Program for a Puppet (7 page)

“No. No, I'm sure.”

“We must stop him writing anything. He may be dangerous to our operations. You must find out where he is staying and insist we see anything he intends to publish.”

• • •

By seven that evening, Graham had completed telephoning through a 1,200-word article from his hotel to Sir Alfred's company, Ryder Publications, in London. From there it would end up in a London daily paper the next day, and within twenty-four hours would be on network wires to press outlets around the world. Sir Alfred had hesitantly agreed to see that Graham's article would be published. The Australian thought it might provoke a reaction from someone.

With the story on its way, Graham decided to try to follow the late-night smuggling consignment. There was just a chance that he could obtain some vital information.

He had several hours before the consignment was supposed to leave for the border, so he planned to hear
La Traviata
, at the Staatsoper, and dine out after it. Before leaving, he booked his return flight to London for 6:00
P.M
. the next day.

At 11:30
P.M
. Graham left a Rumanian restaurant and walked the short distance back to his hotel. He changed into his black tracksuit and running shoes and packed a valise with a change of clothes, his passport, tape recorder and all the notes on the assignment. Almost as an afterthought he decided to take his movie camera. He took a couple of minutes to study a map of the route to Stölenburg village and the location of the warehouse of the Stuttgart-based company, Znorel Electronics before he left the room.

Graham emerged from the hotel at midnight and moved into the deserted streets to his Mercedes. After speeding through Vienna's suburbs into the countryside and past the Stölenburg Palace, he found the warehouse, and pulled onto the side of the road about half a mile away from the entrance. It was a moonlit night and he could make out the warehouse easily across the flat countryside.

He decided not to go any closer until there was some activity.

About an hour later, Graham heard the roar of trucks and the sound of voices. A few minutes later, he could make out several vehicles moving off from the warehouse like a giant, squat centipede. The convoy was followed by a station wagon.

When all the vehicles were well on their way along the main road running northwest toward the border, Graham drove carefully, lights off, about four hundred yards behind.

He followed in a slow crawl for the next three hours, until he heard the trucks clatter across a bridge. He pulled off the road, got out of the car, and climbed onto the roof. Above the trees of a thick wooded area he could see an oblong building where the trucks had gone. Graham wanted the safety of the Mercedes but he certainly would be spotted if he took it any closer. He had to go on foot if he wanted to see what was going on inside that building. He turned the Mercedes round to face the way he had come and drove it across the road, under some overhanging trees, close to a dry creek bed.

Hurriedly camouflaging the car, Graham collected his camera and made his way stealthily across the creek bed in the direction of the warehouse.

After about two hundred yards, he suddenly reached a seven-foot wire-mesh fence. He could see and hear several men. They were sitting on crates and passing around flasks of drink. Graham made his way along the fence until the men were out of sight. He gripped the top of the fence and hoisted himself over it. Crouching low, he crept to the wall of the warehouse. Then he edged along the wall to the back of the building. He found a door. Graham tried the bolt. It wouldn't give. Moving along another ten yards, he found another door. This time the bolt slid back easily and noiselessly. He inched the door open. Crates piled ten feet high surounded the door. Graham moved inside, leaving the door ajar. Above the line of crates he could make out a ramp which ran at sixty degrees almost to the roof. It was connected to another ramp with sides about three feet high which ran the full length of the building. It was very near the roof. If only he could get up there. It would be a perfect vantage point to film whatever was going on below under high-powered quartz lighting.

On the other hand, he would be a sitting duck if anyone with a weapon spotted him. He eased between the crates and could see several trucks at the other end of the building. Creeping over to the sloping ramp, Graham lay flat against it. Using his strength he hauled himself up using the foothold slats. At the top it was easier going along the roof ramp. He kept his body low as he crept along it to avoid throwing a shadow. About halfway along he had a close look at his light meter. It was showing a poor reading. He rolled on his back and opened the camera aperture to its widest.

Graham straightened carefully and then swung over the side of the ramp, one leg hard against it to avoid toppling over. He zoomed in on crates being hoisted by an overhead crane from trucks belonging to Znorel and lowered to ground level, where they were unpacked and inspected and repacked for other trucks. Graham held the zoom on this operation and captured clear shots of computers, all unmarked. After thirty seconds the strain on his back was too much. He eased himself back and lay flat on his back for three minutes.

Then he swung his body out again, but this time too far. He slipped and grabbed desperately for the side of the ramp as the camera fell to the ground, nearly hitting one of the workmen directly below. Graham just managed to clamber back as a group of men shouted and pointed at the struggling figure. In the confusion, a crane driver lowered a crane too close to the side of one of the trucks. It smashed against it. Several men yelled and ran for cover as the crate swayed and bashed the truck's side. In the panic, Graham's only instinct was to run. He raced along the roof ramp to the one that sloped to the ground and slithered down to the crates. He had some difficulty finding the door as men converged from every direction. He slipped out and sprinted the fifty yards across the compound to the fence, hauled himself to the top and leaped clear, but twisted his ankle as he hit the ground. He felt the painful tear of a ligament as he stumbled on his way through the wood. The compound was now bathed in brilliant light. He heard the station wagon start up as he reached the creek bed. He limped along in a panic and had trouble making out his crude camouflage of the Mercedes. Just as he was yards from it, the station wagon crossed the bridge and skidded to a halt. Graham flung himself flat as two men jumped out of the car and ran along the road. Graham's heart sank as the car headlights went on. He could see his own shadow on the wall of the creek.

Two voices bellowed instructions to one of the men who had stopped about twenty yards from Graham. The man yelled angrily to the other to turn out the lights. The lights were doused. Graham felt he had to do something. He picked up a rock and hurled it high and hard on to the other side of the road. The man turned and ran in the direction of the noise. Graham scrambled to the car, got in and shoved the key in the ignition as the lights on
the station wagon went on once more. The Mercedes sprang to life. He put his foot flat on the accelerator, and the car snapped its way out of the camouflage and off along the road. The station wagon gave chase.

Graham drove recklessly as the other car seemed to be gaining on him. But with a straight flat stretch of about five miles, the Mercedes, flat out, pulled away. After ten minutes the station wagon driver gave up. Graham kept up speed until he reached the outskirts of Vienna a little over an hour later.

Finding an unmade track, he pulled off the road, stopped the car and slumped over the wheel.

Seated at his desk, in the Oval Office, the President looked through black-rimmed spectacles at his formidable schedule for the day. With the election looming, he was under tremendous pressure, and it was beginning to show in his appearance. His craggy features had weary fatty bags under the bloodshot blue eyes, and a pasty skin had become apparent over the last few months. The pressure, too, had manifested itself in his manner and temper. This was not helped by the tedious lobbying that had to be done if he were to remain in the White House for another term. He felt more comfortable with the minute-by-minute, day-to-day decision-making, especially in foreign affairs. Yet he seemed to be giving more of his precious seconds to worrying about media coverage, and pressure groups. The bid for political power was a new experience for Rickard. He had won office by fate and chance, not by the nation's vote.

Rickard had been selected as a compromise choice by the previous President to be his vice-presidential running mate. Both right and left of the party found the selection acceptable. Rickard's middle-of-the-road views were so indistinct that no one saw him as a threat. A few months after the inauguration, the President died suddenly of a cerebral hemorrhage, and Rickard, the son of a poor Ohio tool and die maker, was in the Oval Office. Nothing in his small-town background, or bland, uneventful career—Ohio State University law graduate, assistant district attorney, Ohio State Legislature, state attorney general, and seven years in the Senate—gave a hint of the way Rickard was to develop as President. He quickly found a strength of character few knew he
possessed. He was impelled by the office's awesome tradition and became determined to reach a high standard and a prominent role in history.

In his forty months as President, Rickard had run headlong into conflict with Lasercomp by beefing up the Justice Department. Now he was preparing to confront them on an even more significant issue: the illegal flow of strategic computers to the Soviet Union.

The latter was the first item in today's long agenda—a meeting with the Secretary of State, Edward Grove, and the assistant Under Secretary, Gregor Haussermann. As the two men entered the room just at 7:45
A.M
., the President did not bother with even the briefest greeting, but said to Haussermann; “What have you come up with?” The assistant Under Secretary, a thin, bearded man with a nervous disposition characterized by large furtive gray eyes, and an occasional stammer, handed him a thin folder, and then, at Rickard's request, left the room.

A week earlier Rickard had asked for a report on the illegal eastward flow of technology, particularly computer equipment and classified data related to offensive and defensive military systems. He flicked through the twenty-odd pages while Grove sat quietly, watching him frown and hearing the occasional mumbled expletive. By the time he had finished, he looked fit to explode. “Goddammit!” he exclaimed vehemently. “This tells me next to nothing!”

Turning to Grove, he said, “Ted, I want to know two things fast. Who is supplying those machines, and what they are being used for.” He leaned forward in his chair, elbows on the desk, and whacked the report with the back of his hand.

“Surely someone in our twenty-two Intelligence agencies can tell the Commander in Chief a little more than that!”

“Everett,” Grove began, “we know there is a build-up of computers and satellite systems inside the Soviet Union. Our electronic surveillance has picked this up. But we need people on the ground to get a definitive picture. That takes time.”

Rickard sighed. “We haven't got time! If the Soviets get the best equipment, their military systems become better. Eventually better than ours. Every computer that improves their firepower is a nail in the free world's coffin!”

He paused. Suddenly his manner changed from frustrated anger to decisiveness.

“Let's put a team together. I want a secret group of experts—in Soviet weaponry, foreign affairs, computers and intelligence—sworn in within seven days. They're to investigate everything from what's going on in Russia to our major computer corporations, especially Lasercomp….”

Grove was a little surprised. “You don't think—”

“Yes, I do,” Rickard interrupted intently, “Let's cover every possibility. Lasercomp has just produced the most advanced computer ever. It has built that machine so that it can be converted to direct military use; the control of guided missiles, lasers, you name it. The damn thing gives us an incredible first strike lead on the Russians. In any conflict right now, we win every time.”

Grove sat silently for a moment, then, with a puzzled frown, said, “There is a great deal of expertise needed to convert Cheetah for military use. Only a handful of top Lasercomp scientists can effect it. You're not suggesting Lasercomp would deliberately build the Soviet Union's firepower?”

“I'm not suggesting anything. I'm just looking at history. Modern history. Brogan Senior moved into munitions when he smelled Hiltler's rise in the thirties.”

“There's no law against opportunism.”

“Even if it supplied the Nazis after we were involved in 1941?”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Have a look through our own State Department records. Lasercomp was among a select little number doing deals with Hitler. It waited like a jackal to see who would win. If it had been their darling Adolf, they would have been first in the door to back the German war machine.”

“That is a long time ago, Everett.”

“So? Lasercomp's management hasn't changed. Nor has its mentality. If it can act that way in war, how far will it go in peacetime? Remember Lasercomp earns more than sixty percent of its revenue outside America. Its main allegiance is not this country any more.”

Grove shook his head. “That's disturbing … I'll start getting that team together now.”

“Right. And the first name in it will be George Revel, if he's willing.”

“Revel in Justice?”

Rickard nodded. “He's wrapping up the court case right now. He has a tremendous knowledge of Lasercomp. And he has a taste for blood …”

Rickard had an enormous respect for Revel and his handling of the Lasercomp case. The President knew Revel had taken a special interest in the flow of computers into the Soviet Union, not so much because they could be used for increasing Soviet military strength, but because of rumors that they were being used as a method of controlling society—especially dissidents and minority groups such as Jews, Ukrainians and Lithuanians, fighting for greater human rights. It had also been an area of special significance for Rickard. Perhaps his only uncompromising political attitude before he became President was on Soviet oppression in Eastern Europe. Opposition to it was popular in Ohio, with its vast numbers of Eastern Europeans and large Catholic population. His mother was of Irish-Polish stock, and her family were all immigrants. She never lost contact with relatives in Poland, and Rickard's one-quarter Polish blood gave him a personal interest in Soviet domination. It had been driven home to him when he served in the U.S. Army in Germany during the early Soviet and Allied occupation.