(1980) The Second Lady (50 page)

He waved up to Billie, to catch her attention. ‘Here, Billie!’ he shouted. ‘It’s me!’

She had heard him, and her head bobbed.

Parker stretched his arms up toward her. ‘Come on, drop down! It’s not far! The crewmen will help you! Just drop down! I’ll catch you!’

Without a word, she turned, offering her hands to two of the crewmen. Each took one of her hands, as they flanked her, gripping the sides of the doorway. She sat on the edge, her legs hanging free. She eased away, and was out of the

plane as they held her tightly. They lowered her gradually, and for seconds she dangled in space.

Parker reaching higher, was able to touch her ankles.

‘Let go!’ he called.

She let go, falling away, plummeting towards him, and Parker caught her, his arms around the lower half of her mink coat. The impact staggered him, sent him reeling backwards, until he lost his footing and went down on the’cement with her body sprawled on top of him.

They lay in a heap, while he shook his head, and began pushing her off. With effort, he squirmed out from under her, and rising, helped her to her feet.

‘Are you all right?’ he wanted to know.

She nodded dumbly.

From a distance, he heard a siren, and then another and another.

He grasped her hand. ‘You’ve got to get out of here,’ he said.

Quickly, he led her away, circumnavigating the smoke, hurrying her to what was left of the terminal window. At the gaping hole, he gestured her into the building. She stepped over the jagged remnants of glass and was inside. He followed her, pointing toward the entrance.

That moment, he saw someone in the middle of the room, frantically beckoning to her. It was Fred Willis.

‘Mrs Bradford!’ Willis cried. ‘Hurry!’

She broke away and ran towards Willis.

Parker watched her come up beside Willis, saw the protocol chief take her by the arm, watched them hasten to the entrance. About to go through the entrance, she half turned and waved her thanks to Parker.

Slowly approaching the door, Parker could see Willis helping her into his car, and then dashing around to the driver’s side and swinging into the seat. The car started, and catapulted away.

Parker stood in the entrance, eyes on the receding vehicle.

In that instant he remembered something almost forgotten.

There had been two of them.

Now there was only one.

‘What?’ bellowed Premier Dmitri Kirechenko, bolting out of his chair and advancing toward KGB agent Baginov. ‘You say there were two of them — two of them? And they looked alike?’

Nervously, Baginov backed up a few feet towards the centre of the sitting room of the Dorchester suite, nodding his affirmation. ‘Yes,’ he gulped to the Premier. Then to General Vladimir Chukovsky, on his feet behind the Premier, Baginov added, ‘Two of them. One on the ground. One on top, about to leave the plane.’

‘And they looked the same?’ demanded the Premier.

‘Like identical twins,’ said Baginov.

‘You’re sure of that?’

‘I - I had only a glance at the second one, but - yes, Comrade Kirechenko, I am positive.’

Premier Kirechenko stood stock-still, his steely blue eyes fixed hard on his KGB agent.

‘Let met get this straight,’ the Premier said. ‘You blew up the First Lady, the one on the ground?’

‘And the man with her.’

‘Razin,’ muttered the Premier. ‘Good riddance. But you got rid of the First Lady totally?’

‘Totally. Those bombs blast a person into thousands of pieces. Whatever is left cannot be identified.’

‘And during this you saw another woman emerge at the top of the stairs?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Another lady. You recognized her?’

‘Yes, sir. She looked exactly like the one below, like the First Lady.’

‘The two looked the same — two First Ladies?’

Baginov nodded vigorously.

Premier Kirechenko’s countenance was crusted in a deep frown. ‘All right. What happened to her, the one above? Was she blown up, too?’

‘No,’ said Baginov firmly. ‘I had only a glimpse before

escaping. She was knocked sideways and backwards by the explosion. But she was not killed. The one on the ground died. The one on the plane lived.’

The Premier seemed to reflect on this, and when he spoke, it was almost to himself. ‘So,’ he said, ‘Vera, the bitch, went to the plane. She and the Bradford woman saw each other. Now one is gone, and the other survives.’ He took a step toward Baginov, and pushed a finger against his agent’s chest. ‘Baginov, think carefully. Which one died?’ He held his breath, and exhaled. ‘Which one lived?’

‘I don’t know, Comrade,’ Baginov said hurriedly. ‘I don’t know at all. They were one and the same. I don’t understand it. I followed orders, sir. Get rid of the First Lady. I saw her. I got rid of her. Then, to my surprise, there she was again. It made no sense.’

The Premier gave a heavy sigh. ‘Never mind. Thank you for doing your job. You can go now.’

He waited for the KGB agent to leave. When the door was closed, he slowly turned and made his way to the chair before the desk, and absently lowered himself into it. He sat very still, his face a mask staring blankly across the room. After more than a minute, he twisted his chair around to confront General Chukovsky. ‘Well,’ said the Premier, ‘what do you make of it?’ ‘Naturally, I don’t like it.’

‘We may have killed theirs all right,’ the Premier mused. ‘Or we may have killed our own.’

General Chukovsky nodded. ‘But I think we shall find out soon enough. If our Vera was the one killed, then of course their First Lady will not come to us. But if their Billie was killed, then Vera will show up and all will be well.’

The Premier pushed himself to his feet, and circled the nearby coffee table, lost in thought. He stopped in front of the general. He shook his head. ‘No, General, you are wrong. No one will show up. If our Vera was the one killed, she couldn’t show up. If their Billie was killed, and our Vera survived, she won’t show up. Not now. Because now she does not have to. Now she is the First Lady — we can’t prove she isn’t. We don’t dare to approach her because she may be the real one, she may be Billie Bradford.’

The Premier drifted to the coffee table, contemplated the fruit bowl, and found himself a green apple.

‘Who in the hell got Vera to go to that plane?’ he asked himself, polishing the apple with his bare hands. ‘That is what ruined us.’

He studied the apple and took a loud bite of it. Chewing, he said with a shrug, ‘There is an American expression. You win some, you lose some. This time we lose. We will never know if the Americans are bluffing in Boende. We can’t risk testing them. We have to play it safe and wait for another time. For the present, we have to give in, agree with the Americans on the non-aggression pact. To the world, we, too, will be peace lovers. Some day, ten, twenty years, a half-century from now, there may be another opportunity, even another and better Vera. But not now. Thanks to Vera, we lose one.’

He walked to the desk. ‘I’ll call the President, tell him we’ve reached a decision, arrange for an emergency session at their embassy this afternoon.’

He set the apple down in the ashtray, and pressed the buzzer on his telephone. He looked at the general with a crooked smile. ‘I wonder,’ he said, ‘who will be sleeping with the President tonight?’

The following day, Air Force One was high over the Atlantic, winging its way back to Andrews Air Force Base and to Washington DC.

Parker and Nora Judson sat low in the reclining chairs of the staff section, as Parker shared the front page of this morning’s London Telegraph with her.

The biggest headline hailed the successful climax of the Summit Conference, the non-aggression treaty agreement, peace in Africa, a new era of detente between the United States and the Soviet Union. A smaller headline was devoted to the mysterious killings at Westridge airfield, where an unknown right-wing assassin had bombed and murdered a

Russian stewardess and the Russian navigator of a Soviet military plane just arrived from Moscow.

Finally, Parker cast the newspaper aside, and with Nora watched the excitement up ahead. There was an air of festivity and celebration inside the plane. The President and the First Lady had come out of their suite to join staff members in a victory toast. President Bradford, grinning, a drink in one hand, an arm around the smiling First Lady, was cheerfully chatting with White House staff members. The President, flushed by his triumph, was confident about his reelection.

The First Lady, glancing around the cabin, noticed Parker and Nora. Separating herself from the President, carrying her highball, she came up the aisle toward them. ‘There you are,’ she said approaching them. ‘I wanted to thank you two for everything.’

Parker tried to rise, but the First Lady’s free hand on his shoulder held him firmly in place.

The First Lady lifted her glass. ‘And I wanted to propose a toast.’

Parker and Nora raised their drinks to salute her back. ‘To the successful Summit,’ Parker said.

‘To that, of course,’ said the First Lady. ‘But actually, the toast is to both of you, if what I hear is right. I hear you’re planning to marry.’

Nora nodded, smiling broadly. ‘We are, Billie. Thank you. I intended to tell you when things calmed down.’

‘It couldn’t happen to two nicer people,’ said the First Lady. She sipped her drink. ‘The best I can wish you is that you’ll be as happy as Andrew and I have been these past years.’

‘We could wish for nothing more,’ said Parker.

‘Listen, don’t get her pregnant right away, Guy,’ said the First Lady in a mock scolding tone. ‘I need Nora for our second term. And I’ll need you, too. Anyway, congratulations and best wishes.’

With that, she turned from them and went to rejoin the President and his cluster of staff members.

Parker’s set smile followed her. After a while, his eyes fell on the discarded newspaper. He fingered it thoughtfully, rereading the front-page story on the mysterious killings at Westridge airfield. When he finished, he looked up to find Nora staring at him.

‘Well?’ she asked.

The smile vanished from Parker’s face. ‘There must be some way we can find out.’

‘How?’ said Nora simply. ‘We thought of everything we ‘ could last night. Nothing worked out. Her gynaecologist is a vegetable in a sanitarium now. Her dog in California was accidentally run over by an automobile a week ago. Vera must have telltale plastic surgery scars, you said. I told you Billie once had plastic surgery, her big secret. So we have nowhere to go, unless you find out something when you go on with her autobiography.’

‘I doubt if that’ll ever turn up anything.’

‘Then where does that leave us? Do you think we’ll ever find out?’

‘I’ll tell you what I really think,’ said Parker. ‘I think no one will ever know the truth. Not the President. Not the country. Not the world. Only one person knows.’ He paused. ‘She knows.’