The President appeared to concur. ‘So, politically, the stance we plan at the London Summit is good. We support, vigorously support, nonintervention of any sort by the Soviets or ourselves.’
‘Perfect,’ said Wayne Gibbs. ‘Get the Soviets to agree, and you’ve won the Summit - and reelection to the presidency.’
Secretary of state Canning raised his hand. ‘I’m inclined to agree that our only position must be hands off Africa. If I’ve wavered before, I have no more doubts. Absolutely, nonintervention. Behind this is the strong feeling I have that the American public does not give a damn about Africa. The public cannot identify with illiterate black natives. The public can’t see how controlling a small black republic can affect their lives. Nor can the public be made to understand the importance of uranium. So getting a nonintervention treaty signed by the Soviets would be a victory for us militarily and politically.’
Admiral Ridley made his concession. ‘I think the matter is out of our hands. It is really in the hands of Kirechenko and his Communist gang. The Russians believe we’ve given our Kibangu tremendous amounts of arms, and they believe we are poised to send in more. Very well. If they still believe that next week in London, they won’t signal an attack. They will sign our nonintervention pact. But if they should learn the truth our military weakness in Boende, our inability to move if they move - if they learn any of that, rhey won’t sign the Summit treaty. They’ll simply airlift their arsenal into Boende and tuck the country in their pocket. If you are determined, Mr President, to keep hands off, then the future is not in our hands but in Kirechenko’s hands.’
‘Correct,’ said the President. ‘So, gentlemen, it all comes down to their not knowing the truth about our situation. It comes down to maintaining secrecy about our intentions.’
‘It comes down to that,’ agreed secretary of state Canning. ‘Our secret weapon is secrecy itself. If the truth gets out, is leaked, we’ve lost and the balance of power could be tipped against us in the next ten years.’
‘Unless,’ said Admiral Ridley, ‘and let me repeat it unless you are prepared, Mr President, to intervene actively at this time. That would stop them, repulse them.’
‘And stop me and repulse me,’ the President said. ‘I’d lose the election. We’d have a new President, and you’d all have to look for new jobs.’
‘That’s right,’ said Gibbs.
The President placed his palms on the desk and pushed himself erect, with an air of finality. ‘Gentlemen, we have no choice but to act as we are acting. Should there be a change in intelligence information, we can reconsider. But as of now, we must proceed as planned. We must pretend our side is strong. We must continue to deceive their intelligence. We must keep our mouths shut about the truth. There’s the winning formula. Okay, that’s it. We’ll have one last meeting after we arrive in London, confirm our posture, and march into the Summit. Until then, let’s subscribe to an old World War II slogan keep your lips zipped. Thank you, gentlemen, and good day.’
By early afternoon, in the President’s Dining Room of the White House, Vera Vavilova and Nora Judson had finished their light work lunch.
Still drained by the travel and activity of the past week, by the demands of the role she was playing, Vera slowly spooned her coffee until it cooled, and tried to be attentive to her press secretary.
Nora had the remainder of the First Lady’s afternoon schedule in her hand and was reading from it. As she came to each appointment, she digressed from what was on the typed sheet to give her own evaluation of the importance of the meeting and background on the persons or organizations involved.
To Vera, the rest of the afternoon offered no difficulties or suprises. Another sitting for a cover portrait to appear on Ladies’ Home journal. Receiving a contingent of foreign students being shown through the White House. A meeting with her hardcover and paperback publishers down from New York, with Guy Parker joining them. Tea with the wives of senior diplomats of the Chinese embassy. Time off to answer the most pressing mail. A short rest before dinner. The President and herself hosting an informal dinner for Democratic party fund-raisers and their mates, eight couples invited.
Easy enough.
Nora opened the rings on her plastic-covered looseleaf notebook, pulled out the day’s schedule, and handed it to Vera. ‘You’ll want a copy,’ she said. ‘And this, too.’ She picked up a sheaf of clippings and teletype sheets and gave them to the First Lady. ‘The first notices and reviews on your television performance from Los Angeles yesterday. They’ll make you feel very good, Billie. You were a smash hit, as we all told you.’
Vera fingered the clippings and restrained a smile. The notices stimulated private amusement. During her entire acting career, as a student in Moscow, as a professional in Kiev, she had never received a tenth the number of reviews that
lay before her right now from a single brief appearance. America was a factory of newsprint and publicity.
‘Oh, one more thing,’ Nora was saying. ‘Just completed your schedule for tomorrow… . Since tomorrow is your last full day here before you leave for the London Summit the next morning, I thought you’d like a copy to glance at so that you can organize your free time for packing and whatever. I purposely kept your schedule light for tomorrow because of your four o’clock appointment. I didn’t think you’d want to be doing much before that.’
She passed over a copy of tomorrow’s schedule.
Sipping her coffee, Vera held the schedule above her cup and ran her eyes down it. She came to four o’clock, stopped, read it: ‘4.00 … Lv 3.45 for 4.00 major appointment with Dr Murry Sadek, at his office. Out and return 5.00.’
The innocuous line struck her like a spear of lightning.
She sat in quiet shock, features rigid, as she continued to stare at the words ‘major appointment’.
She struggled inside to regain and maintain her composure in front of Nora. The computer in her head whirred, retrieving information on her doctors that she had been taught by Alex Razin. She had been thoroughly briefed on their habits, personalities, and appearances. Dr Rex Cummings, the White House physician, of course. Brown, Appel, Stoleff, Sadek, specialists. Yes, Dr Murry Sadek, Gynaecologist. She remembered. But her intensive briefings had not prepared her about seeing him for what Nora characterized as a ‘major appointment’. What was that? Ignorance of the facts unnerved her. Was this to be a routine three-month examination and checkup? Or was it to be something that was ongoing and special? The word ‘major’ obliterated ‘routine’ and indicated ‘special’. If so, what was it about? She could not walk into such an appointment, blindly, unaware of what she was supposed to know about her own body.
‘Dr Sadek,’ said Vera. ‘I’d forgot about that.’
Nora looked up, surprised.
‘And “major”,’ Vera went on. ‘Why “major appointment”? Were you being emphatic because it was a doctor’s appointment?’
‘Billie, I put it in because you told me to - remember? -just before you left for Moscow. You said “major” to me, so I said “major” to you on the schedule.’
‘Yes, I guess I remember. Well, I’m sure I was overreacting. Anyway, whatever it was, it can be put off until I return from London. I’m too pushed and pulled right now. Outside what’s on your schedule, I have a million last-minute things to do. Why don’t we just postpone -?’
Nora interrupted her. ‘Billie, the doctor insisted on this appointment. You wanted it so much, too. You saw Dr Sadek before you went to Moscow, and he wanted to see you again as soon as possible after. You couldn’t make it before Los Angeles. You agreed to see him before you left for London. So he juggled his other patients around to squeeze you in tomorrow. Of course, I don’t know if it’s actually that important. Only you know. But when I confirmed today, his nurse said to tell you the tests were ready.’
‘The tests. Oh, yes.’ Vera’s voice was hollow. ‘I don’t know what I was thinking of. Of course - of course, it’s important. I’d bet
ter see him, after all.’
The puzzlement left Nora’s face. ‘I’m glad,’ she said with relief. ‘It would have been difficult -‘
‘Never mind. … Now about these other appointments tomorrow.’
They discussed them briefly. They had just finished when Nora’s purse, on the floor beside her, began emitting tiny squawks.
Nora jumped to her feet. ‘My beeper. Excuse me, Billie, I better see who it is.’
She hastened to the telephone and dialled the central number of the Signal Corps office in the building. At last she came away from the phone. ‘It’s Tim Hibberd. He wants me to attend his press briefing. Quite an honour from that chauvinist. I guess, since your speech yesterday, he’s decided to recognize the women’s East Wing.’ She snatched up her purse. ‘Unless you have anything else, Billie?’
‘Thanks, Nora. You go on.’
‘You have a half-hour to yourself before I return with the foreign students.’
‘I’ll be waiting in the Blue Room.’
The moment that Nora had departed, and she was alone, Vera’s poise evaporated. She could feel her agitation grow. She left the table, went into the hall, and walked thoughtfully to the Blue Room. It had gone so well up to now. True, the visit to Los Angeles had not been smooth. She had committed a series of small slips and blunders, yet, consummate actress that she was, she had overcome them. She was confident no one had noticed anything amiss. Certainly, Billie’s father and Billie’s sister had accepted her unquestioningly. Only the dog, the sonofabitching dog, had known, but thank heavens he was a dumb animal. No, despite Los Angeles, she had managed fine. And London, situated far away from those who knew Billie intimately, should offer no problems, provided - provided she could surmount this new and unexpected obstacle. Only Dr Murry Sadek stood between her and a successful mission. The unplanned ‘major’ visit to her gynaecologist could lead to her ruination.
She entered the Blue Room, still thinking, turned a Bel-lange armchair towards the white Carrara marble mantel, and slumped into it, staring grimly into the fireplace. She felt distraught, but tried to contain her feelings. She must not panic. She must consider her precarious situation, and act with calmness. Obviously, her only protection existed in somehow being forewarned of the reason Dr Sadek wanted to see her tomorrow. Why was she going to him? Why did he consider it important? What was it all about?
She had a mere and frightening twenty-six hours to learn the reason she was going to Billie’s - to her own gynaecologist. Would General Petrov call this an emergency? He certainly would. She had been briefed not to contact KGB agents in the United States, except if she was confronted with an urgent problem that might lead to a disastrous misadventure. Well, this was an urgent problem if ever there was one. She must take the risk of making contact to seek help.
Her mind revived the procedure to be followed in case of trouble. It involved two telephone calls, both outgoing. She would give the switchboard operator one number. When a voice answered she would ask for Mr Smith. She would be told she had the wrong number. Hanging up, she would give the operator the same number, except for a different last digit. When another voice answered, she would again ask for Mr Smith, and again be told she had the wrong number. This done, it would be a signal to the KGB that she needed help. It would mean that the KGB would contact one of their undercover agents planted in the White House. This residence agent would soon approach her and say, ‘It is served at Disneyland.’ She would tell him as quietly as possible, as quickly and briefly as possible, her problem. Later, another safe KGB agent would respond with a solution to her problem.
Vera’s wristwatch revealed that there was still twenty minutes before Nora appeared with her tour of foreign students.
Losing no time, Vera left her armchair and stepped over to the telephone on the table beneath the Gilbert Stuart portrait of President James Monroe. The portrait was unreal,’ Monroe’s eyes gazing over her head, so she did not feel observed. She raised the receiver to her ear, gave the number, asked for Mr Smith, and was advised that she had the wrong number. Hanging up, she repeated the procedure. Once more, wrong number.
She dropped the receiver in the cradle, and felt relieved. Her call for help had been heard. Somewhere, in some way, someone in this mansion, an ally, a friend, was being contacted, and he in turn would contact her. She was no longer alone.
How and when she would be reached, and by whom, she did not know. She only knew that in a mysterious way it would happen.
She circled the Blue Room thoughtfully, trying to formulate a condensed means of informing the White House agent of her appointment with Dr Sadek and what she must know before she kept the appointment.
Waiting for Nora’s tour group, Vera knew that she would continue to dwell on her problem. It was too unsettling. She needed some distraction. She decided to go to her bedroom and change from her frilly blouse into a sweater, and then return. She had moved to the door, when the telephone behind her rang. It sounded loud as a siren. She spun and ran for the phone.
‘Madame Bradford?’ A man’s voice with a French accent.
‘Yes?’
‘I am your chef Maurice in the kitchen.’
She remembered the pudgy Frenchman, a product of Lyons, who supervised and headed the White House kitchen staff. She had met him twice, and had found him amiable.
‘Hello, Maurice.’
‘I am sorry to disturb you, Madame. But I thought you would like to go over the menu with me for the dinner tonight.’
She had no patience for this. ‘Not necessary,’ she said. ‘I trust you with the menu. Prepare whatever you think is best.’
‘Pardon, Madame, but I thought the main course might amuse you. It is served at Disneyland.’
At first she did not understand, almost missed it, and then realized he had flippantly spoken the key code sentence. It is served at Disneyland. The French chef!
She tightened her hold on the receiver, brought the mouthpiece closer. ‘I don’t know, Maurice. That may be too unusual a dish. Perhaps we should consult after all. Please bring your suggestions to me this minute. I’ll be in the President’s sitting room.’
She hung up, feeling weak. Stirring herself, she hastily headed for the bedroom.
After sending her maid Sarah off to inform Nora that she would be a few minutes late, Vera changed into a sweater. She was straightening the sweater, when several short knocks brought her to the door. She admitted the potbellied chef without a greeting, closed the door carefully, gestured him to a chair. She dragged a free chair so close to him that its edge touched his thigh.
She leaned towards him. The menu for tonight?’ she said softly.
He placed a yellow pad in her lap. ‘My suggestions,’ he said in almost inaudible croak. ‘I listen to whatever you have to say.’
‘Trouble,’ she whispered.
‘Go ahead, Madame.’
‘An unexpected doctor’s appointment made a few weeks ago,’ she whispered. ‘I must see my gynaecologist, Dr Murry Sadek -‘
‘Dr Murry Sadek,’ Maurice echoed.
‘ at four o’clock tomorrow afternoon. I will leave the White House fifteen minutes earlier. An important appointment, I am told. Some tests were taken previously. I must know why I am seeing Dr Sadek, what I am to expect. Without knowing, I could make a serious mistake.’
The beefy face beside her remained immobile. ‘It is understood.’
‘I must know everything,’ she said.
‘I will report.’
‘And one more thing,’ whispered Vera. ‘It is likely Dr Sadek will give me an internal examination. He has examined the First Lady’s vagina inside many times before. He is familiar with it. To a gynaecologist this could be as individual and telltale as is a fingerprint to a detective. After the pelvic examination with the speculum, he will palpate, examine inside by feeling with his fingers, pressing ovaries, so forth. I do not know how much a gynaecologist can tell by this, what differences he may feel from one femal
e’s organ to another. But it is possible he may realize that the size or texture of my vagina is different from the First Lady’s, and he could become suspicious. Of the two dangers, this may be the lesser one, but the danger exists nevertheless. It would be better if Dr Sadek himself did not examine me. You understand, Maurice?’
‘Perfectly, Madame.’ He rose with a grunt. ‘All will be taken care of tonight. By morning you will be notified. Do
not worry. Have a good evening and dinner tonight. Bon appetit.’
‘Thank you, Maurice.’
He took his yellow pad from her lap, bowed, and waddled out of the bedroom.
With the problem off her mind, in other hands, capable hands, the rest of Vera’s day went swiftly. At dinner, she was even gay.
Only later that night, when she and Andrew were in bed, was she reminded of the problem. She had got into bed first and was waiting for Andrew to join her, when she casually brought up the subject of the Summit.
‘Are you primed for the Russians?’ she had asked.
‘Not yet,’ he had said, buttoning his pyjamas. ‘But we will be.’
‘Is it going to be a serious confrontation?’
‘I can’t say.’
‘Can there be a compromise?’
‘I hope so.’
He was being maddeningly cryptic and vague. She decided not to pursue the matter further.
‘Will it be all work and no play in London?’
‘Probably. I’ll catch you up on the whole thing, Billie, once I’m sure where we’re going.’
Now they were in bed together, lights out. He kissed her lips. He kissed the nipples of her breasts. He fondled one breast.
‘You must be nervous about tomorrow,’ he said.
(1980) The Second Lady Page 14