(1980) The Second Lady

by Irving Wallace

  The buzzer on Mrs Martin’s desk was sounding. She picked up the receiver, listened, hung up. She said, ‘All right, Mr Parker, he’ll see you now.’

  Thanking her, Parker hurried into the executive offices. President Bradford, dressed for dinner, was at his desk initialling papers. Without looking up, he said, ‘Sit down, Guy. Be right with you.’

  Parker took a chair, stared uneasily at the top of the President’s head, wondering if Nora had been right that he should postpone this talk. Perhaps he should back out of it while he still had time.

  Then he saw it was too late to reconsider. The President had replaced his pen in its holder, set aside his papers, and was ready to hear what his visitor had to say.

  ‘I - I’m sorry to intrude on you like this,’ Parker said.

  ‘Quite all right. I can spare ten minutes, Guy. I gather it is something important.’

  T believe it may be extremely important. I felt that I should discuss it with you as soon as possible. It is a matter that I feel affects you directly and has a bearing on the success of the Summit, so I had to tell you about it privately.’

  The President appeared in a good mood. ‘Okay, Guy, I’m listening. What’s the mystery all about?’

  ‘Uh, it concerns Mrs Bradford, the First Lady.’ Parker was hesitant. ‘I’m not sure I know how to get into the matter.’

  ‘The easy way. Be direct. Get right to the point.’

  ‘Very well, to the point,’ said Parker. ‘As you know, I’ve been working closely with your wife almost daily.’

  ‘And I hear you’re doing a good job with her book. Billie tells me it is excellent.’

  ‘Thank you. Anyway, seeing her, as I do, regularly, I must admit something has been bothering me. Let me put a question to you first, Mr President. Since Mrs Bradford returned from the women’s meeting in Moscow, have you noticed anything different about her?’

  ‘Different about her?’ The President looked puzzled. ‘What does that mean? I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.’

  For Parker, this response definitely ruled out the possibility that Bradford, himself, had become aware of some change in Billie. This would certainly make what he had to tell the President more difficult. He decided to lay out his suspicions as quickly and plainly as he could. ‘Mr President, what I mean is that Mrs Bradford seems to have changed since her visit to Moscow. To me, observing her closely — before Moscow and since - she doesn’t seem to be the same person in many ways. It is as if one woman named Billie Bradford went to Moscow for three days, and another woman named Billie Bradford came back.’

  The President peered intently at Parker. ‘What are you talking about, Guy? This isn’t one of your damn speeches, you know. What are you trying to say? Speak straight.’

  ‘Well, what I’m trying to say is that Mrs Bradford doesn’t seem to be herself any more. Haven’t you felt that at all?’

  ‘I still don’t understand you. Billie is Billie. She’s my wife. What’s different about her?’

  Here goes, thought Parker. ‘Many things seem different, at least to me. Her memory, for one thing. Her contradictions. Her general manner. Please bear with me.’ Parker recounted the Kilday incident on the Los Angeles Times. He spoke of her failure, at the women’s luncheon in Los Angeles, to recognize her old friend Anges Ingstrup. He mentioned the baseball game at Dodger Stadium, where Mrs Bradford had seemed neither interested nor knowledgeable. He brought up the visit to her father’s home in Malibu, where Mrs Bradford forgot that she had seen her nephew only a few weeks before, and was rejected by her pet dog.

  Before Parker could continue with his bill of particulars, he was sharply interrupted. President Bradford showed his irritation. ‘Is that what this is all about, the nonsense you’ve been bending my ear with? My God, Guy, come to your senses. What do you expect of Billie? She’s a fallible human being like everyone else. Everyone is occasionally forgetful. Human memories slip all the time. In crowds, under pressure, a person can become absentminded, fail to recognize a friend or acquaintance he’s known a long time. I can vouch for it, because it happens to me. I can run into a staffer who’s been with me for years and draw a blank. As to her dog — ridiculous - at his age his eyesight is failing.’

  Parker refused to retreat. ‘Please, Mr President, hear me out for a moment more. Once, Mrs Bradford referred to an awkward incident at a party, when she met a movie star you had been dating. She said she would tell me more about it

  later. Recently, when I questioned her, she insisted that she had never met this movie star. Perhaps you’ve already heard about the press conference Mrs Bradford held the other day. She told the press she hoped to find time to. look up Janet Farleigh, although just before going to Moscow she had been informed that Janet Farleigh had died, and reacted emotionally. Don’t you think that’s a bit unusual, Mr President?’

  ‘Not a bit,’ snapped President Bradford. He was clearly annoyed. ‘It just proves human frailty. I repeat, we all have memory lapses. We all suffer contradictions, saying one thing one day, another thing on the same subject another day. Every “for instance” you’ve brought up is easily explainable.’ He paused, glaring at Parker. ‘Is this really what you came here to bother me about? There must be something more on your mind. If there is, tell me and be done with it.’

  Parker bent forward, his hands on the desk. ‘Mr President, I’m saying — I have reason to say — I don’t think your wife, the First Lady, is the same one you had in Washington a month ago.’

  The President sat blinking at Parker for several moments. ‘Are you trying to tell me you believe that she’s been brainwashed?’

  ‘No. I’m trying to tell you — but wait, first let me tell you of a long-distance phone call meant for you that Nora Judson picked up while you were busy elsewhere. The call was from Ambassador Youngdahl in Moscow. He said that an American tourist came into our embassy quite distraught with a message she’d had from a young woman who’d cornered her in the Kremlin. The young woman claimed that she was your wife, that she was Mrs Bradford, and that she was being held prisoner by the Russians - while an imposter was representing her right here in London with you.’

  There it was, thought Parker, and where was President Bradford?

  President Bradford had sat back, hooded eyes holding on Parker. He remained silent for long seconds. At last, he spoke.

  ‘Guy, seriously — have you been drinking?’

  ‘I’ve never been more sober, sir. I’m repeating exactly what Ambassador Youngdahl told Miss Judson.’

  ‘Did the ambassador even pretend to be serious?’

  Parker nibbled at his lip. ‘Quite honestly, no, sir. He thought it was quite funny. He thought the tourist was another cuckoo.’

  ‘And so do I,’ said the President. His withering gaze held on Parker. ‘But you take it seriously?’

  ‘I do only in light of all the other slips, contradictions, lapses of the First Lady. She simple doesn’t seem to be herself any more.’ Then, almost pleadingly, he asked, ‘Are you sure you’ve seen nothing different about her?’

  The President’s patience had worn thin. ‘Nothing, not one damn thing. I breakfast with her. I see her, off and on, throughout the day. I sleep with her. I find her the wife I’ve always had. Does that satisfy you? To continue this discussion any further would be utterly ridiculous.’

  Before he could be dismissed, Parker raised his voice in a frantic effort to save the day. ‘Just one more thing, Mr President. One last thing. It happened yesterday. I was working with the First Lady late yesterday afternoon when you came in, remember? I heard you ask her what she had done all day. She said she had not stepped out of the hotel. Well, that was not strictly true. She lied to you. She had stepped out. I followed her. She -‘

  ‘Wait a minute there,’ the President interrupted angrily. ‘You say you followed her? Who in the hell do you think you are — following my wife around?’

  Parker retreated slightly. ‘I - I’m sorry, sir. I
did it in your interest. I was worried and had to find out what she was up to.’ He paused. ‘She went to Ladbury of London.’

  ‘And you find that suspicious? A woman going to her dress designer? And not telling me? Probably not telling me because she’s afraid I might be miffed” at the money she’s spending on clothes. That’s what this is all about? That’s what you’ve used up my valuable time to tell me?’

  ‘I’ve come to tell you I think Ladbury is a Soviet drop. And that this First Lady is involved with Soviet agents.’

  ‘You can prove that?’

  ‘I’d like to try,’ said Parker evenly, ‘and I’d like you to help me. I hoped I might persuade you to get British Intelligence to look into Ladbury’s.’

  ‘Look into Ladbury’s? You mean raid it? Find nothing there? Create a public scandal? Antagonize the Russians just when we’re in the middle of delicate Summit negotiations? Are you out of your mind?’

  Parker stood his ground. ‘I’m not crazy, Mr President, but what is happening around us may very well be. Please believe in my sincerity. I’m concerned about you, and if I didn’t feel -‘

  ‘Never mind about me,’ the President interrupted. He was plainly infuriated. ‘Look after yourself. You’ll have to if you keep this up.’ He paused a moment to regain control of his voice. ‘Listen to me, Parker. I hired you because I thought you were a bright, smart young man. I turned you over to my wife for the same reasons, and because I thought you had savvy and good judgement. But right now, I’m having my doubts. I think you’ve gone entirely off your rocker. You’ve been hallucinating. You’ve been stirring up trouble. And you’re trying to impose this insanity upon me. But I won’t have it. Stop right now while you’re ahead. Had I let you go on two more minutes, I might have fired you. As it is, I’ll give you time to come to your senses. I’m very tempted to tell my wife everything you’ve been saying about her here, just to prove to you —’

  ‘Don’t tell her, please don’t,’ Parker implored him, certain that if the counterfeit First Lady knew of his suspicions, his own execution would follow.

  ‘You needn’t worry,’ said the President drily, ‘I don’t intend to tell her, because I know she’d have you removed on the spot. I don’t want to see that happen, because you’ve been a good worker and deserve another chance.’

  Parker nodded gratefully.

  The President went on. ‘One piece of advice. Keep your mouth shut. If I ever hear that you’ve repeated this cock-and-bull nonsense to a single soul, I’ll have you thrown out

  of here. So you gather your wits about you fast as you can, and stick to your job. Do you hear me?

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And to restore us both to some semblance of sanity, let’s agree this conversation never took place. Now that’s enough, Parker. Be on your way, and don’t ever bother me again with another word about this.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Good evening, sir.’

  It had happened in the nick of time, while the President was still occupied in some kind of meeting with Guy Parker, and just before she was to leave with Andrew for dinner. And before her own frayed nerves could unravel.

  Vera Vavilova had been waiting what seemed an eternity for the news from Moscow. And Moscow continued to remain silent. Haltingly, she had tried to dress for dinner, numbed by fear, examining her alternatives. Not one alternative was promising. The best possibility was to plead illness. Returning from dinner, she could tell Andrew she felt ill - was suffering acute indigestion, an attack of the flu, a resumpion of vaginal bleeding. She might not get away with any one of these, she knew, because Andrew would immediately summon Dr Cummings, who would find nothing wrong with her. Even if the physician prescribed rest, Vera realized this meant only a day’s postponement of the inevitable. Another possibility was to quit cold, instruct her contacts and let the Premier know she could not continue without information, and take off for the suburban airport outside London, the old RAF base that the British had turned over for the exclusive use of the Soviet Union, and return to Moscow to be exchanged for Billie Bradford. Yet, Vera did not want to quit, to be written off as a failure in her most challenging role. Such a chance to win glory might never come again.

  There remained only one other option — face up to the inevitable, have intercourse with Andrew tonight, and trust her intuition.

  Far too risky.

  She had fallen into her deepest despair, when the telephone rang. The caller identified himself as the blessed Fred Willis.

  ‘Are you alone?’ he inquiried.

  ‘Yes. For the moment.’

  ‘I’d like to drop something off for you. It concerns your inquiry about what is served at Disneyland.’

  Her heart leaped. It was like a last-second reprieve from death. ‘Oh, Fred -‘

  ‘See you.’ He hung up.

  She waited nervously inside the front door, with one eye on the entrance to the President’s work suite. If Andrew came in as Willis appeared, she’d have to think fast.

  Three or four minutes later, she heard Fred Willis’s voice in the corridor, speaking to the Secret Service men. She pulled back the door and greeted him. Willis stepped inside. Vera shut the door.

  Willis was reaching into his trouser pocket. He whispered, ‘Dangerous putting it on paper, but too detailed to pass on verbally.’ He pushed a folded note into her hand. He smiled. ‘All here. Exactly what you want. Read it privately and get rid of it.’

  ‘Fred, I can’t tell you —’

  But he was already gone.

  Glancing at the door to the President’s office suite, Vera dashed into the bathroom. Safely locked inside, she hastily unfolded the note, which grew into a single sheet of typing paper with single-spaced typing in English that almost covered the page. Quickly she scanned it, beaming, carefully read it a second time word for word, committing it to memory. She was about to undertake a third reading when she heard Andrew’s voice from the bedroom.

  ‘Are you ready?’ he called out.

  ‘Give me a few minutes, dear,’ she called back..

  She turned on the sink tap full force, tore the KGB note into shreds, and dropped the pieces into the toilet bowl. She flushed the toilet, watching to see that every piece of paper disappeared. Satisfied, she removed her robe and resumed preparing herself for dinner.

  She had been unusually vivacious throughout dinner, and she could see that Andrew was pleased with her. When they had returned to Claridge’s and arrived at their suite, Admiral Sam Ridley, the military chief of staff, was waiting to speak to the President. He had drawn Andrew aside, addressing him in an undertone.

  The President had nodded and returned to Vera. ‘I’m sorry, dear, but something’s come up that needs a little discussion. I’ll have to go down the hall with the admiral. I won’t be more than a half-hour.’ He winked at her and leaned over, his lips close to her ear. ‘Don’t go to sleep on me. I’ve waited a long time for tonight.’

  She had brushed his cheek with a kiss. ‘I’ll be up, darling,’ she promised.

  And here she was, drying herself from her bubble bath, noting that Andrew would be here in a short time, ready to bed down with her. Dabbing on perfume — Billie’s favourite scent — Vera made a critical inspection of herself in the full-length mirror behind the bathroom door. What she saw was nothing to be ashamed of or even worried about. Her breasts looked wonderful, pointed straight out, no sag. She had held her weight down, and her stomach was flat and her hips beautifully curved yet firm. Briefly, she wondered how he would treat this body. Although fear had left her, and her confidence was restored, the wondering about him revived a certain anxiety. It was the familiar high-strung feeling that she had known since girlhood, the standing in the wings, poised for the curtain to go up or poised for a cue.

  Quickly, Vera slipped into her flimsy silk nightgown, the light pink one. She walked into the bedroom, fiddled with the lights, leaving only his bedside lamp on. Turning toward her twin bed, she loosened the blankets, pushed the two pillows close
r, picked up a novel and got into bed to await the last and most crucial hurdle of the perilous undertaking.

  After a while, she saw that the half-hour had passed, then forty minutes, and fifty, since he had left her for his conference. It was no use trying to sleep or feign sleep. He would not permit it.

  She opened the novel, determined to distract herself. But no use. Her head was elsewhere. She closed the book, set it on the table, lifted one pillow against the headboard, and propped herself up. The material she had received from Moscow on handling the President in bed had been general in some areas, specific in others, but overall it gave her an excellent idea of what to expect and what was expected from her. She wondered how this intimate material had been acquired, but of course she knew. Alex had seduced Billie Bradford. Alex had slept with the First Lady. Alex had written the instructions. Yet, the almost certain knowledge of this provoked no jealousy in her whatsoever. Billie Bradford would not have meant a thing to him except a job well done. Vera felt positive that his one concern had been to get her back to him safely. Recently, she had not thought about Alex much, but now she felt the old warmth and love for him and invoked his devotion to get her through this night. Speculating on her next action, for which she finally felt well prepared, she realized how eager she was to undertake it. The excitement it provided was probably far greater than what she might know if she was debuting in Moscow in The Doll’s House.

  She remembered, also, that what would happen tonight was only a means to the end that would follow. Giving herself to the President should bring the returns she expected. In a short time from now, he would be relaxed and talkative, and with gentle prodding from her, he could be depended upon to confide his secret Summit plans. Tomorrow, she would communicate them to the Premier. Her role in the victory would be ended. The day after tomorrow she would be flown back to Moscow, even as Billie Bradford would be flown to London. The exchange would have been made. The real Billie Bradford would resume her familiar role as First Lady. She, herself, in Moscow again, would undergo a second round of minor plastic surgery, to alter slightly her Billie-perfect face and restore it to her previous Vera face. Honoured and elevated, Vera would take up her stage career once more. The leading parts in the Moscow Theatre would