(1980) The Second Lady

by Irving Wallace

  Hastily, he stuffed his research into his briefcase, bounded to his feet, and, keeping a short distance between them, he followed her out into Brook Street. As she made for the doorman, Parker passed behind her and strode swiftly toward the corner of Davies Street, then crossed over to his car.

  He was in the Jaguar, swinging it out of the parking slot, just as he saw the flash of her leg disappear into the rear of a taxicab. Slowly, the taxi began to roll away. Impatiently, Parker waited for another car to come between them, and then he followed.

  Her taxi turned right into Bond Street, right again into Bruton Street, and soon left into Berkeley Square. Parker did not have the faintest idea where she was going, but from her route it appeared her destination was somewhere in the West End. There was no difficulty tracking her through Fitzmaur-ice Place into Gurzon Street, except for the change of traffic lights. Twice he had been forced to jump lights to keep her taxi in view.

  Along the way, driving, he saw the posters holding the

  lit

  Evening News and Evening Standard with their bold headlines about the opening of the American—Soviet Summit.

  The Summit Conference had convened at the Soviet embassy this morning. Parker had heard a preliminary report on the first session from the President’s press secretary, Tim Hibberd, at lunch. President Bradford had outlined a mutual nonintervention pact - no troops, advisers, weapons to be exported to any African nation by the United States or the Soviet Union. Premier Kirechenko had countered with his own version of such a pact. In principle, he had agreed to the proposal of no troops being sent to an African country by either major power. However, he had objected to any limitation on exporting weapons. He had insisted that some African nations required weapons for self-defence against more aggressive neighbours. Neither side had mentioned Boende by name.

  To Parker’s mind, the Russian posture seemed to be a stalling one. But stalling for what? There was one far-fetched answer. If Billie Bradford was not what she appeared to be, if she was — incredibly — a Soviet imposter, then Kirechenko had a reason to stall. He could be waiting for information on the President’s secret plans from the Russian-made First Lady or from a brainwashed real Billie Bradford. The audacity of such a Soviet undertaking was what made his projection seem impossible.

  Peering over the wheel of his Jaguar, Parker could see the taxicab veer to the right off Piccadilly to Hyde Park Corner and continue on to Grosvenor Crescent. The car between them had peeled off, and Parker had to take care not to get too close to the rear of the First Lady’s cab. Another turn past some kind of private park and they were in Belgrave Square. The taxi circled the roundabout, slowing, and Parker, doggedly following, slowed too.

  The taxi eased into a short two-way thoroughfare called Motcomb Street, and about a third of the way up Parker could see the driver point to the entrance of an arcade that bore the lettering HALKIN ARCADE, and the First Lady nodding. Since there was apparently too much traffic to let her

  out in the middle of the street, the driver went on, then turned left into the intersecting Kinnerton Street, pulled to the left and stopped. Parker went wide of the parked taxi, crawled ahead of it by fifty feet and drew up against the curb. He shut off the Jaguar’s engine and looked behind him. He could make out the First Lady paying the driver, waving off the change. As the rear door opened, and Billie stepped down to the sidewalk, Parker pocketed his car keys and opened his own door. She was striding toward the corner, back to Motcomb Street, and waiting to cross it. Parker started after her, and when she glanced around, he turned his back and pretended to study the window display of a shop bearing the sign QUALITY IRONMONGERS. When he looked in her direction again, she was crossing the street. He went after her fast.

  From the corner, he could see her heading for the opening to the arcade. Dodging the traffic as he crossed to the other side, he wondered where she was going in this wealthy patch of Belgravia. He saw her disappear into the arcade, and he broke into a trot before she got out of sight altogether. Reaching the Halkin Arcade entrance, he squinted inside. The interior was lined with exclusive shops, rows of square white wooden planters outside, with glass lanterns above providing illumination. He picked up Billie at the midway point, just as she had reached her destination. He watched her open a shop door and enter.

  When she was out of sight, he hastily went into the arcade to learn where she had gone. Approaching the shop she had entered, he proceeded cautiously. He must not be discovered by her. If he was, there would be no explanation. At last, he could make out the elegant storefront. The show window of the shop was framed in gold. A filmy powder-blue gown was on display. Above the window, against an oblong block of black onyx, the gold lettering read: LADBURY OF LONDON. He stared at the shop front.

  Ladbury.

  He had seen Ladbury in the White House last week, when the English dress designer and his assistant had come to

  deliver Billie’s new wardrobe and make their final fittings and alterations.

  What was Billie doing with him now? Why was she seeing him so surreptitiously?

  Speculating on the reason for this furtive visit, Parker resumed walking rapidly, catching a glimpse through the glass display window of the back of her head. He hurried on to the opposite end of the arcade, took up a position behind a cream-coloured pillar, and kept Ladbury’s entrance door under steady observation.

  Inside the fashion shop, Ladbury, straw-coloured fringe, bow-tie, cotton suit, grey suede shoes, minced ahead of Vera Vavilova, showing her the way to his office in the rear. Directing her into his office, he closed the door behind him.

  Once they were seated, he did not hide his displeasure. ‘You know you are not supposed to be here,’ he said, ‘only unless —’

  ‘Unless there is an emergency,’ she cut in. ‘Well, there is one.’

  ‘How’d you get away? Are the Secret Service goons with you?’

  ‘Of course not. I gave them the slip. I worked my way through the suites to Tim Hibberd’s office and got into another corridor, and then up to the second floor elevator. It was no trouble.’

  ‘You’re sure no one knows you are here?’

  ‘I’m positive. Quit fretting, and please listen to me. I’m in desperate trouble and I need your help.’

  ‘I am here to help. Go ahead.’

  ‘The President was to resume sexual relations with his wife tomorrow, tomorrow night.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘Well, he told me this morning, he doesn’t want to wait that long. To hell with the doctor’s orders, he said. He’s sure I’m all right. He wants to start sleeping with me tonight.’

  ‘Did you try to put him off?’

  ‘Have you ever tried to argue with a hard-on? As nicely as

  I could, I tried to tell him we should wait the extra day. He wouldn’t buy it. So finally I capitulated. I said good, I couldn’t wait any longer, either. He left grinning.’

  Ladbury’s pinched face had become more wizened. ‘So it’s tonight, is it?’

  ‘And what’s worse is — I think he’s ready to spill the whole thing - his plans about Boende - after we’ve had sex. I’ve been trying to get the information sooner. No luck. But tonight, afterwards, I’m sure he’ll be ready to talk. He said to me this morning, “When I’m more relaxed tonight, I’ll catch you up on politics.” Well, “more relaxed” is his euphemism for consummating sex. If it worked, I’d have everything for the Premier.’ She paused. ‘But it probably won’t work. I still don’t know a damn thing about what he expects from me in bed. I simply don’t know how Billie Bradford behaves in bed. One wrong move, and the President will realize I’m not handling myself like his good old wife. I don’t know what will happen. If he becomes suspicious -‘

  ‘Vera, please calm down.’

  ‘I can’t! What have those idiots in Moscow being doing all this time? Why can’t they come with up something? Now we’ve almost run out of time. Unless they give me something, I can’t go through with it,
I can’t. Will you tell them?’

  ‘I’ll tell them,’ said Ladbury, rising. ‘Stay controlled. Wait. I’ll be in touch with you, or someone will, by this evening, I promise you. Now let me call for a taxi.’

  Guy Parker had returned to Claridge’s shortly after Billie Bradford had returned to the hotel following her unscheduled visit to Ladbury’s. He had hustled up to his room for his tape recorder, and then gone to keep his work appointment with the First Lady.

  Now, seated with the First Lady in the living room of Claridge’s Royal Suite, the tape recorder between them, Parker noted that they had been discussing Billie’s first year in the White House for fifty minute. He had sought out his next questions and was preparing to pose the first of them to her, when he heard the main door to the suite open.

  President Andrew Bradford, looking handsome, solid, unruffled, came from the entry hall into the room, deep in thought. He removed his horn-rimmed spectacles, stuck them in the breast pocket of his jacket, and headed for the improvised bar.

  ‘Hi, Andrew,’ Billie called out.

  ‘Oh, hi, darling. Hello, Guy.’ He bypassed the bar, and reaching them he pecked a kiss at Billie’s cheek.

  ‘You’re early,’ she said. ‘How’d it go with the Russians?’

  ‘As expected,’ he said. ‘Kirechenko was amiable, but we soon bumped heads. It won’t be easy. Still, I think we’ll make out with our treaty. I sat in on our staff post mortem, but decided I’d had enough.’ He smiled at his wife. ‘I left them arguing. Thought I’d spend some time with my wife, and rest up before dinner.’

  ‘How nice,’ said Billie.

  The President unknotted his tie. ‘What about you? Did you have a busy day? Been anywhere? Seen anything?’

  ‘I’m sorry to sound dull, Andrew, but I’ve done nothing,’ said Billie. ‘I’ve been locked in all day. Haven’t put a foot out.’ She turned to Parker. ‘I think that will be it for now, Guy. Thanks. Probably see you tomorrow. Check with Nora.’

  Parker hurriedly picked up his tape recorder, mumbled his good-byes, and departed from the suite.

  He wanted to see Nora. He walked to her room, knocked and announced himself. Her muffled voice welcomed him. He entered. She was at a spindly French desk writing letters.

  He gestured toward the tray of bottles. ‘Cocktails?’

  ‘I’m ready,’ she answered, putting down her pen. ‘It seems all we do is drink around here.’

  ‘Maybe with good reason,’ he said, setting his tape recorder on top of the television set.

  She watched him prepare the drinks. ‘Anything today, Guy?’

  ‘Something,’ he said. He placed a glass before her, took a swallow from his own, put it down and went to the tape recorder. He pushed the reverse button, and waited a moment, pushed the stop button, pushed the play button and listened. He fiddled with the machine again briefly, until he had the tape in the right place. ‘I was working with Billie,’ he said, ‘when the President walked in on us just now. I had the tape on, and it kept right on going. Want to hear some enlightening dialogue? Listen.’

  Parker pressed the play button once more and turned up the volume. The tape spun. The President’s voice: ‘Did you have a busy day? Been anywhere? Seen anything?’ The First Lady’s voice: ‘I’m sorry to sound dull, Andrew, but I’ve done nothing. I’ve been locked in all day. Haven’t put a foot out.’

  Parker shut off the machine and faced Nora. ‘How do you like that?’

  Nora was baffled by his question. ‘What’s wrong with it? She has been in all day. I didn’t have a thing on the schedule for her.’

  ‘You didn’t? Well, she had something scheduled for herself. I was down in the lobby early this afternoon, and I saw her sneak out.’

  Nora sat up. ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Positive.’

  ‘Alone or with the Secret Service?’

  ‘With no one. Just Billie by herself. And no limo. She grabbed a taxi.’

  ‘How strange. Do you know where she was going?’

  ‘I followed her. She went to Ladbury of London.’

  ‘The couturier? He’s her designer, but she’d have no reason to see him now. He came to Washington with her things for a final fitting last week. When we arrived in London, her clothes were ready and waiting here in the hotel. Why would she want to see him now?’

  ‘Why would she see him now secretly, you mean?’

  ‘I suppose so, yes. It makes no sense.’

  ‘It makes plenty of sense if she’s not the First Lady, and she’s got to get in touch with a Soviet contact.’

  ‘Are you saying that Ladbury could be a contact?’

  ‘Why not? They’ve used similar ones before. Nora, I’m going to find out about this Mr Ladbury.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘By getting the President’s help.’

  Nora’s brow wrinkled. ‘You’re really going to tell him?’

  ‘I have to.’

  ‘I don’t know, Guy. But I do know what I’m curious about.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘If our Lady is not the First Lady, what is she seeing one of her agents about? What’s her problem?’

  ‘That, my dear Nora, is the big question.’

  It was early evening in Moscow, and Billie Bradford, pacing her bedroom, was still turning the matter over in her mind.

  She had thought about it last night, every aspect of it, until sleep overtook her. She had thought about it this morning after awakening, and she had thought about it in the shower, at breakfast, throughout the afternoon. Having no stomach for a full dinner, she had continued to think about it during a light repast of tea and biscuits.

  Of course, Alex Razin was the key person in her thoughts. A glimpse at the clock reminded her that he would be arriving in fifteen minutes or so. His obligatory visit, his assigned visit. But with a difference. This time he was calling on her not in the afternoon but at night. She was sure that had significance.

  Originally, she had looked forward to his visits. She had believed he was befriending her, wanted to soothe her. But now she knew that he was strict KGB, an enemy agent, and his assignment had actually been to make her trust his friendship, to disarm her, to gain her confidence. His purpose had become clear to her. To use her - to help his Second Lady and to destroy her own Andrew.

  Razin - God, how she hated him since learning the truth about him. She did not want to see the bastard again, the filthy betrayer, the rotten KGB agent. But if she had to see him at all, she was glad it was this evening instead of in the afternoon. She had needed the afternoon to decide upon her

  stance, to determine how to deal with him. She had come closer to a decision, but had not fully arrived at one yet.

  Ten minutes to make up her mind.

  She strode into the living room, poured a stiff cognac and water, and for one last time revived her internal debate. She would examine every side of it - well, the two sides - and come to a final decision.

  Perched on an arm of the sofa, sipping her cognac, she reflected on the central issue, for the KGB, for herself, the question that required an answer: since Andrew, her husband, would be going to bed with, making love to, the imposter tomorrow night for the first time, how was the imposter to act and perform without giving herself away?

  Before Billie could consider an answer, she was diverted by an image in her head. The picture of her husband Andrew, naked tomorrow night, lying side by side with another woman, also naked, mounting the counterfeit of herself — she found the picture too disturbing to contemplate any further. With effort, she tried to erase it from her thoughts. After all, she told herself, Andrew did not know about the deception practised on him or realize what he was doing. It could all be dismissed as meaningless acrobatics. What was more important, these fleeting minutes, was her own role and her survival.

  Obviously, the Soviets were desperate. They had to find out, and find out fast, how their imposter should behave with Andrew tomorrow. If the imposter performed by in
stinct, and performed as Andrew expected, she would win his gratitude and trust. She would most certainly learn the big secret she was after. Billie knew that Andrew, once sated by sex, once relaxed, had almost always discussed his presidential concerns with her. Feeling closer to his mate, he would unburden himself about his Summit worries. The following day, the imposter would relay this information to her Soviet superiors, and they, in turn, could score a triumph at the Summit.

  On the other hand, by equal chance — the one possibility the Russians feared — the imposter might do everything

  wrong in bed. Should that happen, Andrew would know at once that this Billie was not his own Billie. Andrew was a creature of habit, in bed and out of bed, and instantly aware of change. If something was out of place, if someone reacted unexpectedly, it always gave him cause to wonder and to probe. His wife performing sexually in an unfamiliar way would absolutely arouse his suspicions. This might lead to an exposure of the KGB plot.

  So it was fifty-fifty for the Russians if their imposter played it by chance. Intuition told her that the Soviets, if they had come this far, would not gamble everything on a fifty-fifty risk. The imposter must be prepared. The Russians must have the odds 100 per cent in their favour.

  Then where did she, the real Billie Bradford, fit into all this?

  She alone, here, possessed the information that they needed. And what they needed, they had to have tonight, for use tomorrow. How would they try to extract the information from her? Instead of Razin, the KGB might send in some of their bullies tonight to torture the intimate truth out of her. But she doubted that. Or they might send in some stranger to rape her. She doubted that, too, because it could give them only a distorted picture of her behaviour. Or would they send in Razin, after all, to undertake what had been his ultimate assignment, to play on her fear and loneliness to seduce her, as he had almost succeeded in doing yesterday? This, probably was their most likely plan.