Program for a Puppet (20 page)

She was about thirty, tall and strikingly attractive. Dressed in a gray skirt, matching jacket and white silk blouse, she waltzed along swinging a handbag, her long legs pivoting with every step.

The woman stopped about ten yards from Graham. Shading her eyes, she looked up at the rococo structure, and diverted her attention to him momentarily. Graham's camera was pointed at her. She hurried on toward the prospect, twice looking back angrily.

Graham dined alone at the Hotel Europa on the Nevsky Prospect, and was in time for the start of the ballet at 8:30 in the opulent gold Kirov theater.

The powerful ballet,
A Legend of Love
, set in ancient Arabian times, had a quaint Marxist twist at the finish. (After winning the heart of the princess, the handsome worker decided to ditch her and stay with his fellow workers.)

The Australian was seated at the back of the first balcony. While the orchestra warmed up, he surveyed the glittering scene with opera glasses. The theater was packed with people well turned out in expensive attire. Some were foreign diplomats and their families, but Graham guessed the great majority were from Russia's elite, from the arts, sciences, the military and government. Just as he spotted people from his tour, a woman sitting alone near to them caught his attention. She was the one he had seen hours earlier at the church. At first he was not sure she was the same person, because her flaxen hair was now piled high to expose an elegant neck. But when she looked around there was no mistaking the fine straight nose and high cheekbones.

Graham watched her until the lights dimmed for the first act of the ballet.

After act one, he moved into a refreshment bar on the first floor. He ordered champagne and found a seat at a table occupied by a Frenchwoman and her young daughter, who had dropped a melting chocolate on her frilly white frock. The mother chastised her and dragged her off to the washroom. When Graham looked around again, one of the seats had been taken. It was the unwilling subject of his photography. She was
looking the other way, sipping champagne.

“Good evening,” he said softly.

She looked at him and feigned surprise.

“You with the camera.”

The Australian smiled and nodded.

“Why did you photograph me?”

Graham looked directly into her wide blue eyes, which had more than a hint of fading youth at the corners. “I collect pictures of beautiful women.”

Seemingly embarrassed, her eyes dropped momentarily. “Where are you from?”

“Australia.”

“What is your work?”

“Anthropology. And yours?”

“I am an economist.” She looked around the room each time she spoke. It seemed to be a nervous habit.

“Where do you stay?”

“Soveyetsky.”

“You like Leningrad?”

“Yes. It is very beautiful.”

Bells began ringing for the second act.

“Many parts of the Soviet Union are attractive.” She smiled. “Do you go to Moscow?”

“Yes. Wednesday.” He stood up to leave.

“Can we meet?”

Graham was slightly taken aback. “After the ballet?” he asked, thinking his luck was in.

“If you wish. In front at the finish?” She stood up and shook hands. “My name is Svetlana.”

He nodded and smiled, and then moved off. The woman sipped her champagne, and allowed herself the faintest reflective smile.

A gusty wind drove rain through the streets of Miami as the power brokers of MacGregor's party reconvened at the Doral Hotel on Saturday, September 27, to choose a new nominee for the presidency. About thirty had quickly entrenched themselves in the hotel to organize the new contest, and to attempt to rekindle the fire of the traditional convention. There could not be the same
revelry and style associated with normal selection. However, the media would be there in force to capture the one thing left to the party—its spirit.

The convention would be a close-fought, determined affair. Already fierce and intense lobbying had started across the country. On Saturday no potential candidate stood head and shoulders above the rest as MacGregor had done. Death had been a great leveler. Perhaps only Paul Mineva was a name that seemed to crop up more consistently than any other. Although no one seemed particularly inspired by the former Nevada governor, the media was widely predicting he would figure prominently. He had run second to MacGregor in well over half the state primaries. Despite the lukewarm popularity of the man within the party itself, he seemed to have a well-oiled team pushing him along.

As the telephones ran hot from the Doral across the nation, the organizers continued to canvass opinion, debate began about who should run, and who should be invited to run. By 10:00
A.M
., in an attempt to assist delegates as they rolled into Miami, a list of possibles had been drawn up.

An hour later, the fight had been quickly whittled down to four contenders: Governor Mineva and Senators Seargent, Nelson and Kenneally—if he would run. Seargent, like Mineva, had fought hard but unsuccessfully right through the primaries but had never gained popular enough support to be a serious challenge to MacGregor. Nelson, a seasoned performer who had figured prominently at two past conventions, had shown up in the California primary in July as a last-minute possible and, predictably, had done poorly. Now, as an experienced, steadying influence, he had an outside chance. Out of the four, Kenneally would be the popular choice because of his name and good reputation throughout the party and the nation. However, by midmorning, he narrowed the choice to three, when he called from Washington to tell the party national committee chairman he would definitely not be a starter.

As the delegates showed up, the lobbying in the hotel rooms, in the bars and over brunch in the dining room reached a peak and continued until around 3:00
P.M
. Then it became clear that Nelson had failed once more to get support. He had been vacationing on the Italian coast at Amalfi and had not heard about the assassination until late Friday. The committee was told he was
trying to catch a plane from Rome's Leonardo da Vinci airport, back to Miami.

An airport strike had grounded Nelson and he could not possibly get to the Doral until late Sunday night. He was already being outlobbied to such an extent that the battle now was really down to two men: Paul Mineva and Daniel Seargent.

Graham was taken by Svetlana to the Hotel Astoria opposite St. Isaac's Cathedral for a drink after the Kirov Ballet. She introduced him to several friends, including a couple named Mars and Marina Gorsky, who said they planned to visit Moscow at the same time as the Australian.

Graham had been attracted by Svetlana's charm and beauty and was more than willing to enjoy himself with her until the early hours of the morning. With jacket and tie off, and shirt buttons undone to the waist, he danced with her to the Greek music of Theodorakis. As the hours slipped away, and the French champagne and atmosphere took hold of Graham, warnings from British Intelligence about Russian women faded with the prospect of bedding Svetlana. She seductively played up to him and eventually invited him to take a taxi back to her west Leningrad apartment.

Its lavish appointments—everything was Western-made, from the stereo to the marble coffee table—triggered a feeling of apprehension in Graham's stomach. Everything now smacked of a classic set-up by the Soviet secret police. He knew no ordinary Soviet citizen could obtain, let alone afford, such luxury. The Australian began to think through everything about their chance meeting as Svetlana made coffee, poured him a large cognac and put on some modern Western soul music. He decided there was little point in leaving her now and anyway it was 4:00
A.M
. and probably difficult to get a taxi. As long as he didn't divulge anything that could incriminate him or make her suspicious …

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.”