(1980) The Second Lady (21 page)

engage in sexual activity for six weeks. Vera remembered the relief and exhilaration that she and Alex and Petrov had felt. With knowledge of Billie’s sexual behaviour no longer an issue, the project had become obstacle-free and ready for launching.

Now, Vera was back where she had started from — once more requiring the knowledge that the KGB had never been able to produce — except that this moment her situation was worse then before. Because this moment she actually was Billie, with coupling time around the corner, and her ignorance total.

As the limousine spun on to the White House grounds, the South Portico ahead, Vera’s mind centred on one picture projected in her head. Andrew Bradford, naked, with a pole of an erection, closing in on her, and she, naked, stretched out before him, paralysed, waiting — for what?

The pitfall was too enormous to grasp, to avoid, to survive.

Without carnal knowledge, she was lost. Only the sheerest luck could save her. One false move on her part, one uncharacteristic act or response, and he would be surprised, disconcerted, suspicious. He would be questioning. He would be doubtful. He would become aware that she was not what she seemed, not the familiar bed partner he had known so long.

You’re not Billie. Who in the hell are you?

That could lead to the end — of the plot, of herself.

This was not simply an emergency situation. This was an even more desperate one. Only one thing on earth mattered to her now. To find out how to handle it.

The instant she was alone in the White House, she must contact chef Maurice or protocol chief Fred Willis. No, not them. It was the telephone she was supposed to use. Two calls to wrong numbers. Then a rescuer would appear — maybe Maurice, maybe Willis, maybe someone else. Whoever it was would pass the word to Petrov in Moscow.

Only one question, General Petrov, only one.

How does the First Lady of the United States fuck the President of the United States when they go to bed?

‘How in the hell should we know?’ General Petrov sputtered, handing the decoded inquiry from Washington DC to Alex Razin beside the desk.

Skimming the dispatch, Razin’s expression turned from one of surprise to deep concern. This is unexpected,’ he murmured.

‘There is no room for the unexpected in an operation of such vital importance,’ Petrov said angrily.

The door to Petrov’s private KGB office opened, and Colonel Zhuk, Politburo member Garanin, and the KGB’s head psychiatrist Dr Lunts trooped in, all hastily summoned to a meeting. Each greeted the KGB chairman, before taking his place. Petrov snatched the message back from Razin and glared at it.

‘A problem, a serious problem,’ Petrov grumbled. ‘Our invincible lady, our Vera Vaviiova, is in trouble.’ ‘But everything was anticipated,’ said Garanin. ‘Not everything,’ snapped Petrov. He fixed his glare on his American expert. ‘Comrade Razin overlooked one thing.’

‘But we were assured there would be no sex for six weeks,’ Razin protested.

‘To be assured is not to be certain,’ said Petrov. He saw the bewilderment on the faces of the others. ‘Mrs Bradford had an appointment with her gynaecologist. The reason was unknown to Comrade Vaviiova. Nevertheless she kept the appointment in the First Lady’s place. She saw it through successfully. She learned that she had been suffering from vaginal bleeding. This was the reason she was not to have sex with the President for six weeks, meaning not for four more weeks from now. This meant Comrade Vaviiova would have had time enough to fulfil her Summit mission, be exchanged, and returned safely to us, before the President would have sexual relations with her. Now Comrade Vaviiova has learned that she is cured of her vaginal complaint, and that her gynaecologist has informed the President that he can resume the sex act with his wife in five days; exactly

five days from today. Do you see the precarious position in which our agent has been placed?’

‘Too clearly,’ said Dr Lunts. ‘It is unfortunate —’ ‘You understate, Dr Lunts,’ said Petrov. ‘This is a potential disaster. Five nights from tonight, when we are all in London, our Vera Vaviiova must go to bed with the President to enjoy sex again. But she is ignorant of their previous relationship. How did the real First Lady perform in bed with her husband? Our Second Lady does not know. But she must know — or run the risk of being exposed. Either we learn the truth and help her - or we abort the entire project.’

‘Can we abort on such short notice?’ said Colonel Zhuk.

‘Why not? A day or two before the President is to have sex with her, we get Vera Vaviiova out of London and fly her back to Moscow — at the same time replacing her with Billie Bradford. It can be done. Only I don’t want it to be done. I don’t want Vera Vaviiova back here until she has obtained the information the Premier requires for the Summit.’

‘Bringing her back,’ Garanin complained, ‘three years of wasted work.’

‘Worse,’ said Petrov, ‘it would leave the Premier unarmed at the Summit, leave him in the dark, possibly forcing him to capitulate to the capitalists. No, I can’t have that. I won’t have that. We must find out how the First Lady performs in bed with her husband and transmit our findings to Vera Vaviiova.’

‘How, possibly?’ Razin asked no one in particular.

‘That is why you are all here, to think of something.’

‘Some secrets are impossible to penetrate,’ said Razin. ‘Sex between a husband and wife is such a private matter.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Petrov. ‘Perhaps one of them has visited a psychoanalyst?’

‘Neither has,’ said Razin.

‘Or confided in a close friend?’

‘Doubtful,’ said Razin. ‘Even if one did, we don’t have time —’

‘Then let us say only two persons on earth know how

Billie Bradford performs in bed with the President,’ Petrov conceded. ‘Obviously, we can’t interrogate the President. That leaves us his wife. We have his wife here. Maybe we can get the information from her.’ ‘Unlikely, General.’

‘Come now, Razin, your Billie Bradford, she is hardly a vestal virgin. I know from our profile of her some of her previous involvements.’

‘Did she have sex with every man in her past?’ said Razin. ‘I don’t know, ‘ admitted Petrov. ‘We have no proof. And we don’t dare to go to the various men.’

Dr Lunts spoke up. ‘Has she ever committed adultery since marrying the President?’

‘No evidence of that,’ said Petrov. ‘But I’m sure there are other possibilities.’

‘What possibilities do you have in mind?’ inquired the KGB psychiatrist.

‘One is the direct route. Go to her. Tell her frankly what we need from her. Tell her that her future safety depends on her cooperation.’

Dr Lunts shook his head. ‘Her profile indicates that she would never cooperate. Sanctity of marriage. Privacy. Puritanism. She would defy you to the end with silence.’

Petrov frowned. ‘Then we should treat her as we would any obstructionist.’

‘Torture?’ said Dr Lunts. Petrov shrugged. ‘Why not?’

Razin quickly intervened. ‘Begging your pardon, General, but any physical harm to her could not be explained when we return her to the Americans.’

‘Who spoke of physical harm?’ said Petrov innocently. ‘There are other forms of persuasion. Starvation, for one.’ Tt would leave its marks.’ ‘Drugs, then.’

‘Not reliable,’ said Dr Lunts. ‘They would probably distort any normal response. Hypnosis would be just as untrustworthy, especially if she had strong resistance.’

Petrov had become progressively impatient. ‘Enough of

this,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you simply what should be done. I say go in there and fuck her by force. We’ll see how she behaves. We’ll find out first-hand.’

‘Find out what?’ said Razin. ‘Do you think she’ll react to violent rape in the way she reacts to natural sex? Never.’

Dr Lunts supported Razin. ‘He is right, General. Rape would not give you a dependable response.’

Petrov showed his exasperation. ‘All I get from you nay-sayers is nothing. Not one constructive idea. Only nyet. Why have I assembled you here? Because I regard you as the best brains in the KGB. We must chart a course today. We must act on it. We must succeed. Or everything is lost.’

This was followed by silence, as all of them assumed postures of deep thought.

Razin, lifting a hand for attention, broke the silence. ‘General Petrov,’ he said.

‘Yes?’

‘There is one possibility. I — I think I have an idea. Please listen to me.’

He began to speak slowly, and soon everyone in the office was absorbed.

In her secured Kremlin suite — her jail, her prison, her camouflaged Lubyanka, why dignify it with any other name? — Billie Bradford, in grey T-shirt and white slacks, sat picking at the vomitous Russian breakfast of salami slices, cottage cheese with sugar, a heavy pancake topped with sour cream, yogurt, and black bread, on her tray. The food revolted her. Besides, she was not hungry. She ate what little she did merely to sustain her strength for whatever might come up.

She had been taken by surprise when General Petrov appeared a few minutes ago, actually cordial, the animal, announcing that he thought he might drop in to join her for a cup of coffee. He had disappeared into the kitchen to heat and pour his coffee.

She had been surprised by Petrov’s arrival because she no longer expected any official visitors. In the last three or four days — she was muddled about the time that had passed -

there had been only one caller. The interpreter, Alex Razin, had come by the second day, for a brief visit, to drop off the latest American newspaper and magazines. He had inquired after her health and had departed. She did not count the daily visits, three times a day, of the two unspeaking, armed and uniformed, KGB guards. They brought the three meals — the breakfast; the lunch, usually red caviar on hard-boiled egg halves, oily lox, vegetable soup flavoured with bits of dill pickle, chicken Kiev; the dinner, usually pork or beef stroganoff on rice, cabbage rolls, ice cream with fruit sauce. They also delivered new videotapes, cigarettes, bottles of drinks, her laundry and cleaning. One guard stood at the door keeping his eyes on her. The other deposited the trays of food, inspected the suite, and they both left.

She had been alone for endlessly long periods. She had always, in her life, been able to cope with loneliness, but the unreality of this experience made it more difficult to handle. She had tried to divert herself from introspection by exercising, making her bed, puttering in the kitchen for an unwanted snack, dusting, reading, viewing the day-old American network news on videotapes, watching movies, listening to the Voice of America and BBC.

But for the most part, she lived inside her head. Over and over she kept telling herself what had happened had not really happened, that it was a mad dream from which she would awaken. When she admitted that it was not a dream, she tried to imagine how the enemy could have conceived this improbable caper, how the Soviets could have found and trained another woman to be her double. Then, as always, her imaginings brought her to that other woman, the bogus First Lady, and what that other woman was doing in her place and with her husband.

Not everyone would be fooled. Someone would find out. The thoughts always came to that. She had counted on Andrew’s realizing the truth. Or Nora or Guy or Wayne Gibbs or one of the Secret Service men, someone. Certainly, her father. He would see something wrong immediately. He would sound the warning. The imposter would be exposed.

The scandal would be worldwide, beyond belief. She listened to the English radio news (especially taped for her) religiously, because she thought the expose would top all the news for days. She waited hourly for her prison door to open, for Razin or Petrov to come in and admit they had been found out and that she was being returned home. Or Ambassador Youngdahl. He would come through the door to tell her the imposter had been arrested, that she could leave with him for the plane that would take her to the White House.

But no one had come with the news she expected.

Now, at last, one of them had come. The monster who had engineered the plot and her imprisonment. He might have the news of her release. Yet, he had appeared too self-satisfied to be the courier of his own defeat.

She looked up to see him walking from the kitchen with a steaming cup of coffee in hand.

General Petrov settled himself in the sofa across from her, put his cup and saucer on the coffee table, spooned the coffee, took a sip.

He knew, she decided, that his so-called Second Lady had failed, had been found out, yet he would not tell her. He was toying with her, the sadistic beast. She would never, never in a million years, give him the satisfaction of asking.

But out it came. ‘It failed, didn’t it?’ she blurted.

‘What?’ He seemed genuinely puzzled.

‘Your plot,’ she said. ‘My father - in Los Angeles — you didn’t fool him?’ she watched Petrov anxiously.

‘Oh, that!’ He threw back his head and laughed heartily. ‘My dear Mrs Bradford, your father loves you, always has, always will. He was thrilled to see you in Los Angeles a few days ago. You two got along famously. And you and your husband, you’ve never been closer.’

She sat stricken.

It was as if every organ in her body was shrivelling.

Petrov eyed her over his cup of coffee. ‘Really, Mrs Bradford, you didn’t think, after all our endless months of preparation, our Lady would be found out? I’m sorry to disappoint you - but you are more popular than ever

throughout America. Surely, you heard that your speech from Los Angeles was applauded everywhere?’

She had seen it on videotape, heard it on the radio, yet blotted it out of consciousness.

‘You are not missed, Mrs Bradford,’ Petrov said with a grin. ‘How could you be when you are there, where you’ve always been in recent years, in the White House and intact, and soon in London.’

She bit her lip, knowing she was as crazy in her imagining as they were in their unreality.

‘It still won’t work,’ she said doggedly. ‘It won’t work.’

‘Do I have to repeat myself, Mrs Bradford? Do I have to tell you again it is working?’

‘It can’t go on, don’t you see? Sooner or later your insane plot will unravel. End it before it ruins the Summit, destroys relations between your country and mine. Think of what would happen if you and your people found out that America had kidnapped Mrs Kirechenko, replaced her with an American woman agent posing as your Premier’s wife, and that we held Mrs Kirechenko in captivity at Camp David. Don’t you see the danger if that were found out?’