Program for a Puppet (8 page)

Graham's report in a London paper had put pressure on Professor Letovsky. One phone call set his nerves on edge. It came crackling over the line from Moscow. But the message was clear enough. KGB intelligence in London had already passed on details of the newspaper article. Explanations were needed. Letovsky did his best to heap the blame on Kruntz. This, however, was not enough. The professor had to give an assurance that the journalist who caused the flurry would be handled in a “suitable” way. Something drastic had to be done, especially after Letovsky learned an intruder had nearly been caught filming computer warehouse activities on the Czech border. The professor was certain it was Graham. They had his camera. It was being checked for ownership.

Letovsky requested that Anatoli Bromovitch, deputy chief
of KGB's Department Four, the functions of which included assassinations outside the U.S.S.R., be immediately dispatched to Vienna.

At 2:00
P.M
. Letovsky found Bromovitch among the tourists in the gardens of Schonbrunn Palace, sitting on a bench throwing parts of his sandwiches to the pigeons. It was an uncomfortable meeting for both. They were opposites in appearance, manner and attitude.

Letovsky was a leading member of the Soviet elite, mainly because he had married the foreign minister's daughter. He regarded himself as an international sophisticate. The professor enjoyed dealing with powerful Westerners and secretly admired the trappings of Western life-style.

Bromovitch, a short, slightly plump man who always wore ill-fitting gray suits, hated Western “decadence.”

Just one factor linked them: a dedication to Soviet world dominance.

Letovsky sat on the bench next to Bromovitch, but refused to look at him. He hated that benign face and especially those deceptively pleasant light blue eyes. They were inhuman scanners that held your gaze and never left you as they searched for a hint of weakness or deceit.

“How was your flight?” Letovsky asked quietly.

“Terrible,” Bromovitch grumbled. “I hate Aeroflot. No lunch. Not even vodka.”

“I am sorry. You have been briefed?”

“No. Is it
Mokroye Delo?
” Bromovitch was referring to the KGB term for blood being spilled.

“It is.”

“Where?”

“That is up to you.”

“You have no preference how?”

“Of course not. As long as it is neat.”

Letovsky was relieved to be washing his hands of a sordid problem. Building sophisticated computer networks was his business. Never murder.

After his narrow escape, badly shaken and sore, Graham slept in his hired car just outside Vienna rather than return to his
hotel, which he feared could be checked. The previous night's harrowing experience had left him with one aim: to get out of Vienna quickly.

His flight was scheduled for 6:00
P.M
. and he had left himself enough time to collect his gear from the hotel and drive to the airport. At 3:00
P.M
. he telephoned his hotel from a public booth, ten minutes away.

“Ah, Mr. Graham,” said Frau Schiller, the manageress, relieved to hear the Australian's voice. “You did not stay in your room last night and you did not return this morning. I nearly called the police!”

Graham tried to sound at ease. “I'm very sorry, Frau Schiller,” he said. “I stayed the night with friends outside Vienna. I shall be in to the hotel to pay you and collect my luggage in an hour. Have there been any messages?”

“No, but it was strange, Mr. Graham. Three men came in, not half an hour ago. They said they were friends of yours, but would not leave a message.”

Graham froze. “Is that all?”

“They wanted to know if you had checked out. I told them you would be flying back to London on the six o'clock flight. Was that correct?”

“Yes, of course, Frau Schiller. Thank you.”

“I hope I have not spoiled things,” she said softly.

“Why?” Graham asked sharply.

“These men said they would probably meet you at the airport. They told me not to bother telling you. They wanted to surprise you.” There was a long pause. “Mr. Graham, are you there?”

“Ah, yes, Frau Schiller,” Graham replied slowly as he gathered his wits. “If they call again, please don't tell them I've been in touch or that I'm coming back to collect my things. I want to surprise them also.”

“They are your friends then?”

“I think so. Could you describe them?”

“The man who did all the talking was a short gentleman. Very, how do you say, polite?”

“Austrian?”

“Oh, no, Mr. Graham,” she said with indignation. “He was Russian.”

“How could you tell?”

“His accent.”

“And the other two; what were they like?”

“They did not speak. They could have been Russian, Austrian or German. One was probably a little higher than yourself. I remember him well because he had a very ugly bald head. The other … I cannot remember him at all.”

“Thank you so much, Frau Schiller,” Graham said, trying to sound cheerful. “I'll be in shortly. Goodbye.”

He put the receiver down. Hell! he thought. Three men including a Russian wanted him. Was it because of the article, or last night's escapade? And what to do now? They wanted to “surprise” him at the airport. He had several hours. No need to panic, he told himself. Just then, there was a rattle of the telephone booth door. He jerked around. An angry little old Austrian woman waiting impatiently was gesticulating at him. Graham breathed a sigh of relief.

He forced a smile, and quickly looked up the number for Austrian rail information. The next train out of the country didn't leave until eight. Graham decided it was his safest bet, even if it meant having to stay in Vienna another five hours. It might be easy to trace the Mercedes, and he didn't feel in any state for a long drive. He had strapped his twisted ankle, but it was still swollen and tender.

The welcoming party would be at the airport until six, leaving only two hours before his train left. This, he hoped, would not be enough to trace his escape.

He was certainly not going back to his hotel because he was sure it would be watched. There was nothing essential there, and his suitcase and clothes could always be retrieved some other time. Graham drove to a little coffee shop he remembered from his other visit to Vienna. He lingered an hour over two cups of steaming coffee, alert to every customer that came and went.

He next drove to the Richard Lidmer art gallery across town. It was practically deserted, as good a place as any to keep out of sight.

After speaking with Frau Schiller, Bromovitch and two other KGB agents had waited two hours for Graham outside his hotel. When he did not show up, they had sped to Schwechat
airport. They sat quietly for half an hour in the entrance lounge with a clear view of the cars and taxis depositing travelers. Then the chubby Bromovitch rolled across on one elbow to whisper something in the ear of his companion, known as “the Skull.” Ugly protruding bones seemed to be pushing out of his skin above the ears and through the top of his completely shaven head.

The Skull moved to the information counter and asked the girl to page Edwin Graham.

The call came over the intercom: “Would Mr. Graham, traveling to London on Flight 809, please come to the information counter … Mr. Edwin Graham.”

As the message was repeated, the three agents moved in different directions so that they stood about twenty yards from the counter. No one turned up. After ten minutes, the Skull asked for a repeat call. Within thirty seconds, a smartly dressed dark-haired man of medium height, accompanied by an attractive woman of about thirty-five, strolled confidently to the counter.

“You ask for Gramanni?” he asked the girl quizzically. He sounded Italian. The girl nodded toward the Skull. Bromovitch waddled up to the counter and looked hard at the man. He roughly fitted the professor's description of the Australian.

“You are Mr. Graham?” he said with some difficulty in English.

The man swung around, bemused. “Gramanni, I am Gramanni,” he said, using his hands freely.

Bromovitch gave a very long, cold stare, which embarrassed the other man, who nodded to the girl at the counter and moved off with his companion, turning twice to look back at the Russian.

Confused, but not wanting to be fooled, Bromovitch acted quickly. He beckoned the Skull and the other agent and ordered them to stay close to the couple, who had moved into the dining room. When they had settled down at a table, the agents did the same nearby. On finishing his coffee, the man calling himself Gramanni stood up and marched to a toilet on the other side of the airport lounge. The agents moved off after him. The man had just finished at the urinal when the agents walked in. As he was washing his hands, he looked up inquiringly at the three who had surrounded him. Before he could react, he was hauled and pushed into a cubical. The Skull had him in a strong headlock, his bicep
hard against the man's throat. The other agent had a glove roughly over the man's mouth to stifle cries for help. The man's eyes bulged with fear as Bromovitch tore at his inside coat pockets, grabbing all his documents. The Russian fingered through them, causing bits of paper and business cards to fall to the floor. Passport, driver's license, personal photos and company identification were all marked clearly: Silvio D. Gramanni, Managing Director, Gramanni & Co., Milano.

Bromovitch gathered the papers and shoved them brusquely back into the man's coat pockets, warning him to keep quiet about what had happened. The Skull released his grip from the man's throat and he took in several quick gulps of air. His attackers left him disheveled and sitting on the toilet bowl.

Back in the lounge, Bromovitch had the Skull page Graham once more. It was 5:29
P.M
. The three circled the lounge watching people filing through customs and into the waiting area that led to the planes and the London flight. But Graham did not appear to be with them. Bromovitch decided they should wait another twenty minutes.

At six Graham left the art gallery and drove to Johannesgasse in the city center. He locked his gear in the trunk, caught a trolley car to the thirteenth-century St. Stephen's Church, and headed for the roof restaurant Haus Haus, which gave a fine view of the church. After spending an hour and a half over a light meal, he returned to his car and drove to the train station. It took him time to find a parking space, and when he got to the ticket booth it was too late to buy a first-class ticket to Paris.

He settled for the second-class couchette. It wasn't private, but it would have to do for the eighteen-hour trip.

Looking cautiously around at the faces of people scurrying for the train, the Australian moved briskly onto the platform and stepped on the train at the nearest doorway. As he began to wend his way down the narrow passageway past other passengers to his couchette, he kept looking down at the people on the platform. Graham's skin prickled as he noticed a tall man wearing a light gray overcoat and hat. He seemed to be paying careful attention to people running for the train. The Australian looked away and kept moving. He found his couchette, threw his valise on the bottom bunk and slumped back into it. Several people were moving past,
checking the numbers of the couchettes. Graham was relieved that it appeared no one was going to join him.

Just as the train began to pull out of the station a man moved past the open door of the couchette and fleetingly locked eyes with Graham as he did so. It was the man who moments earlier had been checking the passengers from the platform.

The Australian stayed in his couchette for an hour before wandering down to the dining car. Many people were seated taking meals. Several men and women sat on stools at a bar with a large mirror behind it. The Australian immediately noticed that one man at the bar with his back to him had an unusually bony bald head, similar to the description given to him by Frau Schiller at the hotel in Vienna. The man had a hat and a light overcoat over his knee. He was the only person there not making conversation.

Graham kept an eye on the bar as he sat down at a table next to a middle-aged couple and a young woman. He was facing the bar and could see the reflection of the bald man's face.

The Australian looked around and noticed someone at an opposite table looking at him. It was the man he had seen on the platform and had later exchanged glances with from the couchette.

Graham was nervous. His first instincts were to leave the dining car. But before he had made up his mind to go, a waiter was asking him for his order. He asked for a sandwich and a beer. His English drew glances from several people, including the man opposite. The waiter had stood in a line between the man at the bar and Graham. After the waiter had taken the order and moved away, the man at the bar went out of the dining car.

Half an hour later Graham had almost finished his meal when the couple next to him left the table, leaving him with the girl. The Australian wanted to stay in the dining car as long as possible. He felt a little more secure there with so many people about. The man opposite him had almost finished his meal and was drinking coffee.

“Going to Paris?” Graham asked the girl sitting in front of him, mustering as much charm as possible.

“
Oui
,” she replied, surprised at being spoken to.

“You are French?”

“Yes.” The girl smiled faintly. Graham was relieved. She didn't appear to mind making conversation.

“Have you been on holiday in Vienna?”

“Holiday and business.”

“You are a model?” Graham said, keeping up the small talk by asking the obvious. The girl was tall, beautifully dressed and groomed, with a lavish amount of make-up which accentuated the hollow, angular structure of her face.

She nodded. The conversation continued with the girl opening up a little to Graham about her rich Austrian boyfriend in Vienna who had put her up for the past week at the opulent Hotel Sasher and shown her the sights.