Program for a Puppet

by Roland Perry

  After some passionate caressing on the couch, Svetlana pushed Graham away and asked, “Would you like to hear the news from London?” Bemused, the Australian gave an as-you-wish shrug. He leaned back on the couch and watched Svetlana move to her stereo unit and switch on the radio. She waved to him teasingly and disappeared into the bedroom.

  Graham stood up, slid off his jacket and unbuttoned his shirt. Suddenly he was aware of the words ringing out of the radio …

  “…in the assassination. Senator MacGregor was shot three times by an unknown man who visited his Washington office early on Friday morning, Moscow time …”

  The Australian turned and moved toward the sound. The description of the assassin drained the color from his face.

  “… probably German, about fifty, with a faint scar, and a slight limp …”

  It was brief but the same as that of the man last seen with Jane Ryder. Stunned, Graham sat on the couch again. He struggled to find a reason for the possible connection. What if …

  He looked up to see Svetlana standing near him in a seductive see-through nightdress.

  “Did you hear that?” he said incredulously. “Someone murdered MacGregor …”

  “So?” Svetlana said sulkily. She was annoyed that the Australian’s amorous advances seemed forgotten.

  Graham restlessly got up and moved to a window that overlooked a bare stone courtyard three floors below. One bleak light flickered uncertainly.

  “It couldn’t be …” he said to himself. Svetlana looked slightly perplexed.

  “What is the difference?” She shrugged. “He will be replaced by another. Politicians are all the same in the West. They are controlled by capitalists who grow fat exploiting the workers.”

  Her scoffing, unfeeling words stung the Australian. He swung around. “How the bloody hell would you know? You’re not even allowed …” Graham checked himself. He walked over to the marble coffee table and reached for his cognac. Swirling it angrily for a few moments he looked around the room, but not at Svetlana. Then he downed the liquid quickly and made an effort to stop thinking about the assassination.

  Taking off his shirt, he turned to look at her as she sat pensively on the couch smoking a thin Russian cigar. Svetlana looked up at his face. The eyes were intent and cold, a trace of a smile at the corner of her mouth. He took the cigar from her and stubbed it slowly, deliberately, in a tray. “Come on,” he said, firmly pulling her up, “let’s get more comfortable.”

  They walked into the bedroom. One side-lamp highlighted the pastel colors of the walls, ceiling and huge double bed, Svetlana slipped beneath the covers as Graham removed the rest of his clothes. All the time his gaze was fixed on her.

  As the Australian moved in beside Svetlana, she reached to switch off the lamp above their heads. Graham grabbed her wrist and pulled it away from the light. She looked at him uncertainly and shook her head. Graham nodded mockingly and held her one free hand firmly. He then locked his knees on the inside of her legs just above the knees so that she could not close them. She resisted mildly as the Australian stared down at her with pleasurable anticipation.

  As they moved together, it was with a violent urgency. When it was over, they were both calm and still. She felt his weight and his fingers releasing the grip from the hair at the back of her head. His heavy breathing subsided as the sweet-bitter smell of sex and sweat lingered. She turned her head to one side as the last involuntary twitches of pleasure pulsed unevenly. She looked at him and he smiled. It was a satisfied smile. Graham rolled easily away as Svetlana reached for the light again. This time there was no resistance.

  Graham’s suspicions about Svetlana were suspended at the back of his mind during most of Saturday when she showed him the sights.

  In the morning it was a walk in Decembrists’ Square; in the afternoon a taxi to the opulent Palace of Peter outside Leningrad, and at night a rock opera at the Gorky theater. Svetlana had been full of questions about his profession and background. But the Australian was not overly troubled. Her curiosity seemed normal and his cover was never tested by her inquisitiveness.

  Only once were his doubts aroused and that was in the afternoon when he was taking snapshots at the Palace of Peter. Remembering their first encounter twenty-four hours ago, Graham again attempted to take photographs of Svetlana. But she reacted angrily when he pointed the camera at her as they sat on a garden bench. He wondered what her fear was.

  What concerned him more was her occupation of his time. He had not had a chance to attempt a meeting with one of his most important contacts, Professor Boronovsky, the leading Soviet dissident scientist.

  When George Revel had given Graham the contact, he had warned the Australian not to take any risks. The professor had been in trouble with the KGB over his activities as a political dissident. Surveillance on him was bound to be tight.

  After the rock opera Graham made the excuse that he should get back to his hotel for the night and make an appearance with his tour group. He promised to see Svetlana the next day.

  She protested mildly, but the Australian was insistent. No one from the tour had seen him for more than a day, he told her. A few friends in the group might be worried.

  As they kissed and parted outside the Gorky theater, Svetlana said, “I shall call you in half an hour.”

  Graham thought the remark strange but did not dwell on it as he took a taxi back to his hotel.

  On entering the lobby, he scribbled out notes for a couple of people in the tour group and then went to his room to wait for Svetlana’s call. It came one slow cigarette later.

  “I miss you,” she said pleadingly.

  “I miss you too,” Graham replied affectionately. “We’ll meet at three P.M. tomorrow, okay?”

  “You don’t want to see me tonight?”

  “Of course I do, but we’ll be together soon …”

  There was a pause. Graham heard a click and some interference on the line. The call was being monitored.

  “I think of you all night.”

  “Me too, Svetlana,” Graham said softly. “Sleep well.”

  She hung up. The Australian kept the receiver to his ear. There was a definite double click sound once more. Then to Graham’s alarm, Russian voices. Then nothing. He put the receiver down and stared at it for several seconds. That worm of fear was wriggling in his gut again. Perhaps it would be better to avoid the beautiful Svetlana….

  He walked down to the kiosk on his floor to buy some mineral water and found a few people buying things. It took five minutes to be served. On returning to his room he heard the telephone ringing. He ran down the corridor to answer it. It was Svetlana again.

  “Where were you?” Her tone was strangely cold.

  “I was just getting some water …” The spying bitch! Graham thought.

  “Why don’t you want to be with me tonight?” she demanded.

  “Look, Svetlana,” Graham said aggressively, hiding his apprehension, “I’m tired. I’m going to bed. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “You have someone else tonight?”

  “Don’t be absurd.”

  There was a long silence before she said curtly, “I see you tomorrow as planned,” and hung up.

  Graham put the receiver down. An eerie feeling crept over him and his instincts about avoiding her firmed. But then a more chilling thought hit him. If he ran from her, who would be spying on him next? Reluctantly he decided it would be better to keep the date.

  “Mineva is the man.” The message swept through the corridors of the Doral. By Sunday midafternoon, as far as the experienced party members, power brokers, ordinary delegates and the media were concerned, the story of the rushed, truncated and fiercely fought reconvention was over. Probably the one deciding factor that gave Mineva the nomination was the strong endorsement he received from the shattered MacGregor camp. There did not seem to be anyone with whom it could compromise after having faced the electorate with Mineva on the original ticket. Now the sharpened knives w
ere being put away for another day. It had been, for most delegates, a most viciously fought convention. Attacks on candidates were merciless. Mineva’s rivals claimed he had sabotaged their efforts with a spate of dirty tricks, such as the distribution of scandal about their private lives, and stories of mental illnesses, which seemed to be the favorite topics for reporters. East Coast Senator Daniel Seargent, a short, stocky and pugnosed man with a rather quiet and cultured disposition, seemed to be bearing the brunt of some wild accusations. Finally he was forced to prove he had a clean bill of mental health.

  Mineva’s camp also claimed to be under a lot of pressure and scrutiny from the media, especially in the area of tax returns and unproven accusations of secret sources of huge illegal campaign funds.

  After these outbursts of accusation, public acrimony began to subside as party members urged each other to close ranks behind the emerging new nominee. Seargent officially gave up the battle with a rushed little press conference.

  “At this stage,” he concluded, “I must concede that, after what has been a good fight, Governor Mineva will carry the convention. He has the numbers. I do not. There is nothing much else to say at this point.…”

  Several reporters began to gabble at once. Most wanted to know why he had, only hours before, told a handful of journalists it had been a “rotten” rather than a “good” fight.

  On Sunday night, in his hotel room, Mineva sat back in an open-neck shirt and slacks to watch the convention roll call, which was simply a formality to confirm what everyone knew. As the last important state came up in his favor to make the nomination mathematically and legally his, the press and media in the room moved forward to catch his reaction. He dream-walked around the room, as camera shutters clicked. There was much hugging of relatives and shaking of hands. The telephone was ringing in another room. An aide rushed to answer it. President Rickard on the line. Next, the Vice President. Then other calls from well-wishers. Everything Mineva said could be heard through an open door until one call came through from New York. For this, Mineva kicked the door shut as he exploded hoarsely down the receiver: “Christ! We’ve done it!”

  There was a momentary pause as the nominees mounted the rostrum in the Hotel Doral ballroom. The national party chairman ordered up music from the band. About eight hundred in the audience and another ninety million or so in twenty-three million American homes watched at the prime viewing time of 9:30 Eastern time on Sunday night. Kenneally, Seargent and Nelson led the new nominee up as the band played, “Hail, hail, the gang’s all here.” Then to polite applause, other nominees, party prominents and celebrities, including some well-known film stars and sports heroes supporting the party, joined the others on the rostrum. Senator Kenneally spoke first to a hushed audience.

  His words were authoritative and sensible. He promised his full-hearted support for Mineva to overcome all obstacles. Next up to the microphone was the old warhorse and veteran campaigner, Nelson, who spoke briefly. His short, brilliant speech was full of emotion, and his words stirred the hearts of the party faithful. Despite his bitterness about being outflanked before he had a chance to get into the race fo the nomination, he spoke positively and praised Mineva. He set the stage for the nominee, the man of the moment, who stood up to make the most of it. Mineva motioned commandingly for quiet, his face now more a grimace than a smile. With silence, and after a characteristic sweep of his fair hair off the forehead, he was away.

  “With an open heart and mixed feelings of intense gratitude and deep, deep sadness, I accept your nomination …” A nervous lull was followed by scattered applause which built to respectability with help from several on the rostrum.

  “It is not the way I would like to have accepted your support. But if it must be this way, then I am ready.…” He emphasized the last words through clenched teeth and with a jabbing hand motion.

  “My nomination is not the nomination of an individual. It is the continuation of a set of strong ideals which made, and will continue to make, this nation strong and great!” He did not wait for the applause. “It demonstrates that nothing, no person, no country, no organization can crush the spirit of our party and our nation.” Applause caused him to stop a few seconds.

  “Anyone can destroy an individual. We know only too well that we are but flesh and blood, and that is why we are here, reassembled today….” He raised his voice. “But let us remind those that perpetrate such heinous crimes that you cannot destroy ideals. Not if they are strong and good!”

  Mineva paused again for the less inhibited response. His words seemed to be striking the right chord. He decided to pluck a little harder. Continuing on the theme of ideals, he built emotion with references to MacGregor.

  “My ambition as your nominee is to carry out the promises that Ronald MacGregor made to you after the July convention. And one of the first acts on my part will be to visit the Soviet Union, as he recently indicated to me he would!”

  A wild supportive response caused Mineva to smile and wave. His running mate, Pennsylvania Senator Samuel Dart, got up, and shook hands with the candidate and lingered on the rostrum for the clicking cameras. When Dart had returned to his seat and the whistles, clapping and stomping had subsided, Mineva continued.

  “Our party, unlike the current administration, has always believed in peace more than anything else. So in the interests of this fundamental priority, I shall personally pledge peace, when I am elected President, through continued negotiation for the mutual benefit of ourselves and the Soviet Union, instead of foolish confrontation!” This led Mineva nicely into the ritual attack on the opposition.

  “So nothing has changed. I hope Everett Rickard realizes what strength there is in our ranks even after such a great setback. We still have a mighty cause and a mighty purpose ….” His words were drowned in applause. Mineva waited again.

  “In fact, I think Mr. Rickard should start writing his memoirs or looking for a new job right now.…” Applause. “Because we are going to win on November fourth!” There were cheers and sustained clapping. “And when I am in the White House, all of us together can exchange peace for confrontation, reasonableness for stubbornness and bigotry, love for hate and fear, so that we may go forward in the pursuit of our goals, our ideals, our dreams for a greater America and a safer world for us and our children and our grandchildren’s grandchildren….”

  Instant polls taken after his acceptance speech said 36 percent would vote for the new man as against Rickard’s 44 percent, with the rest undecided. A win for Mineva was not an impossible task, and many of the delegates to the convention were citing the improved performances of Truman and Ford in the last weeks before polling day. But there were only thirty-five days left to build a credible alternative to Rickard.

  Graham took a taxi to Nevsky Prospect on Sunday morning after breakfast with the tour and found a telephone booth off a side street. He thought it was now too risky to make calls from his hotel if they were monitored. He dialed a number Revel had given to him, let it ring four times, and then dialed again. On the sixth ring a woman answered in Russian.

  “Could I speak to the owner please?” the Australian said. Clearing his throat to overcome a slight tremble, he added, “I am a friend of the family,” It was the code Revel had instructed Graham to use.

  “Just a minute,” the woman said, this time in English. After about forty-five seconds she returned to the phone. “He is not in. Could you call back?”

  Graham hung up without saying another word. He left the telephone booth and had some difficulty lighting a cigarette. His hands were shaking. “Could you call back” meant a rendezvous would be planned.

  Pulling his overcoat collar up over the back of his neck to shield against the brisk morning, he walked down by the Winter Palace, near the end of the prospect. Finding another telephone, he dialed the number again.

  “Could I speak to the owner please? I am a friend of the family.”

  A man answered this time.

  “Yes. He
is at apartment eleven, number 457 Mechinov Street.” The man repeated the address and hung up.

  Graham left the booth, his brow knit in concentration. The number 457 indicated the time would be 7:00 A.M. for the meeting. He shut his eyes hard and saw the address up on an imaginary screen. It was his way of storing the information forever.

  Seconds later he hailed a taxi. As he entered it, he had the uneasy feeling that he was being watched by unseen people in the crowd on the prospect and in the buildings.

  Graham met Svetlana four hours later at the newsstand on the first floor of the Hermitage. She insisted on being his guide around its many treasure chambers, shrewdly made public for state propaganda against the czarist regimes that had originally acquired many of the works of art there.

  Convinced now that she was spying on him, the Australian had the unsettling feeling that his every move and comment were being tabulated and recorded. It struck him most markedly when they had spent some time in the Impressionist and modern art section, where Graham had lingered enthusiastically to savor some works of the great masters. He thought of the break-in at his London apartment. Didn’t MI-6 say that the place could have been microfilmed? What if it had been by the KGB and they had photographed his library? In it were some eighty-odd books on all aspects of Impressionist and modern art…. What if someone somehow connected up the dossier on Edwin Graham and Svetlana’s possible report on the interests of Dr. Ross Boulter? Hadn’t they argued over the merits of the Russian composer Shostakovich? Graham had gathered nearly all his compositions in his music library….

  Suddenly his enthusiasm for the many fine Picassos around him faded and died.

  Graham made a conscious effort to hide his feelings and concern, and to act as if his affections for Svetlana were growing. But he could not change the new perspective on his Russian companion. The habit of looking around nervously when she spoke to him now took on a distinctly furtive hue. The lines at the corner of the eyes now seemed to represent the result of probably a decade of KGB agent-prostitution rather than the first signs of fading youth and maturing beauty.… He began to wonder how many others before him she had literally bedded for information….