Program for a Puppet

by Roland Perry

  “You American?” she asked.

  “No. Do I look it?” He smiled.

  Several others close to them seemed interested in the conversation.

  At that moment, a burly young Russian came and put his arm around the woman. He chatted and drank with her for a couple of minutes, with his back to Graham. But her attention was on the Australian, and when the Russian went back to his table, she resumed her conversation with him. After a few complimentary remarks about his clothes and looks, she stubbed out her cigarette and said matter-of-factly, “If you want me, fifty American dollars for the night.”

  Graham smiled. “Thank you for the offer. But I am on a tight budget.”

  “Thirty?”

  “No, thank you,” he said firmly, but not loud enough for others to hear.

  She gave an as-you-wish toss of the head and left him to join the Russian. Within a minute, another woman, who had been standing nearby observing the Tatar’s efforts, took her place.

  She was tall, blond and elegant. Long hair fell across one side of her face, with classic high cheekbones, and big, wide-set eyes. Graham asked her if she would like a drink.

  “Gin and tonic, thank you. Where do you stay in Kiev?”

  “Dnieper.”

  “Are you here long?”

  “Two more days. Then my tour goes to Leningrad.”

  The barman gave her a drink.

  “Is this a tour hotel?” Graham asked as he took out a fifty-dollar bill to pay. The girl gestured with her hand to indicate “Sort of.” She looked around the bar. “Most of them are on business,” she said. “Some are scientists.”

  Graham lit a cigarette she had placed in a long holder. “Foreign?” he asked.

  “As you can hear,” the girl said, cocking her head to the tables, “there are many. They work together with Russians.” She gave a disdainful look.

  “You don’t like them?”

  “They are all very boring. All they do is work. No fun at all. Away at seven in the morning, back at seven at night.”

  Graham gave an understanding nod and sipped his drink.

  “What sort of work?” he asked quietly.

  “Oh, it is so dull,” she said, tossing her hair. “Computers and things.”

  Graham could see a head at the nearest table turn at the mention of the word computer. “Yes, that is boring,” he said, smiling at her. And then, “What is your name?”

  “Tanya.”

  “Tanya, you are a most attractive woman. At home you would make an excellent model,” he said.

  She blushed and said, “Do you mean as in Vogue?”

  “Yes.”

  “That is very nice,” she said softly. She leaned forward so that her face was close to his, and lowering her voice said, “Would you like to stay with me tonight?” Her tone was appealing rather than seductive.

  Graham held her gaze for several seconds, sighed and said softly, “I would like to. But I have someone tonight.”

  She looked disappointed. “Tomorrow night?” she asked, and scribbled a telephone number on a matchbox top. She gave it to him.

  Graham squeezed her hand and said, “I shall ring you, if it is possible.”

  He got off the stool, finished his drink and went out, turning once to wave to the beautiful Tanya.

  At 6:45 A.M. on the tour’s last morning in Kiev, Graham hauled on his black tracksuit and running shoes for a run. He carried his camera with a telephoto lens strapped over his shoulder and held a little awkwardly to his hipbone as he moved. The tour had been allowed to take photographs most of the time, and Graham had been taking his fair share of pictures, often stopping on his runs to take in the sights. This time he hoped to photograph at police headquarters. If his thinking was right, the scientists at the Hotel Lenin would be arriving there soon after 7:00 A.M.

  He slipped past the snoring female attendant curled up on a couch on the fourth-floor lobby, down the back stairs and out the front past two guards asleep against a wall.

  The sight of the athletic figure loping away started the bizarre ritual of the last five mornings for two thugs. One, a wiry, black-mustachioed Georgian sitting in a battered Polski sedan car, turned to the back seat and vigorously shook the other, a huge mound of Mongolian muscle and flesh.

  “Igor! Igor!” he growled at the man, who was fast asleep.

  He awoke with a slobbery start, cursed furiously, and fumbled around for running shoes in the back of the car. His morning’s work of chasing this crazy foreign mountain goat around Kiev’s parks and hills had begun.

  Graham ran lightly up the hill into green wooded parkland, bathed in a beautiful morning sun that filtered and flashed through the trees. He headed for the top, where there was a small former summer palace of the czars, and lookout areas. These gave the best views of the Dnieper River as it wound its way through the valleys on the outskirts of the city.

  The only person in sight was a wizened old man sweeping up leaves, and he seemed oblivious of his early morning company. Near the top, Graham stopped and looked down the long steep path to see Igor on his way up, running off the path, through the plant beds and shrubbery. It was heavy going for the big man. Graham had not been worried too much about his tail. But today he had to lose him. He let him come within fifty yards, and then moved on, setting a hot pace across the top of the hill.

  Igor could just catch glimpses of the Australian through the blinding sunlight. It appeared that the foreigner was heading for the steps leading back down the hill on the other side.

  It would be much easier going downhill than this monstrous hike up, which was causing him to heave and sweat. He saw the Australian disappear down the steps.

  Moments later he reached the top and looked down the 250 steps to the bottom. The foreigner was not in sight! Igor charged like a mad bull, too fast. He lost his balance. The big man tried to break the dangerous tumble by landing on his shoulder, judo style, but only succeeded in crashing over ten steps to a thumping halt against a tree.

  Graham had hidden in the foliage to the right of the steps. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Igor sprawled on the ground and too badly injured to get up. That problem had solved itself.

  He had no time to waste. It was 7:12 A.M. and Tanya had said the scientists were on their way to work by seven. He doubled back to the path he had come up. Halfway down, he ran off into the long grass near the edge of the hill where there was a thirty-yard drop to the road below. From that vantage point he had an excellent view of the police HQ. The building was a dull gray, functional example of Soviet stonework. Its only redeeming feature was a series of handsome fluted front columns. He lay on his back in the long grass and adjusted his telephoto lens.

  It was 7:19. Graham decided he would wait an hour and pick up as many shots as he could. A few minutes later, the first of his possible subjects came into view. They were three men in Western-cut light gray suits. Graham waited until they were at the entrance and found there was enough time while guards examined their identification.

  For the next thirty-five minutes, there was a steady trickle of men and women, some on foot and some in private vehicles or taxis. Some, such as people in overalls or young girls in miniskirts, he did not bother about. He concentrated on those given more VIP treatment, including a middle-aged couple who were driven up in a state Zil limousine. When he was satisfied with his coverage, Graham jogged down the path and stepped up the pace down the road to his hotel.

  Across the square, in the Polski sedan, the Georgian was tending to the injured Igor. Two early morning workers had found the big man lying in agony and helped him down to the square.

  The tall figure of the Director, in dark blue suit, white shirt, and smart dark blue and white check tie, marched into Washington’s Delaware Avenue and up to the side of the Old Senate Building. In his left hand was a metallic briefcase. He was watched carefully by security police, some hidden, others sitting in cars along the avenue.

  There were a few other people wal
king along the avenue, but none with the same purpose toward the side entrance.

  As if to set an example rather than to carry out a thorough check, the assistant to the chief of security for Senator MacGregor, Mick Hallaway, stepped out of the evening shadows before the Director reached the side entrance, stopped him, and asked for his I.D. Satisfied with the man’s papers after a close scrutiny, Hallaway, with an authoritative wave of the hand, escorted him the few paces to the double glass doors. There, the Director stood stiffly to attention and told a guard behind the desk, “I wish to see Senator MacGregor.”

  In the background could be heard the crackle of Hallaway’s walkie-talkie in communication with Brad Nichols, MacGregor’s security chief in room 452 on the fourth floor of the building.

  “You have an appointment, sir?” another guard asked as he picked up a telephone.

  “Yes, Heinrich Sneller. I’m from Krupper Films, Munich, West Germany,” the Director said, unlocking his briefcase and producing a thick leather-bound diary. Flicking open a few pages and pointing, he said, “You see, I have an appointment.”

  The guard wanted to have a look at the contents of the briefcase, while another asked for identification.

  When Senator MacGregor’s office came on the line, the guard said, “One-thirty-two Miller here, sir. There is a Mr. Sneller from Krupper Films, Germany, to see the Senator, sir.” He emphasized the uh in Krupper and was quickly corrected by the Director.

  “Krooper!”

  The guard ignored him as he said, “Yes, sir, right away,” and put the receiver down. “The Senator will see you, sir. Take elevator two to the fourth floor.”

  “Thank you.”

  The guard checking the briefcase had taken out a Pentax camera, a Grundig tape recorder, and a small collapsible tripod. He was having a close look at the recorder.

  “I’m here to interview Senator MacGregor,” the Director said. “I’m also going to take some publicity shots of him.”

  The guard ran a metal detector over the Director and the equipment.

  “Oh, please,” the Director complained as he clutched his diary, “you will fog my film with that.”

  The guard replaced the equipment in the metallic briefcase and indicated elevator number two. The Director stepped into it as a guard relayed details of the security check on him to another guard on the fourth floor.

  In room 452, Senator MacGregor, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows and tie loosened, was putting the finishing touches to a speech he planned for the next day. It was 8:00 P.M. He had just said goodbye to his press secretary and was rushing his writing before the director from Krupper arrived. Scores of foreign film groups wanted to interview him. His office had agreed to most of them. A note on his desk from his press secretary reminded him of tonight’s interview.

  Stepping out of the elevator, the Director feigned distress.

  “Please, where is there a toilet?” he asked. The guard who had met him pointed to the right. The Director found a cubicle and shut himself in. He placed the briefcase on the toilet seat and quickly took out the diary, tripod, camera and recorder. Deftly, he removed from them the parts of a small, modified Walther P.38 revolver. The camera held the magazine, and the legs of the tripod hid the barrel and silencer. He assembled the weapon, and snapped open the diary once more, to reveal a cut-out silhouette for the gun. The Director placed the gun in it and put it back in the briefcase. The whole operation had taken just two and a half minutes.

  The Director flushed the toilet and left the washroom. As he came into the corridor, he thanked the guard and was escorted to room 452. The guard gabbled into his walkie-talkie in an indecipherable jargon as they followed the even numbers along the high-arched oak doors on their left.

  The Director was ushered into an anteroom and greeted by security chief Nichols and another guard.

  “I have come to see …”

  “We know,” Nichols said coldly, a holstered revolver discernible beneath his coat. “May I see your identification?”

  The Director took out his papers with a sigh, and said, “You certainly are very thorough,” as he handed them over.

  Nichols sifted through them and handed them back. The security chief then knocked on MacGregor’s office door and entered. Seconds later he came out and ushered the Director in. Nichols left them and closed the door behind him.

  The senator got up from behind his desk, extended a hand to the Director and offered him a seat. “I’m afraid I haven’t much time,” he said.

  “I shall be only a few minutes, Senator.” The Director smiled as he placed the briefcase on the floor in front of him, the top facing the senator and concealing the contents. The Director took out the recorder and put it on a clear corner of MacGregor’s cluttered desk. “Do you mind if I record?” he asked the senator politely. MacGregor shook his head as the Director reached into the case once more, flicked open the diary, and gripped the revolver. He raised it slowly and pointed it at MacGregor’s head.

  “Do not try to be brave or you will be killed,” the Director said evenly. “Listen carefully. When I have finished instructing you, pick up the receiver and notify all security that I, Heinrich Sneller, will leave now and come back in an hour because the interview will take longer than you expected.” He looked down at MacGregor’s handwritten notes and asked curtly, “What’s that?”

  Confused and shaken, MacGregor blurted, “A speech for …”

  “Good. Tell them you didn’t expect this interview to take so long and that you want more time to complete your speech before we have the interview. Say also that Sneller will be leaving in a few minutes, and that you do not wish to be disturbed until he returns in an hour.”

  MacGregor nodded.

  “Excellent. Do this and no harm will come to you. I need time to talk to you privately.”

  MacGregor felt a surge of hopeful relief flush over him as he picked up the phone. He swallowed several times to moisten a dry throat.

  The senator managed to keep his voice steady throughout the instructions. He put the receiver down and watched the Director take a step back. The cold expressionless eyes of the assassin were the last thing he saw as two shots went straight into MacGregor’s forehead with a soft “plop” sound. The impact of the lead at that range bounced the senator straight back into his chair and he slumped head forward, arms dangling.

  Making sure that no surgical miracle would save him, the Director took three steps around the desk and fired once more, this time from about four feet and directly into the cerebellum. What was left of the senator’s head wrenched to one side.

  The Director stepped around to the front of the desk and quickly placed his gun and recorder back in the briefcase. He walked to the door, opened it, and stepped into the outer office. Giving a theatrical little wave to the dead MacGregor, he closed the door.

  Nichols and the guard were standing, ready to show the stranger out.

  As the Director walked out into the corridor, he turned and said angrily, “I wish your politicians would keep appointments! I shall be back to see him in one hour exactly.”

  Nichols watched the stranger move toward the elevator. When he reached the side entrance, the Director resumed a leisurely pace past the four security men there. Assistant Security Chief Hallaway watched him go.

  An hour later, Brad Nichols knocked on the senator’s door. When there was no reply, he entered the office.

  The department heads of the KGB sat in expectant silence in room 746 at their HQ, Dzerzhinsky Square, Moscow, as their chairman, Nicoli Andropolov, put the telephone receiver down hard in its cradle.

  “That was the coordinator of Cheetah supplies calling from Stuttgart,” he said to the ten people at the conference table, his moon face as vacuous as usual. “He assures me that the supplies of Cheetah will double next year. He is sending major suppliers here over the next few months to ensure they are aware of our requirements. If there are no unforeseen problems this is all very encouraging. Operation Ten
is right on target.”

  There were murmurs of assent from the others.

  “Now let us consider item fifteen,” he said, adjusting his rimless spectacles and referring to an open folder. “Press reports on Operation Ten. The main problem seems to be this Australian journalist. Lasercomp is upset that we did not consult them about his liquidation.” He pressed an intercom button in front of him. “Send Comrade Bromovitch in.”

  The deputy head of Department Four knocked and entered. Andropolov waved a hand at a seat at the other end of the table. All eyes turned to Bromovitch as he took his seat slightly self-consciously. Despite his apparent bungling of the attempt to eliminate the Australian journalist, everyone in the room held him in high regard. His reputation had been high ever since he had recently tracked down a top enemy agent from British Intelligence code-named Steven.

  “Now, comrade, what is your report on Mr. Graham?”

  “We have had some trouble locating him,” the assassin said, shifting in his seat nervously. “He is not living in his apartment.”

  “Is he an agent?”

  “It is highly likely. We are at present analyzing documents microfilmed in his apartment.”

  “How much does this man know?” asked General Gerovan, the sixty-seven-year-old KGB chief of Soviet military services.

  “You have been briefed on what he learned in Vienna. We are still assessing his knowledge. Personally I think it is now more than enough to justify neutralizing him.”

  Andropolov took off his spectacles.

  “We have agreed with Lasercomp not to do this until we see how he responds to their attempts to turn him off the investigation.”

  Bromovitch opened a file. There were several photographs of Graham taken in London.

  “But, comrades, how long can this man roam free?” Bromovitch said. “Apart from his contacts, he has murdered one of our operatives in Austria. He is a deadly enemy of the state and our people!”

  He looked around the table for support, but no eyes met his. They were all embarrassed by this quaint outburst of patriotic jargon.

  While Bromovitch had been speaking, Andropolov was gazing at a portrait of Lenin staring down from the back of the room. Now the KGB focused on the assassin.