. Bilby was bisexual. He had kept his homosexual experience discreet, but the appearance of the golden-haired young Philpott changed all that. For the first time he hadn’t cared what others thought.

  The TV superstar was ambitious about reaching the top, and prepared to do anything to get there. After a cautious first few months, the two became more adventurous and were seen together at the racetrack, on vacation in Paris and Honolulu, and at private parties. It lasted about a year before the odd rumor began to fly around Washington media circles. Philpott, frightened that it could end rather than enhance his career, was soon involved in a mild flirtation with a Washington female gossip columnist. Bilby had reluctantly agreed to split. But Philpott’s callousness in dropping the affair so quickly had hurt him. Bilby wrote several rambling, impassioned letters.

  Philpott was enjoying his return to a straight path and after six months threw the gossip columnist out of his apartment and planned to replace her with a film starlet. His face and name were getting any woman he wanted. When he asked the columnist to leave, she produced one of Bilby’s epistles that she had taken from Philpott’s private files and photocopied.

  In desperation, Philpott had turned to Huntsman. With priestlike sobriety and inner relish, he went into action. Through his many connections, he persuaded the girl with a mixture of bribery, cajolery and veiled threat to surrender the letter for a handsome payoff and a better job. At the same time, he warned Cary Bilby to be more discreet and urged him to cover his wavering sexual tracks by getting married.

  Bilby took the advice, and within six months was walking down the aisle with an attractive young New York socialite. The incident was forgotten and both Bilby and Philpott believed Huntsman had destroyed the only evidence of the affair. They had seen him burn the letter in question. Now he was revealing he still had written evidence.

  “What has that corporation done to you, Alan?” Bilby asked, his fine, sensitive features quivering with emotion.

  Huntsman ran a finger round a sticky collar. “Cary, I was hoping to avoid the letter business,” he said with an anguished look, “but we really want Rickard out. It’s best for the nation.”

  “I cannot do it,” Bilby almost whispered.

  Huntsman shook his head. Fumbling in an inside coat pocket, he pulled out a folded paper and tossed it on the desk. Bilby looked at it in disbelief. It was a photostat.

  The FBS president’s eyes widened as he unfolded it. “You never said you copied it,” he said incredulously.

  “Well, I did … and there is one other.”

  Bilby lowered his head. The words in his own handwriting leaped up at him. “My Dearest Doug, I have been so lost these last weeks without you. I love you and it hurts so deeply that …” Bilby put the letter down. He buried his face in trembling hands.

  Huntsman seemed affected. “I don’t really think we are asking that much,” he said pleadingly. “All we want is for you to consider a program of ideas over the next seven weeks before the election.”

  “But my board members are not fools,” Bilby protested. “They will sniff any change in our approach.”

  “Not if you follow our suggestions. Rickard is not so popular. His policies are getting a lot of criticism. MacGregor and Mineva look like a good, sound presidential package. Besides, there may be bonuses, for yourself and the network, when they get into office. What about that West Coast radio license FBS hasn’t been able to get?”

  Bilby shook his head grimly. “No, Alan, I don’t think I can do it.”

  Huntsman sighed. “Think of your career. When do you retire? Five years, is it? And your wife. How will she feel? And your daughter, Cary. You told me she was just about to be introduced into society. Oh, and your son, a West Point graduate in six months …”

  Bilby had had enough. He stood up. “Get out of here!” he yelled in a shrill voice.

  Huntsman’s forehead creased as he stood up and backed toward the door. “Sure, Cary,” he said, holding up both his hands as if to calm him, “but remember you have forty-eight hours. We’ll be having a word with Philpott. He has a career to think about too.”

  Huntsman left Bilby to ponder his dilemma. But even in the emotion of the moment, Bilby knew which of the two evil choices he would make.

  “Commander Gould wants to meet you,” Sir Alfred told Graham when the Australian made his daily call to the publishing house. “I have a feeling it’s for more than just a chat.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Apparently you both have broadly the same aims. He has expressed an interest in your cooperating with him ever since I approached him about helping you in Vienna. Incidentally, I have briefed him on Vienna and everything you’ve told me.”

  “Thanks, Sir Alfred. The timing may be just right. What does he want me to do, feed a pelican at a place of his choice?”

  “No.” Sir Alfred laughed. “I think he’ll want you to visit him at his office….”

  The prospects of MI-6 “cooperating” set Graham thinking again about the direction the investigation was heading. He had to face the fact that all roads, it seemed, were leading into the Soviet Union. Somehow he had to find out what was going on there. But how?

  The Australian lay on his bed for hours staring at the peaceful Thames view or slowly jogging along the water’s edge before the how, when and where of a daring plan emerged. He would make every effort to see if he could risk going in himself.

  He obviously could not go as Graham. He would have to obtain a false passport and the necessary papers. Perhaps the planned meeting with MI-6 was fortuitous….

  Second, and on his mind since Françoise mentioned it, was the aborted visit of her boss to the Soviet Union. She had passed on the details of the itinerary to the Australian. The temptation to take Harold Radford’s place was nagging him.

  The night before he was to meet MI-6, Françoise and Graham were at his apartment going through some files she had managed to smuggle out of the office for the night, when he asked, “You haven’t sent those letters off saying your boss wasn’t going to Moscow, I hope.”

  “No, but I’ll have to do it tomorrow or they will be suspicious at the office.”

  “Right, Do it. Go through the normal procedure. Someone else in the office will check it and sign on his behalf?”

  “Yes, Mr. Larsen, the deputy managing director …”

  “Okay, do that, but make sure you don’t send them off.”

  Françoise nodded. “What are you planning to do?”

  The Australian smiled ruefully and stood up from the couch they were sitting on. He walked a few paces and stood near the door.

  “I want you to tell me about your boss.”

  Françoise was puzzled.

  “How he walks first…”

  “But why?”

  “Darling, we’ve been together a week now. Do you trust me?”

  “Of course …”

  “Then just help me. How does he walk? Is he aggressive?” Graham lumbered across the room. “Or lightfooted?” He floated back to the door.

  “More like the second one,” Françoise said, bemused, “but not quite as light.”

  “Toes in or out?”

  “Out.”

  “Head up, I suppose, stiff back, very British?”

  “Yes, yes, nose in the air, that’s right!” She laughed. “You have it, excellent! … but please tell me why.”

  “I’m going to impersonate Radford.”

  “How?”

  “I’ll tell you….” He practiced the walk again. “Always like to get the walk right when I’m acting. Helps me feel the
character … now the voice … very upper crust, of course …”

  “Of course.”

  “How deep … like this?”

  “No, deeper.”

  “Oh, I see, like this, is it? Jolly good show.”

  “How did you know he said that?”

  “I didn’t. An educated guess, you might say.” Graham returned to the couch. “End of act one.”

  “You’re not planning to go to …”

  “I’m looking into it.”

  “Oh, no, you’re crazy, I will not let you …”

  “It’s only early days yet. I’ll see when I’ve assembled as much as I can. That’s where you can help me even more. I want you to write down everything, I mean everything, about Radford. The type of clothes he wears, his interests, his background, where he went to school … and if you can get me a photo …”

  Late in the evening of Monday, September 8, the Brogans met in the Black Flats war room to discuss intensified PPP strategy with the presidential election drawing closer.

  The screen and the television monitors were running through all the important factors of the PPP.

  The Old Man had not had a chance to speak privately to his son about his recent visit to Moscow, where he had taken the opportunity to act on the PPP’s suggestion that Rickard’s Soviet foreign policy should be attacked.

  As the relevant item came up, the Old Man broke the silence.

  “The KGB bought the whole idea of embarrassing Rickard,” he said ebulliently. “I’ve convinced them that with our man as President, they’ll be able to expand. There will be no one to stop the flow of Cheetahs to them.”

  Brogan Junior had to bow to his father’s expertise in handling the Soviets, whether it was KGB chief Andropolov, Premier Brechinov or anyone else in the Kremlin.

  “What are they planning to do?”

  “Andropolov plans to put pressure on the Politburo to step up the Soviet arms race and forget about previous arms limitation agreements. He says he will personally set up action against dissidents, which is sure to upset Rickard.”

  “Do you think Andropolov has that much power?”

  “Yes, and we’ve helped him get it. The Soviet administration thinks it’s his great influence with us that has kept the Cheetahs rolling in to the Soviet Union. They see what that has begun to do to their own central control from Moscow, and in increasing the nation’s firepower.”

  “What about Brechinov? He was never slow to put rivals in their place.”

  “True, but he’s old, quite ill and out of touch,” the Old Man said, shrugging. “He and his supporters don’t realize exactly what modern computer technology means to the Kremlin’s power.”

  “And Andropolov and his young cohorts do?”

  The Old Man nodded. “I had the feeling they may well have control already. It’s only a matter of time before Andropolov is number one.”

  “So Rickard will soon be feeling the pinch from abroad as well as at home.”

  “That’s the idea. Huntsman assures me we’ve gotten FBS and Cary Bilby by the balls,” he sneered. “Literally.”

  “We must keep Andropolov informed on Rickard. They must know some of his foreign policies in advance. We’ll have to step up our access to classified information.”

  The Old Man pressed the button to allow the PPP to flow on. “That gives us the all-clear on the PPP’s suggestion about eliminating our man’s rival.” He deftly keyed in number 55 on the panel in front of him. Up on the screen appeared:

  FACTOR 55. ELIMINATION OF RIVAL. MUST BE NOT LESS THAN 35 DAYS BEFORE ELECTION.

  “What do you think?” the Old Man asked. “Do you want to have another look at the consequences?”

  “We’ve considered them often enough.” Brogan Junior shrugged. “As the PPP suggests, it’s really only a matter of timing now.”

  On his arrival at the Whitehall building of Her Majesty’s Defence Department at 10:00 A.M. on Tuesday, September 9, Graham was given a thorough search before being escorted by a security guard to the department’s third floor, along a maze of corridors. The guard stopped at the commander’s office and knocked. On the directive, “Enter,” he opened the door for Graham, and left.

  “Mr. Graham, please take a seat,” Gould said, shaking hands firmly. He sat down at a plain wooden desk pushed against the left wall of the office. On the other wall was a library of books and folders, and a large combination-locked steel file cabinet. Above the desk on the wall were pages of Soviet newspapers, several maps of the Soviet Union pinpointing naval, army and air force bases, and other military data. A notice board had pinned on it several messages on scraps of different toilet paper, apparently from all over the Soviet Union. One in clear handwriting caught Graham’s eye. It read: “I picked this up in Tashkent. Much better than the Kiev rubbish I sent you last time which I wouldn’t bother wiping my nose with. This stuff made a fairly clean sweep of everything. But I think you’ll find it’s still a bit like sandpaper, compared with good old Whitehall white. See you. Yours shittily, Steven.”

  The commander started with some polite talk about his father’s long friendship with Sir Alfred. Then he turned to Graham’s investigation.

  “I don’t mind telling you we are vitally interested in your area of investigation,” he said, his gray eyes fixing on the Australian. “We and the Americans are most concerned with the recent Soviet military build-up. They’re breaking all previous arms agreements. What’s more worrying still is the apparent growth in the sophistication of the hardware controlling their military missile forces. We’re getting some information out about this. But nothing really definitive.”

  He turned to the toilet paper with the message from Steven. “You noticed that note,” Gould added, now showing the flicker of emotion. “Unfortunately that was the last communication we ever had from him. He’s dead. He was one of our best agents gathering intelligence in the same area you are. We know he was tortured for weeks in a mental hospital. He died in Moscow last week. The KGB is paranoid about any intelligence concerning computers leaking to the West.”

  Graham felt his nerves tingle with fear.

  “I was thinking of going there….”

  “Sir Alfred didn’t tell me.”

  “I’ve only just decided to see if it’s possible.”

  “It would be extremely dangerous.” Gould paused and added, “Especially since the incident on the train….”

  Graham was stunned. He didn’t know how to interpret the allusion or how to reply.

  “When the Austrian police learned that a man had been strangled and apparently dumped from a Paris-bound train,” Gould continued, “they soon found him to be a member of the Soviet Embassy in Vienna. The matter was taken over by Austrian authorities. We were alerted about you. The Austrians are satisfied the matter can rest with us, but the Russians are far from pleased.… Of course, we’ve been protecting you.”

  Graham looked hard at the commander.

  “This doesn’t alter my aim to get into the Soviet Union.”

  “How do you plan to get in?”

  “I thought you might be able to help here. I’ll need a false passport.”

  Gould stroked his beard thoughtfully and scrutinized the Australian.

  “And once you’re in?”

  “I have contacts in Kiev and Leningrad and a chance of access to how the computers are used in Moscow….”

  “Can you tell me more about your Moscow contact?”

  “It’s a little rough at the moment. I’ve found a most helpful contact inside Computer Increments…”

  “Ah yes. Sir Alfred told me about that. A bit of luck …”

  “I’m building up as much knowledge as I can about its operations and the managing director, Radford. He had planned a visit to Moscow until struck by illness two weeks ago. I may just be able to impersonate him.”

  Gould pulled a pipe and tobacco from a desk drawer, and some matches from his vest pocket.

  “The Moscow connection do
esn’t know he’s not coming?”

  “No. All communication between London and Moscow is done by letter. Everything was set up for the visit. All Radford had to do was to confirm by letter that he was coming. My contact has stopped the letters saying he wasn’t coming. I have dictated letters of confirmation. They’re ready for mailing.”

  The commander filled the pipe and lit it.

  “You know, once you’re in, you’ll have no protection.”

  “I’m aware of that.… Is there any way you could help me?”

  “I’ll look into it. How long before you would want to go?”

  “There’s an Intourist tour of Kiev, Leningrad and Moscow which would allow me to impersonate Radford and gather other information. It leaves England from Gatwick a week from Saturday.”

  “Going as a tourist would be the only way. You would be too conspicuous otherwise….” Gould stood up and moved to a window at the end of the room. He stood with his back to Graham and looked out over dull rustic tiles of the floor below. He watched a pigeon float down and land before he turned and said, “We may be able to help you with false identification but there is so little time. We must find someone whose identity and passport details you could use quickly.”

  “I’ve already prepared for it. I have a passport-size photo of an old school friend in Australia, a Dr. Ross Boulter. He is an anthropologist. I have not seen him for more than ten years but we still correspond. He took his family to New Guinea to undergo a massive study there. He’s compiling a volume called ‘Earliest Man Today.’”

  “How much do you know about his work?”

  “We still write. I have been interested in his progress. From time to time he sends me voluminous notes on the study.”

  “Could he be traced?”

  “Not in the time frame I’m thinking of. He spends most of his time in primitive regions. It takes three months for a letter to reach him.”

  “It sounds reasonable. All you would need for a passport would be immigration stamps into and out of New Guinea, and from there to London.…”