(1980) The Second Lady (31 page)

‘Well, what are you suggesting?’ asked Parker. ‘What do we do?’

‘We sit tight,’ said Nora. ‘We keep an eye on her while we can. We wait for a break, another and bigger faux pas. We wait for a real fact.’

Parker took his fresh Scotch and drank thoughtfully. He knew what had crept into his mind. Until now he had denied its entrance. It was the almost embarrassing desire to have some part in a government system that he had grown to respect and had wanted to influence and improve. It had been a motivating factor in joining Bradford’s staff, becoming one of his speech writers. He had allowed himself to be drawn away from the centre of action when he agreed to become Billie’s collaborator. He had been subverted by big money and Billie’s charm. But now he was being drawn closer to the centre again. By accident, perhaps not by accident but by a keenness of observation, he had come upon something that might be a monumental threat to a system of life he held dear. He alone would awaken the somnolent giant. If he could not improve the system, he, alone, might help preserve the best part of it. He could not voice these sentiments, he knew. They would sound like a page out of the Boy Scout handbook. Even to Nora. Grown men did not think or talk like that.

He looked up at Nora. What had she said? We sit tight … . We wait for a break …. We wait for a real fact.

‘Watchful waiting is too passive for me, Nora,’ he said. ‘I think I’m going to do more than that. I think I’m going to get on our Billie’s tail. Wherever she goes from now on, I’m

going to be a short step behind. I’m going to follow her like

a guilty conscience.’

‘I don’t know. If you get too close, you might get hurt.’ ‘If I don’t,’ Parker said, ‘we all might get hurt.’

The appearance of Billie Bradford, or the one who was supposed to be Billie Bradford, emerging from the elevator into the lobby of Claridge’s, was unexpected and caught Guy Parker by surprise.

It was early afternoon of the following day, and Parker had left his claustrophobic room over an hour ago to sit in the lobby, scan the newspapers, reread some of his research, perhaps take a walk, and pass the time between one o’clock and four when he had an interview appointment with Billie.

He had spent the morning preparing to do what he had told Nora he must do — keep an eye, a close watch, on the possibly spurious First Lady. He had rented a car, an expensive dark blue Jaguar, a fast and manouevrable vehicle that would serve him well in city traffic and on the open highway once he got the hang of the right-hand drive. He had tipped one of Claridge’s top-hatted doormen generously to reserve a parking place for him across from the Brook Street main entrance. He had then sought Nora to find out the First Lady’s afternoon schedule, and had been disappointed to learn that Billie would be going nowhere this afternoon, would be seeing no one before meeting with him at four o’clock. After that, since the President was busy, Billie would be attending a musical comedy with Penelope Heaton, wife of the British Prime Minister, and they would have a late supper together with their party at The Mirabelle in Curzon Street. Wherever Billie went tonight, Parker knew that he would not be far behind.

Meanwhile, there had been nothing to do in the afternoon

but try to occupy the dull hours ahead until he worked with her. So he had been lolling in the lobby, reading, when he had just happened to glance up and see her leave the elevator.

It was really a surprise to see Billie Bradford alone, unaccompanied by her Secret Service men. He wondered how she had managed it, and then realized that it could be done, indeed had been done, quite easily. By traversing part of the maze of interlocking suites that wound around the first floor, she could avoid the Secret Service agents posted in the corridor, climb to the second floor, and take the elevator from there. That she did not want to be recognized or harassed was obvious. Her trademark tresses had been hidden inside a round wide-brimmed felt hat. Oversized dark sunglasses masked the upper part of her face, and the lower part was partially covered by the raised collar of a linen jacket. The camouflage might fool some people. It did not fool Guy Parker.

Hastily, he stuffed his research into his briefcase, bounded to his feet, and, keeping a short distance between them, he followed her out into Brook Street. As she made for the doorman, Parker passed behind her and strode swiftly toward the corner of Davies Street, then crossed over to his car.

He was in the Jaguar, swinging it out of the parking slot, just as he saw the flash of her leg disappear into the rear of a taxicab. Slowly, the taxi began to roll away. Impatiently, Parker waited for another car to come between them, and then he followed.

Her taxi turned right into Bond Street, right again into Bruton Street, and soon left into Berkeley Square. Parker did not have the faintest idea where she was going, but from her route it appeared her destination was somewhere in the West End. There was no difficulty tracking her through Fitzmaur-ice Place into Gurzon Street, except for the change of traffic lights. Twice he had been forced to jump lights to keep her taxi in view.

Along the way, driving, he saw the posters holding the

lit

Evening News and Evening Standard with their bold headlines about the opening of the American—Soviet Summit.

The Summit Conference had convened at the Soviet embassy this morning. Parker had heard a preliminary report on the first session from the President’s press secretary, Tim Hibberd, at lunch. President Bradford had outlined a mutual nonintervention pact - no troops, advisers, weapons to be exported to any African nation by the United States or the Soviet Union. Premier Kirechenko had countered with his own version of such a pact. In principle, he had agreed to the proposal of no troops being sent to an African country by either major power. However, he had objected to any limitation on exporting weapons. He had insisted that some African nations required weapons for self-defence against more aggressive neighbours. Neither side had mentioned Boende by name.

To Parker’s mind, the Russian posture seemed to be a stalling one. But stalling for what? There was one far-fetched answer. If Billie Bradford was not what she appeared to be, if she was — incredibly — a Soviet imposter, then Kirechenko had a reason to stall. He could be waiting for information on the President’s secret plans from the Russian-made First Lady or from a brainwashed real Billie Bradford. The audacity of such a Soviet undertaking was what made his projection seem impossible.

Peering over the wheel of his Jaguar, Parker could see the taxicab veer to the right off Piccadilly to Hyde Park Corner and continue on to Grosvenor Crescent. The car between them had peeled off, and Parker had to take care not to get too close to the rear of the First Lady’s cab. Another turn past some kind of private park and they were in Belgrave Square. The taxi circled the roundabout, slowing, and Parker, doggedly following, slowed too.

The taxi eased into a short two-way thoroughfare called Motcomb Street, and about a third of the way up Parker could see the driver point to the entrance of an arcade that bore the lettering HALKIN ARCADE, and the First Lady nodding. Since there was apparently too much traffic to let her

out in the middle of the street, the driver went on, then turned left into the intersecting Kinnerton Street, pulled to the left and stopped. Parker went wide of the parked taxi, crawled ahead of it by fifty feet and drew up against the curb. He shut off the Jaguar’s engine and looked behind him. He could make out the First Lady paying the driver, waving off the change. As the rear door opened, and Billie stepped down to the sidewalk, Parker pocketed his car keys and opened his own door. She was striding toward the corner, back to Motcomb Street, and waiting to cross it. Parker started after her, and when she glanced around, he turned his back and pretended to study the window display of a shop bearing the sign QUALITY IRONMONGERS. When he looked in her direction again, she was crossing the street. He went after her fast.

From the corner, he could see her heading for the opening to the arcade. Dodging the traffic as he crossed to the other side, he wondered where she was going in this wealthy patch of Belgravia. He saw her disappear into the arcade, and he broke into a trot before she got out of sight altogether. Reaching the Halkin Arcade entrance, he squinted inside. The interior was lined with exclusive shops, rows of square white wooden planters outside, with glass lanterns above providing illumination. He picked up Billie at the midway point, just as she had reached her destination. He watched her open a shop door and enter.

When she was out of sight, he hastily went into the arcade to learn where she had gone. Approaching the shop she had entered, he proceeded cautiously. He must not be discovered by her. If he was, there would be no explanation. At last, he could make out the elegant storefront. The show window of the shop was framed in gold. A filmy powder-blue gown was on display. Above the window, against an oblong block of black onyx, the gold lettering read: LADBURY OF LONDON. He stared at the shop front.

Ladbury.

He had seen Ladbury in the White House last week, when the English dress designer and his assistant had come to

deliver Billie’s new wardrobe and make their final fittings and alterations.

What was Billie doing with him now? Why was she seeing him so surreptitiously?

Speculating on the reason for this furtive visit, Parker resumed walking rapidly, catching a glimpse through the glass display window of the back of her head. He hurried on to the opposite end of the arcade, took up a position behind a cream-coloured pillar, and kept Ladbury’s entrance door under steady observation.

Inside the fashion shop, Ladbury, straw-coloured fringe, bow-tie, cotton suit, grey suede shoes, minced ahead of Vera Vavilova, showing her the way to his office in the rear. Directing her into his office, he closed the door behind him.

Once they were seated, he did not hide his displeasure. ‘You know you are not supposed to be here,’ he said, ‘only unless —’

‘Unless there is an emergency,’ she cut in. ‘Well, there is one.’

‘How’d you get away? Are the Secret Service goons with you?’

‘Of course not. I gave them the slip. I worked my way through the suites to Tim Hibberd’s office and got into another corridor, and then up to the second floor elevator. It was no trouble.’

‘You’re sure no one knows you are here?’

‘I’m positive. Quit fretting, and please listen to me. I’m in desperate trouble and I need your help.’

‘I am here to help. Go ahead.’

‘The President was to resume sexual relations with his wife tomorrow, tomorrow night.’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘Well, he told me this morning, he doesn’t want to wait that long. To hell with the doctor’s orders, he said. He’s sure I’m all right. He wants to start sleeping with me tonight.’

‘Did you try to put him off?’

‘Have you ever tried to argue with a hard-on? As nicely as

I could, I tried to tell him we should wait the extra day. He wouldn’t buy it. So finally I capitulated. I said good, I couldn’t wait any longer, either. He left grinning.’

Ladbury’s pinched face had become more wizened. ‘So it’s tonight, is it?’

‘And what’s worse is — I think he’s ready to spill the whole thing - his plans about Boende - after we’ve had sex. I’ve been trying to get the information sooner. No luck. But tonight, afterwards, I’m sure he’ll be ready to talk. He said to me this morning, “When I’m more relaxed tonight, I’ll catch you up on politics.” Well, “more relaxed” is his euphemism for consummating sex. If it worked, I’d have everything for the Premier.’ She paused. ‘But it probably won’t work. I still don’t know a damn thing about what he expects from me in bed. I simply don’t know how Billie Bradford behaves in bed. One wrong move, and the President will realize I’m not handling myself like his good old wife. I don’t know what will happen. If he becomes suspicious -‘

‘Vera, please calm down.’

‘I can’t! What have those idiots in Moscow being doing all this time? Why can’t they come with up something? Now we’ve almost run out of time. Unless they give me something, I can’t go through with it, I can’t. Will you tell them?’

‘I’ll tell them,’ said Ladbury, rising. ‘Stay controlled. Wait. I’ll be in touch with you, or someone will, by this evening, I promise you. Now let me call for a taxi.’

Guy Parker had returned to Claridge’s shortly after Billie Bradford had returned to the hotel following her unscheduled visit to Ladbury’s. He had hustled up to his room for his tape recorder, and then gone to keep his work appointment with the First Lady.

Now, seated with the First Lady in the living room of Claridge’s Royal Suite, the tape recorder between them, Parker noted that they had been discussing Billie’s first year in the White House for fifty minute. He had sought out his next questions and was preparing to pose the first of them to her, when he heard the main door to the suite open.

President Andrew Bradford, looking handsome, solid, unruffled, came from the entry hall into the room, deep in thought. He removed his horn-rimmed spectacles, stuck them in the breast pocket of his jacket, and headed for the improvised bar.

‘Hi, Andrew,’ Billie called out.

‘Oh, hi, darling. Hello, Guy.’ He bypassed the bar, and reaching them he pecked a kiss at Billie’s cheek.

‘You’re early,’ she said. ‘How’d it go with the Russians?’

‘As expected,’ he said. ‘Kirechenko was amiable, but we soon bumped heads. It won’t be easy. Still, I think we’ll make out with our treaty. I sat in on our staff post mortem, but decided I’d had enough.’ He smiled at his wife. ‘I left them arguing. Thought I’d spend some time with my wife, and rest up before dinner.’

‘How nice,’ said Billie.

The President unknotted his tie. ‘What about you? Did you have a busy day? Been anywhere? Seen anything?’

‘I’m sorry to sound dull, Andrew, but I’ve done nothing,’ said Billie. ‘I’ve been locked in all day. Haven’t put a foot out.’ She turned to Parker. ‘I think that will be it for now, Guy. Thanks. Probably see you tomorrow. Check with Nora.’