(1980) The Second Lady

by Irving Wallace

  Meanwhile, the KGB had put him in charge of Billie during her imprisonment. As Billie now knew, every act he had performed - from assisting Billie in her first escape attempt

  to preventing her from being punished for it — had been ordered by the KGB. Their biggest problem, he said, had been Vera’s need to know how to behave in bed with the President.

  ‘I was assigned to find out,’ said Razin. ‘I tried to use you. And you tried to use me. Yet, when it was over I came to the conclusion you had tried to mislead me, and so I gambled and instructed Vera to act completely opposite from the way you had acted. I was proved to be right.’

  ‘I was afraid of that,’ said Billie.

  ‘My duty,’ said Razin. ‘But today I forgot duty. I refused to obey them. Somehow, in London, your writer, Guy Parker, found out you were in Moscow and to be executed tonight. He conveyed the news to me using your ambassador in Moscow as an intermediary. Parker guessed I would not permit it. He was right. I would not. The men I had been blindly obeying, all at once I saw them as monsters. I decided to risk my life to save yours. I had two motives. The first was selfish. If you were murdered, Vera would remain the President’s mate as long as they both lived — and I would lose her for ever. The other motive was - well, a humane one — but the fact is that I had become genuinely fond of you and somehow come to regard you as Vera’s surrogate. The act of killing you was a barbaric act. I wanted no part of it. By saving you, I might restore my honour as well as save the woman I love for myself. There you have it, Billie, all of it.’

  Throughout his confession, she had listened mesmerized, her feelings toward him seesawing from anger to affection. Now, more tolerant, accepting the change he had undergone, she appreciated the risk he had taken. She spoke, at last. ‘You shot General Petrov to get me out. What’ll happen to you?’

  ‘What will happen to me? That is entirely up to you, Billie.’

  ‘Me? What can I do for you? What do you want?’

  ‘I want my life and Vera’s,’ he said simply. ‘Vera will be there to meet our plane. I’ve arranged that. She’ll be extremely upset, even frightened, to see you, but I’ll calm her down.

  You and Vera will trade places. I’ve even had her dress as you’re dressed to make the exchange easier. Then, to begin with, you must hide us briefly. You should be able to get us out of the airport without any trouble. No one will delay the First Lady and her entourage. You must hide us overnight -‘

  ‘I know a place in the West End. A flat that’s owned by a widower and his son —’

  ‘Get us American passports. You promised mine from the start. I’ll want another for Vera. Under new names.’

  ‘It can be arranged.’

  ‘And find us an out-of-the-way clinic and a plastic surgeon in England. Schedule us for immediate facial surgery. Vera must no longer look like you, or her old self, and I must never be recognized as Alex Razin. This will protect us from being found by the KGB.”

  ‘It will be done immediately.’

  ‘Once we are given permanent residence in the United States, help me get a reporting or teaching job and help Vera get back on the stage.’

  ‘I’m sure I can do it.’

  ‘One final thing,’ said Razin. ‘Never speak publicly or privately about what happened to you. No word of it must get out. Because if it did, if your husband or anyone in the American government ever learned of your abduction, of your double, well, then the United States and the Soviet Union -‘ He showed her his despair. ‘Friendship and peace would be impossible, and their relationship would become a nightmare.’

  Billie fully understood. ‘Tempted as I might be, Alex - the desire for revenge is a powerful emotional force - I’ll try to keep my head. No Alex, don’t worry. I promise you I’ll never speak of this.’

  He smiled slightly. ‘Then you will have repaid me.’ He looked out the window. ‘It’s getting light now.’ He sat back and his brow furrowed. ‘I wonder what’s happening in Moscow?’

  At KGB headquarters near the Kremlin, Mirsky stood behind General Petrov’s desk, all of the previous evening’s memorandums and notes and decoded wireless messages from London spread out before him. Gathered across from him were Dogel and three other KGB officers who had known about Project Second Lady.

  For a last time Mirsky reviewed General Petrov’s papers. The fuzzy picture of what had taken place was now sharply in focus. Not all of it, to be sure, but most of it, enough of it.

  The significant fact was that, after the Premier had ordered Mrs Bradford liquidated, and after Alex Razin had been assigned to take a package (containing photographs of the corpse) to London, Razin had by some means learned of the pending execution. He had, for whatever reasons, undertaken to rescue Billie Bradford and bring her to London on the plane assigned to him.

  Once this had become clear to Mirsky, he had telephoned Vnukovo airport and spoken to a Captain Meshlauk. Mirsky had been informed that the Antonov transport with Razin aboard had left for London more than three hours ago.

  ‘This Mr Razin, did he have a lady with him?’ Mirsky had inquired.

  ‘No, there was no one with him. He got aboard alone with his package - well, actually a large travelling trunk.’

  ‘Ah, a trunk, a large travelling trunk.’

  At once, Mirsky had seen the horrendous inevitability of what would follow. The KGB had its First Lady, Vera Vavilova, safe in London. Shortly, the real First Lady, Billie Bradford, would also be in London. The confrontation between the two First Ladies would blow the KGB plot sky-high. The resultant exposure, and its consequences, were beyond calculation.

  Mirsky shook his head and looked up at his colleagues. ‘I guess we know what’s taken place. The question is - what can we do about it?’ He fixed his gaze on Dogel. ‘You are absolutely sure that plane cannot be recalled?’

  Dogel turned both thumbs down. ‘Impossible. There’s not

  sufficient fuel for the round trip. The plane was to refuel at Westridge. Besides, we know Razin has a gun.’

  ‘Well,’ said Mirsky, ‘that leaves us just one thing to do. We must notify Premier Kirechenko immediately. He’s on the scene. He’s the only one who can save us.’

  At Claridge’s Hotel in London, Guy Parker was picking up Nora Judson in her office, and leading her through ‘Dolores Martin’s office, on the way to an early breakfast, when the President’s scrambler phone started ringing. Mrs Martin came to her feet and ran for the phone.

  Parker held Nora back at the door. ‘This could be for one of us.’

  Mrs Martin already had the phone to her ear. ‘Oh, hello, Mr Ambassador … Well, I don’t think she’s up yet, but Nora Judson is here. Do you want to speak to her?’ She listened, then cupped her hand over the phone. ‘Nora! It’s Ambassador Youngdahl calling from Moscow. He wants to speak to you.’

  Nora gave Parker a meaningful look. ‘Coming!’ she called back to Mrs Martin, and hurried into the President’s office, signalling for Parker to join her.

  She took over the telephone. ‘Hello, Mr Ambassador. This is Nora Judson. Would you like me to wake Mrs Bradford?’

  ‘No, you’ll do.’

  ‘Very well.’ .

  ‘First of all, tell Parker I did as he instructed me. I located Alex Razin and passed on the message. I did it in person and then left him. Later, I heard from Mr Razin briefly. He had a message for the First Lady, for Mrs Bradford.’

  ‘I’ll be happy to pass it on to her.’

  ‘I have it written down. Let me read it to you. Ready?’

  ‘One second.’ Nora snatched a pad of paper, placed it before her, and picked up a pencil. ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘All right,’ said Ambassador Youngdahl. ‘The message: “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 instruct you further. Signed, Alex Razin.” That’s the complete message.’
<
br />   ‘I’ll convey it to Mrs Bradford as soon as she’s available.

  ‘Sorry to be so late with it. I would have got it to you hours ago, but there was a telephone breakdown. Now everything’s working again. Anyway, you’ve got it now. Give my regards to Mrs Bradford.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Ambassador.’

  Dropping the receiver in the cradle, Nora tore the message off the pad. ‘Razin’s on his way. He wants Billie to meet him at Westridge airport. I’d better give this to the First Lady.’

  Parker looked worried. ‘Won’t Billie be concerned about your knowing an American First Lady is going to meet a Soviet citizen at —’

  ‘I’ll just play it dumb, Guy. Say this came for her, makes no sense to me, and leave it at that.’ She paused. ‘One good thing. I won’t have to wake them both. She’s sleeping alone in another bedroom. She was afraid he was catching a cold, and she wanted none of it.’

  Parker was frowning. ‘One second, Nora.’ He plucked the message from her fingers and read it. He reread it and stared at Nora, a stricken look on his face. ‘Razin’s coming with a package. That was what he was assigned to bring here, a package with photographs of Billie’s corpse. And no word about Billie.’

  ‘He couldn’t mention Billie. This is for Billie, remember?’

  Parker glanced at the message again, and returned it to Nora. ‘Does that mean - Razin wasn’t able to save her?’

  ‘I don’t know what it really means, Guy. Razin couldn’t say much dictating this to our ambassador.’

  ‘Then why does he want to see Vera at the airport?’

  ‘I haven’t the faintest idea,’ said Nora.

  ‘It must mean he couldn’t save Billie. He has the photographs of her body. He wants to let Vera know right away that she is the First Lady from now on in.’

  ‘Don’t keep saying that. We just don’t know. Listen, I’d better wake Vera and give her this message. She’s still our First Lady. Will you be here?’

  ‘No,’ he said starting to leave the President’s office.

  ‘Guy, where will you be?’

  ‘At Westridge airport,’ he said, dropping his voice. ‘I’ve got to find out whether Billie is dead or alive - and which First Lady we’re going to live with.’

  Premier Dmitri Kirechenko was in an ebullient mood as he climbed the stairs to the Terrace Suite of the Dorchester Hotel.

  The breakfast at the embassy of the Soviet Union in London had gone well. He had dined with most of his staff and discussed the agenda for what he hoped would be one of the last Summit meetings at the American embassy tomorrow morning. Until now, he and his delegation had employed delaying tactics at each session. But by tomorrow he expected to be able to announce a definite decision on the Boende non-aggression pact.

  That tough little whore, Vera Vavilova, had kept him dangling. She had high-handedly withheld her precious information. Well, since he was in a good mood, he could be reasonable about it, and reasonably, he could not blame her. She wanted a guarantee of safety. Now she would have it. By now, the Bradford woman would have been executed. Within the hour, Razin would arrive with the photographic evidence. The minute this was shown to Vera, he would have the information he needed. If it was favourable, he would bring the Americans to their knees tomorrow.

  As he reached the top of the staircase, he realized that Razin might have arrived early, and in that case Vera would be ready to talk. Otherwise, why would General Chukovsky have called him away from the embassy breakfast twenty minutes ago? Chukovsky had telephoned to ask him to return to the Dorchester immediately on a matter of great importance, nothing he could discuss on the telephone.

  Well, here he was. He acknowledged the saluting guards, and cheerfully, filled with anticipation, entered the Terrace Suite.

  The uniformed, bemedalled Chukovsky was pacing in the

  centre of the room. Premier Kirechenko took’ in the room. There was no sign of Vera Vavilova. Puzzled, the Premier crossed over to the desk and sat down heavily.

  ‘All right, Chukovsky, what is this matter of great importance?’

  Chukovsky did not reply. Instead, he pulled a paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and laid it out before the Premier. ‘This wireless message just arrived from Moscow, Comrade Kirechenko. It’s been decoded.’

  Premier Kirechenko picked it up, began to read it. His scowl deepened. He murmured key words as he continued to read. ‘Petrov shot … Razin escaped with First Lady… . Took plane you assigned to London … .’ Kirechenko’s face was aflame as his rage mounted. He crumpled the wireless message in his fist, his eyes rolling and his features contorted as if he were in the throes of an apoplectic fit.

  Then he began cursing in Russian. ‘How in the hell could this happen?’ he shouted.

  Chukovsky recoiled. ‘I - I don’t know, sir. All I know is what you have seen in the message. Razin seems to have learned about the execution. He would not let it be carried out. He appears to have shot Petrov and got away with the First Lady. He has Mrs Bradford with him on the courier plane. He is bringing her here alive.’

  ‘An impossible situation!’ roared the Premier, banging his fist down on the desk, making the empty inkwell turn over. ‘It can absolutely destroy us, destroy everything we worked for. Vera will be exposed. We will never get her information — and if the Americans find out — impossible!’ He jumped to his feet. ‘We must do something.’

  ‘As you read, it is too late to return the plane to Moscow.’

  The Premier was thinking. ‘But not too late for something else,’ he said slowly. He stared down at his wristwatch. ‘They will be landing shortly.’ He looked up, gnawing his lower lip. ‘All right. We did not execute the First Lady in Moscow. But we can execute her right here.’ He slapped the flat of his hand down hard on the desk. ‘Yes. That’s it. We must do it

  here.’ He glanced at his watch again. ‘Not much time left. But we can do it. Who’s our best man for the job?’

  ‘Baginov, without question.’

  ‘Bring him to me at once!’

  Stationed inside Westridge air terminal, at a picture window that looked out over the field and the landing strips, Guy Parker maintained his watch for the expected plane from Moscow. He had been here for a half-hour, and he was becoming more anxious with each passing moment.

  Leaving London, after Ambassador Youngdahl’s phone call, Parker had driven his rented Jaguar at breakneck speed in the darkness over the increasingly desolate highway, and then following the road sign had branched off the main highway toward the Westridge airport. Once the lights of the small abandoned RAF airfield came into view, Parker had slowed down, spotted the parking lot opposite the terminal and steered into it.

  Crossing the street to the terminal, he had seen only one glass door open. Flanking this entrance were two unarmed British immigration officers, standing casually, smoking. Politely, one of them had asked Parker for identification. He had displayed his White House credentials. One immigration officer had called his name to the other, who had punched it out on the keys of a portable computer. Apparently, what had showed up on the screen had been satisfactory, for Parker had been admitted. He presumed that when the First Lady — or alleged First Lady — arrived from Claridge’s, she would not have to undergo similar verification.

  Striding over the cracked concrete floor, Parker had reached the exit doorway to the field. Two armed Soviet guards had been posted there. One had said in broken English, ‘No one allowed on field. You must wait by window.’

  Obediently, Parker had strolled along the window, and thirty feet from the exit had taken a position that gave him a better view of the runways. In the immediate foreground, there had been space for two airplanes. One space was filled by a huge helicopter which Parker recognized as a Mil Mi—6, used for transport and cargo. Alongside it, perched on a mobile platform, a single ground-crew technician in navy blue cover-alls was servicing some malfunctioning part, using a flashlight from his tool cart as he tinkered away. The parking space ne
xt to the helicopter had been empty, with two other Soviet technicians idle at the portable boarding ramp as they awaited the arrival of the special plane from Moscow.

  That had been more than a half-hour ago.

  Now, with the growing dawn, Parker could see the night lights going out. The empty space, meant for the second plane, was still waiting to be filled.

  Lighting his pipe, Parker shifted his weight from one leg to the other, and tried to resist the fatigue that came from lack of sleep. Once more, he examined his reason for coming here. He knew that Vera would be arriving momentarily to meet the Moscow plane and Alex Razin. How she intended to get away from the President at this hour, Parker could not imagine. Then he remembered that Nora had told him. Vera was sleeping alone in another bedroom tonight. She would have no trouble getting away.

  For Parker, the question that demanded an answer — and his presence here — was simple: was Razin arriving alone with the package that contained photographs of Billie’s corpse or was he arriving with Billie herself, alive and well? Of course, Vera would not know of this last possibility. Her single-minded purpose would be to see the photographs, reassure herself that Billie was gone and that she, herself, was safe as the only First Lady. Also, secondarily, her purpose would be to get Razin past immigration and into London where she could change his status from undesirable alien to accepted visitor. She, of course, would have the power to effect this change. Her next move would be to call

  secretly upon Premier Kirechenko, and reveal to him what she knew about President Bradford’s Summit plans.

  Distracted by his thoughts, Parker had missed the arrival and landing of the Soviet plane. But he could make out the plane now, the four single-shaft turbo-props, the red band along its fuselage, and the red star on its high rear fin. He watched it gradually begin to slow on the cement landing strip. This must be it, he told himself, the expected aircraft that would resolve the enigma of Billie Bradford’s fate.

  He had turned to glance at the terminal entrance, wondering when Vera would get here, when he caught sight of her coming swiftly through the doorway. She was wearing her well-know beige mink coat, the collar shielding most of her famous face. A slender, dapper man had her by the arm, and after a few seconds Parker was able to recognize him. He was Fred Willis, the protocol chief, the American traitor. Willis had brought Vera to a stop, and whispered something to each of the British immigration officers. Both had looked at Vera, and each gave a short deferential bow to her. Now Willis was speaking to Vera, and she was nodding. Abruptly, Willis left her and left the terminal for what looked like an Austin at the curb. Vera resumed walking across the departure lounge.