(1980) The Second Lady (4 page)

Her reserve did not break. ‘Me?’ she said. ‘I’ll be busy with Tolstoi.’

He halted at the landing, caught her arm. ‘Nora, dear, what have you got against me?’

Her eyes fixed on him coolly. ‘Just that you’re the same sex as my ex-husband.’

‘Oh? Ex-husband? I didn’t know.’

‘Now you know.’

‘Were you badly burned?’

‘Third degree,’ she said, and marched off.

It was five minutes before midnight in Moscow. Not far from the massive Kremlin, at 2 Dzerzhinsky Square, stood a complex of old and new grey stone buildings referred to in the Soviet Union as The Centre, actually the headquarters of the Committee of State Security known as the KGB. On the third floor, behind his oversized desk in the main office of a spacious suite, sat the chairman of the KGB’s seven directorates, General Ivan Petrov, staring out the grilled window into the dimly lit courtyard.

Surrounding him were the ornaments of leadership. The walls were panelled in mahogany. One wall held a framed portrait of V. I. Lenin. Below were the ornate sofas and padded chairs. On the floor stretched an oriental rug, one of the few offices with a rug. Filling the right side of his desk were six telephones, one directly hooked up to the general secretary of the Communist Party and the Premier, Dmitri Kirechenko, the others with direct lines to members of the Politburo, to the Ministry of Defence, to Petrov’s six deputies on the same floor, and (with high frequency connections) to KGB offices in Soviet embassies around the world.

Yet, on this eve of glory, his thoughts were momentarily diverted to a slip of paper in his hands.

It had arrived minutes ago, this coded message from his agents in Washington DC. It did not seem of grave importance, but on this momentous day anything unexpected excited his suspicion. The message reported that one new name had been added to the passenger roster of those accompanying the First Lady of the United States to Moscow tomorrow.

Petrov set the slip of paper down on his desk and massaged the stubble on his broad creased face with dry hands. He could leave this for one of his aides when they came to work at nine in the morning. Or he could satisfy his curiosity right now. He pushed himself erect — automatically straightened the ill-fitting grey suit jacket on his short, blocky body — and went to the wooden index-card holder in a corner of the office. He found the letter P, and then the card marked, PARKER, GUY, with the cross-reference number. He telephoned the basement computer centre, and ten minutes later a messenger appeared with the manilla folder in hand.

Petrov carried the Parker dossier to his desk, lowered himself into his leather-covered swivel chair, and opened the folder. Who was Parker? Ah, there it was. Pentagon intelligence. Private detective. Political biographer. Presidential speech writer. Currently, collaborator with Mrs Bradford on her autobiography. There was more, but for Petrov this was enough.

Well, he asked himself, why was this Parker suddenly assigned to accompany the First Lady to Moscow? Maybe the answers were obvious ones. To provide the First Lady with companionship. To continue to work with her while she travelled. Or, more likely, to serve as a CIA undercover agent during the three-day stay.

Petrov tore free a piece of memo paper. He jotted a note to Colonel Zhuk, telling him of the new addition to the American party, ordering him to be certain that the KGB kept a close watch on this Guy Parker.

Shoving the note aside, he reminded himself once more that nothing must be overlooked in this eleventh hour. No chances could be taken now. There was absolutely no margin for error.

Unwrapping a Cuban cigar, Petrov’s eyes lingered on his desk clock. After midnight. Moscow slept. Petrov liked to

think that he never slept. In a twenty-four-hour day, this was his favourite time. Outside, the street was still. Inside, The Centre was quiet. Except for the wireless and decoding offices, and a number of other offices occupied by the night shift, he had the place to himself. It was ever a time to reflect and contemplate. Too few executives had such opportunity, which was a pity. Of course, he had such opportunity at the cost of sleep — small price. Sleep was the enemy of life, he had long ago decided, a waste in life, a surrender, an unwanted preview of death. There would be plenty of time, far off, for death and sleep.

His mind reviewed the exciting climactic day. The day’s highlight in their secluded Potemkin compound, the last rehearsal of Vera Vavilova, had been successful beyond hope. Vera Vavilova had hot been merely perfect. That would have implied imitation. She had been more. She had actually become the American First Lady, the embodiment and incarnation of Billie Bradford. A remarkable feat, almost metaphysical in its happening.

Yet, Petrov was aware, she was the product of men, of conscious effort, of diligent work, of creative genius. Perhaps his personal deputy, Alex Razin, deserved a small share of the credit. His effort, his work, had made the scheme possible. But he had been only a cog, implementing a stroke of genius. The real genius had been in the conception. This had been Ivan Petrov’s own. Without his genius, there would have been no Second Lady. If this came off — and he was positive it would - it would be the most daring and magnificent espionage coup in world history. Unfortunately, world history would never know of it. The plot would for ever have to remain the most secret military and political event of all time. It was, Petrov reflected, like the perfect crime. If a crime could be found out, it would not be perfect. If it remained unknown, it might not have happened. The Vavilova undertaking presented the same paradox.

Still, happily, Petrov told himself, it was a reality known to a favoured few. The participants knew about it. Above all, the Premier and several members of the Politburo knew

about it. Petrov was proud that he had been able to bring the Premier along with him for almost three years, from interest and hesitation to faith and cautious enthusiasm. Late this afternoon, receiving a report on the final rehearsal, the Premier had shown cautious enthusiasm. In three days he would have to make his fateful decision. To discard caution and proceed without reserve. Or to abort the project. Petrov refused to believe that the Premier would abort, knowing the progress that had been made, knowing the historic success that would result.

Once the project was undertaken, there could be no turning back. Once it was under way, success was inevitable. Then, and only then, secret though it be, Ivan Petrov would have his rewards. To add to the Order of Lenin, he would be crowned a Hero of the Soviet Union for some fictional feat. He would be elevated within the Politburo. He would be acknowledged as Genius by his superiors, peers, wife and sons. What more could a man on earth wish?

Puffing on his cigar, feeling pleased and mellow, contemplating the pay-off, Ivan Petrov allowed himself to revive and relive the plot, his role in it, from its inception. So as not to seem self-indulgent, Petrov pretended that he was reliving the plot to be certain it was airtight, without flaw, no tiny obstacle overlooked. With this serious motive imposed, he could permit himself the pleasure of once more celebrating his creative genius. Without difficulty he transported himself backward in time, three years backward to the memorable evening when the idea had first struck him. Three years backward. The past was the present.

General Ivan Petrov and his entourage were on a whirlwind tour of some of the major cities of the USSR. Petrov was seeking to streamline, and bring to a point of greater efficiency, the KGB operation in each city. He was in Kiev, below Moscow on the River Dneiper, Russia’s oldest and third largest metropolis. After a hard day, with nightfall he was ready for vodka and a woman. Instead, he learned, to his dismay, the local KGB chief had arranged for him and

his party to attend the theatre. Seats had been reserved at the Lesya Ukrainka Theatre, where plays were done in Russian and not Ukrainian, for a performance of The Three Sisters by Anton Chekhov. Petrov hated the legitimate theatre in general and Chekhov’s plays in particular. He found these plays unbelievable, contrived, and boring. Nevertheless, he could not disappoint his host, a KGB veteran of value. So, reluctantly, he went along.

As his limousine took him up Lenin Street toward the intersection of Pushkin Street, Petrov sighted the grey facade of the Lesya Ukrainka Theatre with distaste. After he and his party left the car, they traversed the cobblestoned thoroughfare and made for one of the three entrance doors. About to go inside, Petrov’s attention was diverted by a small crowd gathering near a glass display case to his left beyond the doors. Mildly curious, Petrov broke away from his party and, followed by a bodyguard, joined the crowd to see what was going on. Elbowing forward, he at last caught sight of the one who was the centre of the spectators’ attention. She was a young woman, quite beautiful, rather Nordic, with short, pale blonde hair, smiling and hastily signing some autographs as she pushed through the crowd. This was commonplace, except for one thing. There was a familiarity about the young woman’s face. At first, Petrov was certain that she was a well-known American woman on a tour of Russia and visiting Kiev. It bewildered him that her person was familiar yet her identity unknown to him. He did not remember seeing a dossier on her. Yet, she must be a foreigner of some small importance, since she was signing autographs and trying to escape from persons who had recognized her.

In a moment, shrugging it off, he had forgotten her as he rejoined his party and entered the weather vestibule of the theatre, walked a step behind his host through the lobby and into the foyer. Presently, fortified by a few stiff drinks, Petrov went down the green-carpeted centre aisle, sat in his plush gold orchestra seat, and prepared for a catnap.

But he was still awake when she came on stage. She was

playing a sister of Andrey Prozorov, the gambler. She was Olga Prozorova, the third of the three sisters, the one who wanted to return to Moscow. Petrov straightened in his seat and became alert. Despite her theatrical make-up, she was the young blonde he had seen outside, next to the theatre entrance, the one he had thought to be an American tourist. But there she was before him, a Soviet actress, not an American at all.

Petrov retrieved his programme from the floor and opened it, peering in the semi-darkness for the name of the actress who was playing the role of Olga Prozorova. There were printed the names of four actresses who portrayed this role on various nights. Petrov understood. This was a large repertory company. Then he made out that one of the four names had been lightly ticked by the usher.

Petrov squinted. Her real name was Vera Vavilova.

He looked up to locate her on the stage, focused on her face, and that moment realized the reason she had been vaguely familiar to him. She had appeared to be an American because she resembled an American woman whose face he had seen in many imported American magazines and newspapers that passed over his desk. Petrov had been following the American presidential election campaign, and the Democratic nominee and candidate, a Senator Andrew Bradford, had a glamorous youthful wife - Millie, Tillie, Billie, the exact name eluded him - who received much attention from the frivolous American press.

Petrov looked up at the stage once more. No question. The actress — he peered down at his progamme again — yes, Vera Vavilova, except for her hairstyle, was close to being a double for the American presidential candidate’s wife. Petrov blinked. He had never before seen such an uncanny resemblance of one person to another, although he had read recently that such a thing does occur. Billie - he remembered her name now - Billie Bradford and Vera Vavilova could have been identical twins.

For some unaccountable reason, Petrov remained attentive during the rest of the Chekhov play. And for some unaccountable reason, when the play was over, Petrov found himself wishing to go backstage and congratulate Vera Vavilova. Learning of his desire, the theatre director excitedly escorted the great General Petrov and his bodyguard to the backstage area and the young actress’s dressing room.

There were several of the company’s actresses, in various states of undress, in the bright, small room. Petrov ignored them, and with the director went straight to Vera Vavilova. She was before the mirror, removing her make-up. The director, voice rising, introduced General Petrov with a flourish. Vera Vavilova slowly came to her feet, faced him calmly, and accepted his handshake. Petrov fixed on her up close. Yes, confirmed. The resemblance uncanny.

‘Congratulations,’ he said. ‘I enjoyed your performance immensely.’

She dipped her head modestly. Thank you. I am more than honoured.’

He continued to stare at her. ‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘I am curious about something. Have you ever been to the United States?’

‘The United States? Why, no.’

‘Do you have relatives there, a sister, perhaps?’

‘No, no one.’ She offered him an attractive smile. ‘I’m afraid my family is very provincial Ukrainian. My parents live in Brovari, a small village fourteen miles from Kiev. They have never been to Moscow, let alone to America. Except for my grandmother, I am the only one in our family to have travelled a little. Inside the Soviet Union. I received my training in Moscow.’

‘Interesting,’ Petrov said. ‘Do you speak English?’

Their conversation had been in Russian. Now she replied in faultless English. ‘Oh, yes, General, I speak and read English and French. In fact, I speak English with an American accent. I studied and spoke English for four years at the Shchepkin Theatrical School in Moscow. I had more than 1000 hours of it. My instructors always said I was a quick student and a natural mimic. My best instructor was raised in America. Can you understand me?’

Petrov nodded. ‘Yes, very well.’ He spoke a clumsy, laboured English. But he understood it effortlessly. Her accent was perfect. He could not define why he was pleased.

Two hours later, during his flight back to Moscow, the persons of Vera Vavilova and Billie Bradford came together as one in his mind, and as he snapped on his seat belt for landing his wild scheme was born.