(1980) The Second Lady

by Irving Wallace

Arms crossed on her chest, fingers clutching her ribs, she began to rock on the sofa, as if in mourning. The disgusting KGB had been brilliant. The substitution, the substitute, perfect, beyond suspicion. The KGB was firmly inside the White House. Her own position was hopeless.

  Yet, her mind reached for hope, found one loose strand to grasp.

  Tomorrow she would be in Los Angeles. The day after she would make her speech. Following the speech, she would have a reunion with her father, with Clarence, her father of a lifetime. If her husband had proved too insensible and inattentive to realize that he was dealing with another woman, not his First Lady but a counterfeit Second Lady, if he could be fooled, her father would prove quite a different matter. No one play-acting as Billie could ever deceive her

  father. He would see at once that something was wrong, and he would break it wide open and uncover the KGB plot.

  Then something else heartened Billie. Because it might not even get to her father. The hoax might be settled tonight. Tonight, when Andrew and the imposter went to bed. The imposter could not know that she must abstain from sex for at least four weeks. The imposter might make the wrong move, try to have sex, and instantly Andrew would become suspicious.

  If that did not work, then the confrontation with her father would do it.

  Dammit, there was hope.

  With difficulty, she brought herself back to Razin and pretended a smile of concession. ‘Okay,’ she said, ‘first round to - to your people. But mark my work, it’s not over. For your Second Lady, it is only the beginning — of deep trouble.’

  After dinner in the President’s Dining Room of the White House, the three of them moved to the subdued Green Room to watch television.

  Vera Vavilova had been thoroughly briefed on this room, as well as the other upstairs rooms and she knew that whenever the First Lady watched television she sat on the striped settee against the west wall and beneath the 1767 oil portrait of Benjamin Franklin. Vera was sitting there now. On either side of her, in the two Sheraton mahogany armchairs upholstered in green cloth, were seated Nora Judson and Guy Parker.

  Since this was the first day home for the First Lady, after the gruelling visit to Moscow, it was understood there would be no work this evening. It would be a time for relaxation and early to bed, since tomorrow they would take off for Los Angeles.

  Television, they had all agreed, was the most desirable sedative. Best of all, the rerun of an old motion picture. So they had tuned in Casablanca, and for the past hour absorbed themselves in the adventures of Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman. Vera was aware that Guy Parker had seen the film

  three times before, and Nora had already seen it twice. Vera also knew that Billie Bradford had seen it once. Vera had never seen it, but had to pretend that she had, that it was not new but somewhat familiar to her. To maintain that pretext, Vera had twice remarked, after particularly good scenes, ‘Wasn’t that great? Even better than the first time.’

  But while outwardly devoting her attention to the movie, Vera was inwardly rerunning scenes of this first day in the White House.

  She saw herself inside the day, throughout the day, and she was elated by what she saw. From the minutes after she had alighted from the helicopter, and received President Bradford’s — Andrew’s — warm embrace, her confidence had grown. In the eleven hours since her arrival, she had successfully passed every conceivable test.

  Actually, the testing had begun earlier, from the instant that she had set foot inside Air Force One she had felt she would be under close scrutiny. Soon, she realized, she was under no scrutiny at all. Everyone expected Billie Bradford to be on the plane, and she was Billie Bradford. The stretch of time on the flight had presented no problems at all. The real Nora Judson, so close to the First Lady, provided no challenge to Vera. This was because the real Nora had been soundly asleep in her seat the entire distance from Moscow to Washington DC. Alex had once told her that they would drug Nora, as well as Billie, at the farewell banquet, and obviously they had done so. Nor had Guy Parker been a problem on the flight. He’d had no reservations about Vera’s being Billie. Early in the flight he had approached her, inquiring if she felt like taping some more reminiscences. She had pleaded exhaustion, and the need for sleep, and Parker had been understanding. ‘You were out on your feet last night,’ Parker had said. ‘Grab what shut-eye you can while you can.’

  In her mind, the biggest obstacle to overcome would be immediate acceptance by her so-called husband. Waves of apprehension washed over her until the helicopter set down on the south lawn of the White House and the aircraft’s door

  was opened. As she descended to the lawn, apprehension vanished. She suddenly felt poised, assured, belonging. When she went into the President’s arms, she was Billie Bradford. After that, except for one instant, things had gone easily. In the White House - despite its familiarity to her from her rehearsals — there had been a suspended moment of awe and trepidation. She realized she had successfully penetrated the real White House, America’s main house, and it had taken effort to subdue her emotions and appear perfectly calm and comfortable in her surroundings. But then the actress in her had again taken over. She was Billie Bradford, and she was home. What had helped her further was that she’d had little time with the President. He was busy, distracted, eager to get back to his heavy schedule. She had not seen him the rest of the morning, afternoon, or this evening. A few hours ago, he had telephoned from the Oval Office to apologize for not being able to dine with her. He and his advisers would be having sandwiches brought in while they discussed the impending London Summit and Boende.

  In the President’s upstairs bedroom, she had supervised Sarah’s unpacking. She had selected the clothes she would want for Los Angeles tomorrow and the day after, and left Sarah to re-pack. She had been hostess at a late informal lunch in the Family Dining Room for three senator’s wives. She had been well prepared for them, and there had not been a single hitch. She had given her anecdotal impressions of Moscow, and listened while the wives discussed woman’s rights and gossiped about other wives. By mid-afternoon, Ladbury had reappeared with his assistant Miss Quarles for a final fitting of the new wardrobe she would wear at the Summit. Ladbury had fussed, praying everything was right, for he had booked plane passage to return to London that evening. Except for minor adjustments, everything had been right. The wardrobe would be waiting for her in London.

  Guy Parker had brought in the first draft of the speech she would be delivering in Los Angeles. She had made several suggestions to liven it up, and Parker had willingly agreed to the rewriting. She had also been tempted to revise some of

  his inaccurate comments about the life of Russian women under Communism, but constantly had to remind herself that she was not a dedicated Soviet citizen named Vera Vavilova but a patriotic First Lady of the United States named Billie Bradford. Since Billie often invited Parker and Nora Judson to dinner when her husband was occupied, Vera had dutifully invited Parker and Nora Judson to dine with her later.

  After that, she had taken a nap. Awakened by Sarah, she had changed into sweater and pants. Before dinner she had ordered herself a drink, being careful to remember it could not be her favourite vodka straight but had to be Billie’s favourite and usual Scotch and soda.

  At dinner, by then more comfortable with Nora and Parker, Vera had felt relaxed. Nora had turned the talk to last night’s farewell banquet in Moscow. Nora had felt hung over, leaden, all this day, and thinking about it, she had begun to suspect that she and Billie had been drugged at the banquet. Vera had laughed at such a far-out notion. ‘The Premier of the Soviet Union drugging the First Lady of the United States and her press secretary?’ she had chortled. ‘Why? Really, Nora, that’s too much. Let’s just face the truth. You and I got pie-eyed drunk, probably because their drinks are twice as strong as ours.’

  As the meal had progressed, Parker had brought up the subject of Billie’s family, each of whom he had interviewed a short time before and whom they would a
ll be seeing the day after tomorrow. Vera had launched into a sentimental remembrance of her mother, long dead, and her father, who had gone on alone in the many years since being widowed. She realized that Parker, who had some of this material on tape for their book, was probing for more. Vera had judged quickly that Parker’s interest was purely professional and not tinged with the slightest suspicion.

  After dinner they had come into the Green Room to watch the rerun of Casablanca on television, and now they were still watching it as the movie entered into its climax. Conscious of her companions, Vera forced herself to show more absorption in the film’s ending.

  It was over, at last.

  Parker stood up. ‘That was great, except for the damn commercials.’ He went to the set. ‘Want to see what’s on the other channels?’ he asked Billie.

  Vera stifled a yawn and glanced at her gold wristwatch. ‘After ten. Long day. I think I’ve had it.’

  ‘Me, too,’ said Nora.

  Parker snapped off the set. ‘What time are we leaving for LA tomorrow?’

  ‘Between four and five in the afternoon, I think,’ said Vera.

  ‘Five after five,’ said Nora.

  ‘I suppose you’ll be too busy to work tomorrow,’ Parker said to Billie.

  ‘We’d better forget the book until we’re through with LA,’ said Vera. ‘We can go over my speech when we’re on the plane.’ She came to her feet, stretching. ‘Good night to both of you.’

  In the President’s bedroom, alone, Vera slowly undressed. She felt self-congratulatory. She had managed the entire day without stumbling once. She was in the lair of the enemy, on her own without allies, and she had deceived them all, every one of them. Then, a second thought: not quite without allies. During her intensive briefings before leaving, she had been told that there were two in the White House who were friends and who knew her real identity. If possible, she was not to contact them, or any of the other KGB agents planted in Washington DC. In fact, she was to attempt no contacts until she was in London for the Summit - except if there was an emergency and she desperately required help. In such an emergency, she had been given an outside telephone number to call in Washington. The person who received the call would, in turn, notify one of the KGB contacts inside the White House, who would use a special password to identify himself or herself for Vera.

  Removing her panty hose, she felt confident there would

  be no such emergency and no necessity to contact any Soviet agent.

  She went into Billie’s dressing room, took a fresh peach-coloured nightgown out of a drawer, and pulled it on. With fascination, she inspected the wardrobe containing a long row of Billie Bradford’s dresses and pants. Billie’s taste in clothes was more frivolous, more provocative, than her own had ever been, Vera could see, and as long as her role was that of Billie she could indulge herself.

  Presently, getting into the double bed, she felt aglow with her triumph. Thanks to Alex. He, her mentor, would have been proud of his student. This moment she realized that she had hardly thought of Alex all day. Of course, he would have understood that - understood her concentration, stress, inner excitement. He might not have quite understood how she revelled in her success as an actress and enjoyed exercising her power. No matter who she actually was, she was for the moment the First Lady of this land. Fleetingly, she wondered how Alex, himself, was faring in Moscow. He was now the mentor of the deposed First Lady. Then Vera wondered how Billie was faring, poor thing. She dismissed the last thought at once. There could only be one Billie to be concerned about - Vera, herself.

  She reached for the bedside table, dropped her sleeping pill in her mouth, downed it with a sip from the glass of water. She picked up the schedule Nora had typed for her of her activities tomorrow. Her schedule was purposely light, because of her departure for Los Angeles late in the afternoon.

  About to flip the page, she saw the President enter the room. She cast the schedule aside as he bent over to brush her lips with a kiss. He removed his jacket, unknotted his tie, and absently inquired about her trip.

  ‘Was it enjoyable?’ he wanted to know. ‘Did our Russian friends treat you well?’

  ‘Too well. They wore me out with their hospitality and vodka.’

  He continued undressing. ‘Did you see Kirechenko?’

  ‘Only from afar. Don’t forget, it was all women’s time. I had several nice chats with Mrs K.’

  ‘Really? How was she?’

  ‘She looks deceptively housewifeish. Forget it. She’s one sharp cookie.’

  ‘So I’ve heard.’

  He had taken off his blue boxer shorts, and he was nude. She tried not to stare. This was supposed to be familiar to her. Still, she took in his physique. He wasn’t Alex, but for a man his age he wasn’t bad. She wondered what he would be like making love. She would never know. By the time he would be allowed to have sex with her, he would have his own wife back.

  Her voice followed him to the bathroom, where he had left the door open as he brushed his teeth. She recounted some of the highlights of her Moscow visit.

  ‘What about today?’ he called out.

  She ran through her activities of the morning and afternoon.

  He reappeared in his striped pyjamas. ‘I’m glad you took it easy,’ he said. He turned out her lamp, and went around the bed to his side. ‘And now I lose you again for two days.’

  ‘California, here I come,’ she said, pleased with the expression Alex had taught her.

  ‘In case I forget tomorrow, say hello to your father for me.’

  He turned off his lamp and crawled into bed beside her. He drew her into his arms. He kissed her. ‘I’ve missed you, Billie,’ he whispered.

  ‘I’ve missed you more, darling,’ she said.

  He caressed her cheek, her neck, and slipped his hand down inside her nightgown, covering and lightly massaging one breast. To her surprise, she could feel her nipples hardening.

  ‘You’re getting me excited, darling,’ she said.

  ‘I guess I shouldn’t,’ he said, withdrawing his hand. ‘How is it down there?’

  ‘Better,’ she said, carefully.

  ‘Good. It’ll go away. I can’t wait to get in there again. Maybe we don’t really have to wait.’ ‘Well - doctor’s orders.’

  ‘I suppose so. I’ll be counting the days, the hours.’ ‘Me, too.’

  He fell back into his pillow. ‘Christ, I’m whipped.’ ‘Did you have to work so late?’

  ‘It’s pretty urgent stuff, the African business. Boende is getting to be a big issue. The Russians are pushing us hard. It’s going to be a rough Summit.’

  She wanted to question him further, but restrained herself. She remembered Petrov’s instruction: don’t press him until you are positive he’ll talk.

  He volunteered no more. She kept her silence. Under the blanket, his fingers touched her hand. ‘Good to have you back, Billie.’

  ‘Good to be back, darling.’

  He turned on his side, away from her, and was soon snoring softly.

  Her eyes open in the dark, Vera emitted an involuntary sigh of relief. She had survived her first evening with him. He had swallowed her hook, line, and sinker. It meant good fishing ahead. More important, their need for sexual abstinence had just been confirmed. The KGB was remarkable. She turned on her side, her back to him, smiling into the pillow. She was home — what was the American expression Alex had taught her? - yes, she was home free.

  Except for one thing. The reunion with Billie’s father the day after tomorrow. That was her last test. After that, it would be a breeze. After that, performing as she had today, she would truly be home free.

  They were an hour and a half out from Los Angeles, heading toward the sun sinking in the west, when Vera Vavilova summoned Guy Parker to join her on the sofa of the presidential suite.

  She had not planned to work, she said, but they had finished with her speech and she did not feel like napping. A

  woman has a right to chang
e her mind, she said. Now she felt like working. Yes, on the book. It would make the flight pass more quickly. Besides, the book had to be done.

  Pleased, Guy Parker went for his portable tape recorder, pushed in a fresh cassette, and activated the tape.

  ‘The last full session we had,’ he reminded her, ‘was on our flight to Moscow. Let’s pick up from there.’

  ‘I’m ready,’ Vera said.

  ‘Early on, when we started talking, you told me a little about your first real job on the Los Angeles Times. You told me how, in your early courtship, you brought your husband to the beach to meet your father. On the plane to Moscow, we were on the subject of your courtship with Andrew Bradford. But before we finish with that, I’d like to finish with your reporting career on the Los Angeles Times. Let’s get back to that.’

  ‘Gladly. I think I’ve already told you about my first interview assignment for the Times. How I almost blew it.’

  ‘And George Kilday saved your neck. Yes, I —’

  ‘Not just Kilday,’ she said, ‘but Steve Woods, the rewrite man he had redo my story. You know all that?’

  ‘Yes.’ He hesitated. ‘I think maybe there’s something you should know. I heard it from Kilday himself a few days ago. I promised not to repeat it. But what the hell - you should know the truth. It’s a small thing, anyway. No Steve Woods rewrote your story. Kilday himself did it, rewrote it.’

  She seemed annoyed. ‘He told you that?’

  ‘He did.’

  She shook her head and smiled. ‘Then the poor man must be getting senile. Because when I learned Woods rewrote the story for Kilday, I actually went to Woods to thank him, and he admitted doing the job.’

  ‘Steve Woods admitted to you he had rewritten your story?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Parker tried to hide his astonishment. ‘I see,’ he said.

  But he did not see.

  Less than a week ago, George Kilday had said to him in

  The Madison cafe: There was no Steve Woods to rewrite it. He didn’t exist.

  Now, Billie Bradford had just insisted that she had gone to Steve Woods and told him how much she appreciated his help. Maybe she did not like to be contradicted. Maybe her memory had betrayed her. In either case, it was unlike her.