(1980) The Second Lady (46 page)

Now, eyeing a sign that told him he was four kilometres from the airport, he eased his foot on the gas pedal, slowed, gradually moved his vehicle to the outside lane of the highway, seeking something in the patches of semi-darkness and the dense forests beyond. Abruptly Razin swung the car off the main thoroughfare and on to a dirt road. A slight decline brought him to a cross street. He drove past it and spun the sedan on to a wide wagon track that disappeared into the dark wooded area. For perhaps 100 metres he zigzagged the car between spruce and birch trees, and finally brought it to a halt in a small clearing.

Dousing his headlights, he turned to Billie. She sat filled with apprehension, wondering.

‘The last step,’ he said to her. ‘You must be prepared to be uncomfortable for a half-hour, maybe an hour. You may be bruised and shaken up and scared. But if all goes well, you’ll be alive. Let’s hope it works.’

‘Let’s hope what works?’

He opened his side door. ‘In the back of this car, in the

luggage compartment, there’s a travelling trunk. You’ve got to climb into it. I’ll lock you in. You’ve got to curl up in there, and not make a sound. There’s a blanket in the trunk. That, and your fur coat, will protect you from being bumped around. There are small holes I made to give you some air. Do you think you can manage?’

‘After what I’ve endured already?’

‘Good. Let’s get moving.’

They stepped out on opposite sides of the Volga sedan and met at the rear of the car. He unlocked the luggage compartment, and raised the cover revealing the used travelling trunk. He hoped that it was large enough to contain her. He undid the clasps and raised the lid of the trunk.

‘Think you can squeeze in there?’ he asked Billie.

She appeared doubtful. ‘It would be easier if I took off my mink coat.’

He shook his head. ‘No. You’ll need the protection of the fur. Let’s find out if you’ll fit.’ He held out a hand. ‘Here, step up on the bumper and I’ll help you in.’

Gripping his hand, she stepped up. Taking hold of an edge of the trunk with one hand, she pulled up the coat and skirt above her knees with the other hand, and precariously she put one leg over the side of the trunk, and then the other. She lowered herself to her knees.

‘All right,’ he said, ‘now get on your side, bringing your knees up toward your chin. That’s right. Now a little more, if you can.’ He bent over the trunk opening, trying to adjust her fur coat around her. ‘How’s that?’

‘Terrible. But more comfortable than a coffin. How long again?’

‘A half-hour to an hour at most. Once we’re airborne, I’ll let you out. Do your best, Billie. Ready? Here we go.’

He brought the top down slowly, then secured the brass clasps, and locked the trunk.

Closing the luggage compartment, he hurried to his car seat. Pressured though he was, he took great care in backing the sedan around, determined not to jostle or injure his

charge. The Volga swayed as he drove it back over the wagon track and ascended the road.

Minutes later he was on the highway and heading for the airport.

Only one thought was uppermost in his mind: would Pe-trov’s Praetorian guard, his execution squad, be waiting for them?

No one appeared to be waiting for them, and Razin breathed easier.

Approaching the terminal itself, which he had visited only a short time ago, Razin was momentarily confused. He found himself confronting not one airport building, but two. To the right was a small, obviously old, cream-coloured stucco structure fronted by steps and a porch. To the left, separated from it by a gap of ten or fifteen feet, rose a newer, higher, more imposing building, its exterior a glass curtain design, three rows of glass set in aluminium frames. Above the roof, a floodlighted sign at least five feet high read: VNUKOVO.

This newer building, he decided, was not the one where he was expected.

He curved his sedan in before the older building and, ignoring the parking spaces across the way, drove alongside the broad sidewalk, pulled up ahead of a metal ‘No Parking’ sign set in the concrete of the sidewalk, and parked his car against the curb. Looking about him, he could see that Vnukovo airport appeared busy even at this late hour, although the older building beside him seemed abandoned. Razin got out of the car hoping to find some night porters who might be on duty.

At that moment, a military officer burst out of the front door of the smaller airport building and strode rapidly toward Razin. He was wearing a KGB uniform, Razin could see. Razin tightened immediately, but then saw the officer was carrying no visible arms. Razin relaxed slightly and waited.

The captain was before him. ‘Excuse me, are you Alex Razin?’

‘I am.’

‘I was ordered to watch for you. I’m Captain Meshlauk, KGB. My instructions are to facilitate your departure in every way. First, if you please, your identity card and passport.’

Razin produced both.

Captain Meshlauk glanced at Razin’s KGB card and his passport, and nodded. ‘Very well. A plane has been assigned to you — a roomy Antonov An-12 transport. You will have it to yourself, except for the crew, of course. There will be a pilot, co-pilot, navigator, engineer, radio operator, but they will be locked up front. Instructions are that they are not to fraternize with you, nor you with them. The plane is ready to take you to London’s Westridge airport immediately. He looked Razin over. T was told to expect you with a package.’

Razin showed his empty hands and smiled. ‘Oh, it’s in the back of my car, and it is not exactly what I would call a package. It’s a travelling trunk I’m supposed to turn over to Premier Kirechenko in London.’

‘A trunk, is it? Well, I suppose some people might call that a package.’

‘I’ll open the back of my car. I’ll need two porters to lug it to the plane.’

‘Be right back with them.’ He spun away and dashed off into the terminal.

Razin strolled back to the car and unlocked the rear compartment. There was the travelling trunk, with Billie in its womb. He wondered how she was faring. He was tempted to speak to her, but he did not dare.

He stood surveying the area partially illuminated by the night lights. No signs of danger yet. He could only hope that his luck would hold.

He wished Captain Meshlauk would hurry. Then, as if in answer to his wish, the captain reappeared from the terminal with two drably clad, elderly porters at his heels.

Razin met them at the car. ‘There it is,’ he said, indicating the trunk. ‘Handle it with care, great care. There’s a leather strap on each end.’

The porters pulled the travelling trunk towards them, each took hold of a strap, and grunting they lifted it out of the car.

‘See that they take it to the passenger section of the aircraft,’ Razin told the captain. ‘I’m supposed to keep it in sight at all times.’ .

The captain nodded, and barked out the order to the two porters. ‘Take it to the Antonov An-12. Have it put in the passenger section.’

After watching the porters depart, Razin shut the rear compartment of his car and handed the keys to Captain Meshlauk. ‘Will you park it? I should be back in about eight hours.’

‘I’ll be here waiting for you,’ said the captain. ‘Now we better get you aboard. We don’t have to bother about passport control.’

They were entering the air terminal when Razin gripped the captain’s arm, restraining him. ‘One thing more,’ said Razin. ‘I’m supposed to report when I’m ready to leave. Where can I find a private phone?’ ‘No problem. Let me show you.’

The captain guided Razin to a cubbyhole of an office nearby. He unlocked the door, turned up the light, and directed Razin into the room. ‘There’s a phone on the desk. I’ll go see that the porters got your package aboard safely. Then I’ll meet you at the exit and take you to the plane.’

Once the captain was gone, Razin felt inside his jacket pocket and brought out Ambassador Youngdahl’s card bearing the telephone number of the American embassy in Moscow. Still standing, Razin picked up the phone receiver and dialled the American embassy.

An embassy night operator promptly answered the first ring. He told her that he had to speak to Ambassador Youngdahl, and that his call was expected. ‘Tell him it concerns a Mr Guy Parker.’

There was a fifteen-second interval before the ambassador’s sleepy voice came on. ‘This is the ambassador. Is this Alex Razin?’

‘Yes. I have a message to be given to the First Lady directly or through her secretary.’

‘I’m ready with pad and pencil.’

‘Here is the message.’ He dictated slowly. ‘ “I am en route to London with package. I should be there at daybreak. Come to Westridge airport to meet me. Be sure to wear mink outfit. Since I may be restricted for a time, please come aboard aircraft. I will then instruct you further. Signed, Alex Razin.” ‘ He paused. ‘End of message. Is it clear, Mr Ambassador?’

‘Not to me. But it may be to the First Lady.’

‘Read it back, if you don’t mind.’

The ambassador read it back.

‘Perfect,’ said Razin. ‘You will now relay it to Mrs Bradford?’

‘Immediately.’

‘Thank you, Mr Ambassador. I must go now.’

Hanging up, he realized that he was perspiring. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead and dried his upper lip. Tucking away his handkerchief, he turned off the office light and went into the almost empty cavern of the dimly lit building. At a distance, past the passport counters and baggage checkin desks, near the exit doors, he saw the captain beckoning to him.

Hurriedly, he closed the distance between them and joined the captain, who held open the exit door. ‘Everything is in order, sir.’

‘Thank you.’

They were outdoors now, and the chill bit into Razin. The officer had jumped ahead, and Razin followed him closely to the giant military turbo-jet rising before them. The jets were whining, blowing up gusts of dust and debris.

The captain began to ascend the movable ramp. With one hasty look behind him, Razin also ascended the stairs. At the plane’s entrance, the captain waited and pointed inside. ‘Your trunk,’ he said above the scream of the jets. ‘A row of seats has been installed. Take your choice.’ He extended his hand. ‘Good journey. See you in the late morning.’

‘I’ll be looking for you,’ said Razin, shaking hands. ‘And thanks again for your help.’

Razin made his way deeper into the plane. Glancing back, he saw that the captain had put his head inside the cockpit. A moment later he departed. Now, a member of the crew came out and, without so much as a look at his lone passenger, closed the heavy door through which Razin had entered, securing it in place. Then he disappeared into the cockpit again.

Razin got his bearings. The interior of the Antonov was stripped except for the long benches along the interior walls — obviously intended for paratroopers — and a row of four connecting seats — and the travelling trunk a few feet from the seats.

With a sigh of exhaustion, Razin lowered himself in an end seat. He stared at the trunk. Inside it, the First Lady of the United States. Incredible.

And equally incredible that they had come this far. His mind went to the executioner. Was General Petrov dead or alive? If alive, had he been found by someone?

If alive, if found, there was still jeopardy. Razin patted his pocket. He still had his gun.

He looked out the window. The plane was moving.

The first streaks of dawn were outlining the domes of the Kremlin.

At a curb inside the Kremlin, the elongated dark blue Zil limousine, belonging to the chairman of the KGB, remained parked where it had been since its arrival.

Inside the limousine, the four occupants continued to wait. Behind the wheel reclined Konstantin, the chauffeur, and beside him sat Sukoloff, a photographer. In the spacious rear, two of the three vinyl armchairs held two of General Petrov’s most trusted KGB bodyguards, Captain Ilya Mirsky and Captain Andrei Dogel.

Mirsky’s sullen misshapen face reflected his impatience. Restlessly, he peered outside. ‘It’s getting light,’ he growled.

‘I don’t like it. We’re way behind schedule. The whole thing was to be done during the night.’

‘What difference?’ said Dogel.

To Mirsky, there was a difference. A plan was a plan. If people did not adhere to plans, the world, life on earth, would be chaos. Without following plans, things could go wrong, things could not be accomplished. That was one of the admirable qualities about General Petrov. He always planned. He always adhered to what he had planned. He got things done.

To Mirsky, his boss’s tardiness tonight was inexplicable.

Now, for at least the tenth time, as an antidote to the boredom of inaction, Mirsky reviewed the delayed plan. They all had their precise assignments, although only he and Dogel actually knew in advance what was to happen. The chauffeur Konstantin had his instructions - once the extra passenger was picked up, he was to drive five kilometres beyond Izmailovo Park to a dense forest of virgin pine that hid an old graveyard. The chauffeur was to stay in the car, and the photographer Sukoloff was to stay with him, until he was summoned to bring his camera into the forest. The passenger, a woman that Petrov had come here to pick up, would be unconscious. The second Petrov had brought her to the limousine, Dogel would have covered her face with a rag saturated with ether, and pushed her to the floor of the car. Mirsky and Dogel would carry her through the woods to the graveyard. An open grave would be waiting. Mirsky was to shoot her in the heart, stay away from her face, until the photographer had taken his pictures. After Sukoloff had made his close-ups of her lifeless face and bullet wound, and had been sent away, Dogel would pour acid on her face to obliterate it beyond recognition. The corpse would then be rolled into the grave and Mirsky and Dogel would use their shovels to fill the hole with dirt, cover it with a layer of sod. After that, they would hasten back to KGB headquarters. The prints of the photographs would be turned over to Petrov, who would hand them over to Alex Razin.

That was the plan — as yet unfulfilled.

Mirsky put a light to his cigarette, puffed furiously, looked down at his watch. ‘It’s almost three hours,’ he said. He glanced outside once more. ‘Practically daylight. I tell you, it’s not like him.’ He crushed out his cigarette. ‘I better see what’s going on.’