(1980) The Second Lady (28 page)

She tried to smile. ‘I wish I was.’

‘What?’

‘A tourist. Pretty. Innocent.’

‘At that point, you’ll get by. Go right on. Stroll. All the way across Red Square, past the department store, to the

street, right up to the voda canteens here. Buy yourself a drink. Wait for the man carrying the blue suitcase. Have you got it?’

‘I - I think so.’

‘If you have any questions, now is the time to ask them.’ She thought of several questions, and he answered them carefully.

‘Very well,’ he said. He took a second sheet of paper out of a pocket and laid it next to his map. The paper was blank. He handed her a pencil. ‘Copy my map,’ he said. ‘I must destroy mine. I can’t let you have anything in my handwriting.’ With an unsteady hand, she copied his map. ‘There,’ she said. ‘Better carry it on you.’

She folded her sheet until it fitted into her jacket pocket. He picked up his map, tore it, and carried it into the bathroom. She heard the toilet flush. He returned empty-handed. Billie got up, intercepted him, and facing him took both his arms. ‘Alex, I don’t know how I’ll ever thank you.’

‘Never mind. My time is up here. I have to go. Watch the clock. Remember, you have only ten minutes to memorize your route. Then leave at once.’

‘I’m grateful beyond words,’ she said. ‘When I get home, I’ll help you, I promise. You’re the only thing that has made this nightmare endurable.’

‘I’ll remain in the Kremlin on other business until I’m sure you’re safely out of here. If the alarm, the siren, does not sound, I’ll know you’re safe. Good luck, God speed.’ ‘Thank you, Alex.’ She kissed him on the lips. His eyes held on her. He was about to say something, but apparently thought better of it. Quickly, he left the room.

Once more alone, she returned to the sofa, sat down, removed the map from her pocket, laid it out and studied it, her eyes darting to the antique clock every few minutes. She tried not to think of the pitfalls ahead, the consequences of failure. The only diversion she would permit herself was the thought of a reunion with Andrew in London. Concentrating

on her route, she saw that nine minutes had passed. She refolded the map, shoved it into her pocket, threw the strap of her purse over her shoulder, and headed for the .kitchen. Her heartbeat was accelerating as she lifted the trapdoor and shoved it aside. She backed down into the opening, got one foot and then the other on a rung of the ladder, and made a creaking descent.

The storage room, walls of rough-hewn stone, was almost unbearably cold. Shivering, Billie tried to get her bearings. In the shadows, at the far side, she made out what appeared to be rising steps. Reaching them, she saw the staircase was narrow and rickety. She climbed it on tiptoe, came up through the square opening into a dim, musty storeroom crowded with furniture covered with pieces of canvas.

At the door, she hesitated. Fear held her like a heavy weight. Her mind was clogged. She could not remember her next step. She tugged the map out of her jacket pocket, began to unfold it, then remembered. She pushed the map back in her pocket. The door would be unlocked, Razin had promised her. She would come out into a corridor. There would be an exit opposite her. She must go through it, turn right, walk along the building, cross a street, continue along the Administrative Building, see the Spassky Tower to her left, get over to it, and head for Red Square.

She wondered if Razin had allowed her enough time. Every afternoon, since she had been a prisoner, KGB guards had entered her suite to deliver lunch or supplies. The exact time they appeared was erratic. If they entered soon, and realized that she was missing or that the trapdoor in the kitchen had been removed, they would sound an alarm.

This thought impelled her to move faster. She took the doorknob and pulled. The door opened, Razin had kept his word. She was in a wide corridor, no one in sight on either side, and the exit across from her. She went through it and was outdoors at last, the air humid, the sky overcast. She saw the reddish wall ahead, a lesser tower identified on her map as the Senate Tower beyond which stood the Lenin Mausoleum, a group of four Red Army soldiers — visored

caps, red shoulder tabs on their uniforms - in a deep conversation, and finally the walk to her right. She turned right - go casually, Razin had warned her - and started alongside the Supreme Soviet Building. She reached a street as a Russian truck rumbled past. Then she traversed the street. Another structure, the Administrative Building. Eyes straight ahead, purse swinging, she strode close to the building. Off and ahead, to her left, was the huge tower with the Red Star on top, Spassky Tower, her last trial before escaping this fortress.

About to leave the curb, a thin, shrill, distant sound pierced her eardrums. The sound rose higher, fuller, louder into a wail. It shrieked again and again, incessantly. Billie froze in place. A siren.

What had Razin said? He would know she was safe if the alarm, the siren, does not sound.

But it was sounding. She was unsafe. The siren was for her.

She was chilled and immobilized, uncertain which way to turn. She cast about to see if anyone was responding. No one was in view, not even the group of soldiers she had noticed when she emerged outdoors. For a split second she considered her options. To brazen it out and try to make the Spassky exit? To find some place to hide until it was quiet again? To scramble back to her suite?

Suddenly, as she teetered on the edge of decision, the entrance of the Spassky Gate exploded with life. A squad of uniformed Soviet soldiers, carrying rifles, catapulted into the open, swarming into the street.

Instinctively, Billie reacted. She had no choice now but to run, to get away from them, to hide. Her heart pounding, she spun back to the building behind her, hurried along it searching for the nearest door.

She heard shouts not far away. Looking back, she saw at least three of the guards point toward her, yelling at her in Russian. She plunged into the building, holding on to the strap of her flying purse.

Around the corner she went, slipping, regaining her balance, rushing past a row of office doors bearing incomprehensible plates with Cyrillic lettering. She searched for something that resembled a closet or bathroom door, could make out none. A new sound assaulted her. She heard the pounding of boots and clatter of guns in the corridor she had left behind. She slowed, tripped to a stop before the handiest office, its entrance an impressive double door. Her fingers snatched at the door lever, pressed down, and she pushed inside and shut the door behind her.

Breathless, she swung around to find out where she had landed. She was in a vast ornate room, a glass chandelier, massive fireplace, oriental rug, a line of gilded chairs against one wall. The room was empty, thank God, and then she saw that it wasn’t, and her throat constricted. The farthest chair along the wall, next to another set of tall double doors, was filled by a stout, older lady in a print dress, who sat staring at her.

Attempting to catch her breath, Billie went toward the woman, trying to conjure up one useful Russian word from the few she had learned. It was impossible. She had reached the woman. ‘Do you — do you understand English?’ Billie gasped.

The stout woman blinked at her. ‘I’m American, from

Texas —’

Billie closed her eyes with relief. ‘Thank God,’ she whispered. She opened her eyes. ‘Can you tell me — where am I? Do you know?’

‘Why, yes — you’re in the reception room of some Soviet office where the minister of culture is seeing people today.’

‘You say you’re an American?’

‘All the way from Texas. I’m Mrs White from the Houston Museum of Fine Arts.’

‘Listen,’ Billie whispered fiercely, ‘you’ve got to help me.’

Mrs White recoiled. ‘But I don’t -‘

Billie grabbed her shoulder tightly. ‘Do what I tell you. The second you leave here, go to the American embassy -Ambassador Youngdahl is a friend of mine - tell him I’m

here in the Kremlin, being held prisoner — tell him someone else is pretending to be me —’

Mrs White’s eyes and mouth were wide, as if she were being put upon by a lunatic. ‘I — I — don’t — don’t understand you,’ stammered Mrs White. ‘Who are you? I —’

Billie had her by the shoulder again. ‘Look at me. Don’t you recognize me?’

‘I - I think so. You’re -‘

‘I’m Billie Bradford. Wife of the President. I’m -‘

‘What are you doing here like this?’

‘Let me explain. I’m —’

One of the double doors next to Billie rattled.

‘My appointment with the minister,’ said Mrs White excitedly, trying to get to her feet.

The door to the inner offices started to open, did not fully open yet, but Billie could make out the secretary’s hand as she spoke to someone in Russian inside her office.

Frightened, Billie backed away to the entrance, to avoid detection, cast Mrs White an imploring look, then quickly opened the hall door, stepped outside, shutting it.

She turned to run, and bumped squarely into two KGB guards.

She screamed, ‘Don’t kill me!’

Then, as the world slid from sight, and they grabbed her roughly, she lost consciousness.

If it wasn’t happening to her, she would never believe it could happen.

Billie Bradford was fully conscious again. She was in a chair in her Kremlin living room. She could not move her arms or legs. She was tied to the chair. Her arms were drawn painfully together behind the chair, linked at the wrists by handcuffs. Her ankles were tightly bound by a strap or belt.

A short distance away, two powerful men in KGB uniforms were at the telephone. One was making a call. He had the twisted facial features of a gargoyle. He was identifying himself as Captain Ilya Mirsky, then jerking his thumb at his silent companion and apparently saying he was with Captain

Andrei Dogel. He was speaking in a flow of Russian, his thick upper lip curled back to reveal a row of steel-capped teeth. He was listening. He was hanging up.

Mirsky nodded to his companion and came toward her.

Mirsky stood over her. ‘You are awake, I see.’ His silver teeth disconcerted her. His breath smelled of onions. ‘My English, it is not exact, but you will understand. You tried to escape. This we do not blame you. But how you escaped, this we must know.’

Billie sat pinned down, frightened by what she had dared do, by her failure, by her helplessness.

Mirksy’s face was closer, while Dogel watched with no expression at all.

Mirsky said, ‘I must ask certain questions. I must have your answer. You will answer.’

Billie offered no response.

‘Questions,’ Mirsky said. ‘I must find who was - how say? — involved — involved with you in this escape? We seŁ the floor of kitchen. We see your map, a good map. Who helped you, showed you the way, where to go? Who was the one to accomplice you? Is there CIA agent here in Kremlin?’ He paused, ‘Who was your help?’

Billie shook her head, compressed her lips.

Mirsky straightened, waited. ‘You do not tell us, we do not leave. You tell, we go.’

She would not answer.

Mirsky said, ‘We know you are big person. We do not care. To us you are small. You understand? If you do not give the truth, we take it from you. We make you tell. Who was your help?’

‘No one,’ she said defiantly.

‘You lie!’ Mirsky’s fists knotted. His features had become menacing. ‘One more chance. We are busy. Now — who?’

‘No one,’ she repeated.

‘Whore liar!’ he bellowed, his right arm swinging at her, the back of his hand hitting her across the cheek.

Stung, choking, she gasped, ‘No — don’t —’

‘I say yes, you speak!’ His rough flat palm whipped across

her face, then slashed back, his knuckles hitting her in the mouth. She moaned, almost falling over with the chair. Her tongue tasted blood. Tears began to well.

Through her moist eyes, she saw the front door behind them open. She could make out Alex Razin.

Mirsky had drawn back his hand to strike her again, when Razin roared out a word in Russian. Mirsky whirled about, stiffened. Razin rushed at him, shoved him aside. ‘What in the hell is going on here?’ Razin yelled.

‘She tried to escape,’ Mirsky said sullenly. ‘We have orders -‘

‘The only orders come from me,’ snapped Razin. ‘I am the one in charge. No one else. Now release her.’ Mirsky tried to protest. ‘But —’

‘At once,’ demanded Razin. ‘Do you want me to call General Petrov? Take off those damn handcuffs. Untie her.’

Against their will, the two KGB guards obeyed. Mirsky went behind her to unlock the handcuffs. Dogel got down on his knees to undo the strap. Freed, Billie began to slump forward, but Razin caught her before she could fall. Over his shoulder, he said, ‘Now, you fools, get out of here.’

Mirsky uttered one more token protest. ‘But the commandant of the Kremlin guards —’ ‘Get out!’ Razin bawled.

With as much dignity as they could muster, Mirsky and Dogel backed off and swiftly left the room.

Alone with Billie, Razin examined her face. Her eyes were closed. Blood was still trickling down her chin from her mouth. Razin got an arm around her back, another under her knees, and he lifted her off the chair and carried her into the bedroom. Gently, he placed her on the bed. He examined her face more carefully, his fingers probing inside her mouth to locate the source of her bleeding. Having found the cut on her inner lip, he went into the bathroom, gathered a bottle of alcohol to use as an antiseptic and a box of cotton swabs. He brought them to the table beside the bed. Using wet cotton, he wiped the blood from her cheeks and chin. Then, partially raising her, he removed her jacket, unbuttoned her blouse and pulled it off, and washed the remaining blood from her throat and chest down to her brassiere. After that, he worked his way on to the bed, until her head was in his lap. He relocated the lip cut, and stayed the bleeding with a swab of cotton. Finally, he applied alcohol to the laceration.

Cradling her head in one arm, Razin began to rock her back and forth. Her eyes gradually opened. ‘You’re all right now, Billie,’ he said. ‘Thanks to you. When they caught me, I was so scared. They were hurting me -‘