(1980) The Second Lady

by Irving Wallace

  She put down her pack. ‘Any news?’ she asked eagerly.

  ‘There is some news, Billie. Not exactly what you’ve been expecting.’

  1A f

  ‘Tell me,’ she said, searching his face.

  ‘I will tell you. But I don’t want you to panic. I’m here to help you. Whatever you feel, remember that.’

  ‘All right,’ she said, as if bracing herself. ‘Are you going to tell me they’re not sending me home yet?’

  ‘Worse. Much worse. They’ve decided to get rid of you.’

  ‘What?’ It was as if she had not quite heard him. ‘Get rid -‘

  ‘They want to get rid of you,’ he repeated.

  What he was saying had finally penetrated. She looked stricken. ‘Oh, no — no —’

  ‘It’s not going to happen,’ he hastily reassured her. ‘But that’s what they plan. They want to kill you.’

  ‘Kill me, actually kill me?’ she repeated with utter disbelief.

  ‘Tonight,’ he said. ‘They want to let their Second Lady remain as First Lady. Permanently.’

  ‘But that would never -‘

  ‘They think it will.’

  ‘Let me talk to them, explain —’ she pleaded.

  ‘No. It would be hopeless. Once they got their hands on you, you’d be finished. There is only one chance. I’m going to help you escape right now. I’m supposed to go to London tonight as a courier. There’s a plane standing by for me. I’m going to try to get you on it with me. We’ve got to move fast.’

  He had expected her to react immediately, obey him, jump up, run to the bedroom. Instead, she sat staring at him, a bitter expression on her face. She had regained her composure and picked up the pack of cards.

  Bewildered, Razin said, ‘Billie, didn’t you hear me?’

  Concentrating on the cards, she said, ‘I heard you. I don’t believe you.’

  ‘You don’t believe me? Billie —’

  She looked up at him. ‘No, I don’t. You lied to me once, pretending to help me escape. You used me. I won’t let it happen again. I know you’re a KGB agent. Are you going to deny it? Don’t. I saw your ID card.’

  Razin stood momentarily speechless.

  ‘You’re no friend,’ Billie continued relentlessly. ‘You’re one of them. I have no idea what you want with me this time. Maybe you want to kill me. Maybe they ordered you to get me out of here without difficulty. Whatever your game is, I’m not playing it again. You’re a liar, you can’t be trusted, and I want no part —’

  Razin went down on one knee before her, gripping her arms so hard she winced. ‘Billie, listen. Please listen. Everything you’ve said is true. I am a KGB agent. I did use you. I was ordered to and I went along. But not now. Not this time. Why would I use you? What reason would there be?’

  Shaken, she met his eyes. His intensity made her hesitant. ‘How — how do I know?’ she said uncertainly.

  ‘Billie, if I was still on their side, I wouldn’t dare tell you what I’ve told you. They are planning to execute you tonight. How could I use you, what could I do to you that’s worse than that? What have I to gain?’

  ‘Suppose what you say is true, why bother to help me? Why risk your career, your life?’

  ‘I have my reasons,’ he said, rising. ‘But there’s no time for them now. I repeat, we’ve got to move quickly. Otherwise we don’t have a chance.’

  She came to her feet. ‘You mean it? They really want to kill me?’

  ‘They’re going to, I swear.’

  She was beginning to look distraught. ‘And you — you want to help me?’

  ‘I can only try. General Petrov is coming here tonight to take you away. I don’t know exactly when. Maybe later. Maybe any second. We’ve got to get going. My car’s outside. Now do as I say.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Get into some clothes immediately —’ She was on her way to the bedroom, as he went on. ‘— and wear the mink outfit.’

  She paused at the doorway. ‘Mink outfit? How did you -?’

  ‘We know everything about you. Have you forgotten? The mink outfit or ensemble means your brown suit, blouse,

  brown lizard shoes, and beige mink coat. Get into them. I can probably get you past the guard outside. But I prefer the other route, the trapdoor in the kitchen to the storage -‘

  ‘They nailed it down.’

  ‘I know. But I can open it. Now hurry.’

  The moment that she rushed into the bedroom, he headed for the kitchen. He kicked aside the mat covering the trapdoor. He knelt. There were eight nails securing the trapdoor. He dug a hand into the pocket of his leather jacket. He brought out the chisel. He began to pry at the nails, loosening each. They were deeply imbedded and it wasn’t easy. Five minutes passed. He had two nails out. He worked harder.

  Only one thing troubled him. The success of their escape would depend entirely on the time that General Petrov arrived here. If he came soon after they left, found Billie missing, he would suspect Razin and have them arrested at the airport. If they were .airborne, Petrov would radio the pilot to turn back. It was the possible arrest at the airport that bothered Razin, not the recall of the plane. If the pilot received an order to turn around, he would also find Razin’s pistol at his head. They simply had to get off the ground before Petrov learned of the escape attempt.

  Razin yanked out the last nail. With his forefingers, he had a hold on each side of the trapdoor. He worked it loose, and lifted it out of the floor and laid it aside. Beneath him, he saw the steep ladder leading down to the darkened storage room.

  Billie must be dressed by now. About to rise and summon her, Razin became aware of a lull in the music and he clearly heard another sound. He heard the grating of a key in the front door. The sound was paralysing. His heart stood still.

  Crouched, Razin listened. The door creaked open, then banged shut.

  From his angle, Razin could see no one, but there was someone else in the living room. Razin mobilized himself into movement. He rose, backed off quietly against the refrigerator, from which vantage point he could see the rest of the room and the doorway to the bedroom.

  That instant, a bulky figure came into view, General Petrov marching past the kitchen towards the bedroom. He was almost across the room, when Billie, swathed in her mink, materialized in her bedroom doorway. She, too, had heard the front door, had come to see what was going on, and now found herself facing General Petrov. Her fright was apparent, although she tried to retain her poise.

  Petrov, momentarily disturbed by the resumption of the deafening music, stopped. ‘Good evening, Mrs Bradford,’ he said, loudly, eyeing her from head to toe. ‘Were you planning to go out? The theatre, perhaps? The ballet?’

  ‘N-n-no,’ she stammered. ‘I was bored. I was trying on clothes.’

  Petrov was briefly silent, as if considering her reply, then he spoke, almost cheerfully. ‘A happy coincidence,’ he said. ‘I had just decided to drop by and ask you out.’

  Billied appeared to stall. ‘Out? Me? Where?’

  ‘A surprise. You shall see. You’ve been cooped up in here too long. Come with me.’

  ‘I - I’m not sure I feel ‘like going out. I was planning to go to bed.’

  ‘There’s plenty of time for sleep. I suggest you join me.’

  ‘Really, I’m not up to it, General. If you don’t mind —’

  ‘I do mind,’ he said on a harsher note. ‘In fact, I insist.’

  ‘Well, if I must -‘

  ‘Now,’ he commanded.

  She teetered uncertainly. ‘My purse, let me get my purse.’

  ‘You won’t need your purse,’ Petrov said gruffly. ‘Come on.’ His voice was steely. ‘Don’t make me force you.’

  She started into the living room, walked slowly past Petrov not meeting his eyes, continued toward the front door, as Petrov fell in several feet behind her.

  From the kitchen, Razin had been watching and listening. The crisis had come to them sooner than he had expected
. His mind raced, sorting his options. Of only one thing could he be certain. Petrov was leading the First Lady to her death. He must be stopped by any means. By what means? Razin’s right hand had burrowed into his jacket pocket. Petrov must

  be disarmed, forced down into the storage room below, gagged and bound and left there. He and Billie might be safe before Petrov was found.

  The pair was moving out of Razin’s line of vision. Razin’s hand clasped the butt of his Makarov. He drew the pistol with its silencer out of his pocket and pressed down the safety catch. In a rapid movement, he stepped into the living room, gun held high.

  ‘Petrov,’ he called out.

  Startled, the KGB chief stopped dead in his tracks. He swung about, his features showing his surprise, his widening eyes staring at Razin.

  Razin did not blink. ‘Come here,’ he ordered.

  Obediently, Petrov took a step toward him, beginning to raise his hands in abject surrender, and as he did so, one hand, swift as lightning, darted to his shoulder holster. Even as Razin’s pistol took aim, Petrov’s gun was free of the holster.

  Razin fired first. A cottony swoosh from the silencer. Petrov gasped, the gun falling from his hand, which came up to join his other hand clutching his abdomen. Petrov reeled, staggered forward, went down to his knees, one hand instinctively pushing forward to break his fall. He keeled over flat on his face.

  Billie and Razin watched the prone body with fascination, studying it for any sign of movement. There was none. There was blood being blotted up by the carpet.

  As if coming out of a hypnotic trance, Razin forced himself to action. With his gun, he gestured for Billie to join him in the kitchen. She, too, had seemed in a trance, but at once she was out of it. She ran past Petrov’s unconscious body. Razin led her to the opening in the floor.

  ‘I believe you now,’ she whispered against his ear. ‘Will we make it?’

  ‘I don’t know, but we’d better. I’ve no place to go but straight ahead.’

  Razin was at the wheel, Billie Bradford in the passenger seat

  beside him, and they were speeding south-west on the highway that led to Vnukovo airport.

  Except for one brief delay, their departure from the Kremlin had been unobstructed. After emerging from the storage room, Razin had advised Billie to cover the lower half of her face by raising the collar of her mink coat. Then, taking her by the elbow, he had walked her unhurriedly toward the yellow four-storey Administrative Building across the way. Nonchalantly, he had waved to the few guards en route who knew him, recognized him, and had waved back.

  In the parking area, Razin had guided Billie along the string of big black official vehicles that dwarfed his own Volga sedan. At the sedan, he had helped her into the passenger seat, and gone around the car to settle behind the steering wheel. After backing out, he had driven to the Spasskaya Gate.

  A new KGB guard, unfamiliar to him, had barred the way. The guard had peered in through the open car window. ‘Identification?’ he had demanded of Razin.

  Razin had produced his wallet and removed his KGB identity card.

  The guard had squinted down at it and up at Razin’s face. Satisfied with Razin, the guard had poked his rifle toward Billie. ‘And the lady?’ he had asked.

  ‘She is a witness in a criminal case,’ Razin had said. ‘General Petrov wants her at Lubyanka for interrogation.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ the guard had said. ‘You may pass.’

  As his sedan moved ahead, leaving the Kremlin behind, Razin had said cryptically, ‘One more step to go - a long one.’

  She had tried to understand what he meant.

  Noticing the curiosity in her expression, he had explained, ‘Getting to the airport, before they get to us. Sooner or later, someone will miss Petrov and go to find him. When they question Boris, your guard, they’ll know I was in.the suite and that we both used the trapdoor. They’ll try to stop us at the airport. But that might not happen.’

  Billie had shivered. ‘What do I do at the airport?’

  ‘Nothing. You will see shortly. Leave it to me.’ Passing through Moscow with his recognizable passenger, at this late hour, he had felt enclosed and threatened. As he sped past Gagarin Square, continuing on Lenin Prospect, he had been able to make out Patrice Lumumba Friendship University, the dim lights of the Sputnik Hotel, and the darkened commercial buildings like the House of Shoes, the House of Fabrics, and the Moscow Department Store. Soon, he had known, he would be free of the city.

  Once he had crossed Vernadsky Prospect, he had begun to see stretches of open countryside. Yet, his fear had not diminished. Hunching over the wheel, he had driven in silence, with Billie huddled in the corner of her seat. Along the way, Lenin Prospect had become the concrete four-lane highway named Kiev Chaussee. He had been conscious of every chauffeured limousine, every uniformed motorcyclist, every public bus, approaching or passing him, and he had been wary of every pair of headlights shining out from side roads.

  Now, eyeing a sign that told him he was four kilometres from the airport, he eased his foot on the gas pedal, slowed, gradually moved his vehicle to the outside lane of the highway, seeking something in the patches of semi-darkness and the dense forests beyond. Abruptly Razin swung the car off the main thoroughfare and on to a dirt road. A slight decline brought him to a cross street. He drove past it and spun the sedan on to a wide wagon track that disappeared into the dark wooded area. For perhaps 100 metres he zigzagged the car between spruce and birch trees, and finally brought it to a halt in a small clearing.

  Dousing his headlights, he turned to Billie. She sat filled with apprehension, wondering.

  ‘The last step,’ he said to her. ‘You must be prepared to be uncomfortable for a half-hour, maybe an hour. You may be bruised and shaken up and scared. But if all goes well, you’ll be alive. Let’s hope it works.’

  ‘Let’s hope what works?’

  He opened his side door. ‘In the back of this car, in the

  luggage compartment, there’s a travelling trunk. You’ve got to climb into it. I’ll lock you in. You’ve got to curl up in there, and not make a sound. There’s a blanket in the trunk. That, and your fur coat, will protect you from being bumped around. There are small holes I made to give you some air. Do you think you can manage?’

  ‘After what I’ve endured already?’

  ‘Good. Let’s get moving.’

  They stepped out on opposite sides of the Volga sedan and met at the rear of the car. He unlocked the luggage compartment, and raised the cover revealing the used travelling trunk. He hoped that it was large enough to contain her. He undid the clasps and raised the lid of the trunk.

  ‘Think you can squeeze in there?’ he asked Billie.

  She appeared doubtful. ‘It would be easier if I took off my mink coat.’

  He shook his head. ‘No. You’ll need the protection of the fur. Let’s find out if you’ll fit.’ He held out a hand. ‘Here, step up on the bumper and I’ll help you in.’

  Gripping his hand, she stepped up. Taking hold of an edge of the trunk with one hand, she pulled up the coat and skirt above her knees with the other hand, and precariously she put one leg over the side of the trunk, and then the other. She lowered herself to her knees.

  ‘All right,’ he said, ‘now get on your side, bringing your knees up toward your chin. That’s right. Now a little more, if you can.’ He bent over the trunk opening, trying to adjust her fur coat around her. ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Terrible. But more comfortable than a coffin. How long again?’

  ‘A half-hour to an hour at most. Once we’re airborne, I’ll let you out. Do your best, Billie. Ready? Here we go.’

  He brought the top down slowly, then secured the brass clasps, and locked the trunk.

  Closing the luggage compartment, he hurried to his car seat. Pressured though he was, he took great care in backing the sedan around, determined not to jostle or injure his

  charge. The Volga swayed as he drove it back ov
er the wagon track and ascended the road.

  Minutes later he was on the highway and heading for the airport.

  Only one thought was uppermost in his mind: would Pe-trov’s Praetorian guard, his execution squad, be waiting for them?

  No one appeared to be waiting for them, and Razin breathed easier.

  Approaching the terminal itself, which he had visited only a short time ago, Razin was momentarily confused. He found himself confronting not one airport building, but two. To the right was a small, obviously old, cream-coloured stucco structure fronted by steps and a porch. To the left, separated from it by a gap of ten or fifteen feet, rose a newer, higher, more imposing building, its exterior a glass curtain design, three rows of glass set in aluminium frames. Above the roof, a floodlighted sign at least five feet high read: VNUKOVO.

  This newer building, he decided, was not the one where he was expected.

  He curved his sedan in before the older building and, ignoring the parking spaces across the way, drove alongside the broad sidewalk, pulled up ahead of a metal ‘No Parking’ sign set in the concrete of the sidewalk, and parked his car against the curb. Looking about him, he could see that Vnukovo airport appeared busy even at this late hour, although the older building beside him seemed abandoned. Razin got out of the car hoping to find some night porters who might be on duty.

  At that moment, a military officer burst out of the front door of the smaller airport building and strode rapidly toward Razin. He was wearing a KGB uniform, Razin could see. Razin tightened immediately, but then saw the officer was carrying no visible arms. Razin relaxed slightly and waited.

  The captain was before him. ‘Excuse me, are you Alex Razin?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘I was ordered to watch for you. I’m Captain Meshlauk, KGB. My instructions are to facilitate your departure in every way. First, if you please, your identity card and passport.’

  Razin produced both.

  Captain Meshlauk glanced at Razin’s KGB card and his passport, and nodded. ‘Very well. A plane has been assigned to you — a roomy Antonov An-12 transport. You will have it to yourself, except for the crew, of course. There will be a pilot, co-pilot, navigator, engineer, radio operator, but they will be locked up front. Instructions are that they are not to fraternize with you, nor you with them. The plane is ready to take you to London’s Westridge airport immediately. He looked Razin over. T was told to expect you with a package.’