(1980) The Second Lady (12 page)

Several of those across the desk nodded their agreement. Premier Kirechenko ignored them. He went on.

‘This brings us to the Summit Conference in London. Our intelligence agents in the field have been unable to ascertain the Boende government’s strength. At the same time, President Bradford’s CIA has been unable to learn the rebels’ strength. So we have been at a stalemate. The enemy prefers the status quo, to exploit the riches of Boende. We prefer a war of liberation to save the people of Boende. To break the

stalemate, we decided on a Summit confrontation with America. We know President Bradford’s plan. He will propose a treaty for us to accept and sign. He will propose the status quo, not only for Boende, but for all of Africa — a treaty stating that there will be no further foreign intervention in Africa, and no exporting of arms to any African state. How will we regard this proposed treaty? If the United States is bluffing as to its past and future support of Boende, and we are unable to prove it, then a signed treaty would be a clever and important victory for them. But if we learn beforehand that the United States is bluffing, we will reject the treaty, signal Nwapa to attack, and we will possess Boende, its uranium deposits, and our best foothold yet for gradual control of Africa.

‘How could the Summit be won by us? It couldn’t be won, it wouldn’t be won, except for one unknown factor - a secret weapon in our possession that will assure us a resounding victory.’

Premier Kirechenko’s chair creaked straight. He adjusted his glasses to the bridge of his nose.

‘Gentlemen, several of you have seen the development of our secret weapon. All of you have now heard about it. This weapon will probe and dig the truth out of President Bradford, reveals America’s real position and Boende’s real strength or weakness. With this truth in our hands, we will know exactly how to proceed at the Summit. Gentlemen, I want each and every one of you to see the secret weapon in its full readiness before it is launched,’ .

His hand went out to his desk. His forefinger pressed a buzzer. His eyes fixed on the double doors leading from the reception room at the far side of his office. All heads turned to follow his gaze.

The double doors swung open. General Petrov entered gravely, stepped to one side, and gestured off.

She appeared. She came slowly through the doorway. She advanced toward the Premier’s desk.

Her head was high, her carriage erect. She wore a beige silk blouse, low cut with a gold chain holding a tiny gold

medallion at the cleft between her breasts, and a soft brown flared skirt. Her blonde mane was smooth, her wide spread sapphire eyes twinkled, and beneath the tilted nose her ruby lips wore a half-smile. Her sinuous body glided across the office.

She went past the group standing at the desk directly to the man behind it. She extended her hand and the man behind the desk rapidly stood up and solemnly shook it.

‘Premier Kirechenko,’ she was saying, ‘I am honoured to meet you at last. I am Billie Bradford. My husband, the President of the United States, has requested that I convey his warmest greetings.’

The Premier responded with an uncharacteristic smile. ‘Superb,’ he said. He took her by an arm and pointed her toward his associates. Even those who had met her before were staring. Those who had never seen her were gaping.

‘For those of you who are confused,’ said the Premier, ‘it is understandable. For the rest of you, here is the finished product. Gentlemen, meet the Soviet Union’s greatest actress, Comrade Vera Vavilova… . Petrov, bring her a chair. All of you, sit down.’ He waited for Vera to sit, then, settling in his chair, he said to his colleagues, ‘Although you’ve known, more or less, what we were planning, I don’t think most of you believed in the reality of it. But it is real, she is real. You can see for yourselves.’

Old General Chukovsky could not take his eyes off her. ‘Amazing,’ he muttered. ‘Yes, I knew what you were up to, but I had my doubts.’ He wagged his head. ‘I have no more doubts.’

The Premier showed that he was pleased, as did Petrov nearby.

‘Here is our secret weapon,’ said the Premier, ‘our strength when we go to the Summit next week. Her findings will guide us to victory.’ Over his shoulder, he added, ‘A brilliant job, Petrov.’ ‘Thank you.’

Premier Kirechenko’s gaze had returned to Vera Vavilova. ‘So you are ready, Madame First Lady?’

‘I am, sir.’

‘You are confident?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Then I am reassured,’ said the Premier. ‘The future of the Soviet Union, indeed the future balance of power in the world, may well rest on your shoulders.’

‘I am fully aware of the stakes, sir,’ said Vera Vavilova.

Momentarily, the Premier displayed concern. ‘Perhaps I am a fool to allow this. The risks are enormous. One error, just one, and we are lost.’

Vera Vavilova nodded. ‘Premier Kirechenko, believe me, there will be no error. Not one. I shall fulfil my mission.’

‘Then so shall we.’ He rose to his feet, extending his hand once more. ‘Good luck, Mrs Bradford. My regards to the President.’

Fatigued as she was, Billie Bradford had to admit to herself that the scene was impressive.

She and her party were seated near the centre of one of the four banquet tables stretching along the four walls of the dazzling Hall of St George situated in the Great Kremlin Palace. She had been placed between her interpreter, Alex Razin, and United States ambassador Otis Youngdahl. In the gilt chairs on either side of them were Nora Judson, Guy Parker, and protocol officer Fred Willis.

The Czarist hall, she had been told, was 200 feet long and sixty feet wide. Eighteen spiral zinc columns supported the vaulted ceiling from which hung six giant gilt chandeliers. Besides the chandeliers, 3000 lamps shone down on the squares of parquet flooring in the centre of the room. On this floor, three or four hours earlier when the farewell banquet of the International Women’s Meeting had begun, excerpts from three ballets had been performed by members of the Bolshoi Company.

Billie Bradford glanced up at the balcony where an orchestra was playing a medley of lilting tunes from famous Broadway musical plays.

Her attention drawn back down to the table by the waiters in white livery removing her plate that still held most of her fillet of beef, and her glass that was still half full of Moldavian red wine, Billie realized that she had lost track of time. She guessed it to be near midnight. But now, with the beef plates being removed, she knew that the dessert was next and with that the endless evening and day would be over.

Despite the many exotic meals she had been served on state occasions in Mexico City, Paris, Rome, in the White House itself, she had never been forced to partake of a dinner as filling as this one tonight. She tried to think of the first course and counted forward. The first course, my God, fresh caviar and vodka, fish puffs, more fish jellied, followed by venison with dill pickles, and a salad. Merely the first course. After that had followed wild fowl broth with quenelles, then cold kvass soup, whatever that had been. Next a baked white salmon. Next, sterlet or Russian sturgeon with Georgian white wine. This followed by the fillet of beef. She had survived by eating only half of everything. And still the dessert to come. She would have to remember to tell Andrew they were being pretty skimpy at the White House.

Recalling her husband made her recall her frustration in failing to reach him before dinner. While getting into her black velvet evening gown, she had phoned the White House for Andrew. She had got Dolores Martin, his personal secretary, instead. She had learned that Andrew was in a Cabinet meeting, and had left word not to be disturbed. Billie had been disappointed. She ached to talk to him, to dispel her loneliness and fatigue. Miss Martin had wondered whether she wanted the President to call her back. Definitely, she had replied. She should be in her hotel shortly after midnight. Her thoughts were disturbed by the waiter. He was setting a dish of strawberry ice cream before her, placing a bowl of fruit near it, filling her coffee cup. Then she saw that he was pouring champagne into the crystal glass. She started to protest — she detested champagne, but too late, it was already poured, her glass filled near to the brim.

She realized that all heads were turning to the centre of the banquet table, perhaps a dozen seats away. She saw a

male figure was standing, his champagne glass held high, and she made him out to be Premier Kirechenko, to her surprise. Earlier, his chair had been empty, and his wife had hosted the evening alone. Apparently he had just arrived and was offering a toast in Russian. Billie felt Alex Razin’s breath in her ear as he whispered a translation. The Premier was toasting the success of women everywhere, the jobs they would hold, the babies their husbands would have. Joke. Laughter. Then, more seriously, he toasted the forthcoming London Summit and a meeting of minds that would lead to peace on earth for ever.

Billie could see everyone was standing, joining in the toast. She quickly got to her feet, holding the champagne glass. Reluctantly, she touched it to her lips, took a sip, made a face. Aware that Razin was watching her, she said, ‘I can’t finish. I hate the stuff.’

Razin bent to her, whispering, ‘Please, Madam, you must drink it. Not to do so would be a breach of etiquette, especially from you.’

She turned helplessly to Ambassador Youngdahl, who had been listening. He nodded. Past him, she sought out Nora Judson, who disliked champagne as much as she did. Nora was downing her glass of champagne. Shrugging, Billie closed her eyes, brought the champagne to her lips and in quick gulps swallowed the entire contents of the glass. It was more bitter than usual, and immediately she had a short coughing spell. At last, putting down her empty glass, she sat, relieved that the toast was over.

An amplified voice was announcing something in Russian. Razm translated. The finale of the evening would be more entertainment by Russian women.

Lights dimmed, spotlights caught and held on the ballet troupe in the middle of the hall, poised to begin twenty minutes more of vignettes from memorable ballets.

Despite her weariness, Billie tried to devote herself to the whirling, wheeling, leaping dancers on the floor/Gradually, she felt a bodily weakness overcoming her. She started to slump, realized it, and pulled herself together. Through

bleary eyes, she followed the acrobatics of the dancers. About to nod off, Billie heard the music stop, saw the spotlights black out. Everyone in the hall was clapping. Billie tried to clap, too, but one palm missed the other. Relieved that it was over, she pushed back her chair attempting to rise, but Razin’s hand gently held her down.

‘Mrs Bradford, please,’ he said in an undertone, ‘there is one more entertainment to end the programme. Our world champion women gymnasts.’

Billie smiled foolishly, as the spotlights came on to reveal parallel bars and various other pieces of equipment on the floor. The Russian female gymnasts, all young and tiny birds, attired in leotards, appeared. Light as air, they bounced about, tumbled, balanced, spun on the bars, to bursts of applause.

As their graceful routine continued, Billie tried to focus on them. It was impossible. The six on the floor became twelve and shimmied into eighteen or more. Billie squeezed her eyes, for better focus, but lost sight of the troupe. Her eyes were pasted shut. Her head lolled to one side.

The next thing she knew, someone was shaking her awake. Ambassador Youngdahl had her by the shoulder, and the hall lights were on.

‘Come on, Mrs Bradford,’ the ambassador was saying, ‘time to get back to the hotel and bed.’

His hand under her arm, he helped her to her feet.

‘Sleep,’ she mumbled from a deep pit. ‘I got to - must -I must sleep.’

She was locked in a crowd pressing to the exit. Surrounded by her Secret Service agents and KGB guards, she shuffled forward.

She wondered if Nora, somewhere, was as sleepy. Once, she stumbled, but strong hands held her upright.

Embrace me, she thought, embrace me, dear sleep.

They were out of the elevator and in the third floor corridor of the Rossiya Hotel.

Billie Bradford had been awakened to leave the limousine

and enter the hotel. Briefly, at the entrance, in the lobby, she had revived. But now, in the corridor, proceeding slowly toward her suite, she felt faint again, her limbs almost paralysed.

The Secret Service men on the night shift, Oliphant and Upchurch, were on either side of her, each holding an arm, tightening their grips every time it appeared she would collapse. A few feet behind them, Guy Parker was assisting a groggy Nora Judson.

To Billie Bradford, it seemed an eternity, but they had finally reached the majestic double doors of the First Lady’s suite. Near the suite entrance, Billie’s personal maid Sarah Keating, replacing the usual Russian dezhumaya, the woman who doled out room keys, shot out of her chair. Hastily, key in hand, she unlocked one door.

The maid studied her mistress with concern. ‘May I help you get ready for bed, Ma’am?’

Billie tried to raise a hand to send her away. ‘Not neces … necessary. You go. I’m fine, fine. I can undress myself.’

Guy Parker turned Nora over to Agent Upchurch, and came forward. ‘Are you all right, Billie?’

‘Perfect - perfectly fine. Just too tired, I guess.’

‘Remember, we’re off to the airport at seven.’

‘No worry. Alarm’s set.’

‘Get some rest then. You certainly need it.’

Parker retreated to Agent Upchurch, who was propping Nora up. Parker took her free elbow, and together they continued around the corner to deposit their charge in her double room.

Holding on to the door frame, Billie watched Nora being led away. Nora blurred in and out of focus. ‘Poor thing,’ Billie said. ‘Overworked.’

She pivoted to her open doorway.

Agent Oliphant still had her by the arm. He looked anxious. ‘Can I help you inside, Ma’am?’

‘No, no.’ She pulled her arm free. ‘Going right to bed.’

She weaved into the living room.

‘I’ll be right outside your door all night,’ Agent Oliphant called after her. ‘Just let me know if you need me.’