(1980) The Second Lady

by Irving Wallace

‘A little.’

  He tried to reassure her. ‘I wouldn’t worry about it. Dr Sadek’s the best there is.’

  ‘I’m trying not to worry. I think any woman gets a bit apprehensive before she sees her gynaecologist. It’s automatic. I’m not terribly worried.’ She made a try for more information. ‘Are you, Andrew?’

  ‘Of course not.’ He fell back on his pillow. ‘Let’s just wait and see. Whatever happens, happens. Let’s trust the doctor. Good night, beautiful.’

  ‘Good night,’ she said weakly.

  What had he meant? Whatever happens, happens.

  It was frustrating, frightening, not to know.

  Before her apprehension intensified, a second thought soothed her.

  She would know.

  This moment, the KGB was finding out for her. Its agents never missed. When they sought something, they found it. They were all-knowing. They had set out to put her in the White House, and here she was in the White House, in the bed of the President of the United States. They had set out to tell her why she was seeing Dr Sadek. By morning, they would tell her.

  She felt safer, and ready for sleep.

  It was a modern, ten-storey office building on 16th Street, one of the newer buildings in Washington DC and occupied during the day by professional people, attorneys, accountants, physicians. At this hour, midnight, the place was darkened and devoid of humanity, except for the illuminated lobby where the uniformed private guard perched on a stool at a tall narrow table set against a marble pillar near the glass entrance doors.

  Two janitors in overalls, one moustached, middle-aged, husky, carrying a heavy-duty vacuum cleaner, the other clean-shaven, young, slender, carrying a wooden box of supplies, opened the doors and trudged into the lobby towards the checkin table.

  The guard glanced from one to the other. ‘Don’t think I’ve seen you before. You new here?’

  ‘Yup,’ said the younger of the pair. ‘First time. Kleen-up Janitorial Service assigned us to do extra work on some suites on the fourth floor. Last stop for tonight.’

  ‘Funny,’ said the guard. ‘The building manager didn’t give me no notice. Guess she forgot. Got a business card?’

  The older janitor fumbled about inside a pocket of his overalls, at last pulled out a bent and soiled business card, passing it over to the guard.

  As the guard studied the card, the younger janitor wandered off a few yards, whistling, then came back towards the table. The guard put the card down in front of him and reached for his telephone. ‘Let me give your outfit a call, just to confirm -‘

  ‘You’ll get the answering service at this hour,’ the older janitor said.

  ‘I’ll just check anyway.’

  As the guard’s fingers touched the receiver, he suddenly jerked straight on his stool and winced.

  The younger janitor had a snub-nosed black revolver jammed into the guard’s back. ‘Okay, now,’ said the younger janitor in a hard, low voice. ‘Do what we tell you and you won’t get hurt. First, let’s relieve you of that extra weight.’ He reached around, tugged the police special from the guard’s holster, checked the safety catch, and handed the gun to his companion, who pocketed it. ‘Okay. Don’t be a hero. Get off that stool easy like, and walk real natural to the first elevator. We’ll be right behind you.’

  The white-faced guard stepped off the stool and stiffly started for the first of a row of elevators, its doors open. The older janitor trotted ahead, and entered the elevator with his cumbersome vacuum and the box of cleaning supplies. The younger one prodded the guard. ‘In you go.’

  The older janitor punched the eighth-floor button. The doors closed and the elevator glided upward.

  On the eighth floor, they emerged into the dim empty corridor. The younger janitor prodded the guard with his weapon again. ‘To your right, to the ladies’ room.’

  Going into the lavatory, the older janitor set his equipment down inside the door and turned on the lights. He dug into the covered supply box, came up with two pieces of rope and a roll of wide tape. As if experienced at this, the two janitors proceeded efficiently, quickly. They yanked the unresisting guard’s arms behind him, bound his wrists tightly. To silence the guard’s protests, they slapped tape across his mouth. The older one pulled him into a booth, pushed him down on the toilet seat, while the younger one knelt and tied his ankles together.

  Then the two janitors backed out of the booth. The older one said, ‘Have a good night, mister. Some lady is sure going to be surprised in the morning when she comes in here to pee.’

  Shutting the door to the booth, they picked up their equipment, turned off the lights, went into the corridor, and made for the elevator.

  ‘Smooth enough, llf,’ said the older janitor.

  ‘You’re good to have on a job, Grishin,’ said the younger janitor.

  They rode the elevator down to the fourth floor, came into the corridor, ambled around the first corner, and stood before the reception door to the suite. A small wooden plaque on the door read:

  MURRY SADEK, MD RUTH DARLY, MD . OBSTETRICS GYNAECOLOGY

  The hefty, moustached one, Grishin, bent, and picked the doorknob lock in fifteen seconds.

  Entering the dark reception room, they abandoned their equipment, ignored the light switches, and found their flashlights.

  ‘Pretty fancy here,’ said Ilf.

  ‘The First Lady wouldn’t go to a dump,’ said Grishin.

  Beaming their flashlights low, they explored the suite. Waiting room. Receptionist’s office and files. Dr Sadek’s brighdy decorated office. An examination room. Another. A laboratory. A bathroom. A third and fourth examination room. Dr Darly’s office.

  ‘Okay,’ said Grishin. ‘The files.’

  Their flashlights led them back to the green files. In these cabinets were manila folders, each tabbed and labelled with a patient’s name. While Ilf held both flashlights pointing downward on the second file drawer, Grishin searched and located the tab labelled BRADFORD, BILLIE L.

  ‘Got it,’ said Grishin with satisfaction. ‘Let’s have a look.’

  He walked to the receptionist’s desk, sat in the armless swivel chair. Ilf had set the flashlights down to hunt for something in his pockets.

  ‘Dammit, hold up those flashlights so I can see,’ Grishin ordered. ‘You can find your Minox later.’

  Ilf quickly snatched up the flashlights and illuminated the Bradford folder, as Grishin opened it.

  There were about a half-dozen sheets of paper. Grishin scanned the first sheet, turned to the second and studied it. ‘Just dates and notations on examinations from the time she started seeing Sadek two-and-a-half years ago.’ Grishin frowned. ‘All straight routine visits. Nothing unusual, nothing different, no emergencies far as I can make out.’

  ‘Maybe the last page, her last visit, will tell us what’s going on,’ said Ilf.

  ‘Yeah. But first let me finish with her other visits to see if there’s ever —’ He paused. ‘Vaginal infection, last December —’ He hesitated. ‘No good. Cleared up three weeks later.’ He flipped more pages. ‘Nothing. Nothing. And here’s the last entry, made two weeks ago — this should —’ He stopped cold, was silent a moment, then muttered, ‘What the hell is this?’

  He thrust the page at the flashlights for Ilf to read.

  ‘It’s shorthand,’ said Ilf.

  ‘None I ever saw.’

  ‘I guess it’s the doctor’s own,’ said Ilf. ‘Lots of people make up their own — wait a minute, there’s a note on the side in red pencil. It says, “To be transcribed.” ’

  Grishin brought the page before him. ‘Why didn’t that goddam nurse transcribe it, type it so we could read it? The rest are all typed.’

  ‘It was too recent. Guess she didn’t have time.’

  ‘Well, it makes no sense in his crazy shorthand,’ said Grishin. ‘I can’t make heads or tails of it. We’re cooked.’

  ‘Hold on, Grishin. I have another thought. I know someone who could make heads or tail
s of it. His nurse. She types it up, so she must be able to read it.’

  ‘Meaning what?’

  ‘Meaning we pay her a late-night social call. Make her translate what it says for us. If she refuses, we shove her around a little, until she cooperates.’

  Grishin stared at his partner, and slowly shook his head.

  ‘Ilfy boy, where were you when they passed out brains? How stupid can you get? We beat up Dr Sadek’s nurse until she tells us what was going on at Mrs Bradford’s last visit? That’s hardly a covert operation. The nurse’ll scream bloody murder to the police, to the White House, tell them about two thugs trying to find out about the First Lady. Well, I don’t think the new First Lady wants that much attention. I know Petrov doesn’t.’

  ‘You’re right,’ admitted Ilf. ‘Forget it.’

  Grishin put the medical reports back in the file. ‘We can’t decipher the bastard’s home-made shorthand, and that’s that.’ He handed Ilf the file. ‘Put this back where it came from, and wipe off the fingerprints. Leave me a flashlight.’

  As Ilf went off with the folder, Grishin felt around the desk, finally opened the middle drawer and found the receptionist’s appointment book. He checked the appointments for the next day. Sure enough, Mrs Billie Bradford was written in for four o’clock. He dropped the appointment book back in the drawer and closed it.

  He called into the darkness, ‘Ilf?’

  ‘I’m here with the files.’

  ‘We struck out on step one. We better make it on step two. Bring me six other women’s files.’

  ‘All right.’

  A few minutes later they were both poring over the files of six women who had seen Dr Sadek in the past year. They scanned the most recent reports in each one, discarding three. Grishin was studying the last entry in the fourth file when he looked up with a grin. ‘Pay dirt.’ He slid the white telephone toward him. ‘Here we go.’

  He punched out Dr Sadek’s home telephone number. The physician’s message service picked up.

  ‘This is Mr Joe MacGill. I’m calling Dr Murry Sadek for my wife, for Grace MacGill. She’s Dr Sadek’s regular patient. She’s pretty sick right now. I have to speak to the doctor.’

  ‘Are you sure it’s not something that can wait until morning?’

  ‘Lady, I got a sick woman on my hands. She’s in great pain. She needs help. This is an emergency.’

  ‘Very well. Let me see if I can get the doctor. Can you give me the number you’re calling from?’

  ‘Uh — no, no I can’t. Our home phone is on the blink. I’m in a phone booth. The number isn’t legible.’

  ‘This’ll take a little working. Let me see what I can do. Please hold on.’

  Grishin winked at Ilf and held on. There were static sounds on the phone. A sleepy voice broke in.

  ‘Dr Sadek here. Mr MacGill?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Calling for my wife, Grace MacGill. She’s been a patient of yours for -‘

  ‘I remember Mrs MacGill, of course. Do you want to tell me what’s wrong?’

  ‘Well, she has terrible pains in the pelvic area, and cramps below the stomach. She says it feels just like last year when you put her in surgery - she says —’ With Grace MacGill’s medical chart in front of him, Grishin selectively chose, and purposely mispronounced, medical terms describing Mrs MacGill’s condition.

  Dr Sadek clucked. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I think it best I look in on her tonight. You keep her resting, and tell her I’ll be right over. Can you give me your address?’

  Grishin read the address into the phone.

  ‘I’ll be there in three-quarters of an hour,’ said Dr Sadek and hung up.

  Grishin put his receiver in the cradle, offered Ilf a victorious smile in the subdued glow thrown by their flashlights, picked up the receiver once more. He punched out a number with familiarity.

  The phone rang once and was answered by a male voice.

  ‘G and I checking in,’ said Grishin. ‘Step two operative.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Immediately. He’s dressing to make the house call. You have the address he is leaving from. Here is the address he is going to.’ Grishin read off the address. ‘He expects to be

  there in three-quarters of an hour. Will you have time to be in place?’

  ‘We will be in place.’

  ‘Good luck.’ Grishin ended the call and stood up. ‘Ilf, check out this area to see that everything’s in order. I’ll get our cleaning equipment. Meet you at the door.’

  A minute later, Ilf joined Grishin at the reception room door.

  ‘Well, we got half of what the First Lady wants,’ said Grishin. ‘For the other half-hell, she’s an actress, isn’t she? Let’s go.’

  Upstairs, in the Green Room of the White House, at mid-afternoon, Vera Vavilova sat on the edge of the hard sofa pretending to be attentive to her press secretary while keeping one eye on the clock. As Nora rattled on about the first and second days of Billie’s London schedule, Vera worried about the time. In an hour and twenty minutes, she would be on her way to Dr Sadek, and she still didn’t know a damn thing. The passing minutes ticked loudly on the old clock, drawing her appointment with her gynaecologist closer and closer, and she knew no more about the appointment than she had known yesterday. She wondered when and how the KGB would contact her, and what the agent would have to tell her.

  With each movement of the long hand on the clock, her confidence eroded slightly. But she continued to cling to her faith in the KGB just as her Russian mother retained (even in these enlightened times) her belief in God.

  ‘So that takes care of the second day in London,’ she heard Nora say. ‘I don’t think they’re crowding you too much.’

  ‘No. It sounds fine. That second evening. Do you mind going over that again?’

  ‘As I said, the first evening is rest, adjustment to the time change. Which means the social festivities begin the second evening. Prime Minister Dudley Heaton and his wife Penelope Heaton are throwing the big formal reception and dinner for you and the President - and for the Kirechenkos, of course.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘The Banqueting House in Whitehall.’

  ‘I’ve never been there.’

  ‘It’s wonderful, Billie. A legacy from Henry VIII, who built an earlier banqueting hall on the site.’

  ‘I can’t wait to -‘

  The telephone rang, and Vera’s heart leaped. That must be Maurice, she thought, Maurice the saviour chef. Nora started to rise to get the phone, but Vera was already on her feet. ‘I’ll get it, Nora,’ she said. ‘I’ve been expecting a personal call.’

  She caught the phone at the fourth ring. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Is this Mrs Bradford?’ The voice was high-pitched, with a touch of lisp and an artificial British lilt. She wasn’t sure if it was the voice of a man or woman.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Fred Willis,’ the voice said. ‘Protocol.’ Male, sort of. She saw him now and then, and should recognize that affected voice, but never did. He was going on. ‘I must meet with you about the state trip to London.’

  She sagged with disappointment. She had expected the call, with time running out, not this silly nonsense. ‘Sorry, I’m tied up,’ she said, more sharply than she had intended. ‘We’ll have to make it some other time.’

  ‘Mrs Bradford, I must see you at once,” Willis said shrilly, his voice an octave higher and tinged with hysteria.

  ‘I have to change clothes. I’m —’

  ”Please, Mrs Bradford,’ he implored her. ‘I’m downstairs.’

  There was something about his tone that made her reconsider. ‘Well, all right, but just for a minute.’

  She put down the phone, angry at herself for bothering to see him.

  Nora was already throwing together her papers and taking her briefcase. ‘I gather you’re having a visitor?’

  ‘Fred Willis. I was afraid he’d come apart if I didn’t see him.’

  ‘That creep,’ said Nora. ‘But I gue
ss he knows his job. I’ll go now. Don’t forget your doctor’s appointment.’

  ‘I won’t forget.’

  Vera watched her leave. When the door closed, she looked at the time once more and then at the dumb phone. What had happened to her informant? So far, the KGB had not let her down. In an hour she would be in Dr Sadek’s office, uninformed and helpless. This was impossible.

  There was a brisk rapping on the door.

  ‘Come in, come in.’

  Fred Willis bounced into the room. She was always taken aback by him. So ridiculous. Nora must be right. He was probably good at his job. He was a small, immaculate man. Hyperthyroid eyes, pointed nose, weak chin and mouth. He resembled an over-aged juvenile lead, and was attired like an Eton old boy.

  He gave her a half-bow. ‘I’m glad you could give me the time, Mrs Bradford.’

  ‘Not much of it, I’m afraid.’ She lowered herself into a chair and waited.

  ‘I would not have troubled you unless it were important.’ To her surprise, Willis was pulling a chair across the room and setting it up flush to her own.

  He sat down, leaned into her, dropping his voice to a squeak of a whisper. ‘It is served at Disneyland.’

  She went blank for a split second until it had penetrated. ‘Disneyland?’

  ‘Correct.’

  She half twisted in her chair to view him better. ‘You?’ she whispered. ‘I must say, the thought entered my mind when you phoned, the urgency to see me, but I put it right out.’ Fred Willis was the last one she would have cast in this role. How clever of the KGB, how deceptive. And how daring to have penetrated the Department of State and White House at his level. ‘I didn’t expect it to be you,’ she added. ‘But thank heaven you’re here in time.’ She tried to read his face. ‘I’m listening.’

  He spoke in a thin undertone. ‘Your requests. The first,

  1 A O

  the purpose of your visit to the specialist. An effort was made to learn, but the information was not available, simply not available.’

  She recoiled. ‘Oh, no. That’s terrible. There must be something?’

  Willis shook his head. ‘Not a thing could be learned. However, this is not as serious as it sounds. Because we have been successful with your second request, which affects the first one. Fortunately, at four o’clock, you will not be meeting with Dr Murry Sadek.’