(1980) The Second Lady (10 page)

Andrew had said that he would be late tonight, a meeting with his chief of staff, Admiral Ridley, and numerous aides, in the Oval Office. Probably another meeting on the Boende matter, and debates on dealing with the Soviets at the London Summit. Well, it was already late, and still Andrew was not here. She had wanted to wait up for him, to say a proper good night before taking off from Andrews Air Force base in the afternoon. But she was too tired to stay up much longer. She had better try to sleep.

She reached for her sleeping pill, and swallowed it with a water chaser.

The pill would not take effect for twenty minutes. Rather than wait for it to work, she decided to check her open luggage once more. Her maid Sarah Keating had done most of the packing for her, but she had better see that she had everything she wanted.

Throwing aside the blanket, she swung out of bed, and stepped into her fluffy white mules. She walked past the five open leather bags and the open wardrobe, inspecting the contents of each. She missed her cashmere maroon sweater and plaid skirt, and went into the dressing room to find both and pack them. This done, she realized that Sarah, as always, had forgotten to give her any reading. There probably wouldn’t be any time for it, what with dictating more of her autobiography to Guy Parker on the plane and running around Moscow, but it always felt reassuring to have some books along. She glanced at the jackets of four recently purchased novels, suspense stories and mysteries, and selected three, then saw the two non-fiction books on the Soviet Union that Nora Judson had left for her. The Russian books

were unread, and they should be read, at least skimmed, between here and Moscow. She put down two of the three novels, took up the two Russian books, and placed them in her carry-on bag.

She had been kneeling, and getting to her feet she realized that she had become drowsy. The pill was doing its work. She barely made it back to bed, snatching up her typed Moscow schedule on the way.

Half sitting, she tried to read it, but it was a blur. She dropped it to the floor, snuggled under the blanket, and sank her head deep in the pillow. She was beginning to doze, when she faintly heard the bedroom door open. That would be Andrew.

She fought her eyes open and struggled awake. She saw him in his striped pyjamas, a cognac in one hand.

From the end of the bed, he was peering at her. ‘Billie? Did I wake you up?’

T dunno. I’m up.’

‘Sorry if I did wake you.’ He had gone to the opposite side of the bed, was sitting on the edge finishing his cognac. ‘Sorry to be so late. But Boende is a big subject and the admiral is long-winded and stubborn. We’re having a rough time getting ready for Kirechenko. God, I’m tired.’

He put down his glass, turned off the bedroom lights, and got into bed.

She felt his feet touching hers. ‘Umm, warm toes,’ she mumbled.

‘How are you feeling?’ he asked. ‘Ready for Moscow?’

‘Suppose so.’

‘Wish I hadn’t told you to go.’

‘Goodwill,’ she said.

‘Yes, it won’t hurt, especially when we’re having so many Other disagreements with the Russians. They’ll like you over there.’

‘Hope so.’

She felt his soft hands on her breast, felt his hair against her chin, felt his tongue on her nipple.

‘What I’d give to be in you,’ he said.

‘Won’t be long.’

‘Four weeks is long. Are you still bleeding?’

‘Little. Not so much.’

‘Can’t wait. It’s something to wait for.’ He moved off her. ‘Good night, darling.’

Billie Bradford said thickly, ‘Good night, Mr President. Or can I call you Andrew?’

It was five minutes to eight o’clock in the morning in Moscow.

The four of them were assembled in the living room of Vera Vavilova’s secluded house, their chairs drawn up before the large screen of her television set. Vera, her long blonde hair caught by a barrette in the back, was attired in a pink blouse, blue pants, and thong sandals. To her immediate right sat General Ivan Petrov, wearing a conservative dark blue business suit, the buttoned jacket too tight for his thick chest and bulging middle, his beady eyes fixed on the blank television screen. Next to him sat his aide Colonel Zhuk and his best friend in the Politburo, Garanin.

Petrov consulted the black face of his Japanese watch. ‘She has arrived,’ he announced. ‘Turn on the set.’

Colonel Zhuk sprang to his feet, stepped to the television cabinet, and twisted a knob. Zhuk hovered, waiting for a picture. The image unfolded slowly. It showed a hazy view of the flag of the Soviet Union and the flag of the United States on flagpoles fluttering in the breeze against a menacing, clouded, drab, grey sky. Hastily, Zhuk adjusted the focus of the picture and raised the volume on a disembodied voice. In Russian, the voice was announcing that the official American party from Washington DC had already landed at Vnukovo Airport, and that the plane was turning off the runway toward the terminal. After the First Lady disembarked, and a brief welcoming ceremony, the honoured guest would be escorted by automobile the twenty-eight kilometres into Moscow.

As Zhuk went back to his chair, the screen was filled with another picture, that of the official hostess and a group around her looking off, apparently at the approach of Air Force One, which could not be seen yet.

Vera leaned forward and made out the Premier’s wife, Ludmila Kirechenko, a stately, bosomy, grey-haired lady with the appearance of a retired opera mezzo-soprano. Vera could not identify the other figures until the camera reached Alex Razin, so masculine, so handsome in his brown suit. Vera had difficulty suppressing her smile of pleasure.

Petrov extracted a cigar from his pocket and absently unpeeled the wrapper as he concentrated on the television. A gigantic jet airliner, the rectangle of the Stars and Stripes painted on it, came into view. The plane rolled across the screen and halted. The airport workmen were pushing the portable metal stairs toward the plane and setting them in place against the exit door.

The door slowly opened. As it did, a band, unseen, struck up ‘The Star Spangled Banner’.

Vera leaned further forward, and Petrov’s eyes narrowed. An athletic-looking youngish man had appeared in the plane’s doorway, and began to descend the steps, followed closely by another.

‘Her Secret Service guards,’ said Vera Vavilova in English. ‘The first is Van Acker, the other McGinty.’

‘And the woman behind them?’ asked Petrov.

‘Her press secretary, Nora Judson,’ said Vera.

‘Yes. Then - who is the tall man again?’

‘Guy Parker.’

‘Ah, the CIA,’ said Petrov, with a smile.

Colonel Zhuk spoke hesitantly. ‘We don’t know that, Comrade. We only know he is the one assisting Mrs Bradford, in writing her book.’

‘CIA,’ muttered Petrov, chewing the cold cigar in his mouth.

Vera’s total attention was directed to the television screen. She watched Nora Judson and Guy Parker come down the portable steps before which a red carpet was being unrolled.

She had seen numerous photographs of them many times. Now, fleshed out, three-dimensional in person, they seemed more formidable.

‘And there she is!’ Petrov exclaimed, sitting up straight. ‘See her? Billie Bradford. The First Lady.’

Vera’s eyes almost bore through the screen, following the First Lady’s graceful descent down the stairs. She was tall, statuesque, yet fluid. There was a sheen to her flaxen hair, captured in a neat chignon. The contours of her lovely face were perfect. White earrings matched the white rims of her oversized sunglasses. A patterned chiffon dress was moulded to her sinuous body by a slight breeze.

Vera’s smooth brow contracted as she stared at the woman she had come to know better than herself. Momentarily, Vera’s poise cracked. Billie Bradford was breathtaking. She was world famous. She was real. She was unique, one of a kind. There could never be another like her. No one on earth would believe there could be another. Vera felt the constriction in her throat. For the first time in almost three years, she suffered qualms and stage fright.

‘She’s too beautiful,’ Vera gasped.

Petrov had transferred his gaze from Billie Bradford on the screen to Vera Vavilova beside him. He studied her.

‘Too beautiful?’ he repeated, covering Vera’s delicate hand with his own hairy hand. ‘No more than you are, my dear.’

Vera’s eyes were on the screen. ‘Do I actually look like that?’ she said with wonder.

Petrov pointed past her. ‘There is the mirror.’

Vera’s eyes followed his finger toward the wall mirror. She surveyed her reflection in the glass. To herself, in these moments, she was still she. Not Billie Bradford. Simply the actress she had always known, Vera Vavilova from Kiev. She swung her head back to the screen. Billie Bradford was accepting a bouquet of red gladioli from a child.

The American ambassador to the Soviet Union, Otis Youngdahl, the wealthy well-dressed towering man, was advancing on the red carpet to greet the President’s wife with a kiss on the cheek. He had Billie by the arm now and

brought her forward to the Soviet group. He was introducing her to the Premier’s wife, Ludmila Kirechenko. The two famous women were shaking hands, as Alex Razin materialized between them. Ludmila was speaking at length to Billie, and Alex was interpreting the Russian into English for the American President’s wife.

Presently, Alex guided Billie Bradford to the circle of Russian dignitaries. He was translating the greetings and remarks of the Russians into English for the President’s wife, and her responses from English into Russian. Alex Razin’s hand was on Billie Bradford’s forearm as he moved her around the circle, bending his head toward her ear as he continued to interpret.

Following them on the screen, Vera Vavilova felt a pang of jealousy. Her loved one was with the most beautiful and exciting woman in the world. He was close to her now, and would be even closer to her in the weeks ahead. He might confuse Billie with Vera herself - or worse, prefer Billie to Vera herself.

Vera turned back toward the mirror for one more glimpse of her own face, and realized that all she had been fancying was ridiculous. If Billie was the most beautiful and exciting woman in the world, then so was she. Alex was seeing only a reproduction of his Vera. She turned from the mirror, reassured.

More relaxed, Vera devoted herself to the television screen. Billie had been led by Alex to a battery of microphones. She was speaking graciously in English - how much she had always wanted to visit Moscow, how thrilling to be here, how much she looked forward to discussions with female leaders of other nations about the progress of woman’s rights. The whole thing was uncanny, Vera thought, the way that other woman had been imitating Vera’s speech inflections, Vera’s facial expressions, Vera’s gestures.

Vera watched hypnotized as the American President’s wife and the Russian Premier’s wife were being led to the black Chaika limousine, flanked by two yellow police cars and four helmeted, grey-uniformed guards mounted on motorcycles.

As Rillie Bradford disappeared into the limousine, Vera turned to speak to Petrov. She was surprised to find him staring at her.

Petrov nodded toward the television screen. ‘Does she scare you?’ Petrov asked quietly.

There was no hesitation in Vera Vavilova’s retort. ‘No, absolutely not,’ she replied firmly. ‘Who is that imposter? I am the First Lady.’

Petrov snorted a laugh. ‘Good. Better. Much better. Just don’t forget.’

‘I won’t forget,’ said Vera. And she could see that Petrov knew that she meant it.

Inside the extremely modern Palace of Congresses, located near the Trinity Gate entrance to the walled Kremlin, in the mammoth main auditorium, the leading woman in the Soviet Union, Madame Ludmila Kirechenko, stood at the podium on the stage delivering the closing address to the 2000 female delegates and their parties from ninety nations.

It was the third and last day of the International Women’s Meeting, and Billie Bradford, for one, was glad of it.

She sat wearily in the centre of the second row, trying to appear attentive with the earphones on her head and a voice translating Mrs Kirechenko’s concluding speech from Russian into English. On one side of her sat ambassador Otis Youngdahl and protocol officer Fred Willis. On the other side sat Alex Razin, Nora Judson, and Guy Parker. Directly in front of her and behind her sat Secret Service agents Van Acker and McGinty. Earlier in the final afternoon session, she had listened to the introductory Soviet speakers without the headphones. As the speakers’ voices had boomed out over the 7000 loudspeakers concealed throughout the auditorium, she had preferred to have the nice interpreter and guide, Alex Razin, translate for her. But when the head delegates of France, Germany, Spain had taken to the podium, and Razin could not help, she had resorted to the headphones.

She tried to concentrate on Mrs Kirechenko’s summation — the findings and recommendations on woman’s role in the world and its future — but Billie’s mind wandered.

One of her legs was going to sleep, and she moved and massaged it. She was bone weary. She, herself, had been the second to last speaker on the podium, reading a report on the progress of woman’s rights in the United States in the past ten years, and near the end of it her voice had been reduced to a hoarse rasp. Nevertheless, the words had been right, and leaving the stage she had received enthusiastic applause.

Generally, the international meeting had been what she had expected. Mainly, pointless. Mainly, a Communist showcase. The central topic, the variety of subjects to be covered, had sounded impressive. But rarely, during the three days, had they been tackled head on. The majority of female delegates had handled their tasks like so many Chamber of Commerce puppets. The meeting, and all of the Soviet sideshows, had been tiresome, even boring. Moreover, like so many American visitors to the Soviet Union, she had felt cut off from the outside world, alienated from all that was familiar, constantly lonely and, separated from Andrew, vulnerable. She had never missed Andrew this much. The second she was back in her hotel, she would telephone him.

Mrs Kirechenko’s monotone, followed by Razin’s rapid-fire interpretation, droned on in her ears, and Billie tried to escape and hide inside her head. Her mind sought the beginning of these past three days, and she tried to conjure up what had taken place. The first morning in Moscow, after being settled in a special suite at the Rossiya Hotel, she had hoped to rest, perhaps resume her talks with Guy Parker for the book. She had not been able to give him as much time as she had planned to during the flight to Moscow. After their arrival, she’d hardly had time to shower and put on fresh clothes, when her over-zealous hosts had plucked her out of the hotel and into the streets for a whirlwind sightseeing tour of the city. By now it gave her a headache even to try to recall the kaleidoscope of sights — Lenin’s Mausoleum and St Basil’s in Red Square, the dark red Kremlin wall and its nineteen towers and gates embracing five cathedrals and four churches and two squares, after that the Tretyakov Gallery, the Pushkin Museum, the Marx and Engels Museum, the USSR Exhibition of Economic Achievements, Gorky Park — hit-and-run, a half-hour a site at most, the mind reeled then and it reeled now. And along the way, she could not remember the time, the day, a model child-care centre, a hospital, a fashion show. People were friendly, hospitable, sincere. The leaders, also, but their sincerity suspect. Yet, that was true everywhere. Mid-afternoon, first day, she had convened with other delegates in this auditorium. Endless welcoming speeches. Dull documentary films on the women of the USSR and the strides they had made toward equality. Then, with one short break for dinner, brief reports from forty countries on the status of women in their nations, and on into late night.