(1980) The Second Lady

by Irving Wallace

  ‘But he’s busy.’

  ‘I’ll wait.’

  ‘Mrs White, if you’ll simply relate your business to me, I’ll see that the ambassador hears about it.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That would give us time to arrange a future appointment with him.’

  ‘No.’

  The bickering went on, but Louise White would not be deterred. In her home town, Mrs White was well known for her indomitable spirit and her fierce determination. If a ticket had to be sold, a donation for charity solicited, an endorse—

  ment sought, Mrs White was always the one given the assignment. For this very reason, the Houston Museum of Fine Arts had selected her to go to Moscow to talk the Russian minister of culture into the art loan.

  Mr Heller was no match for her. After five minutes, rather than let the confrontation develop into a heated scene, he gave up. With a sigh, he told her to wait, and went to a telephone at the reception desk. He spoke to someone in an undertone. He nodded. He hung up.

  The embassy officer returned to her. ‘Very well, Mrs White. The ambassador will see you. But he can see you only briefly. He has another appointment in five minutes. His office is on the ground floor. I’ll show you the way.’

  In no time, Louise White was seated across the desk from Ambassador Otis Youngdahl. He was a lanky, white-haired Minnesotan. His hands nervously moved and straightened papers on his glossy desk as he offered Mrs White a smile and tried to be gracious.

  ‘Well, now. What’s on your mind, Mrs White?’

  She glanced about her. ‘Are you sure we’re alone?’

  ‘Of course we’re alone.’

  ‘No, no. I mean is your office bugged?’

  The ambassador couldn’t help but grin. ‘Are you asking if the Russians have installed listening devices in this room? I seriously doubt it. But one never knows from day to day.’

  ‘Then I can’t speak to you. It would be too dangerous for me.’

  The ambassador saw that this could go on for ever, and besides he was mildly curious about what nonsense this Texas tourist woman considered so serious and private. He decided to accommodate her paranoia. All this she could guess, as he abruptly stood up. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘We have a special safe room here, a sub-room where we hold confidential conversations.’ The ambassador led Mrs White into an adjacent cubicle furnished only with a table and a half-dozen chairs. As he motioned her to be seated, he said, ‘This area is shielded from penetration by electromagnetic waves. The walls are steel-panelled with a mesh of wires inside the panels

  lit:

  to stop outside radio signals and baffle eavesdropping devices.’ He sat down opposite her. ‘Now do you feel you can speak?’

  Louise White felt a surge of excitement. She nodded, pleased. She began to explain her reason for being in Moscow. She told of her appointment with the minister of culture in the Kremlin. Early this afternoon, she had gone to the Kremlin for her meeting.

  ‘I was waiting in his reception room to see him,’ she said, ‘when it happened. It was unbelievable.’

  She paused to recall to mind the entire incident. The ambassador prodded her. ‘What was unbelievable, Mrs White? Please tell me what happened.’

  ‘I was just sitting there, alone, minding my owft business, when a youngish woman, a blonde, ran into the room, out of breath. She looked like she was running from someone, trying to find a place to hide. Then she saw me, and came right oyer. She asked me if I was an American, if I spoke English. She asked in perfect English. I told her who I was. She took hold of my arm, pleaded with me to help her. She said something like, “Soon as you leave here, go to the American embassy. Ambassador Youngdahl is a friend of mine. Tell him I’m being held prisoner in the Kremlin, Tell him somebody else is pretending to be me.” I didn’t know what to make of her when she stuck her face practically into mine and said, “Don’t you recognize me?” I looked at her, and the fact is she did resemble someone whose face I had often seen on television and in the newspaper. She said, “I’m Billie Bradford, wife of the President.” Before I could ask her more, I was called in for my appointment. That’s when she turned and hurried out of the reception room. I didn’t know what to make of it, but I had no time to think. I was busy with the minister. Afterwards, I joined my tour again. But the more I thought about her, the more I realized that she did look like Mrs Bradford. After a few hours, I decided it was my duty to report the incident to you. So here I am.’

  Ambassador Youngdahl was silent a short interval, eyeing

  her, considering her much as he might regard a person who had come off the street to tell him she had met a UFO pilot.

  Now that the story was off her chest, it seemed more unlikely than ever and Mrs White squirmed uncomfortably under his steady gaze.

  ‘Well, Mrs White,’ the ambassador said, ‘I hardly know what to make of this. When did the — the encounter with the young woman take place?’

  ‘A little before two o’clock this afternoon.’

  ‘And you thought she was the First Lady?’

  ‘She said she was.’

  ‘Well, of course, anyone could say that, as a joke, or because they were unbalanced.’

  ‘True. Bill I must admit she did look like Mrs Bradford.’

  The ambassador tilted back in his chair. ‘Have you ever met Mrs Bradford — or seen her?’

  ‘Only on television.’ Mrs White felt rattled. ‘I know this all sounds bizarre, Mr Ambassador. It was to me, too, at the time. But there she was.’

  The ambassador nodded, continuing to hold his gaze on her. ‘Uh, Mrs White, a personal question, if I may. Have you taken any medication while travelling?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Like, well, any mood-changing prescriptions?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Did you have lunch before going to the Kremlin?’

  ‘Our group did — yes —’

  ‘Were cocktails served?’

  Mrs White was affronted. She stiffened. ‘Mr Ambassador, I was perfectly sober in the Kremlin, as I am right this minute. I’m here only as an American citizen, doing my duty. Shouldn’t I have reported this?’

  ‘Oh, you did the right thing, certainly.’ The ambassador scratched his head thoughtfully and sat up straight. ‘Mrs White, I can tell you only this much. The First Lady of the United States is in London with the President. I said hello to her myself yesterday. She couldn’t come to Moscow overnight without my knowing it —’

  Mrs White interrupted him. ‘Mr Ambassador, I don’t know what more I can say. This woman, she told me she was a prisoner. She told me someone else was pretending to be her. She told me to tell you. I’ve done what had to be done, and that’s all.’

  Ambassador Youngdahl forced a weak smile. ‘And properly so,’ he said, standing. ‘It is certainly an unusual story.’ He had her by the elbow and was leading her out of the safe room and through his office. ‘I assure you, I will look into it further. I thank you for bringing this to my attention.’ From the doorway he called to his secretary. ‘You can show Mrs White out.’

  As Louise White turned to go, the look exchanged between the ambassador and his secretary was not lost on her. They were saying to each other: tourist season is cuckoo time.

  She felt angry, but by the time she was outside she felt righteous in her vigilance.

  Then she wondered who that poor lady in the Kremlin really was and what had happened to her.

  President Bradford’s personal work area in Claridge’s hotel in London consisted of a sprawling suite connected, by a small hallway, to his private suite. The work area was subdivided into a circle of offices that surrounded the roomier space serving as the President’s executive office. The most important of these satellite rooms was the one used by the President’s secretary, Dolores Martin, which had one door that led into the hotel corridor and another that led into the President’s executive office and a third that led to the other staff rooms.

  Now, in th
e late afternoon, the sole occupant of the entire work complex was Nora Judson.

  Since the President had wanted his own secretary to take notes at a meeting being held in a suite down the hall that had been converted into a conference room, Nora Judson had agreed to fill in for Dolores Martin for a few hours before having dinner with Guy Parker.

  Nora sat at Dolores’s desk, trying to. concentrate on the

  final draft of the First Lady’s schedule for tomorrow, her mind constantly drifting to Guy Parker and the deep suspicions both of them secretly shared about Billie Bradford.

  Trying to bring her mind back to Billie’s schedule, Nora heard the unmistakeable ring of the President’s special scrambler phone in his next-door office. This most likely meant a call from abroad. Nora leaped to her feet, ran through the open doorway to the President’s desk, and snatched up the receiver of the white telephone.

  ‘Hello. President Bradford’s office.’

  The voice on the other end said, ‘Billie? This is Otis in Moscow.’

  That would be Ambassador Otis Youngdahl, Nora knew, and she said hastily, ‘No, Mr Ambassador, this is Mrs Bradford’s press secretary, Nora Judson.’

  ‘Ah, Nora, fine, how are you?’

  ‘Very well, thank you. Could I -?’

  ‘Actually, Nora, I was calling the President. Is he around?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Ambassador. He’s locked up in a staff meeting. If it’s important, I can transfer your call.’

  ‘Not necessary,’ said Ambassador Youngdahl. ‘I was sitting here, after a long day, my feet on the desk, cold drink in hand, relaxing. Just wanted to chew the fat with him if he was free. Wanted to ask him how the Summit is going. But I can call him another time.’

  ‘The Summit hasn’t officially started yet. The first session begins tomorrow morning. But I’ll tell the President you called.’

  ‘Thanks, Nora, thanks. By the way, does Billie happen to be in the vicinity?’

  ‘Sorry, but she is also out. She’s attending a reception at the Boende embassy.’

  ‘Well, that’s okay, too,’ said the ambassador. ‘I just wanted to tell her something amusing that occurred today, something involving her name that would give her a kick. Hell, I can tell it to you, and you can pass it on to her when she comes in. Repeat it, just for laughs.’

  ‘Glad to.’

  Ambassador Youngdahl chuckled over the phone. ‘Tell Billie, if she knows it or not, she’s in Moscow right now, not in London. An American tourist from Houston cornered me today - forget her name, but nutty as a fruitcake - and bent my ear insisting that she saw Billie Bradford in the Kremlin this afternoon.’ He started laughing, and proceeded to relate the American tourist’s account of the woman who had burst in on her, claiming to be the First Lady, insisting that she was being held prisoner by the Soviets and that someone else was pretending to be her.

  The receiver pressed to her ear, Nora’s face had lost its colour. She listened to the ambassador with frozen fascination.

  Although they were not to meet until dinner, Nora had located Guy Parker and implored him to join her earlier for cocktails.

  They sat together now, in an isolated corner of Claridge’s lounge, Parker drinking his first drink, attentive to every word Nora was speaking.

  Nora had been repeating what Ambassador Youngdahl had told her about the American lady tourist’s encounter in the Kremlin with a woman who claimed to be Billie Bradford. Nora was finishing, speaking in a low voice with great intensity.

  ‘Then the woman who claimed to be Billie said someone else was pretending to be her, and then she ran off.’

  ‘Someone else pretending to be the First Lady? Was it put that way?’

  ‘According to Ambassador Youngdahl.’

  ‘And the woman who claimed to be Billie said she was being held prisoner in the Kremlin?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Parker downed more of his Scotch. ‘Did the ambassador treat any of it seriously?’

  ‘Not a bit,’ said Nora. ‘He thought it was funny. He kept laughing through most of it.’

  ‘How did you react to what he was telling you?’

  ‘How could I react? I finally forced myself to laugh with him. What else could I do?’

  ‘Do you intend to repeat it to our First Lady here?’

  ‘I’m not sure. On the one hand, I’d like to see how she reacts if I tell her. On the other hand, I don’t want to put her on guard in any way. What do you think, Guy? Should I tell our Billie?’

  ‘No, don’t. My instinct tells me to forget about it.’

  ‘All right.’

  Parker stared at Nora. ‘What do you honestly make of it?’

  ‘It gives me the chills.’

  Parker toyed with his glass. ‘Of course, the ambassador may be right. The Texas lady could be another tourist kook of the kind he sees all the time. Maybe the incident never happened. Or if it did happen, maybe the woman who claimed to be Billie was off her rocker, another nut. On the other hand, considering our own suspicions, if it were true, it would certainly explain a lot of things.’

  ‘A lot of things,’ Nora agreed. ‘But, Guy, how could this be true? Billie here, brainwashed, I can accept. Billie here, an imposter, just boggles my mind. How would the Russians dare to do such a thing? I mean, really, it’s difficult to imagine their even considering it.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Parker. ‘It does sound fanciful. But anything is possible. Especially in the light of our other evidence. This does support our suspicions.’

  They had finished their drinks, and Parker ordered another round.

  Nora searched Parker’s troubled countenance. ‘Guy, what can we do about it? I don’t see -‘

  ‘We can tell the President,’ he said flatly. •

  ‘The President?’ Nora was totally sceptical. ‘Go to him without hard facts? Without a shred of proof? He’d call them all cock-and-bull stories. He’d think us insane. He’d throw us out of here or put us both in the loony bin.’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe not. It depends. What if it turns out the President himself has been harbouring his own suspicions

  about Billie? This would back him up, place him on the alert.’

  ‘Guy, you can’t prove anything, not a damn thing. Meanwhile, he’s sure he has his own dear Billie, and maybe he has. If we lay this on him, when he believes in her, we lose all our credibility and his trust. And if he should repeat this to Billie, at pillow-talk time, if she is or isn’t Billie, she’d fire me on the spot. And you, too. We’d be out of it.’

  ‘Well, what are you suggesting?’ asked Parker. ‘What do we do?’

  ‘We sit tight,’ said Nora. ‘We keep an eye on her while we can. We wait for a break, another and bigger faux pas. We wait for a real fact.’

  Parker took his fresh Scotch and drank thoughtfully. He knew what had crept into his mind. Until now he had denied its entrance. It was the almost embarrassing desire to have some part in a government system that he had grown to respect and had wanted to influence and improve. It had been a motivating factor in joining Bradford’s staff, becoming one of his speech writers. He had allowed himself to be drawn away from the centre of action when he agreed to become Billie’s collaborator. He had been subverted by big money and Billie’s charm. But now he was being drawn closer to the centre again. By accident, perhaps not by accident but by a keenness of observation, he had come upon something that might be a monumental threat to a system of life he held dear. He alone would awaken the somnolent giant. If he could not improve the system, he, alone, might help preserve the best part of it. He could not voice these sentiments, he knew. They would sound like a page out of the Boy Scout handbook. Even to Nora. Grown men did not think or talk like that.

  He looked up at Nora. What had she said? We sit tight … . We wait for a break …. We wait for a real fact.

  ‘Watchful waiting is too passive for me, Nora,’ he said. ‘I think I’m going to do more than that. I think I’m going to get on our Billie�
�s tail. Wherever she goes from now on, I’m

  going to be a short step behind. I’m going to follow her like

  a guilty conscience.’

  ‘I don’t know. If you get too close, you might get hurt.’ ‘If I don’t,’ Parker said, ‘we all might get hurt.’

  The appearance of Billie Bradford, or the one who was supposed to be Billie Bradford, emerging from the elevator into the lobby of Claridge’s, was unexpected and caught Guy Parker by surprise.

  It was early afternoon of the following day, and Parker had left his claustrophobic room over an hour ago to sit in the lobby, scan the newspapers, reread some of his research, perhaps take a walk, and pass the time between one o’clock and four when he had an interview appointment with Billie.

  He had spent the morning preparing to do what he had told Nora he must do — keep an eye, a close watch, on the possibly spurious First Lady. He had rented a car, an expensive dark blue Jaguar, a fast and manouevrable vehicle that would serve him well in city traffic and on the open highway once he got the hang of the right-hand drive. He had tipped one of Claridge’s top-hatted doormen generously to reserve a parking place for him across from the Brook Street main entrance. He had then sought Nora to find out the First Lady’s afternoon schedule, and had been disappointed to learn that Billie would be going nowhere this afternoon, would be seeing no one before meeting with him at four o’clock. After that, since the President was busy, Billie would be attending a musical comedy with Penelope Heaton, wife of the British Prime Minister, and they would have a late supper together with their party at The Mirabelle in Curzon Street. Wherever Billie went tonight, Parker knew that he would not be far behind.

  Meanwhile, there had been nothing to do in the afternoon

  but try to occupy the dull hours ahead until he worked with her. So he had been lolling in the lobby, reading, when he had just happened to glance up and see her leave the elevator.

  It was really a surprise to see Billie Bradford alone, unaccompanied by her Secret Service men. He wondered how she had managed it, and then realized that it could be done, indeed had been done, quite easily. By traversing part of the maze of interlocking suites that wound around the first floor, she could avoid the Secret Service agents posted in the corridor, climb to the second floor, and take the elevator from there. That she did not want to be recognized or harassed was obvious. Her trademark tresses had been hidden inside a round wide-brimmed felt hat. Oversized dark sunglasses masked the upper part of her face, and the lower part was partially covered by the raised collar of a linen jacket. The camouflage might fool some people. It did not fool Guy Parker.