(1980) The Second Lady

by Irving Wallace

  Billie sat pinned down, frightened by what she had dared do, by her failure, by her helplessness.

  Mirksy’s face was closer, while Dogel watched with no expression at all.

  Mirsky said, ‘I must ask certain questions. I must have your answer. You will answer.’

  Billie offered no response.

  ‘Questions,’ Mirsky said. ‘I must find who was - how say? — involved — involved with you in this escape? We seŁ the floor of kitchen. We see your map, a good map. Who helped you, showed you the way, where to go? Who was the one to accomplice you? Is there CIA agent here in Kremlin?’ He paused, ‘Who was your help?’

  Billie shook her head, compressed her lips.

  Mirsky straightened, waited. ‘You do not tell us, we do not leave. You tell, we go.’

  She would not answer.

  Mirsky said, ‘We know you are big person. We do not care. To us you are small. You understand? If you do not give the truth, we take it from you. We make you tell. Who was your help?’

  ‘No one,’ she said defiantly.

  ‘You lie!’ Mirsky’s fists knotted. His features had become menacing. ‘One more chance. We are busy. Now — who?’

  ‘No one,’ she repeated.

  ‘Whore liar!’ he bellowed, his right arm swinging at her, the back of his hand hitting her across the cheek.

  Stung, choking, she gasped, ‘No — don’t —’

  ‘I say yes, you speak!’ His rough flat palm whipped across

  her face, then slashed back, his knuckles hitting her in the mouth. She moaned, almost falling over with the chair. Her tongue tasted blood. Tears began to well.

  Through her moist eyes, she saw the front door behind them open. She could make out Alex Razin.

  Mirsky had drawn back his hand to strike her again, when Razin roared out a word in Russian. Mirsky whirled about, stiffened. Razin rushed at him, shoved him aside. ‘What in the hell is going on here?’ Razin yelled.

  ‘She tried to escape,’ Mirsky said sullenly. ‘We have orders -‘

  ‘The only orders come from me,’ snapped Razin. ‘I am the one in charge. No one else. Now release her.’ Mirsky tried to protest. ‘But —’

  ‘At once,’ demanded Razin. ‘Do you want me to call General Petrov? Take off those damn handcuffs. Untie her.’

  Against their will, the two KGB guards obeyed. Mirsky went behind her to unlock the handcuffs. Dogel got down on his knees to undo the strap. Freed, Billie began to slump forward, but Razin caught her before she could fall. Over his shoulder, he said, ‘Now, you fools, get out of here.’

  Mirsky uttered one more token protest. ‘But the commandant of the Kremlin guards —’ ‘Get out!’ Razin bawled.

  With as much dignity as they could muster, Mirsky and Dogel backed off and swiftly left the room.

  Alone with Billie, Razin examined her face. Her eyes were closed. Blood was still trickling down her chin from her mouth. Razin got an arm around her back, another under her knees, and he lifted her off the chair and carried her into the bedroom. Gently, he placed her on the bed. He examined her face more carefully, his fingers probing inside her mouth to locate the source of her bleeding. Having found the cut on her inner lip, he went into the bathroom, gathered a bottle of alcohol to use as an antiseptic and a box of cotton swabs. He brought them to the table beside the bed. Using wet cotton, he wiped the blood from her cheeks and chin. Then, partially raising her, he removed her jacket, unbuttoned her blouse and pulled it off, and washed the remaining blood from her throat and chest down to her brassiere. After that, he worked his way on to the bed, until her head was in his lap. He relocated the lip cut, and stayed the bleeding with a swab of cotton. Finally, he applied alcohol to the laceration.

  Cradling her head in one arm, Razin began to rock her back and forth. Her eyes gradually opened. ‘You’re all right now, Billie,’ he said. ‘Thanks to you. When they caught me, I was so scared. They were hurting me -‘

  ‘It’s over with, Billie. No more hurting you. I won’t let them. There’s nothing to be afraid of from now on. You have my word.’

  Her arms reached up and around him. She clung to him. ‘You are so kind. Without you, I don’t know what would happen to me.’ She drew herself closer, huddling against his chest. ‘My escape, it was close - but they found out.’

  ‘I heard,’ he said. ‘I came right over. No one will harm you again.’ ‘You promise?’ ‘I promise.’

  Her hands sought his head, brought it down close, and she pressed her bruised lips to his out of gratefulness and relief. His lips held on hers as he began to kiss her. He caressed her bare shoulders.

  Because she was so alone, so afraid, so grateful, she responded to his tenderness, touching his face, stroking it. He drew her against him, his fingers gliding across her back. One finger touched the hook of her bra, releasing it. The bra loosened, and he lifted half of it away. The rising curve of a soft white breast, with its large circular pink nipple, was fully exposed.

  T love you, Billie,’ he murmured from deep in his throat. His head dipped down, his tongue seeking her nipple. ‘Oh, no,’ she groaned, her arms tightening around him. ‘I need you, Alex, I need you, but please —’ Her nipple had grown to a point, and his mouth covered

  it, as his free hand moved down to her waist, reached the zipper of her skirt, pulled down the fastener. Now his fingers had the elastic top of her bikini panties. He was pushing them down.

  She was breathing in gasps now, when she felt his fingers reach her pubic hair. That instant, she came to her senses, wrenching free of him, trying to sit up, grabbing for his arm. She clutched his arm, and tried to pull it away. ‘No, Alex, please don’t. I’ve never done this. I can’t.’ His arm was still. He searched her eyes. T mean it,’ she whispered. T can’t do this. I’m so grateful to you, but don’t go on.’

  Slowly, he removed his hand. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘You know how I feel about you,’ she said hastily. ‘It’s just that -‘

  ‘Never mind,’ he said, separating himself from her and rising to his feet. ‘I’ll see that you are never threatened again. There was a mix-up. The Kremlin’s KGB officer probably did not know you were a special case, and that we are solely in charge. Can I get you a drink?’ ‘No.’

  ‘Then let me look in on the Kremlin officer. I’ll be back to see that you’re all right, before I go.’ ‘Thank you, Alex.’

  After he had departed, Billie half sat up against the backboard of the bed, trying to sort out what had happened between Alex and herself. She looked down at her loose bra, open skirt. How had she permitted him to go this far? No, it had not been sex hunger, body hunger, although for a few heated moments there she had been carried away. It could only have been that she owed a debt, a big one, and wanted to repay him and maintain his goodwill. After all, he had risked his own life by helping her in the escape attempt. He had prevented her from being beaten and tortured short minutes ago. He, alone, was her only ally in this terrible place. She owed him so much. She had wanted to give him something back, some show of affection. When she had tried to do so, he had misread her gesture. Being a man, a human,

  he had wanted her entirely. This was understandable. Briefly, she had lost her control, that and not wanting to disappoint him. Yet, in the end, she could not give herself to him. She simply could not.

  She considered Alex Razin. He was a decent man. There was no doubt about that. He had not forced himself upon her, pressed her to submit. This very minute he was with the Kremlin commandant to ensure her safety. Once he gave the order, no one would harm her again.

  Suddenly another thought surfaced. Who was Razin to go to an officer on duty in the Kremlin and give him an order? Who was Razin to countermand the instructions given to the KGB guards who had been punishing her?

  What had Razin said as he left the room? You are a special case… we are solely in charge. We?

  Petrov and himself? But Petrov was a general and the chairman of the KGB for all the Soviet Union. Razin was merely a
civilian interpreter. What gave Razin such power? Who was he, truly?

  Her eyes fell on his sports jacket, hanging over the back of a chair. Before going to the bathroom to obtain alcohol and cotton, he had removed his jacket. A short time ago, leaving to see the Kremlin commandant, he had left his jacket behind and gone in shirt-sleeves. He would return soon to retrieve his jacket and to make sure she was all right.

  Meanwhile there was his jacket. Perhaps it carried the key to his identity.

  She came off the bed, her jaw and cheek throbbing, catching at the waistband of her skirt before it dropped. She ran the zipper up it. She slipped the brassiere cup over her naked breast and hooked the brassiere behind. Thoughtfully, she slipped her blouse on and tucked the bottom inside her skirt. All the while, her gaze remained on his jacket.

  At last, she stepped over to the chair, dug one hand into a side pocket of his jacket. A comb, a pen, a loose button. Then the other pocket. A package of cigarettes, a lighter. She drew back one part of his coat. The inner breast pocket was

  bulging. She fished into it and pulled out his worn brown leather wallet.

  She held it, wondering whether she would find out more about him and whether she really wanted to know. She decided that she did want to know. In the currency compartment there were roubles, high denomination bills. She unbuttoned the flap that covered a half-dozen cards encased in plastic. She began to flip them. One card, two, three, four, all in Cyrillic, incomprehensible. Next, a snapshot, a picture — of herself! She was astounded. What madness. She brought the wallet and photograph up closer. A waist-length picture of herself, all familiar except — except — except the embroidered peasant blouse. She did not own such a blouse. At once, the truth struck her, jarred her. This was not herself. This was her double, her actress double now posing as Billie Bradford in London. She studied the picture. Aside from the strange blouse, the woman was her exact likeness. And it made sense, being in Razin’s wallet. He had admitted from the start working with her double. He probably loved the double, or else why keep het photo in his wallet? She reconsidered his attempt to make love to her — had he regarded Billie as a surrogate for his real love?

  More slowly, she examined the remaining three cards. Unreadable. Only the heading of the last card, over a passport-sized photo of Razin, suggested something familiar. She tried to remember where she had seen that heading, the lettering, the Cyrillic initials before. She thought backwards, to her first meeting with Petrov. He had shown her his ID card, and had identified the initials as standing for KGB.

  Here were the very same initials on the card from Alex Razin’s wallet.

  The Russian history and guide books Nora had given her had spelled it out in English. Komitet Gosudarstvennoi Be-zopasnosti -KGB-KGB.

  No more mystery. Alex Razin was an out-and-out KGB agent. The rotten bastard. Hastily, she closed his wallet and stuffed it back into the

  inner pocket of his sports jacket. Blindly, she sought her package of cigarettes, found it, took one, lighted it, and sat down on the side of the bed to think.

  It wasn’t easy, thinking. She was still suffering aftershock from the full realization of Razin’s identity. Finally, clarity came, and with it all the recent events during her imprisonment fell into place. Reality was hard to accept, but the truth of what had happened could not be denied.

  So — Alex Razin, her benefactor, her friend, the half-American boy, the mild, sympathetic interpreter, was a KGB agent along with the worst of them. He had been the buffer against Petrov. He had tried to help her escape. He had protected her from being punished by the brutal KGB. But it had all been a vast charade.

  Billie had seen enough films, read enough novels, to know the Good Cop and the Bad Cop routine. General Petrov had played the Bad Cop. To frighten her. Razin had played the Good Cop. To protect her and win her confidence. The escape had been the climactic part of the script, to make her believe in Razin completely, to soften her.

  But to what end?

  Her mind paraded possible motives, and fastened on one. If everything else had come clear, the motive was crystal clear. Billie’s double in London, the Soviet imposter, the Second Lady, was in deep trouble. Her double knew everything about her except one fact, now the most vital fact. As long as the KGB had thought there was to be no sex during the Second Lady plot, there had been no problem. But now that a doctor had said Billie could resume sexual activity with Andrew in a few days, there was panic on the Russian side. That was the one area that the KGB knew nothing about. The performance of the Bradfords in bed was a closed book to them. Unless their Second Lady could be told what to expect from the President in bed, and what the President would expect from her, their whole plot would go down the drain.

  The KGB’s only hope of learning about Billie Bradford’s sexual behaviour was to learn this from Billie Bradford,

  herself. Yet, how did they actually expect to learn this from her?

  All at once, she realized what they hoped to do.

  Her face tightened with determination. Never, she told herself, never in a million years would she let them find out.

  How she behaved in bed with Andrew or any man? Never, never, never would they get the slightest hint.

  Which gave her one bright hope — that her double would handle herself wrongly in bed, that Andrew would become suspicious of his so-called wife, that he would get the truth out of her and expose the whole KGB operation.

  But then, thinking about it, that hope dimmed. Without knowledge, the Second Lady might play it wrong. At the same time, dammit, she might play it right and go on in triumph. It was fifty-fifty.

  Yet, there was another hope. She had almost forgotten. Now, remembering, her heart lifted. The pudgy woman she’d run into in that reception room, when she had been trying to escape. That poor bewildered Mrs White from Houston, the museum woman from Texas. Billie had begged her, perhaps unclearly, to go to the American ambassador in Moscow and repeat what Billie had told her. The question was — would she go?

  It was late afternoon in Moscow, and still warm, and Mrs Louise White, of Houston, Texas, was perspiring after all the walking and activity during this strange day.

  She halted on Tchaikovsky Street - such a romantic name — to consult her guidebook once more. Yes, the guidebook reassured her, she was on the right street. The address of the American embassy in Moscow was 19/23 Tchaikovsky Street. She realized that her destination could not be far away. She resumed walking.

  Louise White had every reason to feel happy, yet she felt oddly disturbed. She had come to the Soviet Union on a charter flight with a group of art patrons, landing in Leningrad. The visit to the Hermitage had been a memorable experience. Yet, sightseeing had not been the sole purpose

  of Mrs White’s tour. Actually, she had been sent on a mission. The primary purpose of her trip was to meet with the minister of culture of the USSR in the Kremlin in Moscow. She was to discuss with him the possibility of obtaining a loan of thirty French Impressionist paintings in possession of the Soviet Union for exhibition in an important show the Houston Museum of Fine Arts was mounting in a year’s time. The minister of culture had proved amiable and recep1 tive, had promised to take it up with his superiors and have an answer for her a month from now.

  For Louise White, it had been a successful and heady meeting, marred only by the peculiar incident in the minister’s reception room. Leaving the Kremlin, she had decided to forget the encounter with the frenzied woman and her improbable claim that she was American’s First Lady. Mrs White had rejoined her tour group, determined to enjoy her brief stay in Moscow, but somehow she had lost interest in the sights. The incident in the Kremlin nagged at her. The blonde woman who had burst in on her in the minister’s reception room had resembled Billie Bradford. The woman had implored Mrs White to see the American ambassador for her. She had seemed desperate. Crazy or not, the woman’s request did deserve attention. At last, Mrs White decided that, even if she was making a fool of herself, she must report the in
cident to the ambassador.

  After being instructed in the use of a Russian telephone by her Intourist guide, Louise White had broken away from her tour group. She had found the telephone number of the American embassy in her guide book. She had located a telephone kiosk and dialled 252-00-11, after depositing a 2 kopek coin. When her call was answered, she had asked to speak to Ambassador Youngdahl about an urgent matter. Instead, she had been switched to an embassy staff officer, a Mr Heller. She had introduced herself, again invoked the fact that this was an urgent matter she must discuss with the ambassador. Mr Heller had told her to come and see him, and had given her directions to the embassy.

  In five minutes, Mrs White had reached the American

  embassy. It had been described to her as a nine-storey yellow-brick building, the windows protected by aluminium screens and the roof crowned with a maze of antennae and wires. She double-checked the address in her guidebook. This was it. Starting for the front door, she was intercepted by one of two armed KGB guards. Proudly, she displayed her United States passport. One guard looked at her passport photograph, looked at her and, satisfied, waved her on.

  At the front door, she pressed the buzzer, was aware that she was undergoing scrutiny by means of a visual monitoring system. A hollow voice came through a speaker requesting her name, citizenship, business. She patiently replied. She was told to wait. After a minute, perhaps two, the front door swung open.

  Mrs White stepped inside. A tall, thin, somewhat distracted young man in a tan suit met her and introduced himself as Mr Heller. If she would follow him to his office, they could discuss her ‘urgent matter’. Mrs White firmly stood her ground.

  ‘I’m here to see the ambassador only,’ she said.

  Mr Heller, with the air of one who knew his guest was going to be difficult, said to her as nicely as possible, ‘I’m afraid that’s impossible on such short notice, Mrs White. Ambassador Youngdahl is tied up with important appointments the rest of the afternoon.’

  ‘What I have to tell him may be more important.’