Allen & Unwin’s House of Books aims to bring Australia’s cultural and literary heritage to a broad audience by creating affordable print and ebook editions of the nation’s most significant and enduring writers and their work. The fiction, non-fiction, plays and poetry of generations of Australian writers that were published before the advent of ebooks will now be available to new readers, alongside a selection of more recently published books that had fallen out of circulation.
The House of Books is an eloquent collection of Australia’s finest literary achievements.
Roland Perry is one of Australia’s best-known authors. Born in 1946, he began his writing career at The Age newspaper in Melbourne, starting in 1969. After five years spent in the United Kingdom making documentary films, he published his first novel, Program for a Puppet, which was an international bestseller, in 1979. He has since written over twenty-five more books, many of which have gone on to become non-fiction bestsellers, including The Don, the definitive biography of Donald Bradman, Miller’s Luck, The Changi Brownlow, The Australian Light Horse and Monash: The Outsider Who Won a War.
HOUSE of BOOKS
To the memory of my parents, Trevor and Lillian
This edition published by Allen & Unwin House of Books in 2012
First published by W.H. Allen, London, in 1979
Copyright © Roland Perry 1979
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.
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ISBN 978 1 74331 437 1 (pbk)
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Part 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Part 2
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Part 3
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
“This computer … is the greatest expansion
of the human mind since writing.”
It was drizzling in the early morning of a July day in Paris as a black Maserati pulled up opposite a hotel at number 31 Boulevard Duval in the city’s Latin Quarter.
A tall, attractive woman with short auburn hair alighted from the car and waved to the driver as she turned to cross the boulevard. Just as she stepped off the road onto the sidewalk, the car swung over toward her. There was a dull “whack” as the car mounted the sidewalk and hit her. The woman was knocked unconscious and thrown about four yards against a brick wall. The driver had stopped the car about ten yards farther along. He looked in the side mirror at the crumpled body and calmly steered the car back over the woman, changed gear and drove away with a squeal of tires.
In less than thirty seconds, lights went on in apartments and hotels on both sides of the street as people moved to the motionless figure. First on the scene was an elderly man who shone a flashlight at the woman. At first sight the woman seemed undamaged, her long black evening dress intact. But seconds later, when a woman tried to move her, blood had begun to seep around the body….
Edwin Graham was stunned. A voice on the other end of the line was telling him his girl friend had been killed in a hit-and-run accident in Paris. He tried to speak but the meaningless words got in the way.
After a long silence Graham replaced the receiver. He ran both hands through his black hair from the temples to the back of his head and stared out through the glass of the press office in the ballroom of the Washington Hotel. A look of anguish covered his rugged features as his serious dark blue eyes narrowed on the convention going on to elect a candidate for the presidency of the United States. For a moment the thousands of party faithfuls waving banners and chanting the names of the winning candidates appeared to be out of focus, dancing a silent ghostly pantomime.
He sank into a chair. For a few minutes he sat in front of the typewriter, his face buried in his hands, and wept. As fellow journalists gathered around him his brain began to telegraph uncoordinated messages. Stand up. Shuffle papers. Sit down. Collect things. Try to dial London. He found the number he wanted and minutes later in a conversation he would never recall, the shocking news was confirmed by a close relative of the dead girl.
Fifteen hours later, during a flight from Washington to London, Graham was able to think more rationally. Yet he could not stop his brain from going over the depressing realization of what was lost. With Jane Ryder he could have made it, had it all. Since he had left his native Australia a decade ago she was the first with whom he had had the confidence to take on a more permanent relationship.
It had taken a long time to find the right chemistry. There had been many affairs in Graham’s free-wheeling, hard-living existence as a journalist. But he was the first to admit they were superficial. Never as good as the deeper, warmer, more meaningful real thing. Dead.… He shook his head and fought more tears by gritting his teeth. Read a book—impossible.
What had made it worse was his guilt. He had left her to grab the opportunity to cover a U.S. presidential election for a London publisher. At thirty-five, it was the big break he felt he had to take to enhance his career. Ultimately the move was to be for both of them. But the vivacious, attractive, tempestuous Jane had said no. She didn’t like the idea of giving up her job as a reporter on a London daily to live out of a suitcase the length and breadth of the States. For a start, she did not have his love for the place. And after a year of living together Jane wanted marriage and children. At twenty-nine the timing for her was now. Not in the promise of another year.
Graham had argued that the time would go quickly. He would be able to take trips back from Washington to see her and they could go on that holiday to Greece together. There had been arguments and no compromises.
The finality was unbearable.
The Australian tried hard to think about the circumstances leading up to her death. Before he had left for Washington he had suggested she go after a big writing assignment herself. Something to challenge her journalistic skills. He had thrown her a few casual suggestions.
One of them had been about a computer scientist in Paris who had recently delivered a lecture on the “uncontrolled flow of strategic equipment from the West to the Soviet Union.” He had read of the lecture and filed the idea away. It was the kind of story he might follow up himself, if he had more time. Yet the Australian thought he had bigger fish to fry. An American presidential election.
Due partly to bitterness, frustration and ambition, Jane had managed to get six months’ leave from her job to chase the story. She had convinced her book-publisher grandfather, Sir Alfred Ryder, that it would make a successful fact-novel. He had given it his indulgent blessing with a handsome advance. It was partly an attempt to appease her. Sir Alfred had given Graham the contact with a newspaper publisher which led to the Australian’s American assignment.
After her initial research, Jane decided her story would center on advanced Western computers being smuggled into the Soviet Union against American and NATO regulations. She was not a computer specialist writer, she needed good contacts.
Although Jane had tried to interview the scientist who had given the controversial lecture in Paris, he had refused to speak to her when she telephoned him from London.
That was all Graham knew when he touched down in London at 6:00 A.M. on July 25. He felt uneasy about the whole affair because of his knowledge of computers, which stretched back sixteen years.
After a brilliant college record in computer sciences, and a lot of soul-searching, he had made the switch to journalism. First, because of his background, as a science correspondent, then a political writer. Always in the background, as a hobby, almost, he kept a keen interest in computers. He loved the logic of systems analysis—the design of computer networks. Networks that controlled air traffic, hospitals, rocket systems, nuclear reactors. Networks for everything. Yet Graham cared as much for how the metal beasts affected society and what they meant for mankind.
He often went on complex part-time courses, some of them run by universities, others by private organizations—the leading computer corporations.
He became aware of the power wielded by the corporations in business and politics. Over the years the Australian learned of the interrelationship. And his instincts and knowledge told him that if Jane Ryder had been right about computer smuggling, she could have run into trouble.
His fears intensified when he returned to his apartment in King’s Road, Chelsea, where he and Jane had lived together for six months before he went to the States. Jane’s relatives had asked him to sort out her belongings. It was a depressing task. Her books, records, guitar and many objets d’art were agonizing reminders of the tragedy.
As he was going through her filing cabinet, he came across his own name in the index. Graham had no idea the file existed. In it was a sealed package marked clearly in Jane’s handwriting: Ed. Open in the event of my death.
He stared at the package, and turned it over a few times. Then he took a deep breath and tore off the top. A small note accompanied about sixty pages of unedited material—background material to her computer smuggling operation. “If you are reading this, Ed darling, then something has happened to me. Follow it through. For once in your wavering life follow through. I love you always, Jane.”
A cruel, slightly bitter joke? His failure to follow through with her? Had he not many times explained the reasons … why he had to take the American assignment?
Perhaps Jane meant his failure to make it as an actor? Or because he had not gone on with his career as a scientist …?
His thoughts gave him the answers.
The Australian began to read the notes, which took him well into the night until jet lag caught up with him. He got to bed around 2:00 A.M., and was glad of a sound sleep.
The next day Jane was to be cremated.
Graham could not help thinking about her investigation as he drove his battered old red Alfa Romeo saloon in the funeral procession to a small crematorium just north of London. Questions that had been swimming around in his subconscious during the night were percolating forward. Why had she left the background material for him to find? And why “in the event” of her death? Did she fear for her life? Had she been threatened?
In the church these thoughts were temporarily blotted out by sadness and emotion as the minister delivered the address. Graham could not help staring at the knotted pine coffin and thinking how unreal everything seemed. A thousand thoughts, all incoherent, rushed through his mind. He thought of the laughing, dynamic personality that had been Jane. He had loved her deeply, passionately. Then the irrational feelings of guilt returned and his eyes welled with tears. He felt weak at the knees and was sure he was going to break down like several of her family around him.
The minister had finished. He walked across to the front of the coffin and pushed an invisible button. The coffin was lowered on a conveyor belt. At that moment it really struck Graham. He had been thinking about the past. In seconds, Jane would be ashes. The shock of seeing the coffin slide away transformed all his emotions into anger. Anger, that he had left her, anger at her impatience, anger at her death and the person or persons responsible. Was it murder? he wondered almost aloud. He made up his mind there and then. He had to know the truth.
Outside in the afternoon sun, he spoke briefly with a few of Jane’s close friends and relatives. In the solemn crowd he spotted Sir Alfred Ryder. If anyone knew anything it would be Sir Alfred. Graham edged his way through the crowd toward the tall, slightly stooped figure and was struck by the deterioration in his appearance. The last time Graham had seen him, he had been alert and bustling. Now he looked every bit his seventy-five years. The loss of his favorite grandchild had taken its toll, and Graham realized then that the older man’s feelings of guilt were probably stronger than his because he had financed her abortive mission into investigative journalism.
Graham shook hands and gripped Sir Alfred’s forearm as he did so. They had met through journalism eight years ago. A strong bond had been built between them in that time, and the publisher had introduced the Australian to Jane.
“Sir Alfred, I was wondering if we could have a talk before I return to Washington?”
As Graham entered the reading room of Sir Alfred’s Pall Mall club and looked for him, the dignity and hallowed atmosphere reminded the Australian of the publisher’s considerable influence. He had built a publishing empire over the last forty years which had spread its tentacles into twenty-five countries. He also had other financial and property interests around the world, and especially in France, which he regarded as his second home.
Sir Alfred rose from his armchair and greeted the Australian. They discussed the latter’s American assignment and the battle for the presidency before Graham got quickly to the point of the meeting.
“I’m not convinced Jane’s death was an accident.”
All the anguish of the last few days returned to the publisher’s face. “I’ve had my doubts too,” he sighed. “The French police are doing everything they can.”
“What evidence have they got? Do they know what kind of car killed her?”
“Not yet.”
“But in a collision,” Graham began in an exasperated tone, “there must have been some damage to the car. A dented fender that has to be repaired in some garage, somewhere in Paris.”
“The French police will let me know the minute they have a lead. I’ve been on to the commissaire of police himself.”
“Did you know much about Jane’s investigation?” Graham asked.
“I read some of her notes.”
“I’ve a feeling she was on to something very big indeed. The Soviet attempts to build their own super range of computers to compete with the best the Americans were producing; did she tell you about that?”
“Yes. She was under the impression they couldn’t match American technology.” Sir Alfred frowned. “That was something I never really understood,” he said. “Why were the Russians behind? I thought they were highly advanced in science, space, technology and so on.”
“Stalin’s fault really. He set the Soviet Union back a decade in computer development when he claimed it ‘alienated man from his labor.’ When the Soviets woke up at the end of the 1950s, they were way behind the Americans. The combination of tremendous computer development in the military and free enterprise, and spinoff and cross-pollination between them, pushed the Americans miles ahead.”
“So you think the Russians may be smuggling in computers to keep pace with the West?”
“That was Jane’s theory. It could be right. Computers form the backbone of all scientific development. And that includes the military. You must have computers to fire weapons with precision and accuracy.”
“Haven’t the Russians’ missiles become more accurate lately?”
“Yes, and it fits Jane’s theory. If the smuggling is going on, then the Russians will be getting the technology they so desperately want. Eventually they would have to reach parity with the U.S. in the precision use of all weapons. Then just watch the Russians begin to throw their weight around.”
Sir Alfred was suddenly agitated. “You think she may have been murdered?”
Graham stared at Sir Alfred. “I wouldn’t discount it,” he said, lighting a cigarette. “You say you’ve contacted the French police. I’d like to talk with them before I head back to the States.”
“I think that could be arranged.” As an afterthought Sir Alfred added, “Was there anything in Jane’s notes that gave you any clues to why she may have been killed?”
“No. But she did send me a letter a few weeks ago saying a public relations representative from a New York-based corporation approached her soon after she began her investigation. They didn’t like her probing one little bit. They wanted to buy her off it, and offer a PR writing exercise for big money instead.”
“And?”
“She told them what they could do with their money.…”
“Which corporation was it?”
“Lasercomp.”
Clifford I. Brogan, Sr., a wiry eighty-one-year-old megalomaniac, had bullied, cajoled and preached Lasercomp into existence, starting from nothing as a door-to-door salesman in America’s Midwest more than six decades ago.
He had pushed the corporation on the way to being the most secret, ruthless and ambitious of organizations and as big in financial terms as many medium-sized nations. It generated enough income to buy and sell a couple of Canadas, and had more political muscle than even bigger countries.
Brogan had made Lasercomp a nation unto itself with people and property, territory and assets, to be protected and expanded in a never-ending march to greater production, higher revenue and profit.
For most of the time Brogan’s zeal had been the driving force behind an enterprise selling products ranging from foodstuffs to business equipment. The corporation was his religion, his god, his way of life.
Over the last two decades the other figure to have a major influence on Lasercomp was his ambitious son, fifty-seven-year-old Brogan Junior.
Where the father was volatile, crude in his business tactics and unpredictable, the son was urbane, subtle in his ways, cultured and conventional. He was a modern manager, Harvard educated, and trained in the unemotional decision-making necessary for survival in tomorrow’s business world.
When the son first entered the corporation he was completely overshadowed by his father to the extent that he developed a speech impediment in the older man’s presence.
In an attempt to make his own way in the corporation, Brogan Junior eventually showed even greater vision than his father. Instead of putting his faith in the corporation, and many products, he put it in the development of just one product: the computer.
Brogan Junior poached the best computer brains from other companies. If he couldn’t buy them, he literally stole and patented their designs and ideas.
He finally won some funds from his father to test the new metal beasts in the marketplace. And when in the first two years computers dragged in more revenue than all the corporation’s other products combined, the old man agreed to concentrate resources on one product.
It marked the end of the one-man rule at Lasercomp.
Father and son, with their opposite but complementary styles, worked together to make the corporation one of the world’s biggest computer manufacturers. But that wasn’t enough for the Brogans. They wanted to be number one.
The chance came with the advent of laser technology. Brogan Junior suggested harnessing the new power to computers. He wanted to combine the coming era of even smaller silicon chips—where billions of pieces of information could be stored electronically on minute chips—with lasers so that information could be stored by powerful light concentration. The Old Man gave his blessing to expensive research and optimistically changed the corporation’s name to Lasercomp to imbue its shareholders and the market pundits with confidence. More and more money was poured into laser development and it soon became one of the biggest gambles in American capitalism’s history.
The promising laser beam proved a difficult wild horse to tame and train, not just in computers but in most areas of science. Lasercomp’s machines carried laser technology but initially proved to be no better than others on the market. The Brogans, however, were confident that a breakthrough was around the corner.
Secretly and meticulously, using the developing laser technology and their own best scientific brains, they began to plan a master program to make Lasercomp the most powerful corporate force on earth.
The master program was the result of calculations that took into account literally billions of different factors affecting the market for computers and everything the corporation did. Lasercomp’s scientists took the approach that if something existed, it could be quantified. Factors ranging from the financial position of a rival to Lasercomp’s influence over a head of government were given a value and became part of the program, which could be continually updated. After a decade of developing a laser computer and the master program, Lasercomp finally came up with a computer that was a giant step ahead of the rest.
The Brogans called it the Cheetah.
Cheetah was a super computer that soon began to knock out all competition. It gave the master program credibility and the Brogans’ ambitions took on a new dimension. Suddenly they were having visions of the future they never dared contemplate before. They began to look beyond the time when Lasercomp would be the world’s number-one corporation, and to think in terms of a corporate dynasty, indestructible because of its hold on society, and indispensable because of its computer superiority.
Absolute power became the secret long-term aim and obsession. Nothing was going to be allowed to stop the advance. Even opposition from the American presidency—the biggest single threat to Lasercomp’s plans—was being catered for. From its beginning, the Brogans had had built into the master program a plan to have their own man as President. They secretly selected him and called the ten-year plan the PPP—Program for a Potential President.
The night before Graham was due to fly to Paris, Sir Alfred phoned him at his apartment to confirm an appointment. But it wasn’t the French police as planned.
“The investigation has been transferred to a special unit of French intelligence known as NAP 1,” Sir Alfred said with a note of concern.
“What’s that?”
“It was set up in the mid-1970s to counter terrorism.”
“Why are they involved?”
“I’d better let NAP 1’s chief tell you. He happens to be a personal contact of mine I first met in 1941 when he was over here with the French Resistance and I was in Army Intelligence. His name is Colonel Claude Guichard. Would you be able to meet him at noon tomorrow?”
Graham reached for a diary. “I think so. Where?”
“First floor, 93 Avenue Kleber. Oddly enough, the building was once occupied by the Gestapo for the Paris sector. Could you ring me as soon as you’ve spoken to him?”
“Of course.”
“Good night and good luck tomorrow.”
The Australian put the phone down slowly and stared at it for several seconds. What the hell had Jane stumbled onto? he wondered.
Graham arrived in Paris at 8:30 A.M. He spent two hours reading Jane’s notes once more, just in case they became relevant to his meeting with French Intelligence. Minutes before noon he arrived at the imposing, typically French baroque building on Avenue Kleber. When Graham’s arrival was announced over the desk intercom Colonel Guichard asked for five minutes before Graham was sent to his office.
The colonel felt he was one of the busiest men in France. Often he looked more than his sixty years. With his unsmiling, drawn features he had a permanent look of harassment about him. If it was not a minister of state hounding him, it might be the President of France making his life hell. His worries had made him bald and thin as a greyhound.
Yet he had always loved his work, first with the French Resistance, then during the troubled 1950s in the Algerian conflict, and latterly as a counterforce to French and foreign terrorists and assassins. The last two weeks, however, had been an exceptionally bitter time for him. News had come to him that hiding out in France was one of the world’s most wanted men, a terrorist-assassin named Alexandro Emanuel Rodriguez. The colonel desperately wanted to see the man captured. Guichard had a personal score to settle.
Five years ago, his NAP 1 team had had the assassin cornered, but he had escaped, machine-gunning to death three NAP 1 men and one civilian hostage. Two of the NAP 1 team had been Claude Guichard’s dearest friends.
Guichard was thorough in his dealings with the media. He had files on every French political journalist and many foreigners. Graham was one of them because of his writing about the French nuclear industry.
The colonel spent a few minutes skimming the limited computer printout dossier on Graham, which mainly contained articles written by the Australian. There were two photographs of him, both taken three years ago at an antinuclear rally in Paris. They showed him balancing precariously on scaffolding, preparing to photograph French police scuffling with students. Finally, he was satisfied and put the file in his desk drawer and buzzed his secretary to escort Graham from the receptionist to his office. The two men shook hands as they greeted each other, and Guichard felt his knuckles pressed close under the strength of the Australian’s grip. He looked hard at Graham for several seconds. The Australian would win no beauty prizes, Guichard thought, yet there was an immediate substance about the man which commanded respect. This was perhaps accentuated by Graham’s trim and well-dressed appearance. The visitor was about medium height. His thick but not unruly, curly black hair, which failed to completely cover large ears, was swept back with no parting. The cheekbones were wide and flat, and seemingly disproportionate to a thin, bumped nose, which on second inspection was slightly crooked. The determinedly set jaw and upper lip, and the finely drawn slightly cruel mouth added to a face which showed more than a hint of aggression.
What bothered the Colonel, however, were the penetrating dark blue eyes. Those eyes mirrored a tenaciously inquiring mind, the last thing Guichard wanted around at that moment.
He was in no mood for any meddling in this affair, even if there was only the slightest chance that a recent hit-and-run killing had a connection with Rodriguez. He planned to make that quite clear to this visitor, albeit politely because of the man’s connection with Sir Alfred Ryder, one of the few Englishmen he knew and respected.
Graham quickly realized from the colonel’s brisk manner that he was not going to have much time there.
“Sir Alfred tells me you are here to investigate the death of his granddaughter.”
The Australian nodded expectantly.
“That is not possible, monsieur,” he said abruptly. “And if I tell you why, not a word is to be repeated outside this room, except, of course, to Sir Alfred.”
“Whatever you say.”
“Your friend was last seen in the company of a man who may be connected with an assassin. A very dangerous man. Alex Rodriguez. You will no doubt have heard of him.”
Graham nodded.
“We have little to go on,” Guichard added, sighing, “but a few days before Jane Ryder’s death, we learned that Rodriguez had been seen in a Normandy seaside resort with a man. He fitted the description of the fellow who was last seen with her.”
“Which was?”
“The man is either German or Czech, about fifty. He has a scar below the left earlobe, and a slight limp. He dresses well.”
“And that’s all?”
“As I said, not much to go on.”
“Who gave the information?”
“An informant.”
“Could I speak to him?”
The colonel’s eyes narrowed on Graham. “It’s out of the question. We want to catch these men. More than you can imagine. Besides …” He paused. The colonel was finding Graham’s eyes more disturbing as information was revealed. The Australian had an unconscious habit of swelling the irises noticeably whenever he was probing for facts. His gaze pierced searchingly into Guichard. The colonel felt obliged to put him off…. “Believe me, monsieur, you will end up like your friend if you investigate further. These men, if they are involved, are professional killers. They do not hesitate to destroy anyone who stands in their way. Leave the work of finding them to us.”
The bluntness of the words sent a chill through Graham. “Okay. But do you know why Jane was murdered?”
“I did not say she was murdered. We have no proof of this.”
“But it is likely …”
“It is only a possibility.” The colonel shrugged.
“You know she was investigating—”
“Of course,” Guichard butted in. “Sir Alfred told us what she was doing here. Nevertheless, there is not as yet a shred of evidence to connect her death with a theory about computers being smuggled into Russia.”
“I was under the impression that Rodriguez was never completely absolved of a strong Kremlin/KGB connection.”
“Rodriguez has become a mercenary. He is now up to the highest bidder. He has become rich. It seems to suit his life-style much better than working for the Soviet export of revolutionary terror.”
“Then why has he resurfaced in France?”
Guichard stroked his bald pate. “He may be on assignment.”
“In Europe?”
“It’s possible, but who, where, what, how? We do not know. I am doing all I can to find out.” The colonel’s voice trailed off. He felt he had said enough. Looking at his watch, he said, “If you have no further questions …”
“Just one more. I believe Jane was trying to see an American scientist, Dr. Donald Gordon, here in Paris. Do you know where I might find the man?”
“Oui. We had him questioned by American authorities the day after she died. We believe he is back in his home near Washington.”
“Jane never actually saw him then?”
“No. But they did speak over the phone. Gordon spoke to her about the computer smuggling.”
“Was there just the one conversation?”
“Yes, but she tried to speak with him again.”
“Oh?”
“It was after Gordon had left Paris. She left a message at his hotel asking him if he had told anyone to contact her.”
“Had he?”
“He said definitely not.”
“Then it could have been the man she was last seen with?”
Guichard nodded.
“How did he get her Paris address?”
The colonel took a deep breath. “We went through Gordon’s hotel room thoroughly the day after Jane Ryder was killed. It was bugged.”
“Bugged? Do you know anything else about Gordon?”
“He was once with a computer company, but has since retired. He still does the odd invitation lecture. That’s why he was in Paris.”
“You don’t know which computer company he used to work for?”
“I think it was one of the big ones. IBM, Univac, or Lasercomp.”
“Thank you for your time,” Graham said.
“Monsieur,” Guichard said firmly, “I must impress upon you once more not to continue your inquiries in France.”
“Don’t worry, Colonel,” Graham said ruefully, “I’m leaving Paris this afternoon.”
Graham had to give himself time to think before he called Sir Alfred. He taxied to the Champs Élysées, and drank a cup of coffee at one of the sidewalk cafés near the Arc de Triomphe. He had no intention of probing further into Jane’s death. Yet the ramifications of her investigation were beginning to intrigue him.
As he sat in the warm afternoon sun watching the Parisians and tourists pass by, several questions nagged him. Were computers really being smuggled thousands of miles deep into Soviet territory? If so, why? Was Lasercomp involved? And Rodriguez. What was his connection?
The Australian called for the check from a waiter scurrying to and fro beneath the sun-drenched canopy. Graham had made a decision. The American assignment would have to wait at least another week while he looked into the smuggling. Since he knew this would not be tolerated by the English newspaper publisher for whom he was working, Graham realized he would have to resign the assignment or be fired.
What did Jane say in that note? he thought, as he stubbed out his cigarette. “For once in your wavering life follow through.” Easier said than done.
To do it he would have to dump the American writing which he had considered the biggest break in his career.
On returning to London, Graham immediately booked a flight for Vienna.
Jane’s notes indicated that she had planned to go there because she believed Austria could be the main East-West link for the computer smuggling. Graham decided to make a quick, cautious probe there. He didn’t have much to go on. Just a few names and telephone numbers. He wanted more. Again he decided to ask for Sir Alfred’s help.
The publisher was at first in two minds about Graham’s following up Jane’s assignment. On the one hand, he was obsessed with finding the truth behind her death; on the other, he didn’t want to see Graham risk his life.
When he saw the Australian’s determination to investigate further, he reluctantly agreed to the request for contacts. But they were to be contacts that would possibly protect as well as assist the journalist. The publisher once more turned to his connections in Intelligence, this time closer to home at MI-6.
Most of the old-boy network Sir Alfred had known since the Second World War were now retired or had passed on. His one contact at Intelligence now was Commander Kendall Gould, the son of a close friend who had served with him in Intelligence during the war.
It always amazed Sir Alfred to see Gould. Dressed in his customary plain dark suit with tight-fitting vest, he looked almost a perfect replica of his father, now dead five years. They were the same medium height and weight. There was that same high intelligent forehead, deep-set gray eyes, and full beard with reddish hue on the tip.
As they strolled in the midday sun through Green Park, a stone’s throw from Buckingham Palace, the old man found it a little disturbing to look at the Intelligence man. It brought back too many memories of the father. They had been close friends.
Sir Alfred kept his eyes on the green in front of them. Occasionally he looked up to watch a game of lunchtime cricket some boys were playing nearby.
“Why is your man going to Vienna?” Gould asked, although he had been informed of the circumstances surrounding Jane Ryder’s death.
“Jane’s notes indicate there may be some sort of base for the smuggling in Austria.”
“Any proof?”
“No.”
There was a short silence before Gould said, “Coincidentally, we are watching Vienna very closely at the moment. There has been a disturbing build-up of KGB operatives there in recent years. They come and go at short intervals for all sorts of minor reasons. We’d like to know what’s going on.”
He paused and added, “There are of course several East-West link-ups there to do with scientific research and so on. All convenient KGB covers.”
“Graham wants contacts there.”
“Hmmm … could be a little delicate. We are having trouble planting our people. We don’t want them exposed.…”
The publisher gave an understanding nod. It was what he was half hoping he would hear.
Gould looked up at Sir Alfred. “Tell me about him.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Oh … his background, education … interests …”
Sir Alfred glanced briefly at the commander. “You may be able to help?”
“I can’t answer that right now.”
“He was educated as a computer scientist, specializing in communications networks.”
“A bit of a whiz?”
“Yes.”
“Why the switch to journalism?”
“He is intellectual but not academic…. Likes to apply his mind pragmatically. He joined a newspaper as a science correspondent, specializing in writing about computers.”
“A daily?”
“Yes, one of Australia’s best. A far-sighted editor wanted an expert to interpret computers … the technology … the sociological aspects … everything.…”
“I see,” Gould mused, stroking his beard. “Would you like to sit down for a while?”
The publisher nodded and they moved to a park bench facing the palace.
There were many Londoners and tourists out taking advantage of the fine weather.
“What made him start writing about politics?” Gould asked, lighting his pipe.
“He’s naturally an ambitious, competitive type,” the publisher said. “He told me that to get on at the paper, it was important to write about politics. He worked hard, built contacts and advanced rapidly.”
“I’ve read his political articles here. He’s very good. Shows a deal of insight. But why did he leave Australia?”
The publisher cleared his throat.
“He was apparently a trifle wild in his twenties. He had an affair with a married reporter on the paper. From what I can gather, his prudent editor sent Graham packing here. He was to have a roving commission as a foreign correspondent in Europe and Africa. When the assignment was over, Graham stayed. Everything here suited his style.”
“What does his father do?”
“He’s a neurosurgeon. Reputedly one of the world’s best. You know of his mother …”
Gould smiled. “One of my favorite actresses. She returned to Australia when the film industry began to boom there, didn’t she?”
Sir Alfred nodded. “She’s sixty now, but still plays the odd theater or TV part.”
“Graham has quite a lot to live up to.”
“Indeed. Two brilliant, successful parents who wanted him to follow their respective careers.…”
“How did that affect him?”
“You’d have to ask him. Jane once told me he said it put him under pressure. An only child. Always in the spotlight with the mother or father. He apparently wanted to impress both parents. Not let them down.”
“He tried acting?”
“His mother had him on the stage and in front of a camera from age five.”
“How long did he keep it up?”
“Oh, he only stopped getting bit parts in films and TV series a few years ago. The money was always good and easy. When there was a lull in his freelance writing assignments he always managed to pick up some work to tide him over.”
“Was he good?”
“Yes, as a character actor. Usually he was cast as a villain…. But he never really had his heart in it … couldn’t stand waiting for bigger parts. He likes things to happen yesterday.” The publisher stole another look at the Intelligence man. “Journalism suits him better. I would doubt that patience has ever been one of his virtues.…”
“Why did he choose computer science to study?”
“His father apparently had the greater influence over him. He urged Ed to study sciences at school in preparation for a medical career. Just before entering college he followed his instincts and went his own way. He had an aptitude for mathematics and logic.”
“Tell me, is he a disciplined man?”
“Under authority, I should say absolutely not. He went freelance as a journalist because even a newspaper, a relatively unbureaucratic institution, stifled him.”
Gould did not appear to be put off. Sir Alfred was becoming slightly apprehensive about having approached the Intelligence man in the first place.
After a thoughtful pause, Sir Alfred asked, “Then you are interested in helping him?”
“I would have to meet him first, of course. And frankly there isn’t enough time to prepare anything.… It could be a little too risky. But I would like to meet him when he comes back from Vienna.”
Sir Alfred was relieved. “I’ll arrange it.”
“Does he play chess?”
“Yes, brilliantly … why?”
“I suspected he would. All that aptitude for computers. Takes logic.”
“I warn you, on his day, he would even have beaten your father. He can think up to twenty-five moves ahead.”
“And when it’s not his day?”
“His method breaks down. Tends to be too aggressive…. He rushes things….”
Oil sheiks in their flowing white robes stood out among the heads of state, businessmen and diplomats from many nations who had answered the invitation to attend the unveiling of a “super computer.” It was Lasercomp’s biggest machine in the Cheetah series. The location was the corporation’s headquarters at Black Flats, high on a hilltop in a former apple grove, near New York City. The six hundred or so guests were wending their way from the high pillared entrance hall up a rich carpeted stairway, through an oak-paneled corridor, into the reception room. One wall was almost completely glassed to catch the sunlight and display an exquisite Japanese garden.
Most people attending knew of Cheetah. It had been on the market for the last ten months. But this was the first time the corporation had considered it opportune for a lavish function to announce it officially. Alan Huntsman, Lasercomp’s corpulent and cherub-faced chief PR man, had won the internal battle to show it off now rather than later. As perhaps the organization’s shrewdest tactician, he had argued that the corporation should demonstrate its development of superior technology before a decision in a six-year-old court case between it and the U.S. Government, expected in a few months’ time. In this legal battle, the biggest and most expensive in America’s history, the government’s legal arm, the Justice Department, had charged the corporation with a long list of illegal activities which had been designed to give Lasercomp complete control of the American computer market. A win for the government would be a tremendous blow to the corporation’s secret long-term master program. It could mean being split up into smaller separate corporations.
Guests stood in small groups as they arrived, rather than sitting on the inviting chairs and sofas, upholstered in shades of brown. A portrait of George Washington stared unsmilingly across the room. The buzz of conversation heightened perceptibly with the arrival of important guests, most of whom made their way to the center of the room to pay their respects to Clifford Brogan, Sr. Immaculately dressed in a navy mohair suit, the old man appeared in an easygoing, avuncular mood. He was showing a rare deference to people outside Lasercomp—a mood reserved for heads of states and others of similar standing.
He greeted the newly nominated candidate for the American presidency, Senator Ronald MacGregor, and his running mate, former Nevada Governor Paul Mineva.
“Congratulations to you both,” Brogan Senior said, his large wrinkled features cracking into a smile as he wrung their hands. “I’m betting you two give the White House one helluva shake-up.”
“More than that,” MacGregor rejoined, “we’ll break in there after November fourth.”
“Well, I wish you luck. We need a change down there.”
“Thank you, sir,” Mineva said, as he flashed a toothy grin and swept a wisp of graying fair hair from his forehead. “It’s going to be a rough run home and we need every little break we can get.”
As he spoke, an announcement from PR man Huntsman that the unveiling was about to take place moved the milling guests toward the four doors that led to an adjoining auditorium—a vast imposing hall glowing from ceiling to walls with diffused light. At the edge of a raised area at the rear end of the auditorium a curtain created by holographic patterns representing computer circuitry screened the Cheetah from view.
Brogan Senior, in a vigorous shuffling action, led the corporation’s senior management to seats on the raised area. As a digital clock high in the auditorium registered 2:30 P.M., Alan Huntsman waddled over to a microphone.
“Ladies and gentlemen, our senior vice-president, Clifford I. Brogan, Jr.”
Tall, with a healthy head of silver hair that contrasted with his suntanned, outstandingly handsome features, Brogan Junior looked cool, even serene. When polite applause had died, he looked up confidently and nodded to the audience. “Thank you for coming to what we here at Lasercomp consider to be a historic day, the unveiling of a super computer—the Cheetah.” He paused to clear his throat. “It will revolutionize man’s very existence in the organizational environment. It is, we believe, the greatest expansion of the human mind since writing….” He was reveling in the moment as he looked out over the sea of attentive faces. “What, you may ask, gives us at Lasercomp the confidence to make such grandiose pronouncements? Well, why don’t we let Cheetah itself tell you why it’s a ‘revolutionary’ super computer?” With a sweeping gesture, he pushed a button on a lectern. The holographic patterns seemed to dissolve back into the machine itself, exposing the flashing lights and revolving disks of a bright red computer system, surrounded by television display units. On the wall at the back, a large screen began to display words that also boomed from the Cheetah’s sound unit in a chilling staccato monotone: “Hello and welcome. I am Cheetah. Like my namesake, I am the fastest and most powerful of my species. Let me tell you about my special new features.…”
The machine drummed on and emphasized its speed, “infinite” memory capacity and the ability to perform more functions simultaneously than any previous computer. All through the monologue there was a return to a central theme: Cheetah represented progress. It promised to be of great benefit to mankind as it “fought its way on the short and tortuous route to the twenty-first century.…”
This benefit would be progress in the so-called social areas—education, resources, food allocation, pollution, medicine. The words had been carefully selected to help lobby support in the corporation’s legal battle with the federal government’s Justice Department.
While the computer spoke, thirty Teletype machines placed around the auditorium printed the speech as the words were heard, until 2:45 P.M., when it finished with: “I am Cheetah … I am the future now.…”
As Lasercomp personnel darted around distributing the speech to the guests, Brogan Junior beaming with pleasure, got up once more and nodded to the cluster of media people to his right.
“I would now like to invite members of the press and other media to ask Cheetah some questions,” he said. “Take note of those cards you’ve been issued, please. They have a simple code.”
The press studied their cards as he added, “Start with one of the words on the card: What, Can, Will, etcetera, and continue with one of the alternative phrases listed. Let me start the ball rolling.”
He stepped up to the computer’s control panel, flicked a switch marked Control, and said, “Cheetah. What will be the value of computers Lasercomp will sell outside America in three years from now?” He then turned the knob marked Voice.
“Thank you, I understand,” the machine replied. “The answer to your question is, ten billion dollars. Repeat. Ten billion dollars.”
There was a ripple of excitement from the audience. One by one the press edged its way up to the machine.
Questions were restricted to those that would elicit responses that had been carefully prepared. This time the propaganda was to show how important, economically, a prosperous and intact Lasercomp was to the American nation. It was all part of the lobbying campaign for the court battle.
It was hardly a penetrating press conference. Even if it had been thrown open, very little would have been revealed about Lasercomp’s seemingly impregnable domain. Probing, inquisitive journalists would not have been invited. They were anathema to the corporation.
Graham arrived at Vienna’s Schwechat airport at midday on August 3. The weather was warm, and the sky a cloudless blue as he took a taxi to an inconspicuous little hotel on Graben Street, opposite OESC, the Vienna States Savings Bank. He took a creaking elevator to the second floor, where the manager, a tall, handsome, middle-aged woman, Frau Schiller, greeted him cheerfully and showed him to his room. When he had unpacked, he walked a few hundred yards to a café, the Hermit, on Naglerstrasse.