Program for a Puppet (11 page)

Huntsman managed to stave off queries by inviting Graham to his room for a nightcap and a look at the direct telecast from Washington of the debate between Rickard and Cosgrove, and MacGregor and Mineva. The show began at seven Washington time, midnight in London. When he switched on the set, Douglas Philpott was introducing the two teams and the three interviewers. Huntsman fixed his guest a very large cognac and an even bigger one for himself and they both sank back into red velvet chairs facing the television.

Huntsman had taken off his coat to reveal a hefty paunch. Loosening his necktie, he said casually, “I believe you're writing a book.”

Graham nodded.

“How far have you gotten?” Huntsman wheezed. His asthma was playing up.

“I'm well into the research.”

“It's about the computer industry?”

“Yes. But predominantly about Lasercomp.”

Huntsman kept his eyes on the debate, which had begun in earnest. This guy, he thought, would pull no punches. He geared himself for some blunt responses.

“Have you a publisher?” he wheezed.

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“Ryder.”

“We could help you in the U.S.”

“Ryder will handle it okay,” Graham said. He paused to look at the debate, then turned to Huntsman. “You didn't look me up to foster my publishing interests. What's on your mind?”

Huntsman's expression tightened. “We are concerned that you get the right information,” he said, having to squeeze out the words. His asthma always gave him hell when he was under pressure.

“What do you mean?”

“Sometimes writers can be misinformed,” Huntsman said,
swirling his brandy. He added hesitantly, “We would like to have a look …”

Graham shook his head. “No way,” he said adamantly, and focused on the debate. Rickard was making a point forcefully.

The debate almost got out of hand as Ronald MacGregor, his features knit in concentration, thrashed a reply back at the President and the two running mates joined in. Douglas Philpott adroitly called for a commercial break while the verbal punches flew.

Huntsman stood up and poured himself more brandy. “You're a good journalist, Mr. Graham,” he said, trying hard not to sound condescending. “You're obviously interested in Lasercomp's internal affairs.” He sat down and added pompously, “We understand that. We are damned big and successful.” Taking a sip of his drink, Huntsman added, “I want to put a little proposition to you.”

“Fire away,” Graham said casually.

“We are looking for a top-line writer to put a big story on Lasercomp together.”

So that was it, Graham thought. They were going to try to buy him off, the same thing attempted with Jane Ryder.

“PR?” he asked.

“Not exactly. Would you be interested?”

Graham shrugged. “Keep talking.”

“We'd give you every assistance. And you would be paid well.”

“How much?”

“Two hundred and fifty thousand,” Huntsman replied, without batting an eye. “Travel and expenses on top.”

Graham was amazed at the figure. They must really be worried about his investigation.

“With all Lasercomp files open to me?” he asked.

“Those that are relevant.”

“No one would interfere with what I wrote?”

“We would have to have a look, of course, for the sake of accuracy.”

Graham appeared to be contemplating the offer. He had to stall for time.

The debate was a verbal free-for-all once more. Mineva seemed to have lost his cool. So had the Vice-President Adrian Cosgrove.

After Douglas Philpott had reined them in, Graham looked at his watch.

“I'll give your offer some thought,” he said. “It's very tempting. I'll get back to you soon.” He stood up. “I have an early start tomorrow. Thanks for the evening.”

Huntsman got up from his chair to shake hands. “Have you an after-hours number I can catch you on?” the PR man said as he opened the door for Graham.

“Unfortunately not,” the Australian replied apologetically. “But you can always leave a message with Ryder Publications.”

“When do you think you can give us an answer?”

“I'll ring you within a week,” the Australian said, backing down the corridor. “Good night, Mr. Huntsman.”

Graham moved to the elevator and pressed the call button. He waited five seconds or so and then made for the stairs. When he reached the ground floor he hurried to the kitchen and passed four of the staff who were cleaning up dishes.

They looked surprised as he ran out of the back door and into the alley.

The Australian slowed to a walk, went round a corner and along a straight stretch of about thirty yards. There was practically no light, but he remembered that if he kept about two yards from the right wall he would not bump into anything. There was a loud clatter of a trash can lid near the end of the alley. Graham stopped and listened. Above the pounding of his heart he could hear the sound of scurrying feet. Small animal feet. Then the reassuring howl of a cat. Graham walked on, slowly this time, until he could make out the wall in front of him that led to a block of flats.

He stood there listening for about thirty seconds and then gripped the top of it.

Hoisting himself to the top he heard something behind him. He looked back along the alley. In the light thrown from the kitchen he could see the figures of two men. They moved toward him. Graham jumped to the ground and sprinted round the back of the building and down a winding narrow street to the Thames embankment and the underground.

He didn't bother to buy a ticket but hurried through and down three flights of stairs. He had to wait three minutes for the next train. No one else came onto the platform. Once on the train, he felt safe.

On a tortuous route underneath the streets of London on the last trains of the night that took him near his hotel, the Australian wondered if the two figures in the alley intended harm, or if they were simply a tail. Maybe they had just been the kitchen staff. But why had they not called out? And why had they moved after him? He concluded they must have been following him.

That would have to be the last time he could come into the open and take such a risk.

Graham was haunted by the specter of the shadowy figures in the alley all through the night. He awoke to the sun streaming through an open window on his second-story bedroom and lay on his bed looking at the fine view along the Thames and Strand-on-the-Green, with its quaint terrace houses fronting the river.

A cup of steaming black percolated coffee and the peace—interrupted only by a small boat which chugged slowly toward Kew Bridge—helped Graham sort his thoughts since last night's meeting with Huntsman.

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?”