(1980) The Second Lady

by Irving Wallace

  He picked up his pace until he neared his car. From the corner of Kinnerton Street he could see what still resembled

  a hardware store and, better yet, the lights were on. Reaching it, he glanced at the display window. There was an array of household gadgets, kitchen appliances, as well as a stand of shiny new padlocks. In the store itself, there was only a balding clerk, who seemed to be totalling the cash register.

  Parker went inside, and approached the clerk. ‘This key,’ he said, brandishing it, ‘could you possibly make me a copy while I wait?’

  ‘Make what?’

  ‘A duplicate. I desperately need another key.’

  The clerk frowned. ‘I was just closing. I’m already late for dinner. But — well, see here, you are an American, aren’t you?’

  ‘I am. I -‘

  ‘Very well,’ said the clerk, taking the key. ‘My wife has American relatives. Good lot. I’ll be only a minute.’

  He went to the rear with one key. Five minutes later he was back with two keys.

  Parker thanked him, paid him, and was off, quickly retracing his steps to Ladbury’s shop. At the front door, he looked about him. The arcade was empty of pedestrian traffic. Without wasting a moment, Parker inserted the original key and let himself inside. He went to the velvet suit on display and dropped the original key into the correct pocket. Turning back, he gazed outside. All clear. He opened the door, went through it, firmly shut it, and then locked it using the duplicate key. He dropped the key in his jacket pocket.

  Swiftly, he made for his Jaguar. Once behind the wheel, with the motor idling, he sat back to catch his breath.

  With wonderment, he reviewed his activities of the past hour. How had he managed it? He had managed it because it had been unplanned, spontaneous, and he had been a callow amateur. A real professional would have been caught and executed. What he had overheard, presuming he was not misleading himself, was almost too astonishing to accept. Yet, dammit, he had known it all along. But now he knew it. There was a second First Lady named Vera. She was real. She had been brilliantly planted, and was to extract

  information from the President of the United States. For her achievement - actually, for knowing too much — she was to be executed and mutilated this very night. Then, clearly, Moscow was to be notified, and the real First Lady sent to replace her here in London.

  This had to be told. The Soviets and their Vera had to be exposed to someone. But to whom? Who on earth would believe him? Parker had found them out, yet he sensed that they still held the trump card. The Soviets could effectively return the real Billie without worrying about her exposing them. Who would know she had not been the First Lady in London all along? If she chose to expose the Soviets, who would believe her unbelievable story? The President? The CIA? The British Prime Minister? No one would believe her. Physicians would say overwork, mental pressure, cracked under strain of her position. Psychiatrists would say nervous breakdown, hallucinations. No one would ever believe her. She would never dare speak of it. The Soviets were safe and they knew it.

  And Parker, himself, who would believe him now? He dared not voice what he had just overheard to a soul. Except to Nora — and - the idea came to him this instant - one other. Yes, one other should know - told directly - perhaps indirectly. That would be the way to go.

  His hands stopped shaking. Gripping the wheel with one hand, he shifted gears with the other. He had to see Nora immediately. He would need her help. There was still something to be done - before the Summit was lost.

  When Guy Parker reached the Royal Suite on the first floor of Claridge’s hotel, he found Secret Service agent Oliphant on guard.

  ‘Is Mrs Bradford back from Buckingham Palace yet?’ he inquired.

  ‘Not yet.’

  Pleased, Parker asked, ‘Is Nora Judson around?’

  Agent Oliphant jerked his thumb toward the next-door suite. ‘In her office.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Parker went to the nearby doors where an officer from Scotland Yard was on duty. Showing his pass, Parker went inside through a small foyer, through Dolores Martin’s small office, past the abbreviated hall that connected this suite with the Royal Suite, until he came to Nora’s cubbyhole. Her door was half-open and he could hear her on the telephone. He went inside, shut the door behind him, and pulled a chair to her desk as she hung up.

  Immediately, Nora swivelled toward him, a worried expression on her face. ‘Did you go to Ladbury’s?’ was the first thing she asked.

  ‘Did I? And how I did. You won’t believe what happened.’

  Lowering his voice, he proceeded to tell her everything that had taken place, from the moment of his hiding in the wardrobe across from Ladbury’s office to the conversation between a Soviet agent and an American, right up to his escape.

  Throughout his recital Nora’s eyes had stayed widened, her clenched fist covering her open mouth, as she heard him out with absolute amazement. When he had finished, she sat dumb-founded, absorbing the full import of what he had told her.

  ‘Well?’ he said.

  ‘Well what? What can I say? You know I’ve been with you this past week, been as suspicious as you’ve been. But this is different. This is like - proof.’ She shook her head. ‘Then the First Lady really isn’t the First Lady, really isn’t Billie.’

  ‘Her name is Vera something-or-other.’

  ‘Forgive me, Guy, but I can’t handle this. My mind is blown. How did they manage to pull it off?’

  ‘Not important right now. They did it. That’s all that matters.’

  ‘And Billie - where’s Billie?’

  ‘In Moscow, probably. They indicated they’d send her here - or send someone here - once Vera has delivered our secrets

  and then been eliminated. Our job is to see that the secrets aren’t delivered.’

  ‘Guy, you’ve got to go to the President at once.’

  ‘Again? He wouldn’t believe me. Or if he did, he’d say this isn’t proof at all. The President? My God, he’d throw me out, fire me. Then I’d be totally helpless.’

  ‘You’re right, Guy,’ she conceded. ‘That won’t work.’ She raised her hands in a helpless gesture. ‘But what will?’

  He came to his feet, and moved around the desk to stand over her. ‘There’s one possibility, maybe a long shot, maybe not. I got the idea coming back here. Look, our main job is not to expose this fake First Lady. There’s no way to do that yet. What we have to do is stop, her from turning our Summit secrets over to the Russian Premier. She’ll be spilling the whole thing to him late tonight. That’s what we’ve got to prevent.’

  ‘But how?’

  ‘By letting her — this Vera - know the truth about herself. What’s in store for her once she finishes her assignment. I’ll need your help, Nora.’

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘Okay, listen to me.’

  He bent down and, mouth close to her ear, he began to whisper to her.

  When he had outlined his plan, he straightened up. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Can it work?’

  ‘It has to. Have you got a better idea?’

  ‘No. Okay. Let’s do it.’

  ‘Good girl. When will she be back?’

  ‘She should be here any minute.’

  ‘Is there a chance she’ll go straight to the bedroom?’

  ‘I doubt it. She always looks in to see me first. For any important messages or phone calls.’

  ‘You’re positive?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  Parker nodded. ‘Then let’s get ready for her.’

  They left Nora’s cubbyhole and entered the short hallway that joined the work area with the Royal Suite.

  ‘Is the door to her living room locked?’ Parker asked.

  ‘Only at night.’

  Parker tried the door. It opened. He left it open, and retreated a few feet, taking a position next to Nora. Neither spoke. They waited. Every few minutes Parker checked his watch. Six minutes, then eight minutes, pas
sed. Parker was becoming increasingly restless, when he heard the door in the adjoining entry hall rattle. He brought his finger to his lips.

  They recognized the First Lady’s voice, saying something to the Secret Service guards who had accompanied ther back from Buckingham Palace. Apparently, she had come into the dining room, because her voice was clearer now. ‘I don’t know whether we’ll be leaving the hotel tonight,’ she was saying. ‘The President will let you know.’

  Parker heard the door close. He heard the rustle of her approach, barely discernible. ‘Nora, are you there?’ she called out.

  Once more, Parker put his fingers to his lips. Nora nodded nervously, maintaining her silence. Parker mouthed one word to her. Start, it told her.

  Before the First Lady could get to their hallway, Parker began speaking to Nora in a loud but conversational tone. ‘Yeah, she’s a Russian spy. Hottest gossip since we came here. Heard it from one of the President’s aides. He didn’t know too much. The Russians have a female spy right here in London. She’s supposed to have penetrated the President’s inner circle.’

  Nora spoke on cue. ‘No kidding? Do you really believe it?’

  ‘I don’t know. I can only tell you what I heard. They even found out her name, or part of it. Her name’s Vera.’

  ‘Who is she?’

  ‘Haven’t the faintest idea. I don’t think my informant knew.’

  He paused. If the First Lady on the other side of the wall

  had actually been Billie, she would have walked right in on them, admitted she’d overheard them, would have wanted to know more. But if the First Lady was this Vera, she would have stopped-in her tracks, not come any nearer. She would be outside, very quiet. Listening for more.

  He was certain that she was outside, very quiet, listening for more.

  ‘How could your friend have heard this much?’ Nora was asking.

  ‘Again, I don’t know. But from something he let drop I would sort of guess one of our agencies bugged a clandestine meeting of some of their agents.’

  ‘What are our people going to do about it?’

  ‘Well, until they have positive proof, there’s not much they can do — or, I gather, have to do. This Vera has dug up some information on the Summit for Kirechenko. Nothing can be done about that. But, as for the Vera person, she’s out of our hands.’

  ‘What do you mean by that, Guy?’

  Articulating the next carefully, Parker replied, ‘I mean the word is there won’t be any Vera after tonight. According to my friend, once Vera relays her secrets to the Premier, she will promptly be liquidated by the Russians themselves.’

  ‘They’d kill their own agent?’

  ‘Well, look at it this way — why not? What do they need her for? Once she’s passed over the information, she could be a danger to them walking around free. She knows too much. For them, they’re mucn better off having her dead.’

  ‘They’d really do it?’

  ‘They’re going to do it tonight. Or so I’m told.’

  ‘Good God, what goes on in this world?’

  ‘I know what should go on. You should join me for a drink and dinner.’

  ‘Let me look and see -‘

  They were interrupted by the First Lady’s strident voice from the next room. ‘Nora, are you here?’

  ‘I’m here, Billie!’

  The First Lady came briskly into the hallway, pretending she had just arrived. ‘Any important messages?’

  Unobtrusively as possible, Parker tried to examine her face. Her face was ashen. All blood seemed to have drained from it.

  ‘The President sent word he’ll be tied up until ten. If you want to wait, he’ll join you for dinner in the suite. Otherwise, you can go ahead and eat earlier.’

  ‘Thank you, Nora. I’ll see. I’m utterly exhausted. I’m going to lie down for a nap. Don’t disturb me under any circumstances.’

  They watched her leave them, crossing toward the bedroom. They listened to her locking herself in.

  Nora whispered, ‘Do you think she heard us?’

  ‘She heard every word.’

  ‘What’ll happen next?’

  ‘I won’t even try to guess. Only one thing I’m sure of. She’ll think twice before she turns over her secret information.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘She might think of defecting. Anyway, I intend to encourage her.’

  Nora frowned. ‘You’d have to tell her you’ve found her out.’

  ‘She might be glad.’

  ‘On the other hand, she might get you killed.’

  ‘All the more reason for us to enjoy a last supper.’

  ‘It might be hers, too.’

  ‘I’m not so sure of that. Let’s wait and see.’

  Alone in the bedroom, standing before the mirror, Vera Vavilova involuntarily shuddered. She was not sure whether the tremor came from fear or rage, or both.

  The conversation that she had just overheard between Guy and Nora had shaken her up as nothing else had since the project began. How had Guy Parker’s source, his friend the presidential aide, learned so much? And from whom? Guy had mentioned bugging. It was possible a government agency

  had bugged Ladbury or Willis. It could have been a CIA operation. Or maybe Fred Willis was performing as a double agent, although she doubted it. She was tempted to put her contacts on alert, but then she realized that it wasn’t necessary. There had been no hint that the mysterious ‘Vera’ was actually the First Lady. Besides, before the enemy could expose her, she would be gone, on her way to Moscow tonight and safe. Or would she be on her way? If Guy had it right, she would be dead tonight, after delivering the secrets to Kirechenko, she would be coldly executed. It was incredible that she had trusted those ruthless bastards. Those dirty, double-crossing bastards. Her own countrymen, her supporters, allies, her own people rewarding risk and ingenuity with death. Well, she wasn’t their submissive pawn any longer. She had power of her own now, and she would use it.

  She stared into the mirror. She knew what had to be done. The only problem was that damn First Lady face in the mirror. That was her handicap, wearing the most recognizable face in the world. It impeded free movement, and she needed free movement more than ever in these minutes.

  She had confronted difficulty after difficulty to get to this point. She had overcome each through sheer will, brilliance, and with aid from allies. But now she had no allies anywhere. She was completely on her own, and up against the greatest personal crisis of all. She would overcome it, as she had the others, she decided, because this time she was armed.

  How to get where she was going unnoticed?

  She concentrated on the problem, surprised at her new calm, and further surprised when the solution came to her so easily.

  First, two telephone calls had to be made. Then she would be on her way.

  She sought and located the small leather-covered address and telephone book, a duplicate of the one that Billie took along on her travels. Under the F tab she found, ‘Farleigh, Janet’. All right, Janet was no more, but Vera had learned — after the press fiasco — that Janet’s husband, Cecil, and

  seventeen-year-old son, Patrick, still lived in their old flat in Castlemain House, alongside Green Park, where Billie had once stayed with them. Holding the address book, with the Farleigh phone number before her, Vera sat down on the bed and read the instructions on her grey telephone: To call the operator lift hand set. She lifted the hand set. An operator’s voice came on immediately. She read off the Farleigh home number.

  One ring and the call was answered. A husky young voice answered. ‘Hello, there. Patrick Farleigh here.’

  ‘Patrick? This is Billie Bradford, an old friend of your mother’s.’

  ‘Billie —?’ The young voice sounded awed.

  ‘Yes, Billie Bradford. My husband and I are here from the States for the Summit Conference.’

  ‘I know. I’ve seen you on the telly. I read in the papers you might be calling on us. I’m so
rry my father’s not in -‘

  ‘Never mind. I wanted to speak to you, too. I wanted to offer my heartfelt condolences. I loved your mother. Everyone loved her.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Patrick. He sounded choked.

  ‘Another reason I’m phoning,’ said Vera. ‘I need your help on a little matter. I wonder if I might stop by, look in on you for a few minutes? Will you be there?’

  ‘Oh, certainly I’ll be here. When did you mean? Tonight?’

  ‘Right now. I could be over in maybe ten or fifteen minutes. Sure you don’t mind?’

  ‘I’d be highly honoured.’

  ‘See you shortly,’ said Vera, hanging up.

  So far, so good. Now, the next call, the big one. From a rack near her bedstand hung four London telephone directories. She bent over to read their spines. The orange one read A—D, the pink one was imprinted E—K, the green one L-R, and the blue one S-Z. She pulled the first one, the A-D one, upward from the rack. On the cover was the heading, LONDON POSTAL AREA. She opened the directory near the back, turned the pages until she found the listing for the Dorchester Hotel and its telephone number. She jotted it

  down on a pad. Lowering the directory to its place, she glared at the phone number on the pad and gradually her expression became malignant.

  Sitting on her bed, she lifted the hand set. An operator’s voice responded. Vera gave the Dorchester number. After what seemed interminable ringing, her call was picked up. It was a switchboard operator at the Dorchester. Mustering some authority in her voice, Vera asked to be put through to Premier Dmitri Kirechenko’s suite. She knew that she would not get the Premier, but rather some buffer person, which was good enough, because the person would quickly relay her message.

  A person with a gruff voice had answered in Russian. He had said, ‘The Soviet delegation.’