(1980) The Second Lady

by Irving Wallace

  ‘I won’t?’

  ‘He been replaced by his associate, Dr Ruth Darly. Last night, driving to an emergency house call, Dr Sadek was involved in a serious automobile accident. His vehicle was hit by a speeding car that came out of a side street - the two occupants of the other car escaped - they were driving a stolen car, so they could not be traced. Dr Sadek was unconscious when the ambulance arrived. He was rushed to a hospital. He suffered a severe concussion, two fractured limbs, and other injuries. I am told he will survive, but he may be hospitalized for many months and may not work again. At any rate, his associate, Dr Ruth Darly, is taking over a few of his patients. All his appointments for today have been cancelled, all except your own.’

  ‘Dammit.’

  ‘Considering who you are, considering the fact that you are leaving the country, Dr Darly cancelled her own four o’clock patient to accommodate you.’

  ‘Double dammit. But yes, much better than seeing Sadek.’

  ‘Have you ever been examined by Dr Darly?’

  Vera thought back on her medical briefings. ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘Then you need have no fear,’ said Willis.

  ‘But I still won’t know why I’m there.’

  ‘With Dr Sadek it might have been difficult, awkward. With Dr Darly it should be easier. She doesn’t know your case, except from Sadek’s notes. She doesn’t know your body at all.’ Willis withdrew his ferret face, which had been close to her ear. He rose, smiled at her. ‘Besides, Mrs Bradford,

  you are resourceful, as you have already proved, a divine actress. I venture to say you will manage nicely.’

  Starting for the door, Willis called back loudly, ‘We will conclude this briefing en route to London. By then I will know whether the Queen will be returning from Bermuda while you are in London. Good day, Mrs Bradford, a good, good day.’

  At five minutes after four o’clock in the afternoon, Vera Vavilova, wearing little make-up and no jewellery, dressed in a simple blouse and skirt, sat quietly in the armchair opposite Dr Ruth Darly, who was at her desk. The folder with the tab imprinted BRADFORD, BILLIE L. lay before the gynaecologist unopened.

  Upon leaving her Secret Service men at the door, and entering the suite, Vera had been cautious. Presumably, she was acquainted with Dr Darly, had been introduced to her long ago by Dr Sadek, had run into her several times afterwards, and now she had not wanted to greet the wrong woman. Luckily, a young nurse, treating her with great deference, had led her straight to Dr Darly’s office.

  Dr Darly welcomed her warmly, taking both of Vera’s hands. She proved to be a kindly middle-aged woman, dumpy, stringy brown hair, apple cheeks, light down on her upper lip, pudgy hands, heavy legs, almost lost inside an overlong white jacket.

  ‘Nice to see you again, Mrs Bradford,’ she had said ‘though I never thought we would meet professionally.’

  ‘I was horrified to hear about Dr Sadek. The poor man —’

  They had talked about Dr Sadek for several minutes, and they were talking about him now.

  ‘Well, we can only pray he will get better soon,’ Dr Darly concluded, rolling her swivel chair closer to her desk. She opened the folder, considered the reports, turning the pages until she got to the last one. ‘Not transcribed yet,’ she muttered, half to herself. ‘Still in his shorthand. Fortunately, I’m the only one in the office, besides his nurse, who can make

  out Dr Sadek’s innovative writing. Now, let’s see what we have here.’ She looked up. ‘Have you been to the bathroom yet, my dear?’

  ‘No.”

  ‘Please go, while I read through this. Just across the hall. Leave the specimen bottle of urine in the lab.’

  Vera left the office, went to the bathroom, and in a few minutes she was across from Dr Darly once more.

  ‘Well, I think it’s clear to me,’ said Dr Darly. ‘As you know, we have two matters to resolve.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Vera nervously.

  ‘How have you been feeling since your last visit? I know you’ve been travelling a good deal. Have you been better?’

  ‘Much.’

  ‘All right.’ Dr Darly brought herself to her feet. ‘Before we get into this, let’s have a look at you. Follow me, please.’

  Vera followed her to the nearest examination room. ‘You know what to do,’ said Dr Darly. ‘Remove your clothing. The hangers are over there. The gown is on the table. The sheeting next to it. Then get on the table. I’ll be right back.’

  Dr Darly shut Vera into the small room. Quickly, Vera began to undress, desperately wondering what the gynaecologist would be looking for. When all of her clothes were off, and she stood nude, she took the gown and pulled it on. The back was open and the gown came only to her knees. She found the piece of sheeting, larger than a bath towel, stepped up to the table, and sat on the end of it. She threw the sheeting across her lap. It covered her down to her calves. Sitting there, trying to make herself comfortable, she saw the door open and a young brunette nurse appeared, ‘I see you’re all prepared,’ she said. ‘Let me take your blood pressure.’

  When she was done, she put aside the equipment. ‘The doctor will be here in a moment,’ she said. That instant, Dr Darly bustled into the examination room.

  ‘Here we go,’ she said, as Vera lay down on her back. ‘Let’s get you down a little bit lower.’ She helped Vera squirm down further on the table. Vera lifted her knees, spread her

  legs apart, and Dr Darly helped her place her feet in the metal stirrups on either side of the table.

  While Dr Darly adjusted the flexible light, she inquired, ‘How’s the bleeding, Mrs Bradford? Are you still bleeding?’

  Bleeding! So that was it.

  She had her first clue. ‘Uh, I had been bleeding, yes, spotting. Irregularly, less and less. Five days ago it stopped entirely.’

  Dr Darly nodded. ‘Verv good. It was what Dr Sadek hoped for.’

  Dr Darly had a transparent disposable glove on her right hand. She accepted the warm plastic speculum from the nurse. She raised the piece of sheeting, peered between Vera’s legs, and Vera knew that she was examining her outer genital area, labia majora, labia minora, for inflammation or sores.

  Then Vera felt her labia being separated, felt the speculum being inserted into her vagina, felt the blades opening to spread her vaginal walls. She heard Dr Darly intone, either for herself or for the nurse, ‘Cervix. Smooth, firm, pink. We took a cell sample last visit.’

  On her back, Vera had been trying to develop the one clue she had to her condition. She had been bleeding — or Billie had — and now she was not bleeding. What did that mean?

  She became conscious of the speculum deep inside her. Somehow, when she had undergone similar pelvic examinations in Moscow and Kiev, she had not given them a thought. She was a woman. Nature had given her, and every female on earth, a complex procreative system. Examination, from time to time, was obligatory and sensible. But this moment, the plastic instrument being removed from her vagina, seemed unnatural and dangerous. She was an alien, in an alien place, among enemies, posing as someone she was not, posing as the most important lady in the land. Could her vagina expose her, reveal that she was an imposter?

  She shuddered.

  Dr Darly said, ‘Sorry, Mrs Bradford.’ Vera realized that the speculum was out and the gynaecologist’s fingers were moving about, pressing her ovaries

  and internal organs — palpating was the American word — exploring for abnormalities.

  She saw Dr Darly’s smiling face rising. ‘All done,’ she said. ‘Nothing to worry about.’ She pulled off the glove and threw it in the covered basket by the sink. ‘You can get dressed and then come to my office. We’ll have a little talk.’

  Relieved, Vera sat up, as Dr Darly left the examination room. She waited for the nurse to follow the doctor. Once she was alone, Vera discarded the sheet and gown and hastily began to dress. At the sink, she used the foot pedal to run the water and wash her hands. After drying them with a paper towel, she sat
up at the vanity table, combed her hair back in place, and applied fresh lipstick.

  She started for the gynaecologist’s office, trying to keep herself alert, hoping she could carry off the act.

  Dr Darly was behind her desk, on the phone. As Vera sat down, Dr Darly finished her call and swivelled toward her. ‘Mrs Bradford, there’s bad news and good news,’ she said. She looked grave. ‘Let’s get the bad part over with. We had the report from the lab on your pregnancy test after you’d left for Moscow. Since you were here for only a day before you were off again, you obviously had no time to see Dr Sadek, and he didn’t want to relay the report by telephone. Despite some sign in the first test, as often happens, that you might be pregnant, the latest test makes it clear you are not pregnant. I am sorry about that.’

  Vera, who had been hanging on every word almost breathless, felt a wave of relief in her first knowledge of what the main part of this visit was all about. But she realized instantly that, as Billie Bradford, she must react in an expected way. Billie Bradford wanted to be pregnant and she was not. On the stage, in Kiev, Vera had always been admired for her histrionic ability to evoke tears at the director’s command. This was how she must respond now. Disappointment, sadness, but not overdone. Immediately, her eyes moistened. She averted her face, fumbled in her purse, withdrew a dainty handkerchief, dabbed at her eyes.

  Dr Darly was beside her, arm around her, trying to comfort her. ‘I do know how you feel,’ the doctor said sympathetically. ‘But believe me, Mrs Bradford, it is a temporary setback. You and the President want a child, and I promise you that you will have one or as many as you wish. The main thing, I can assure you, is that you are healthy, fully able to be impregnated and bear a child, and you shall.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Vera tremulously. ‘Forgive me. I — I just want it so much.’

  ‘And, I repeat, you shall have it.’ Dr Darly was at her desk again, sitting. ‘Now for the good news. The bleeding condition.’ She reached for some test reports atop papers at the side of her desk. ‘It was not serious, not at all. Excessive and prolonged bleeding — it was due, in your case, to that small polyp that Dr Sadek cauterized plus an emotional disturbance resulting from your own worry about it. I don’t think you need know the details. All that is important is that it has totally cleared up. The condition has been resolved. As you, yourself, said, the bleeding ceased five days ago. My examination has confirmed this. You are as good as new.’

  Inside, Vera felt as if a great weight had been removed. She felt light and wonderful. The mystery clouding her visit had been dispelled. Unprepared, she had survived this venture into the unknown. Yet, instinct told her, that while she might display pleasure that the bleeding had not been serious, she must still retain a touch of sadness over the failed pregnancy. She must be Billie Bradford.

  Vera forced a partial smile, but kept her eyes and facial expression sad. ‘I’m pleased to hear that, Dr Darly. I was concerned about the bleeding, of course.’

  “Well, have no more concern. You are just fine.’

  ‘Thank God.’

  Vera was preparing to leave, when Dr Darly’s voice held her in her seat.

  ‘One more thing,’ Dr Darly was saying, ‘one extra bonus bit of good news.’

  Vera waited, wondering what other good news could make her feel higher.

  ‘I am aware from Dr Sadek’s notes,’ Dr Darly said, ‘that

  he told you and your husband there could be no sexual contact between you for six weeks — well, that would have meant, as of today, no sex for four more weeks. But now, I’m happy to say, I can modify that restriction. Your condition is so improved that you could resume your sexual relationship almost at once - but, to play it safe, certainly in four or five — let’s say in five days. So you will soon have the opportunity to become pregnant again. That should please you.’

  Vera felt her heart trip, begin to beat hard.

  ‘Sex — in five days?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  Vera tried to appear calm. But she knew that she was coming apart. She fought to steady herself. -I - I’m very pleased. I can’t wait to - to tell my husband.’ She knew that she would never tell him about the five days. She would lie to him, maintain that they still had to wait four weeks. He must never know. Only that could save her.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said Dr Darly. ‘But I’ve already told your husband. I should have kept the surprise for you. He telephoned me just before your appointment, when you were on your way here. He couldn’t wait to learn Dr Sadek’s — or rather my - diagnosis. I told him I’d call him back after I examined you. And I did when you were getting dressed. He was a little unhappy about the pregnancy report. At the same time, he was relieved about the bleeding — and, well, frankly, delighted to hear he could resume a normal relationship with you in less than a week.’

  Vera found it difficult to speak. ‘As long as he knows,’ she said under her breath. ‘Thank you for everything, Dr Darly.’

  Thank you for nothing, you meddling stupid cunt; she thought.

  Leaving, joining her Secret Service guards, walking with them to the elevator, she suffered imbalance. She was dizzied by this unforeseen complication.

  She sank into the rear of the White House limousine as if it were a tomb. She was aware of curious pedestrians, who had recognized her, gathering around the car for a closer

  glimpse. Several waved. For the first time, she ignored them, stared grimly ahead, as the car eased away from the curb and headed for Pennsylvania Avenue.

  An icy, cold fear gripped her. Her situation had gone from bad to worse. Discovering the reason for the gynaecological examination had, for a while, seemed an insurmountable obstacle - but now she faced a far more formidable trap, an obstruction neither Alex nor the KGB had anticipated.

  Sex with the President in five days. And she had over two weeks to spend with him before the exchange and escape.

  For five years, six, seven — she could no longer remember exactly - the President had been going to bed almost daily with his Billie. He probably fucked her — or whatever the hell, he did with her - three or four times a week. In bed, together, knowing each other intimately, each knowing every protrusion and crevice of the other’s body, each knowing what the other liked and disliked. And now, Billie gone, herself in Billie’s place with that other person. It was frightening. How did Billie behave in bed? How should she behave? How much foreplay? How passive? How passionate? How aberrated? Fellatio? Cunnilingus? What to do? What to expect?

  Vera had experienced sexual relations with three men, and each of them had been individual, different, quirky in his own way. What were the President’s quirks? What were Billie’s?

  This was a nightmare.

  During her long training period, she recalled, Alex and the KGB had never ceased hunting for this one missing piece of information — Billie Bradford’s bed habits. So confident had Alex been that he would acquire the information, that he had redoubled his efforts in preparing Vera for her impersonation. But as time passed, and the International Women’s Meeting in Moscow had drawn closer, his confidence had flagged. Without the necessary information, the Second Lady Project could not proceed. All their efforts would have been wasted. Then, at the eleventh hour, their lucky break. The President had told his mistress that he and his wife could not

  engage in sexual activity for six weeks. Vera remembered the relief and exhilaration that she and Alex and Petrov had felt. With knowledge of Billie’s sexual behaviour no longer an issue, the project had become obstacle-free and ready for launching.

  Now, Vera was back where she had started from — once more requiring the knowledge that the KGB had never been able to produce — except that this moment her situation was worse then before. Because this moment she actually was Billie, with coupling time around the corner, and her ignorance total.

  As the limousine spun on to the White House grounds, the South Portico ahead, Vera’s mind centred on one picture projected in her head. Andrew Bradfor
d, naked, with a pole of an erection, closing in on her, and she, naked, stretched out before him, paralysed, waiting — for what?

  The pitfall was too enormous to grasp, to avoid, to survive.

  Without carnal knowledge, she was lost. Only the sheerest luck could save her. One false move on her part, one uncharacteristic act or response, and he would be surprised, disconcerted, suspicious. He would be questioning. He would be doubtful. He would become aware that she was not what she seemed, not the familiar bed partner he had known so long.

  You’re not Billie. Who in the hell are you?

  That could lead to the end — of the plot, of herself.

  This was not simply an emergency situation. This was an even more desperate one. Only one thing on earth mattered to her now. To find out how to handle it.

  The instant she was alone in the White House, she must contact chef Maurice or protocol chief Fred Willis. No, not them. It was the telephone she was supposed to use. Two calls to wrong numbers. Then a rescuer would appear — maybe Maurice, maybe Willis, maybe someone else. Whoever it was would pass the word to Petrov in Moscow.

  Only one question, General Petrov, only one.

  How does the First Lady of the United States fuck the President of the United States when they go to bed?

  ‘How in the hell should we know?’ General Petrov sputtered, handing the decoded inquiry from Washington DC to Alex Razin beside the desk.

  Skimming the dispatch, Razin’s expression turned from one of surprise to deep concern. This is unexpected,’ he murmured.

  ‘There is no room for the unexpected in an operation of such vital importance,’ Petrov said angrily.

  The door to Petrov’s private KGB office opened, and Colonel Zhuk, Politburo member Garanin, and the KGB’s head psychiatrist Dr Lunts trooped in, all hastily summoned to a meeting. Each greeted the KGB chairman, before taking his place. Petrov snatched the message back from Razin and glared at it.