(1980) The Second Lady (17 page)

It makes no sense, but of all the things that happened today, the incident of the reluctant dog sticks most vividly in my mind. I kept thinking of The Odyssey. Odysseus, gone seven long years from Ithaca, returning in the guise of a beggar, and who instantly recognizes him and greets him? His old and faithful dog. I mean, no matter how long the separation, dogs never fail to recognize the return of their masters — or mistresses.

As we were at the Los Angeles International Airport, about to board our plane for Washington, I was briefly alone with Nora.

‘Well, things went smoothly, didn’t they?’ I said.

‘Couldn’t have asked for better,’ Nora said.

‘Only one thing,’ I said. ‘Wasn’t it strange the way Billie’s old dog snarled at her?’

‘What are you saying?’

‘I’m saying it was strange.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Nora. ‘The dog had indigestion, that’s all.’

‘Yeah, maybe that’s all,’ I said.

Because Billie had come in so late from Los Angeles, the President left instructions for her not to be awakened until ten o’clock in the morning. She needed the sleep.

He went downstairs for a brisk swim in the White House pool, after that showered, dressed, had breakfast, arid reached the Oval Office at eight o’clock, in time for the second to last full-dress meeting on Boende before the Summit Conference with Premier Kirechenko in London.

They were gathering around the Buchanan desk as Andrew Bradford, feeling refreshed, dropped into his high-backed swivel chair. He ticked off those on hand: military chief of staff Admiral Sam Ridley, secretary of state Edward Canning, head of African affairs Jack Tidwell, the President’s personal secretary Dolores Martin, with her shorthand pad. Bradford realized that only presidential adviser Wayne Gibbs was missing. The President was about to buzz for him, to find out what was holding him up, when Gibbs came through the door carrying a stack of bound position papers.

‘Sorry to be late,’ Gibbs apologized. ‘I had to wait for these updates.’ He began passing them out. Giving the last one to the President, he added. ‘Tell the First Lady I watched her speak from LA yesterday and she was absolutely sensational. Never better. Her best yet. It has to do both of you a lot of good.’

‘With election time around the corner,we’ll take anything we can get,’ said the President wryly. ‘Which brings us to Boende, not only a national security matter — but a reelection factor.’

He opened the folder Gibbs had delivered and thumbed-through it.

‘Okay, Boende,’ the President resumed. ‘In the light of this latest information, let’s review the situation on both sides. Inside Boende, the government position, the rebel position. Considering the Summit, our position, the Soviet position. Jack, you’re the African expert. You kick it off.’

The President sat back, twirling a pencil between his fingers, prepared to listen.

Jack Tidwell, who had come to the administration after a professorship in African history at the University of Alabama, was more than ready. ‘Our man in Boende, President Kibangu, has the manpower but not the weaponry required. In a straight confrontation, with no outside help on either side, our intelligence — military and CIA — evaluates that Kibangu’s forces could hold off Nwapa’s Communist People’s Army and maintain the country for us. Nwapa has no chance unless he has firepower and advisers from Russia. With the most modern hardware and Russian technicians,

Nwapa could easily take over the country for the Soviets. The Soviets would then control Boende’s uranium deposits 100 per cent, as well as possessing a base from which to infiltrate and topple most of the other nations in central Africa. However, if we intervened with supplies, matched the arms the Soviets are prepared to give the rebels, then Nwapa would not dare to move. We would remain dominant.’

‘Yes, I guess that situation has been clear for months.’ The President swivelled his chair. ‘Well, Admiral, what say you? Do the Soviets have sufficient armaments in place?’

Chief of staff Admiral Ridley nodded. ‘No doubt they have. Not exactly in place, but close enough. They have built up a huge stockpile of arms in Ethiopia, all ready to be airlifted to Boende overnight.’ He pulled several stapled pages from his briefcase and handed them to the President. ‘Here is an inventory, the best we could get up, of Soviet arms in Ethiopia, ticketed for Nwapa.’ The admiral cleared his throat. ‘You’ll find it a formidable list, I’m afraid. SA-2 Guideline missiles, SA-3 Goa missiles, SA-6 Gainful missiles, Soviet Sagger and Snapper anti-tank missiles, TOW missiles, AKM assault rifles, rocket artillery, 122 mm siege rockets, T-54 tanks, MIG-21 jet fighters, Antonov 22 cargo planes, and so on. I repeat — formidable.’

President Bradford scratched his face, as he considered what he had heard. ‘And our armament position in Boende. Any change?’

Admiral Ridley shook his head emphatically. ‘No change. No improvement. Our armament to Kibangu amounts to a defence built largely of newsprint and publicity and camouflage. We’ve told the world - the Soviets really - of tremendous sales and shipments to Boende. But in fact, we’ve given Boende a minimum of supplies, next to nothing. If the Soviets knew this, their native rebels could overrun the country in less than a week.’

The President waved aloft the Soviet arms inventory that Admiral Ridley had handed him. ‘If our supplies matched these, you think Kibangu could put down any rebellion?’

‘No question,’ said Admiral Ridley. ‘Of course, sending over our best weaponry would also require sending over our own military technicians in considerable number. In some quarters, it might be regarded as total US intervention — which might not be a bad idea, considering the stakes.’

‘Wait a minute, let me do some intervening of my own,’ said the President’s adviser, Wayne Gibbs. ‘From a strictly political point of view, Mr President, arming the Boende government, pouring in our military personnel, would be suicidal for you. I received the latest poll reports from New York last night. Right now, the public opinion polls show 55 per cent to 29 per cent — the rest undecided — against United States intervention of any sort in Africa. Right now, 46 per cent to 34 per cent against our intervention in Boende even if Russia supports Communist rebels anywhere in Africa. As to heavy shipments of arms to support an ally in Africa, the public votes 48 per cent to 31 per cent against it. The voice of the people is clear. To them it smacks too much of the beginnings of Vietnam. Any move, Mr President, against the public will, and you endanger your own popularity. It could lose you a close election next year.’

The President appeared to concur. ‘So, politically, the stance we plan at the London Summit is good. We support, vigorously support, nonintervention of any sort by the Soviets or ourselves.’

‘Perfect,’ said Wayne Gibbs. ‘Get the Soviets to agree, and you’ve won the Summit - and reelection to the presidency.’

Secretary of state Canning raised his hand. ‘I’m inclined to agree that our only position must be hands off Africa. If I’ve wavered before, I have no more doubts. Absolutely, nonintervention. Behind this is the strong feeling I have that the American public does not give a damn about Africa. The public cannot identify with illiterate black natives. The public can’t see how controlling a small black republic can affect their lives. Nor can the public be made to understand the importance of uranium. So getting a nonintervention treaty signed by the Soviets would be a victory for us militarily and politically.’

Admiral Ridley made his concession. ‘I think the matter is out of our hands. It is really in the hands of Kirechenko and his Communist gang. The Russians believe we’ve given our Kibangu tremendous amounts of arms, and they believe we are poised to send in more. Very well. If they still believe that next week in London, they won’t signal an attack. They will sign our nonintervention pact. But if they should learn the truth — our military weakness in Boende, our inability to move if they move - if they learn any of that, rhey won’t sign the Summit treaty. They’ll simply airlift their arsenal into Boende and tuck the country in their pocket. If you are determined, Mr President, to keep hands off, then the future is not in our hands but in Kirechenko’s hands.’

‘Correct,’ said the President. ‘So, gentlemen, it all comes down to their not knowing the truth about our situation. It comes down to maintaining secrecy about our intentions.’

‘It comes down to that,’ agreed secretary of state Canning. ‘Our secret weapon is secrecy itself. If the truth gets out, is leaked, we’ve lost — and the balance of power could be tipped against us in the next ten years.’

‘Unless,’ said Admiral Ridley, ‘and let me repeat it — unless you are prepared, Mr President, to intervene actively at this time. That would stop them, repulse them.’

‘And stop me and repulse me,’ the President said. ‘I’d lose the election. We’d have a new President, and you’d all have to look for new jobs.’

‘That’s right,’ said Gibbs.

The President placed his palms on the desk and pushed himself erect, with an air of finality. ‘Gentlemen, we have no choice but to act as we are acting. Should there be a change in intelligence information, we can reconsider. But as of now, we must proceed as planned. We must pretend our side is strong. We must continue to deceive their intelligence. We must keep our mouths shut about the truth. There’s the winning formula. Okay, that’s it. We’ll have one last meeting after we arrive in London, confirm our posture, and march into the Summit. Until then, let’s subscribe to an old World War II slogan — keep your lips zipped. Thank you, gentlemen, and good day.’

By early afternoon, in the President’s Dining Room of the White House, Vera Vavilova and Nora Judson had finished their light work lunch.

Still drained by the travel and activity of the past week, by the demands of the role she was playing, Vera slowly spooned her coffee until it cooled, and tried to be attentive to her press secretary.

Nora had the remainder of the First Lady’s afternoon schedule in her hand and was reading from it. As she came to each appointment, she digressed from what was on the typed sheet to give her own evaluation of the importance of the meeting and background on the persons or organizations involved.

To Vera, the rest of the afternoon offered no difficulties or suprises. Another sitting for a cover portrait to appear on Ladies’ Home journal. Receiving a contingent of foreign students being shown through the White House. A meeting with her hardcover and paperback publishers down from New York, with Guy Parker joining them. Tea with the wives of senior diplomats of the Chinese embassy. Time off to answer the most pressing mail. A short rest before dinner. The President and herself hosting an informal dinner for Democratic party fund-raisers and their mates, eight couples invited.

Easy enough.

Nora opened the rings on her plastic-covered looseleaf notebook, pulled out the day’s schedule, and handed it to Vera. ‘You’ll want a copy,’ she said. ‘And this, too.’ She picked up a sheaf of clippings and teletype sheets and gave them to the First Lady. ‘The first notices and reviews on your television performance from Los Angeles yesterday. They’ll make you feel very good, Billie. You were a smash hit, as we all told you.’

Vera fingered the clippings and restrained a smile. The notices stimulated private amusement. During her entire acting career, as a student in Moscow, as a professional in Kiev, she had never received a tenth the number of reviews that

lay before her right now from a single brief appearance. America was a factory of newsprint and publicity.

‘Oh, one more thing,’ Nora was saying. ‘Just completed your schedule for tomorrow… . Since tomorrow is your last full day here before you leave for the London Summit the next morning, I thought you’d like a copy to glance at so that you can organize your free time for packing and whatever. I purposely kept your schedule light for tomorrow because of your four o’clock appointment. I didn’t think you’d want to be doing much before that.’

She passed over a copy of tomorrow’s schedule.

Sipping her coffee, Vera held the schedule above her cup and ran her eyes down it. She came to four o’clock, stopped, read it: ‘4.00 … Lv 3.45 for 4.00 major appointment with Dr Murry Sadek, at his office. Out and return 5.00.’

The innocuous line struck her like a spear of lightning.

She sat in quiet shock, features rigid, as she continued to stare at the words ‘major appointment’.

She struggled inside to regain and maintain her composure in front of Nora. The computer in her head whirred, retrieving information on her doctors that she had been taught by Alex Razin. She had been thoroughly briefed on their habits, personalities, and appearances. Dr Rex Cummings, the White House physician, of course. Brown, Appel, Stoleff, Sadek, specialists. Yes, Dr Murry Sadek, Gynaecologist. She remembered. But her intensive briefings had not prepared her about seeing him for what Nora characterized as a ‘major appointment’. What was that? Ignorance of the facts unnerved her. Was this to be a routine three-month examination and checkup? Or was it to be something that was ongoing and special? The word ‘major’ obliterated ‘routine’ and indicated ‘special’. If so, what was it about? She could not walk into such an appointment, blindly, unaware of what she was supposed to know about her own body.

‘Dr Sadek,’ said Vera. ‘I’d forgot about that.’

Nora looked up, surprised.

‘And “major”,’ Vera went on. ‘Why “major appointment”? Were you being emphatic because it was a doctor’s appointment?’

‘Billie, I put it in because you told me to - remember? -just before you left for Moscow. You said “major” to me, so I said “major” to you on the schedule.’

‘Yes, I guess I remember. Well, I’m sure I was overreacting. Anyway, whatever it was, it can be put off until I return from London. I’m too pushed and pulled right now. Outside what’s on your schedule, I have a million last-minute things to do. Why don’t we just postpone -?’

Nora interrupted her. ‘Billie, the doctor insisted on this appointment. You wanted it so much, too. You saw Dr Sadek before you went to Moscow, and he wanted to see you again as soon as possible after. You couldn’t make it before Los Angeles. You agreed to see him before you left for London. So he juggled his other patients around to squeeze you in tomorrow. Of course, I don’t know if it’s actually that important. Only you know. But when I confirmed today, his nurse said to tell you the tests were ready.’