Program for a Puppet (34 page)

“You said you had a copy of the original PPP?” Revel asked.

“Yes.”

“That should be strong proof of a Lasercomp-Mineva connection, and a link to MacGregor's assassination!”

“Not necessarily. The corporation would deny it and say the PPP was similar to just another macabre Rand-type study.”

“Then how do you prove a Mineva-Lasercomp connection?” Graham asked.

“Perhaps the only way is to get conclusive evidence that the PPP is in operation on Lasercomp computers at HQ.”

“Did Mineva know about the secret devices in Cheetah?” Graham asked.

“I'm not sure. Cheetah was not completely developed when he took on the PPP.”

“But the secret devices had been designed then?”

“Oh, yes. It was just a matter of a firm management decision when the new machines would be mass produced and marketed.”

“It could have been demonstrated to Mineva?”

“Definitely.”

“It would have been a great incentive to become President,” Revel said. “Using those secret devices, he would know what everyone using a Cheetah was doing. Including the Soviet Union.”

“Is there anything significant in the PPP that Lasercomp may have yet to exploit fully to win the election for Mineva?” Graham asked.

“Yes: television. That doesn't mean simply how much exposure a candidate gets. More important was the actual manipulation of television.” Gordon was slurring his words. The drink and general fatigue had taken its toll. “I feel it was the main factor in getting the whole damned PPP to work. Alan Huntsman interfered a lot here and insisted that his former protégé at FBS, Philpott, the then rising star of the networks, would soon be the most important commentator on television. Huntsman said we could count on Philpott supporting whoever was chosen as the Lasercomp puppet. He insisted we allow for it in the PPP.”

“Do you think there is a connection with the PPP and the Haussermann tape rumors?”

“I'm sure of it.”

“Why?”

“Because exhaustive analysis was done for the PPP on how false information used in the press and other media could be used against Mineva's rivals for the presidency.”

“Including information on tape?”

Gordon nodded. “Tape is very evocative. It's one of Lasercomp's and FBS's main ways of pushing rumor and vicious innuendo against Rickard. Vilification is one of the oldest tricks in American politics. Only goddamn difference is, Lasercomp has quantified and computerized it!”

The word swept through Washington that Haussermann was hiding out in Paris. By evening, every television and radio newscast was carrying the story about how the former State Department official had left the country before being questioned by the FBI and the CIA about his leaks of important government documents. Only Philpott had managed to track him down. He was using all his professional skills to fool the public into believing this was a spontaneous piece of “scoop” reporting. In reality, Lasercomp had set it up with his connivance. Halfway through his show's news report a commentator announced: “Now our exclusive. Our anchorman Douglas Philpott has done it again. He has just been on the line from Paris to tell us he has an interview there
ready with Gregor Haussermann, the controversial former leading State Department official. We're ready. He's ready, so here it is by satellite.”

Haussermann's hunched figure filled the screen. He was wearing dark glasses and his normally trim beard had overgrown into a splotchy mess. He smoked incessantly as the camera pulled back to show reporter Philpott shoving a microphone near his face.

“Why are you hiding out here in Paris?”

“Because my life is in danger.”

“Why? Does someone want to kill you?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“The-the-Pres-President of the United-ted States and the CIA.”

“President Rickard and the CIA? Why?”

“Be-because I have a tape.”

“Of what?”

Haussermann dragged nervously on his cigarette and adjusted his glasses. “A con-conversation between the Pres-President and me, which …” He looked up at the camera.

“Which what, Mr. Haussermann?”

“It will prove who-who kill-kill-kill …” Haussermann stopped, and waved his hand at the camera. He seemed under tremendous stress.

Philpott was not going to let this exclusive disappear so easily. “It will prove who killed whom?”

Haussermann nodded several times as if to force out the name. “Ronald MacGregor.”

“Prove? What do you mean by prove? Are you suggesting President Rickard knows who killed MacGregor?” Once again it was Philpott the Inquisitor.

“Yes-yes! On the tape! He admits it! He admits he wa-wa-wa-was responsible!”

“I don't believe the President of the United States would be involved in such a thing,” Philpott said skeptically. “Can we hear this tape?”

“I-I-I-I'll be releasing it soon. I haven't spoken to my-my-my lawyers yet.” He stood up and moved side-on to the camera.

Philpott followed him.

“Why not now?”

“Look, I've said enough. Sh-shut that thing off!” He waved a menacing fist at the camera. “They'll find me!” He walked hurriedly out of view with Philpott gabbling excitedly, “That was Gregor Haussermann who has just made an astonishing statement. He claimed that President Rickard admitted on a tape in a conversation with him that he, the President, was responsible for the death of Ronald MacGregor. I'll be back with further developments as they happen. This is Douglas Philpott reporting directly to you via satellite from Paris, France.…”

 

TUESDAY, OCTOBER 28

President Rickard appeared in the living quarters of the White House clutching a satchel full of files and newspaper reports. The turmoil resulting from the Haussermann accusations had upset his work schedule and he had taken them home to catch up.

He was still in a rage hours after the first flying off the handle at the news report from Paris. His wife gamely tried to calm him, but didn't get much chance because the telephone was running hot in Rickard's study. The only way to take some of the pressure off, she thought, was to have some food prepared. This she did, and brought him a medium steak and vegetables, which he wolfed between calls.

He got into bed at about 2:00
A.M
. with reports scattered around him and on the floor. Still he wouldn't leave the telephone alone. His wife was now beginning to lose patience. She kept going in and out of the room to persuade him to rest, only to hear snippets of wild conversation.

“… Wait until I get my hands on that bastard …! I'm definitely going to sue …! To hell with public opinion …! I've got a good mind to have that sonofabitch arrested …!”

Crash! Down went the receiver. Then he dialed his press secretary. “I want you to go along personally to FBS President what's-his-name—Bilby—and ask him what the hell is going on! Let all the members of his board know I'm going to sue! Even with a retraction and apology! I want a few explanations out of that goddamn network …!”

Finally, Lillian Rickard could not stand it any more. “Why don't you relax?” she said. “Honestly, honey, it can't be doing your health any good.”

The tension in Rickard's face eased slightly, and he said, smiling, “You're right, Lillian.” He embraced her warmly, accidentally knocking some of the reports off the bed. “Can't let those bastards get on top.”

She lay on the bed next to him and he kissed her.

“You're only going to torture yourself with all these reports at this hour. You won't take them in. Especially with this other silly thing on your mind.”

He nodded his reluctant agreement. “Why don't you sleep here tonight, honey?”

Lately the First Lady had been sleeping alone in the yellow bedroom on the second floor because Rickard had been working from his bed well into the early hours.

“Okay. Down here tonight, if you promise lights out in no more than twenty minutes. I'll get my things from upstairs.” She padded off to her room to gather her night attire and decided to undress there. Just as she was unzipping her dress and gazing out of the window at the spectacular floodlit view of the Jefferson Memorial, she heard a muffled cry from the floor below.

The buzzer alarm system throughout the White House began to ring. Lillian rushed downstairs, calling out, “What's wrong, Everett? What's wrong?” and nearly collided with two security guards at the bottom of the stairs. Agonizing groans were coming from the President's bedroom. Half out of bed, face red, and with both hands clutching his chest, Rickard struggled for breath. He slumped on the floor. One guard tried to revive him and another fumbled with the scrambler which would bring the President's physician. Lillian Rickard momentarily lost control and screamed, “Is he dead? … Oh, God … is he dead?”

The first bulletin on Rickard's condition came at 9:30
A.M
., seven hours after he had suffered what the White House described as a “mild heart attack.” His doctor confined him to bed in Walter Reed Hospital for at least two weeks. All his duties were to be turned over to Vice President Cosgrove, who had assumed most of the chief executive's role within twenty minutes of Rickard's collapse.

A stunned nation, which had hardly had time to recover from the shock of the assassination of MacGregor, was sent reeling once more. Despite the medical report's assurance that Rickard would probably be able to resume all normal duties inside five weeks, speculation was rife about his political future. Would he recover enough to carry on?

Philpott went live on his evening newscast to expound on the dramatic interview with Haussermann. He told his public he would do everything he could to interview him again and even perhaps get the tape before the election. The main items in the news were Rickard's condition and its possible effect on the coming election, and the significance of a nationwide Gallup Poll.

Philpott wound up the night's program by saying, “This latest poll shows that if the election were held today, forty-two percent of you would vote for Rickard, and thirty-eight percent for Mineva with the rest undecided.

“Only three weeks earlier, immediately after the death of MacGregor, the figures with the same poll stood at forty-five for Rickard and thirty percent for whoever took MacGregor's place.

“The people of America are asking themselves tonight if they should vote for such a sick man … accused by a former high public official of being involved in a murder…”

Brogan Junior switched off the television set in his father's executive office at Black Flats and flopped in a chair. Next to him, seated on a comfortable couch and surrounded by reports, was the Old Man, engrossed in a weighty computer print-out.

“Did you hear those figures?” Brogan Junior asked. “Mineva must win now. What manna from heaven Rickard's heart attack is!”

“I'm not so sure about that,” the Old Man said gruffly, peering over his half-moon reading spectacles. “We've already programmed it into PPP and it says here it means only a point three percent swing to Mineva. It even cautions that Rickard will get a sympathy vote.”

“But he can't be doing any campaigning, and the PPP says there will be as much as a three percent swing against Rickard if the Haussermann tape factor goes according to plan. Assuming
other PPP predictions are right, Mineva will be only point three behind Rickard by the weekend. We're practically home.”

“No we are not!” the Old Man said, slamming a clenched fist into an open hand. “We've got about two and a half billion dollars' worth of contracts that will be waiting on the President's desk for a countersignature by February. If Rickard's in, we'll never get them. If Mineva's in, they're ours. There is so much riding on this for our plans we can't afford to be complacent.”

“Look, I don't see what you're worried about. The PPP says Mineva will win. I believe it's right.”

“You honestly believe that goddamn thing is infallible, don't you?”

“Yes.”

“Nothing constructed by man is infallible!”

“This can be. You've never really had the faith in computers I have, have you?”

“Computers didn't make me in the twenties and thirties! Hard man-made sweat, and selling, and selling and more selling, did!”

“But they've made this corporation. And you damn well know it.”

Instead of launching into the chicken-and-egg argument the two of them had been through many times before, the Old Man changed the subject.

“I spoke to Strasburg this afternoon,” he said coolly. “After all the assurances, the promises, the predictions, he still couldn't tell me categorically if Judge Shaw was going to come down on our side. After six years' litigation, we've still got to wait until he enters that courtroom tomorrow to see if the government has managed to ruin us.”

“As far as I'm concerned, the case is ours. It's all sewn up.”

“But we haven't actually heard it from Shaw himself.”

“I think we near as damn well have.”

“You mean the way he acted at the country club the other night when he met Mineva?”

“Yes. According to one of Mineva's aides, the candidate gave a virtuoso performance, as if he were already President. Over dinner he spoke of the nation ‘moving forward with a powerful
enforcement of the law and the Constitution.' Somehow he got around to speaking about how he planned to work with Congress, the unions and the ‘mighty' forces of big business.”

The Old Man liked what he was hearing.

“Apparently the conversation got around to the Supreme Court, and Judge Rathbone's imminent death. Shaw's old tongue was really hanging out. Then Mineva skipped the conversation away again and began to compliment the judge on his long career. Late in the dinner he actually dropped a few words of praise for Lasercomp! He said he hoped our profits would soar in his first year in office!”