(1980) The Second Lady

by Irving Wallace

  Razin showed his empty hands and smiled. ‘Oh, it’s in the back of my car, and it is not exactly what I would call a package. It’s a travelling trunk I’m supposed to turn over to Premier Kirechenko in London.’

  ‘A trunk, is it? Well, I suppose some people might call that a package.’

  ‘I’ll open the back of my car. I’ll need two porters to lug it to the plane.’

  ‘Be right back with them.’ He spun away and dashed off into the terminal.

  Razin strolled back to the car and unlocked the rear compartment. There was the travelling trunk, with Billie in its womb. He wondered how she was faring. He was tempted to speak to her, but he did not dare.

  He stood surveying the area partially illuminated by the night lights. No signs of danger yet. He could only hope that his luck would hold.

  He wished Captain Meshlauk would hurry. Then, as if in answer to his wish, the captain reappeared from the terminal with two drably clad, elderly porters at his heels.

  Razin met them at the car. ‘There it is,’ he said, indicating the trunk. ‘Handle it with care, great care. There’s a leather strap on each end.’

  The porters pulled the travelling trunk towards them, each took hold of a strap, and grunting they lifted it out of the car.

  ‘See that they take it to the passenger section of the aircraft,’ Razin told the captain. ‘I’m supposed to keep it in sight at all times.’ .

  The captain nodded, and barked out the order to the two porters. ‘Take it to the Antonov An-12. Have it put in the passenger section.’

  After watching the porters depart, Razin shut the rear compartment of his car and handed the keys to Captain Meshlauk. ‘Will you park it? I should be back in about eight hours.’

  ‘I’ll be here waiting for you,’ said the captain. ‘Now we better get you aboard. We don’t have to bother about passport control.’

  They were entering the air terminal when Razin gripped the captain’s arm, restraining him. ‘One thing more,’ said Razin. ‘I’m supposed to report when I’m ready to leave. Where can I find a private phone?’ ‘No problem. Let me show you.’

  The captain guided Razin to a cubbyhole of an office nearby. He unlocked the door, turned up the light, and directed Razin into the room. ‘There’s a phone on the desk. I’ll go see that the porters got your package aboard safely. Then I’ll meet you at the exit and take you to the plane.’

  Once the captain was gone, Razin felt inside his jacket pocket and brought out Ambassador Youngdahl’s card bearing the telephone number of the American embassy in Moscow. Still standing, Razin picked up the phone receiver and dialled the American embassy.

  An embassy night operator promptly answered the first ring. He told her that he had to speak to Ambassador Youngdahl, and that his call was expected. ‘Tell him it concerns a Mr Guy Parker.’

  There was a fifteen-second interval before the ambassador’s sleepy voice came on. ‘This is the ambassador. Is this Alex Razin?’

  ‘Yes. I have a message to be given to the First Lady directly or through her secretary.’

  ‘I’m ready with pad and pencil.’

  ‘Here is the message.’ He dictated slowly. ‘ “I am en route to London with package. I should be there at daybreak. Come to Westridge airport to meet me. Be sure to wear mink outfit. Since I may be restricted for a time, please come aboard aircraft. I will then instruct you further. Signed, Alex Razin.” ‘ He paused. ‘End of message. Is it clear, Mr Ambassador?’

  ‘Not to me. But it may be to the First Lady.’

  ‘Read it back, if you don’t mind.’

  The ambassador read it back.

  ‘Perfect,’ said Razin. ‘You will now relay it to Mrs Bradford?’

  ‘Immediately.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Ambassador. I must go now.’

  Hanging up, he realized that he was perspiring. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead and dried his upper lip. Tucking away his handkerchief, he turned off the office light and went into the almost empty cavern of the dimly lit building. At a distance, past the passport counters and baggage checkin desks, near the exit doors, he saw the captain beckoning to him.

  Hurriedly, he closed the distance between them and joined the captain, who held open the exit door. ‘Everything is in order, sir.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  They were outdoors now, and the chill bit into Razin. The officer had jumped ahead, and Razin followed him closely to the giant military turbo-jet rising before them. The jets were whining, blowing up gusts of dust and debris.

  The captain began to ascend the movable ramp. With one hasty look behind him, Razin also ascended the stairs. At the plane’s entrance, the captain waited and pointed inside. ‘Your trunk,’ he said above the scream of the jets. ‘A row of seats has been installed. Take your choice.’ He extended his hand. ‘Good journey. See you in the late morning.’

  ‘I’ll be looking for you,’ said Razin, shaking hands. ‘And thanks again for your help.’

  Razin made his way deeper into the plane. Glancing back, he saw that the captain had put his head inside the cockpit. A moment later he departed. Now, a member of the crew came out and, without so much as a look at his lone passenger, closed the heavy door through which Razin had entered, securing it in place. Then he disappeared into the cockpit again.

  Razin got his bearings. The interior of the Antonov was stripped except for the long benches along the interior walls — obviously intended for paratroopers — and a row of four connecting seats — and the travelling trunk a few feet from the seats.

  With a sigh of exhaustion, Razin lowered himself in an end seat. He stared at the trunk. Inside it, the First Lady of the United States. Incredible.

  And equally incredible that they had come this far. His mind went to the executioner. Was General Petrov dead or alive? If alive, had he been found by someone?

  If alive, if found, there was still jeopardy. Razin patted his pocket. He still had his gun.

  He looked out the window. The plane was moving.

  The first streaks of dawn were outlining the domes of the Kremlin.

  At a curb inside the Kremlin, the elongated dark blue Zil limousine, belonging to the chairman of the KGB, remained parked where it had been since its arrival.

  Inside the limousine, the four occupants continued to wait. Behind the wheel reclined Konstantin, the chauffeur, and beside him sat Sukoloff, a photographer. In the spacious rear, two of the three vinyl armchairs held two of General Petrov’s most trusted KGB bodyguards, Captain Ilya Mirsky and Captain Andrei Dogel.

  Mirsky’s sullen misshapen face reflected his impatience. Restlessly, he peered outside. ‘It’s getting light,’ he growled.

  ‘I don’t like it. We’re way behind schedule. The whole thing was to be done during the night.’

  ‘What difference?’ said Dogel.

  To Mirsky, there was a difference. A plan was a plan. If people did not adhere to plans, the world, life on earth, would be chaos. Without following plans, things could go wrong, things could not be accomplished. That was one of the admirable qualities about General Petrov. He always planned. He always adhered to what he had planned. He got things done.

  To Mirsky, his boss’s tardiness tonight was inexplicable.

  Now, for at least the tenth time, as an antidote to the boredom of inaction, Mirsky reviewed the delayed plan. They all had their precise assignments, although only he and Dogel actually knew in advance what was to happen. The chauffeur Konstantin had his instructions - once the extra passenger was picked up, he was to drive five kilometres beyond Izmailovo Park to a dense forest of virgin pine that hid an old graveyard. The chauffeur was to stay in the car, and the photographer Sukoloff was to stay with him, until he was summoned to bring his camera into the forest. The passenger, a woman that Petrov had come here to pick up, would be unconscious. The second Petrov had brought her to the limousine, Dogel would have covered her face with a rag saturated with ether, and pushed her to the floor of
the car. Mirsky and Dogel would carry her through the woods to the graveyard. An open grave would be waiting. Mirsky was to shoot her in the heart, stay away from her face, until the photographer had taken his pictures. After Sukoloff had made his close-ups of her lifeless face and bullet wound, and had been sent away, Dogel would pour acid on her face to obliterate it beyond recognition. The corpse would then be rolled into the grave and Mirsky and Dogel would use their shovels to fill the hole with dirt, cover it with a layer of sod. After that, they would hasten back to KGB headquarters. The prints of the photographs would be turned over to Petrov, who would hand them over to Alex Razin.

  That was the plan — as yet unfulfilled.

  Mirsky put a light to his cigarette, puffed furiously, looked down at his watch. ‘It’s almost three hours,’ he said. He glanced outside once more. ‘Practically daylight. I tell you, it’s not like him.’ He crushed out his cigarette. ‘I better see what’s going on.’

  T don’t know,’ said Dogel. ‘Our orders were to wait. You might break in on him giving the lady one long last fuck.’

  Mirsky opened the limousine door. ‘I’ll take my chances,’ he said, and stepped out and strode away.

  Walking fast, Mirsky reached his destination in less than ten minutes. Approaching the Bradford suite, he saw the night guard still stationed before the door.

  ‘How are you, Boris?’ Mirsky called.

  ‘Fine, sir.’

  ‘Who’s inside there right now?’

  ‘Well, sir, the lady, of course. Then Mr Razin -‘

  ‘Mr Razin?’

  ‘He’s been inside maybe four hours. General Petrov came after him. The general’s inside, too.’

  ‘None of them has left?’ asked Mirsky. ‘They’re all still in there?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Well, I’ll have to interrupt General Petrov. Will you let me in?’

  Boris found his key and unlocked the door to the suite.

  The instant that Mirsky pushed the door open, he saw the bulky body of General Petrov — unmistakably Petrov — sprawled on the floor. This was so unexpected that Mirsky’s composure, usually stonelike, cracked.

  Recovering, he bellowed over the thunderous music, ‘Boris!’

  Mirsky leaped forward, went down on a knee beside his chief, as the guard Boris ran into the room.

  Carefully, Mirsky turned the body on its side, revealing the blood and the ugly bullet wound. ‘He’s been shot —’ Mirsky lowered the body to the floor, reached for Petrov’s wrist and felt for the pulse. The beat was feeble. ‘He’s still

  alive.’ Mirsky looked up at the guard. ‘Get an ambulance, fast as possible! Sound the alarm!’

  The guard whirled and bounded out of the room.

  When his shock had receded”, Mirsky came to his feet. Drawing his pistol from its holster, he surveyed the living room. There had been two others in the suite. Where were they?

  Mirsky advanced swiftly to the bedroom, and cautiously entered it. The bedroom was empty. He hurried to the bathroom. Both bathroom and shower were empty. Retracing his steps, he looked into the kitchen. Empty. Their prisoner, the First Lady, was gone, and so was Alex Razin. There was no question in Mirsky’s mind about what had happened. But how had they got away?

  Instantly, he remembered the trapdoor, and the previous effort to escape. He went into the kitchen. The trapdoor seemed in place, but then he realized that the nails had been removed. Tugging off the trapdoor and laying it to one side, he took a miniature flashlight from his pocket, dropped himself to the floor, and poked his light into the hole. The beam showed only a vacant storage room.

  Mirsky stood up, putting away his light, certain that the fugitives had fled through the trapdoor. Dusting himself off, he tried to reason out why a trusted, veteran KGB agent like Alex Razin would do such a thing. Had the CIA bought him out? Or had he .been a double agent in the pay of the Americans all along? Or had he learned of the First Lady’s impending execution and agreed to save her for a reward? In any case, how did Razin imagine he could possibly get the American First Lady out of Moscow and Russia? Razin’s behaviour was baffling. It made no sense.

  Turning back to the living room, he saw that Petrov’s body was surrounded by a medical crew consisting of a physician, two nurses, two stretcher-bearers. Mirsky hung back, until they were taking Petrov from the room. One doctor called out, ‘We’ll know how serious it is when we get him to the Kremlin Clinic’

  As Mirsky left the suite, he was intercepted by Moscow

  police investigators and several fellow KGB officers. Quickly, he recounted what he knew, and then hurried out toward the limousine. He stopped once to watch the ambulance, a white minibus with red cross emblems and a flashing light on the roof, gathering speed as it made its way toward the Borovitsky Gate.

  In the limousine, Mirsky commanded Konstantin to take them to the Kremlin Clinic building only a few minutes away, as fast as possible. ‘The one just across from the Lenin Library,’ he added. While their limousine headed for the hospital, Mirsky told the mystified Dogel and Sukoloff what had happened. When they arrived at the five-storey red granite building, Mirsky concluded, ‘Only Petrov can answer our questions — if he lives.’ He opened the car door. ‘Come on,’ he said to Dogel, ‘let’s find out.’

  The small, stifling waiting room was opposite the surgery. In the time that followed, Mirsky, more restless than ever, walked back and forth ceaselessly and chain-smoked steadily, while Dogel sat leafing through a magazine. Neither man spoke. It was more than an hour before the senior surgeon appeared, unfastening his white mask.

  ‘The odds are favourable that, barring unforeseen complications, General Petrov will recover,’ the surgeon said. ‘I know you gentlemen need information. However, do not expect anything from the general for two or three days. You will be kept informed daily - and privately — of his condition.’

  Departing the hospital, Mirsky knew what had to be done next. He must order the driver to get them to KGB headquarters — Petrov’s office — immediately.

  The flight time from Moscow to London was three-and-a-half hours, and the Antonov transport with its two passengers was over the North Sea, less than an hour from its destination.

  Once the plane had been airborne, Alex Razin had not lost a moment in opening the trunk. He had found Billie Bradford curled and compressed inside, her eyes closed, her

  features etched with pain. She had seemed only half conscious. Hooking his hands under her armpits, he had gently set her upright, lifted her out of the trunk, held her in a standing position beside the seats. Immediately, her knees had buckled and she had collapsed in his arms. He had helped her to a seat and settled her into it.

  He had watched over her as she lay there, comatose, unable to speak.

  Once, after a half-hour, she had partially opened her eyes.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he had asked worriedly.

  ‘I — I don’t know.’

  ‘Does anything hurt?’

  ‘Everything.’

  ‘Do you want me to massage you?’

  She had nodded weakly.

  He had begun by kneading her shoulders lightly, then had gone on to massage her sides and thighs and legs. By the time he had finished, she had been fast asleep.

  He had taken the seat beside her, and smoked, and had reflected on his past and speculated upon his immediate future. Then he had dozed off.

  Awakening with a start, he realized that two hours had passed, and that she, too, was awake and staring straight ahead.

  ‘How are you?’ he wanted to know.

  ‘Much better. Where are we?’

  ‘An hour or so out of London.’

  ‘Are we safe?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Thank God.’ She turned her head toward him, and touched his cheek. ‘Thank you. I owe everything to you.’

  ‘Including getting you into the whole thing,’ he said bitterly.

  ‘And getting me out of it,’ she added. ‘It was
so dangerous. Why did you do it?’

  That’s a long story, Billie. I’ll tell you all of it before we land. But I think you need a stiff drink first.’

  ‘I think so, too.’

  He produced the pint flask of vodka from his jacket, unscrewed the cap, and handed her the bottle. She took a gulp, choked and coughed, and sat up. She took a second swallow, and returned the bottle. ‘Potent,’ she said. ‘I’m awake now.’

  He had one drink, then another, capped the flask and put it away.

  Her eyes were on him. ‘Now tell me,’ she said.

  ‘Tell you what?’

  ‘Why you did it. Why we’re here. You said it was a long story.’

  He smiled. ‘I’ll try to make it short. Yes, I suppose you should know every detail, because we’ll be walking into an extremely awkward and potentially dangerous situation. You know some of what happened already. I should fill you in on the rest.’

  Razin started with General Petrov’s accidental discovery of the provincial actress, Vera Vavilova, in Kiev, and Petrov’s fascination with the fact that Vera looked almost exactly like the wife of one of the two United States presidential nominees. When that wife became the First Lady, Petrov got his Second Lady project under way. At the outset, Petrov had no specific purpose in mind, only the knowledge that several future crises loomed and that a Russian First Lady in the White House might be an espionage coup for the Soviet Union. Petrov spent almost three years, and a fortune in roubles, to convert Vera Vavilova into a replica of Billie Bradford.

  ‘I was in on the project from the beginning,’ said Razin. ‘Because, as you know, I was acquainted with America and spoke good English. I was put in charge of Americanizing our Vera Vavilova. Along the way, I fell deeply in love with Vera, and she with me. I hated sending her off to Washington in exchange for you, but I had to do so. After that, I had to see that she succeeded, went undetected, not only to protect her but to keep her safe for me.’