(1980) The Second Lady

by Irving Wallace

  The hotel manager, in tails, had guided the President and his wife from the ground floor up the carpeted stairs to the first floor. He directed them to the immediate left. ‘Of course, you have the Royal Suite,’ he had informed the President.

  In the entry hall of the corner suite, the manager had been

  eager to show her about their quarters. Tired as she was, Vera followed him. The entry hall led to the dining room, straight ahead, and to the living room to the right. They went into the dining room. The manager tapped the oval table. ‘Regency,’ he said. ‘There are eight chairs. You may have more if you desire.’ He indicated the brown double doors with gilt doorknobs behind him. ‘These lead to a rather large adjoining suite of three bedrooms and two sitting rooms. We converted it into offices before your arrival, Mr President. When you have time to inspect it, you will find a small vestibule that leads into a sitting room which we have divided into a series of small offices, including one for your personal secretary. This leads into another sitting room which has been designated as your private office. The bedrooms in the suite, of course, have also been made into offices. Now, if you’ll follow me, I’ll show you your personal quarters.’

  An opposite set of double doors, standing open, gave them access to the sitting room of the Royal Suite. It was magnificent, Vera could see. At her feet, soothing green carpeting. Above, a Wedgwood white ceiling with a single chandelier. She scanned the room. Armchairs, one red, one green. A curved green sofa, shielding an old, light brown grand piano, ‘once owned by D’Oyly Carte, producer for Gilbert and Sullivan as well as chairman of our Savoy Group’, the manager had explained. Floor-length windows would brighten the area in daytime. Vera’s eyes continued to roam across the flower-filled room, held on a Victorian desk holding two telephones, moved to a white fireplace topped by a mirror. The manager was opening a brown door next to the fireplace. ‘If you please, the bedroom.’

  Vera preceded the President with trepidation. Two twin beds nestled side by side, each with its bedstand and lamp, one stand holding two grey telephones, the other a single phone. The footboards of the bed were one. The bedroom was pleasant, green shell-decorated ceiling and walls. A love seat. A gracious dressing table with two white lamps and a triple mirror. On the table rested a tray holding a bucket of

  ice and champagne and glasses. The President tested a bed and approved. Vera tried to smile.

  Ahead, the bathroom, huge by any standard. All marble and more marble. In an alcove a bidet across from the toilet. In an opposite alcove, a graceful bathtub with inlaid trim. In between, a double sink. Tiberius would have been at home here, Vera decided.

  ‘I hope everything is to your satisfaction,’ the manager had said, ready to take his leave.

  ‘Beautiful,’ Vera had replied. ‘Thank you.’

  She had meant it, but the beauty did not alleviate the uneasiness that adhered to her.

  The manager’s parting words had been to the President. ‘I remind you, your party will be occupying the rest of the first floor.’

  After that, the President had wanted to see his personal office, and then left Vera to inspect the entire first floor, to make certain everything had been properly arranged and that the members of his staff were well situated. By midnight, with Sarah’s help, Vera had unpacked, and shortly after finishing she and the President had gone to sleep, she restlessly. That had been yesterday.

  Most of this day, while the President stayed behind to confer with his advisers, Vera had devoted to a scheduled sightseeing tour of London conducted by their British hosts. A great deal of it - the British Museum, Westminster Abbey, a brief pause outside the Dorchester Hotel (where the Soviet delegation was housed), the Tower of London - was supposed to be familiar to Billie Bradford from her visit here as a student, and stay here as a public relations representative. Vera had been forced to pretend nostalgia. But it had been all new to her and had diverted the dark thoughts in her mind.

  As Sarah had helped her dress in their Claridge’s bedroom for the formal dinner, Vera kept visualizing the cosy twin beds as her Waterloo, and her moodiness returned. Soon, in the official Humber, seated between the President and the secretary of state for foreign and commonwealth affairs, the

  dapper, prattling, Right Honourable Ian Enslow, she had tried to be attentive to the historic sights Enslow was pointing out and explaining to them.

  Now, their limousine turned into the wide vista of Whitehall. ‘Just ahead to the left, on the corner, the three-storey brown building with the black metal, grilled fence at the front of the museum entrance, that’s the Banqueting House,’ Enslow was saying. ‘We’ll be turning into Horse Guards Avenue. A rather unprepossessing side entrance is used for major social affairs. The grounds behind the building are used for parking and the caterer’s trucks - oddly, the Banqueting House has no kitchen. But the food, I promise you, will be first-rate.’ They were wheeling into Horse Guards Avenue when Enslow exclaimed, ‘Good heavens, the crowd! All of London and Fleet Street must be here waiting for the main attraction - you, Mr President, and your beautiful First Lady.’

  They had come to a stop at the aisle formed by two rows of Metropolitan police extending to the plain door. The great throng of spectators, held back a short distance by a secondary line of helmeted bobbies, surged forward for a better look at the international celebrities. The British first secretary had stepped out of the car and was assisting Vera. A dozen photographers, holding their cameras over the shoulders of the police, were aiming their lenses at Vera. Vera parted her mink coat so that the imploring photographers could have shots of her gold lame gown. Andrew Bradford emerged from the car, stood beside her briefly to allow the photographers to do their jobs, and then both followed Enslow toward the entrance to the seventeenth-century Banqueting House.

  Passing through a small green entry decorated with floral arrangements, Vera found herself in a lobby beside a pedestal that held a bronze bust of James I. While the men removed their topcoats and Vera gave up her mink to cloakroom attendants, Enslow indicated the broad stone staircase leading up to the hall of the Banqueting House.

  With Vera between the men, they started their ascent.

  ‘You’ve never been here?’ Enslow was saying. ‘Quite an impressive old barn. Originated by Henry VIII for Anne Boleyn. Built and rebuilt many times. However, the basic Banqueting Hall was created by Inigo Jones — a jolly genius, that one - for James I. I don’t expect you’ll have much time to look around, but if you do - well, now - don’t miss the Rubens paintings on the ceiling. Nine panels in all, commissioned by King Charles when Rubens was here in London on a diplomatic mission. The entire hundred-foot hall has been repainted and remodelled for tonight’s happy occasion. Here we are on the landing. Now, let’s look in. The PM is waiting for this reunion, and the Russian Premier is already here.’

  Caught between the British security officers who had formed a wedge ahead and the American Secret Service behind, Vera tried to maintain her balance and poise as they hurried through the hall doorway into the portion of the Stuart hall that had been partitioned off from the actual banquet hall to serve as a reception room. Vera passed between the giant white pillars on either side, heard the orchestra playing from the balustraded balcony overhead, and suddenly found herself surrounded by people.

  Their host and hostess, Prime Minister Heaton, a smile pressed into his round bland face, and his elegant wife, taller than him by a head, were waiting. Vera remembered that she was supposed to have met them last summer, at a White House garden party for the pair. Vera sought to recall Alex’s briefings. Heaton was Harrow, Balliol College, Tory, the Carlton Club, sherry, The Times. They were shaking hands, Heaton breathing in her ear his enjoyment of that garden party and his pleasure at having her here in London.

  The place was swarming with guests, and the decibel level was that of 300 chattering magpies. Clutching her beaded purse and the President’s arm, Vera was drawn into the crowd of formally attired guests by Enslow. Every few st
eps there were introductions, and the corners of her mouth and the ridges of her cheeks hurt from constant smiling, from having to appear interested and attentive. The most important introduction, the one over which they lingered longest, was to Premier Kirechenko and his wife Ludmila. The Russian Premier, Vera noted, did not look very proletarian tonight. His long aristocratic face, rimless spectacles, neat pointed beard, and tailcoat gave him the appearance of a wealthy Czarist minister. His rotund wife, in her terrible silk organza, looked fatter than ever. Vera had to alert her mind that as First Lady Billie Bradford she had never met Premier Kirechenko before and that she had become acquainted with Ludmila at the Moscow Women’s Meeting recently. The President and Premier, she saw, struck it off immediately. She and Ludmila had little to say, since Ludmila spoke only a few words of broken English and Billie Bradford was supposed to have no knowledge of Russian. A heavy-set man with a potato nose and dark blue suit loomed up beside Ludmila and laughingly she introduced him in Russian. As Billie, Vera lifted her shoulders helplessly, not understanding, but as Vera the introduction had told her the proprietary man was Yankovich, one of their personal bodyguards, obviously KGB.

  Soon Vera and the President were continuing through the jam of guests. Most introductions were fleeting and only fleetingly remembered. One made an impression. Vera met Mwami Kibangu, the President of the African nation of Boende. She knew, from her indoctrination in Moscow, that he was merely a capitalist tool. But the small, dignified black man proved intelligent, clever, humorous. Vera could not help but like him. As she prepared to leave him, she said with a twinkle, ‘Now I must meet Nwapa — where is he?’ Both Kibangu and Bradford laughed, and Bradford put his arm around Vera and said in a half-whisper, ‘Shh, officially Nwapa does not exist - but he’s what this dinner party is all about.’

  Shortly after, the President had been drawn away from her to meet some British cabinet minister, and Vera found herself alone in the crowd. From a liveried waiter, she accepted a glass of white wine, then stepped over to a table to have some caviar.

  As she did so, she noticed, out of a corner of her eye, that Ludmila Kirechenko was also alone, and had moved to a remote corner of the room to sit down on a love seat, probably because her feet were tired. It was a rare opportunity, Vera realized. She apparently had not been able to impress the KGB with the fact that her lack of knowledge about the sex life of the President and Billie was imperilling the entire project. Here was a chance to go over the head of the KGB straight to the rulers of the country. An anxious word to Mrs Kirechenko would bring the matter to the immediate attention of the Premier, who in turn would put pressure on Petrov either to help her at once or abandon the project. Yes, she told herself, it was the thing to do.

  She veered away from the table of hors d’oeuvres and went rapidly through the milling guests to the person who could save her. She plumped down on the love seat next to Mrs Kirechenko, who seemed startled, then pleased. Vera cast about her to be sure that they were alone. They were, at least for the moment.

  Vera pushed closer to the Premier’s wife. ‘I need your help,’ she whispered. ‘Please tell your husband - I -‘ -She broke off what she was saying. She remembered that Mrs Kirechenko understood hardly a word of English. Quickly, Vera slipped into Russian. She began to explain her plight to the Premier’s wife.

  Before Vera could speak two sentences, Mrs Kirechenko bent toward her worriedly and interrupted. ‘Do not speak Russian,’ she cautioned. ‘You do not know Russian. It is dangerous.’

  Abruptly, the Premier’s wife rose, left Vera, and became lost in the crowd.

  Vera sat forlorn. Mrs Kirechenko had been right, of course. People in trouble did desperate things. Vera felt abandoned, and commiserated with herself. Then she realized someone had been behind the love seat, the KGB bodyguard Yankovich, who must have stationed himself there protectively when the two women had begun talking. She flashed

  him a foolish smile, but already his back was turned to her as he started to follow and stay with the Premier’s wife.

  Vera saw that the assembled guests were moving toward the doors that had been opened to the banquet hall. She saw her husband, standing in line with Kibangu, beckoning to her. She hastened to join them. The President, between Kibangu and herself, continued toward the double doors.

  In an undertone, Bradford said to Vera, ‘Quite a picture, the Soviet First Lady and the American First Lady cozily together on the love seat. What did you two talk about?’

  ‘I haven’t the faintest idea,’ said Vera. ‘It was hopeless. She knows about as much English as I know Russian. I wonder what she was saying?’

  The President grinned. ‘I suppose we’ll find out eventually.’ He dropped his voice. ‘We have agents planted in that room, as I am sure they have. That’s the game.’

  Vera felt a flush of excitement as they went through the doors into the banquet hall. ‘You mean we have an agent in there? Posing as a Russian? Working for us? Oh, Andrew, I don’t believe you at all.’

  Still grinning, he spoke under his breath. ‘Look over your shoulder. The Russian with the flat hair and big nose. The one talking to the Premier’s missus. Can you see him?’

  She looked over her shoulder. She saw Yankovich having a last word with Mrs Kirechenko.

  ‘You — you mean the Russian bodyguard?’

  ‘Only he’s not,’ Bradford whispered. ‘British MI6 planted him years ago. Now, let’s forget it. Let’s have dinner.’

  Vera was engulfed with a wave of horror.

  She had spoken to Mrs Kirechenko in Russian. She — the American First Lady who knew no Russian — had actually spoken in Russian, unaware that a British agent had come up behind her and might have overheard her words. What a fool she had been, what an unbelievable blunder she had committed. If Yankovich reported it to the British, she was dead. It could be a fatal error.

  She glanced over her shoulder again. Yankovich was parting from Mrs Kirechenko.

  ‘Here we are,’ she heard her husband say. He was holding out her chair for her. She sat down trembling, trying to think how to salvage her perilous situation. Prime Minister Heaton was to her left, directing a wine steward. To her right, the President was already engaged in conversation with Kibangu. Ignoring the Scotch salmon mousse set before her, she knew that she must act at once to avert disaster.

  Unobtrusively as possible, Vera pushed back her chair, slipped out of it, and raising the hem of her gold gown a few inches, hastened back to the reception room. Except for a few stragglers lined up to enter the banquet hall, the room was empty. Then, to the left, she saw Yankovich heading towards the landing and the staircase. Wildly upset, she sought someone who might save her. Vera ran her eyes over the stragglers in line, and her gaze fell on Petrov’s aide, KGB Colonel Zhuk.

  She tried to remain calm as she approached him. Their eyes met. Her head made a slight signal, entreating him to follow her. She started for the door to the landing. She knew Colonel Zhuk had fallen out of line and was following her. As she reached the door to the landing, Colonel Zhuk darted in front of her and gallantly held it open.

  It had to be casual and distant, she knew. She was the American First Lady and he a Russian security leader, someone she hardly knew.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said softly. ‘The one going down the stairs, leaving the building —’

  ‘Yankovich?’

  ‘A British agent,’ she said with a smile. ‘He overhead me speak Russian to Mrs Kirechenko.’

  ‘British agent? You are sure?’

  ‘The President told me.’

  Colonel Zhuk smiled back at her, but his eyes were cruel. ‘Go back inside. Show no agitation. I’ll handle this - if it is not too late.’

  As she turned away, she saw Colonel Zhuk descending the stairway in great haste.

  The orchestra in the banquet hall had just stopped playing when she returned to her seat, feeling conspicuous. The second she settle into place, Prime Minister Heaton, who had been listening to an inter
preter speaking for Mrs Kirechenko on the other side of him, nodded, and rose to propose a toast. Vera turned her head. Her husband’s eyes were on her, and he was frowning.

  What came after that, she would have no memory of later.

  The next few hours - the meal, with its borscht, its cold saddle of lamb, the conversation, the music - all had passed in a blur. She reacted to everything like an automaton. Her momentous blunder, her self-recrimination, played over and over in her head. This had become the big fear, the immediacy of exposure superseding her dread about the sex encounter. The sex thing was three nights away. But Yankovich was now, tonight.

  The banquet seemed to last for ever. Vera was oblivious to most of it.

  At last, some time before one o’clock in the morning, they were back in the privacy of their Claridge’s hotel suite. No sooner were they alone in the bedroom, even before Vera could remove her mink coat, than the President turned on her.

  ‘What in the hell were you up to?’ the President barked. His handsome face was blotched with anger. Vera had heard about his occasional eruptions of temper. She had been briefed on them. But she had not seen one before, and she was taken by surprise.

  ‘I - I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘You damn well know what I mean,’ he snapped, yanking off his bow tie. ‘Walking out on us at the very start of the dinner. Just walking out, disappearing. You’ve never done that one before. It was a terrible display of bad manners. It’s just not done, especially with the British.’

  ‘I couldn’t help it, Andrew,’ she stammered. ‘I - I had to go to the bathroom.’

  ‘You’d just been to the bathroom before we got there.’

  She tried to collect herself. ‘Not that. I suddenly felt ill.

  nauseated. I had to pull myself together. I guess there was too much excitement.’

  He had thrown aside his formal jacket. ‘You could have managed,’ he said. She could see that the steam had gone out of him, and his mind was already on something else.