(1980) The Second Lady

by Irving Wallace

  beard cut to a sharp point, a fleeting resemblance to an enemy of the state, Leon Trotsky. He found a seat, as did Garanin, partially bald and short, a scholarly type, and Lobanov and Umyakov, who looked like prosperous middle-aged businessmen.

  Petrov was standing, welcoming them.

  ‘We are here,’ said the Premier. ‘What was so vital?’

  ‘A new project,’ said Petrov, ‘a superb one. If activated, it can change the face of the world. It begins with two short pieces of film.’

  Seeing Razin hurrying down from the projection booth, Petrov sat, as Razin crossed in front of him, signalled up to the booth and settled behind the control panel.

  The lights went dark.

  The screen up front was filled with Billie Bradford gliding into the Lincoln Bedroom of the White House.

  ‘You recognize her, Mr Secretary?’ Petrov called over his shoulder.

  ‘The new American First Lady,’ replied the Premier. ‘A feast for the eyes.’

  From the screen, the image of Billie Bradford began to explain the stories behind the eight-foot rosewood bed and the American Victorian furnishings purchased by Mrs Lincoln. The footage ran on as Billie Bradford”moved from the Lincoln Bedroom to the President’s Dining Room. After ten minutes, the film clip ended, and the lights went on.

  Petrov half turned in his folding seat. ‘That was a recent television film of the United States President’s wife taking American viewers on a tour of the family headquarters of the American Executive Mansion. Now, one more showing of the film.’

  ‘Since when has my security chief become a film distributor?’ The Premier laughed, and the Politburo members laughed with him.

  ‘You shall see - you shall see my real purpose,’ said Petrov.

  The lights went out again, and the darkened projection room was instantly illuminated by a picture of Billie Bradford on the screen, entering the Lincoln Bedroom of the White

  House, pointing out the historic pieces, telling the stories behind them. As she finished, and went on to the President’s Dining Room, the Premier’s voice called down impatiently.

  ‘Petrov, what’s going on? You are running the same film again. We just saw it.’

  ‘I know,’ said Petrov. ‘Please bear with me a few more minutes. There is a reason for this.’

  The clip featuring the American First Lady ran on, repeating exactly what had been shown in the initial clip. The Premier’s mutterings of annoyance grew louder. The film ran out. It was ended. The lights came on.

  The Premier was more than annoyed. He glared at his KGB chief. ‘Petrov, are you mad? How dare you take our precious time showing the same film twice? If someone else had done that, I’d see that they were put in a mental hospital. You’d better have a good explanation.’

  Unruffled, Petrov stood up and fully turned. ‘I have,’ he said.

  ‘Well, dammit, man, out with it.’

  Petrov did not waver. He addressed the Premier softly. ‘You are sure it was the same film, Comrade Kirechenko?’

  ‘You think I am blind? The very same film shown twice.’

  ‘With the American First Lady in the first film?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘With the American First Lady in the second film?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said the Premier with exasperation.

  Petrov waited a moment, and then said, ‘Forgive me, but you are quite wrong, Comrade. The first film showed the real American First Lady - Billie Bradford. The second film showed a Soviet actress — Vera Vavilova — playing the role of the American First Lady.’

  Petrov could see shock and bewilderment in the four faces staring at him.

  The Premier broke the silence. ‘You are joking?’

  ‘I am not joking, not at all. The first film was the American President’s wife, Billie Bradford. The second film was her Soviet double, an actress, Vera Vavilova, who impersonated the First Lady against a background we constructed to

  duplicate some of the inner rooms of the American White House. My deputy here, Mr Razin, will confirm what I am telling you. You just saw the President’s wife in Washington DC. You just saw her double in Moscow.’

  Garanin looked at the Premier beside him. ‘Remarkable,’ he said.

  The Premier nodded. ‘Incredible.’ He sat up in his theatre chair. ‘All right, Petrov. A neat sleight of hand. A perfect deception. What do you have in mind?’

  ‘A bigger, more daring deception,’ said Petrov softly. ‘At some moment in the next few years, on the world political scene, there will arise a crisis, an inevitable confrontation between the US and the USSR. The confrontation, as we all are aware, will take place in Korea, Boende, or Iran. At that moment, they will back down or we will back down or there will be war. At that moment, to ensure our victory, we would want a secret weapon. What you have just witnessed on the screen can be our secret weapon. If we have a woman who cannot be told apart from the President’s wife, if we can install our woman in the White House in place of the President’s wife for a short time without detection, we have in place the greatest espionage agent in history. We would be privy to every design the American President and his chief of staff and his war-mongers have in mind. We would learn every plot and plan of the enemy in advance. Our triumph in any crisis would be ensured.’

  For long seconds the room was quiet.

  At last, Premier Kirechenko’s voice ended the silence. ‘Is it possible, really possible?’

  ‘Do you mean, could she really do it?’

  ‘Could she?’

  Petrov nodded. ‘She can and will, given the chance. You’ve seen the evidence. She is Billie Bradford. Let me tell you how it came about, how we prepared her, how we plan to prepare her further, how we intend to use her.’

  Then, for three-quarters of an hour, Petrov expounded without stop and without interruption.

  When he finished, he was almost out of breath. ‘There you have it, Comrade Kirechenko.’

  ‘But what do I have?’ the Premier said in a low voice. ‘I have someone who actually wants to undertake this risky enterprise in life. Isn’t that what I have? A brief movie is one thing. But expecting her to sustain this for days - perhaps two weeks — and get away with it — it’s preposterous. She would have to slip, reveal herself. A mistake in a movie, it can be shot again, corrected, but in real life -‘

  ‘Comrade Kirechenko,’ Petrov interrupted urgently, ‘she made no mistakes - not one — in preparation of the film. She would make none in real life. She could sustain it for several weeks. I’d bet my entire career on her.’

  Kirechenko studied his KGB chief.

  ‘It would be your neck, if she failed.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘It would endanger your country, your countrymen, if she failed.’

  ‘I know that, also.’

  ‘And still you recommend it?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Petrov with assurance. ‘Because she will not fail. I am that certain of her. She will totally succeed. She will reap benefits for us that could not be gained otherwise. She will lay open their strategies, secrets, disarm them completely. Dangerous? Of course it is. But then, all great, historic enterprises are, Comrade.’

  ‘One slip,’ said Kirechenko, “could disgrace us in front of the world — lead us to the brink of war.’

  ‘That is true. But if we bring it off - and we are positive we can - it might guarantee the dominance of the Soviet Union over the United States for generations to come.’

  The Premier sat lost in thought.

  Garanin leaned over and whispered to him, ‘A priceless opportunity.’

  Ignoring his adviser, the Premier raised his head and stared at his KGB chief. ‘You are very persuasive, Comrade Petrov.’ His gaze drifted to the blank white movie screen. ‘And so

  was she, just now.’ His eyes held on Petrov once more. ‘What do you require?’ the Premier asked.

  ‘Two things. First, your permission to go ahead. Of course, the final option to pro
ceed with the project or to abort it at the last moment will be your own. But, for now — your permission.’

  ‘You have it,’ said the Premier, almost inaudibly.

  ‘And the money.’

  ‘You have it.’

  That had been nearly three years ago. Behind his desk, General Petrov came out of his reverie into the present. Tomorrow would begin the countdown. Actually, tonight, since his desk clock told him it was after one o’clock in the morning. Seventy-two more hours. The waiting was almost unbearable.

  Restlessly, he rose from his desk. It was late, and he should try to get some sleep in the next room. Yet, he knew that his mind was too awake to let him sleep easily. His mind brimmed with the events of those three years. It had been, actually, a secret college he had set up, a college with a three-year course, one major subject, one student. The major subject had been Billie Bradford. The entire student body had been Vera Vavilova. Now, with graduation in sight, with the real world directly ahead, Petrov had a sudden urge to see the dean of the school. Alex Razin, alone, would know whether his student was ready for the real world. Petrov needed reinforcement, reassurance, that no area had been overlooked, that the graduate could cope. He wondered if Razin, a night person like himself, was still in his office.

  Upstairs, on the fourth floor, in his monastic KGB office -shaded ceiling fixtures, pale green walls, bare parquet floor — Alex Razin held the scuffed brown leather briefcase straight on a corner of his crowded desk and stuffed red-lined beige file folders into it. He had told Vera that he might be late — and it was late - but she had insisted that she would remain awake for him. Now,‘preparing to leave his work to spend

  the night with her — their last together for three weeks — he saw one of his hands tremble.

  Tension clung to him unrelieved. While he had prepared this dangerous enterprise under Petrov, with many others, the sole responsibility for perfection had been totally his own. On the human level, he, more than anyone else involved, had everything at stake. His student, the pawn in this super espionage endeavour, was not merely an agent but the one person he cherished and loved more than any other on earth. This realization had made his job doubly difficult. Vera’s performance must be flawless, her immediate future safe, not only to achieve a cold war victory but to preserve her precious being for himself and themselves. The responsibility filled him with a chill of terror.

  When the knock on the door came, and General Petrov unexpectedly appeared with the request that he wanted to review certain aspects of Vera’s training phase one last time, Razin felt a gust of relief. Although eager to enjoy the warmth of Vera’s body before she was taken from him, he was relieved to have the excuse to examine their handiwork one more time. Like Petrov, he wanted to be certain, beyond all certainty, that every possible surprise had been anticipated. He did not mind being even later for Vera. If she fell asleep, he could awaken her and know that because of his vigilance she would be safer.

  ‘I hope you are not too tired?’ Petrov added, settling into the chair across from his deputy’s desk.

  ‘Not for this,’ said Razin. ‘I hoped for some reason to review our preparations just one more time. We cannot be too cautious. It just has to be absolutely foolproof.’

  As Razin started for his file cabinet, Petrov said, ‘Oh, it is foolproof, I am positive of that. I don’t know why I want to do it again. Maybe I just want to indulge myself, have pleasure in a job well done - before she is out of our hands.’

  Out of our hands. Petrov’s last words sent another alarm through Razin. He opened the cabinet drawer, dug deep inside, and lifted out the file of three thick folders on Project Second Lady.

  He brought them back to the desk, and lay them before Petrov. ‘Everything is here,’ Razin said. ‘You will find a copy of every memorandum, progress sheet, note on what we had to do to, what we did, covering every week’s activities from the day Kirechenko gave us the go-ahead and the special fund.’

  Petrov took the bulging top folder and opened it on his lap. ‘Let me just skim through this, the highlights. It won’t be long. Do you have a drink?’

  ‘Yes. But no ice.’

  ‘Ice only dilutes it.’ While Razin poured a drink of vodka for Petrov and one for himself, the KGB chief studied the earliest papers, i remember,’ he said. ‘We started with the White House, constructing most of the duplicate to an exact scale. Slow, costly, a real bitch.’

  Razin pulled a chair up next to Petrov and peered over his shoulder. ‘But authentic,’ said Razin. ‘Once we had the last remodel plans and all the most recent photographs, I thought it went well.’ He sat back sipping his drink. ‘The only thing that’s ever bothered me about that was scaling down a few of the rooms to save costs and time. I’ve always worried that she might be disoriented when she actually got into the real rooms.’

  ‘She’s insisted that’ll be no problem.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ said Razin.

  Their architect and builders had duplicated almost the entire interior of the White House, ground floor, first floor, second floor. Three sides of the exterior had been flat walls (again, costs, time), but the South Portico and outside area of the Oval Office and Rose Garden had been made faithful to the original.

  Razin was looking over Petrov’s shoulder again. ‘Then, you can see, we doubled the number of our agents and informants in Washington, and increased the number around the country. While construction went on here, we started intensive fact-finding over there.’

  Necessary materials had been funnelled into Moscow by the crateful, an endless stream of vital information. For the

  most part, it had been relatively easy. More tapes of Billie Bradford speaking, for Vera Vavilova’s voice lessons. More film tapes of Billie Bradford in action inside the White House and in public. Over and over they had shown Vera film and tapes of the American First Lady, and had Vera imitate and rehearse Billie Bradford’s facial expressions, gestures, mannerisms. What was known was not taken for granted. More and more audio tapes were played to pick up and note not only the timbre of the First Lady’s voice, but to learn her preferences for word usages, phrases, figures of speech, repetitions.

  The real First Lady’s physique was monitored on a week-to-week basis, to note a new crease in her forehead, to note a newly adopted hair style, to note even the smallest growth or loss of weight. For every change that occurred afar, a change was made in Vera Vavilova in Moscow.

  Other aspects of the First Lady’s physique, the ones hidden from outside observers, were also considered. Her insurance company was secretly invaded, and her application forms and policies found and copied in case they might contain a record of some hidden deformity or blemish. Her dental files and X-rays were stolen or bought off and copied. The office of the White House physician, Dr Rex Cummings, was visited and records of her physical examinations photographed to provide information on any chronic illnesses.

  For months, there was a troublesome gap. Friends and acquaintances could be deceived by duplication of a clothed or semi-clothed Billie Bradford. But what about the doctor, or her husband the President, mainly the President, who would see her in the nude? What did the nude First Lady look like? This would have to be known if Vera Vavilova could be expected to carry off successfully her masquerade stripped down. Razin had mulled over the problems and had finally come up with an inspiration. He recollected once seeing, in an Italian men’s magazine, five full-length colour photographs of Jacqueline Kennedy, then Onassis, utterly naked. The one-time American First Lady had been sunbathing in the nude on the island of Skorpios, her Greek

  retreat. An Italian photographer, on a fishing boat offshore, had used a camera with a sharp telescopic lens to capture her in the buff. The pictures of Jacqueline Kennedy proved to be thoroughly revealing, clearly showing her small breasts and dark brown nipples, her full buttocks, the long growth of pubic hair covering her vaginal mound. Recalling those photographs, Razin reasoned that if he could obtain similar pictures of the newest First
Lady, Billie Bradford, his problem would be solved.

  Persistent rumours indicated that Billie Bradford, when in private quarters at a holiday resort, enjoyed swimming in the nude. Thereafter, Razin hired a photographer, with a powerful telescopic lens attached to his camera, to follow Billie Bradford carefully on all her vacations. The photographer had trailed the First Lady to Miami Beach and to Malibu, and on both occasions, whether she had swum in the nude or not, foliage or other obstructions had shielded her from view. Then, as luck would have it, during her second year in the White House, Billied Bradford had flown off to Sicily for a week’s vacation. The guest of the Italian ambassador to the United States, she had a small inlet and private beach to herself. The third morning early, she had emerged from the beach house in a light blue robe, reached a ringlet of sand, and while standing had shed her robe. She had been stark naked, turning lazily on the sand, eyes closed, to enjoy the blaze of sun. Razin’s determined photographer had been perched on the baking tile roof of a distant house, his telescopic lens pointed toward the nude First Lady.

  When the frontal shots of the naked First Lady arrived, Razin had been elated. He had already arranged, the week before, to have a set of nude frontal shots taken of Vera Vavilova. They had been excellent, and had excited Razin. With both sets in hand, Razin had laid out the nude pictures of Billie Bradford in a row, and beneath them lined up the nude shots of Vera Vavilova. Then, with a magnifying glass, Razin had examined them, comparing one against the other. The full firm breasts of each were identical, the nipples just about the same. The navels and bellies could not be told

  apart. Moments later, Razin had found a difference in their naked bodies, one small difference, then another. There was the tiniest mark on Billie Bradford’s lower right side. There was no mark on Vera Vavilova’s side. Further, the spread of the triangles of pubic hair covering their vaginal mounds and rising to their lower abdomens were not the same. Billie Bradford’s mat of pubic hair grew into a higher and wider triangle than Vera’s. Razin summoned a physician to take the magnifying glass and study the photographs. He did so. The mark on Billie Bradford’s body, not to be found on Vera Vavilova’s, proved easy to identify. The mark on the American First Lady’s body was a scar, the result of an appendectomy. The solution was to put Vera Vavilova into surgery and make an incision with a scalpel that would duplicate the First Lady’s scar. As for the differences in the contours and growth of their pubic hair, the physician thought that, too, could be resolved. More hair would be implanted and added to the area above Vera’s vagina.