(1980) The Second Lady

by Irving Wallace

  Leaving Petrov, Razin was confused about the purpose of the unexpected trip, but decided not to give it another thought, simply to follow orders as he had always done.

  He climbed the stairs to his office, finished packing his briefcase, took it along with his light raincoat, and made his way out of the building to the public parking lot a few minutes away off Furkosov Alley.

  The weather was cool. With one hand, he buttoned his raincoat as he walked, turned into the lot, found his black Volga sedan, bent down and got into the driver’s seat. He laid his briefcase on the passenger seat, pulled out his ignition key, and started the car. He allowed the Volga to idle a minute, switched on the headlights, and looked over his shoulder to back out. Just then, he saw a tall, expensively dressed man hurrying in his direction. Unable to recognize the stranger, Razin was about to shift into reverse when the tall man came alongside the car on the passenger side, opened the door, pushed away the briefcase, and settled into the front seat.

  ‘Alex Razin, I presume?’ said the stranger in English.

  Razin peered at his visitor, instantly recognized him, and did not try to conceal the surprise in his voice. ‘Ambassador Youngdahl. What are you —?’

  ‘I have a private and personal message for you,’ said Youngdahl crisply. ‘Let’s get out of this parking lot. Find some empty back street for us. I think it would be much wiser.’

  Razin hesitated momentarily, puzzled, then curiosity overtook him and he decided to cooperate. Releasing his handbrake, Razin pulled out of the parking slot and wheeled the car toward the exit.

  At the first red light, Razin glanced at the imposing, elderly American ambassador.

  ‘A message for me?’ Razin inquired.

  ‘Apparently an important one. I don’t understand the message. I’m told you will.’

  With the change of the light, Razin shifted gears and drove up 25 October Street. The thoroughfare was desolate, empty of vehicles at this time of night. Razin slowed past the side streets, searching for one to his liking, found a dark, cobblestone street barely lit and turned into it. There were trees and weeds along the curbs and several weathered highrise apartment buildings. After about fifty metres,, with no sign of life anywhere, Razin pulled his Volga over to a curb in front of some temporary plywood fencing protecting a construction site. Applying the brakes, he shut off the motor, and half faced the American ambassador.

  ‘Who is the message from?’ Razin asked.

  ‘A man who accompanied the presidential party to London. His name is Guy Parker; Apparently, you met him when -‘

  ‘I remember him,’ Razin interrupted. ‘He was writing the speeches for the First Lady. Also, a book for her. What does he want of me?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Ambassador Youngdahl. ‘He told me to give you a message that he dictated to me on the President’s scrambler phone.’ Youngdahl had reached under his topcoat and into the inner pocket of his jacket and withdrawn a slip of paper. ‘I only know that I was to deliver it to you personally, and that it deals with a matter of some urgency. Here it is.’ He handed the paper to Razin. ‘You’ll find my phone number on the attached card should you want to contact me at any hour.’ Youngdahl lifted the door handle and pushed the door open. ‘I’d better leave you here. I’ll find my way back to my car. Good luck, Mr Razin.’ He stepped out and was soon lost in the night.

  Ten minutes later, Alex Razin was still seated behind the steering wheel of his car in the same place and in the same street.

  He had read the message from Guy Parker three times. The first reading had confused and disconcerted him. His second careful reading had chilled him. His third reading had brought the blood to his hot throbbing temples.

  There had been a series of shocks, one after the other, and they had affected him like a concussion.

  Only now was he coming out of his stupor into a state of outrage that was settling into deep agitation. With difficulty he was trying to organize his mind and think logically.

  He had translated Parker’s deliberately obscure message into something he could totally understand. Parker’s message had told him that Billie Bradford was going to be killed tonight. The mention of Vera’s name, startling in itself, told him that she was not returning to Russia and would remain in her present role. Finally, it told him that, if he could save Billie, he would be allowed into the United States and be given asylum.

  At the end of Razin’s second reading, all the terrible implications in the brief message had begun to sink in and register on his mind. To begin with, there was the horrifying news that America’s First Lady was to be murdered immediately. From the beginning to the end of their plot, Billie’s liquidation had never been part of the plan, a violent act never even considered. Why was the inhuman deed now a necessity? If Premier Kirechenko had ordered it, he was either insane or a cold-blooded savage. If the execution was carried out, and word of it ever leaked to the West, it would lead to a break in diplomatic relations between the United States and the Soviet Union that might escalate into a suicidal nuclear war. Millions and millions would die because of one woman’s senseless death. America’s fury would be beyond comprehension. The USSR’s image to the world would be that of a homicidal barbarian. Why the risk? It was almost impossible to imagine. Was it being done to clear the deck for Vera to play First Lady safely for the next five years and give the KGB a spy in the White House and later a spy in the upper echelons of American society? Or was there another motive for murder, one more compelling, that he could not fathom from this distance? Yes, there was probably a more immediate and powerful motive to drive the Premier to an act of butchery that would dispose of the most famous and beloved woman in the United States.

  What was equally surprising, and less understandable, was that the Americans — or at least one of them, a minor bureaucrat named Parker — had actually found out that the real First Lady was a captive in Moscow and that a Soviet agent named Vera was successfully performing as her double. And that he, Razin, was somehow involved. And that now, with the two First Ladies known, the real one was to be eliminated. How had Parker found out? Not important at this point. But why had Parker not exposed it at once, gone to the President, gone to the military or the CIA, brought the Soviet Union to a showdown? Yet, no one else seemed to know about the plot, because the Summit appeared to be moving to its conclusion quietly and without any undue alarm.

  Then, the one line in Parker’s message that touched Razin’s own life, shook his life and turned it upside down. It would mean your person Vera would remain permanently in place. Parker could not possibly have known of Razin’s secret relationship with Vera. Yet, unwittingly, he had touched Razin in a sensitive spot. There was no questioning Parker’s conclusion. It was true. If Billie Bradford was secretly executed tonight, she would still live on in the person of Vera Vavilova. America and the world would know only one First Lady, and that would be Vera. From the London Summit, she would return to the United States. She would remain in the White House for the rest of the President’s term, and throughout the four years of his next term, and then remain his wife until death parted them. And Alex Razin - she would be lost to Razin for ever.

  It was a loss so wrenching that Razin could not contemplate it further.

  The full realization came to him: Vera’s fate and his own fate were completely linked with Billie Bradford’s life or death. If Billie died, his relationship with Vera died, also. If Billie lived, his love and future with Vera lived. Replaced and freed, Vera could join him in going to the United States. Parker’s message had promised the reward - the lifting of the ban on him and permanent American residence.

  There could be a perfect future for both of them. Razin’s mind sped ahead. If he could intervene now, protect Billie, rescue her, return her to London — and beforehand arrange with Parker to have Vera and himself whisked to a clinic for plastic surgery, and get them admitted to the United States, they would both be safe and have their life together. And Billie would live, possess h
er own life again.

  Was it possible?

  Dostoevski had faced a firing squad, in this same Moscow, prepared for execution, when saved by a last-minute reprieve. Could America’s First Lady, also prepared for execution, be saved by his own last-minute intervention?

  Once more, he asked himself the question. Was it possible?

  He answered himself with a question of his own. Why not?

  Certainly, it was possible - but barely possible. By chance, circumstances offered some hope. For one thing, while the execution order had been secret, he had found out about it, unknown to his superior. For another, there was a plane waiting twenty-eight kilometres outside Moscow to take him to London to deliver a package. Why could not Billie Bradford be the package?

  For a moment he wondered why Petrov had not confided in him the plan to eliminate Billie and to keep Vera on as America’s First Lady? Perhaps because Petrov had learned of Razin’s love for Vera. Or perhaps because the fewer people who knew of a murder, the better for the murderers.

  Razin forced his mind to concentrate on the next steps. Petrov would be going to the Kremlin soon, if he had not done so already. He and his trained thugs would forcibly remove Billie. In the limousine she would be bound and gagged. She would be driven out to the suburbs, to one of the isolated wooded areas. From behind, she would be shot in the head. She would be further disfigured to blot out her identity for all time. She would be buried in an unmarked grave. She would never be missed, because she would live on in London and Washington DC. .

  The obvious first step was to get to her in the Kremlin before Petrov got to her.

  But no, he told himself, that was too fast, too unthought-out. She might be spotted, both of them caught, before they ever arrived at the airport. Reaching Billie in the Kremlin was the second step. Before that he must hurry home to make necessary preparations. Only then did he dare take Billie out of the Kremlin and try to escape with her. They would go to the airport. There the plane would be standing by for him and his package. He would telephone Ambassador Youngdahl before departing. Then board the plane for London. Two hours later Operation Vera would be successfully concluded.

  Maybe, maybe.

  It was all so easy to plan, so difficult to act out. One false move and the First Lady would be as dead as she was supposed to be. And Razin, himself, would be dead, too.

  He came out of his private speculations, and found Parker’s message on his lap. He separated the ambassador’s card from it, shoved the card in his pocket, held the message while he opened his car door. He pulled out his cigarette lighter, snapped it on, watched the flame lick out, and applied the flame to the slip of paper with the message. The paper flared red. As it scorched his fingers, he dropped it into the street. Soon it was ashes.

  He ground out the ashes with his shoe, shut the car door, and turned the key in the ignition.

  No more time for thought. Time only for action.

  He knew the enemy.

  Time, itself, was the enemy.

  It seemed unreal to Alex Razin, twelve minutes after leaving the Moscow ring road, when he steered his Volga into the yard next to his four-room house, that he was seeing his home for the last time. The old wooden house, painted a subdued green, a light showing in the front window, was a dacha inherited from his father, who had received it as a gift from the State. Here Razin had been brought by his father when he was a boy and here he had lived comfortably to his middle years. The only other occupant was his Uncle Lutoff, now in his seventies, his thin frame hunched and twisted from arthritis, who was his father’s older brother.

  Having parked, Razin hastily left the front seat and strode to the rear luggage compartment of the car. Unlocking it, lifting the lid, he saw that it was roomy enough.

  He hurried to the house, and as he ascended the narrow steps, the front door opened, and there was Uncle Lutoff waiting to welcome him as he did every night.

  ‘Dinner will be ready in ten minutes,’ Uncle.Lutoff said. Razin brushed past him into the house. ‘Forget it, Uncle,’ he said. ‘No time for dinner tonight. I have to leave for London right away. You can help me. Do we still have that old trunk that used to be around? The large one Father took along from America?

  ‘I am sure it is in the store room.’

  ‘Find it. Empty it. Drag it in here. Call me, if you need help. Dust it off. Do we have a hand drill? If not, a chisel and hammer will do. Bring them here.’

  Uncle Lutoff nodded, and limped away toward the store room.

  Razin continued on into his bedroom. With an eye on the clock, he discarded his light suit jacket. He sought and found his wool-lined dark leather jacket, the one with the deep pockets (one still holding a small flask of vodka), and pulled it on. Next, he went to his dresser and yanked out the top drawer. Feeling under the shorts and socks, his fingers touched the box of cartridges and then his hand covered the familiar PM pistol. Taking them both out, he placed the cartridges on the bed, and examined the 9 mm Makarov pistol. Professionally, speedily, he stripped it down. It was in excellent working condition. He put it together again, and loaded eight rounds of cartridges into the magazine. Remembering something more, he searched the top drawer again, with no result, but in the second drawer he found it. He held his expensive silencer. Quickly, he slipped it on to the barrel of the Makarov. After pushing the safety catch up, he dropped the gun into the second jacket pocket.

  At the bed, he retrieved his worn wallet from his suit jacket. He flipped through it, confirmed that his KGB pass was there, and he slipped the wallet into the hip pocket of his trousers. One more item in his suit coat, the diplomatic passport that Petrov had given him. Yet another thing he’d almost overlooked, the card from Ambassador Youngdahl with his telephone number. Razin recovered both and stowed them on his person. Since he was not returning, was there anything more? Somewhere there was a frayed snapshot of his mother, and the last portrait of his father. But there was no time. He would have to sacrifice them for Billie.

  About to leave his bedroom, one more thing came to mind. He opened his closet, reached for the upper shelf and brought down a folded brown spare blanket. He carried it into the living room, where Uncle Lutoff had just finished dusting the five-foot, brass-trimmed black trunk. Razin tossed the blanket near it, knelt, opened the latches of the trunk, raised the top and peered into it. The trunk was spacious, but not quite large enough to hold him. However, Billie was considerably

  shorter and slimmer than he. He estimated that she could fit into it. She would be cramped, suffer some discomfort, but then her stay in it might not be long. At least he hoped not. He stood up with the blanket, shook it out, and laid it inside the trunk to serve as a liner. Closing the trunk, latching it, he turned it on one end. ‘Did you find a hand drill?’ he asked his uncle. ‘No, but I have a chisel and hammer.’ ‘They’ll do.’

  He took the chisel and hammer from his uncle, positioned himself above the trunk, with one hand held the chisel against the lid and with the other hand held his hammer over the chisel. He slammed the hammer down against the chisel, trying to drive its point into the trunk. But the trunk was sturdy, its surface giving only slightly. Razin hammered hard again, then a third and fourth time, and at the fifth blow the chisel penetrated the trunk tearing a jagged hole through it. Encouraged, Razin moved the chisel around the end of the trunk, laboriously hammering away until there were a half-dozen holes in the trunk. Pleased, he backed away. Anyone inside the trunk would require added oxygen. The holes would allow Billie to breathe.

  Pocketing the chisel, Razin handed the hammer to his puzzled uncle. He dug out his wallet, extracted half of his rouble notes and placed them on the trunk. He went to the living room desk, found a piece of scrap paper and a pen. On the paper he printed the date and scribbled a note. The note transferred all of Razin’s personal property and effects to his Uncle Lutoff. Razin signed it. He gathered the note and roubles together and pushed them into the old man’s hand.

  ‘Yours, Uncle,’ he sa
id..‘Everything I have - just in case something happens to me.’

  ‘No, no,’ protested Uncle Lutoff, ‘please, nothing must happen.’

  ‘Put that away, and help me,’ Razin ordered, grabbing one strap of the trunk. ‘Let’s get this into the luggage compartment of my car. I’m in a terrible hurrv.’

  Because, at this late hour, the Kremlin parking spaces were only one-third filled, Alex Razin was able to leave his parked car in an advantageous spot for his purpose. On the way through the Kremlin, although the scattered guards knew him, he still routinely flashed his KGB pass.

  Arriving at the suite that held Billie Bradford, Razin paused to chat with the familiar KGB guard. ‘How are you, Boris?’

  ‘Fine, Comrade Razin.’

  ‘How’s your son?’

  ‘Fever’s down. Another week and he’ll be back at his sports.’

  ‘Glad to hear that.’ Then, Razin added casually, ‘Anybody been by to visit our guest this evening?’

  ‘Couldn’t be quieter.’

  Razin felt a surge of relief. His one abiding fear had been that Petrov might have arrived here before him. That would have been the end of the First Lady and of all his hopes. Fumbling for his key, he tried to behave as unconcernedly as always. He unlocked the door, and let himself in.

  He had assumed that Billie would be asleep by now, and that he would have to rouse her and get her moving. But he found her wide awake across the room, in her nightgown and negligee, uninterestedly playing solitaire with cards laid out on the coffee table. After he shut the door behind him, she lifted her head and acknowledged his arrival with a small show of surprise.

  Quickly, he brought his forefinger to his lips, signalling her to be quiet. He crossed to the radio, which was playing symphonic music, the volume low. He turned up the volume until the music filled the room, then approached her.

  Watching him, she said, ‘Isn’t this a rather odd hour for you to come here?’

  ‘I had something important to tell you,’ he said in an urgent undertone.