(1980) The Second Lady

by Irving Wallace

  She and her party were seated near the centre of one of the four banquet tables stretching along the four walls of the dazzling Hall of St George situated in the Great Kremlin Palace. She had been placed between her interpreter, Alex Razin, and United States ambassador Otis Youngdahl. In the gilt chairs on either side of them were Nora Judson, Guy Parker, and protocol officer Fred Willis.

  The Czarist hall, she had been told, was 200 feet long and sixty feet wide. Eighteen spiral zinc columns supported the vaulted ceiling from which hung six giant gilt chandeliers. Besides the chandeliers, 3000 lamps shone down on the squares of parquet flooring in the centre of the room. On this floor, three or four hours earlier when the farewell banquet of the International Women’s Meeting had begun, excerpts from three ballets had been performed by members of the Bolshoi Company.

  Billie Bradford glanced up at the balcony where an orchestra was playing a medley of lilting tunes from famous Broadway musical plays.

  Her attention drawn back down to the table by the waiters in white livery removing her plate that still held most of her fillet of beef, and her glass that was still half full of Moldavian red wine, Billie realized that she had lost track of time. She guessed it to be near midnight. But now, with the beef plates being removed, she knew that the dessert was next and with that the endless evening and day would be over.

  Despite the many exotic meals she had been served on state occasions in Mexico City, Paris, Rome, in the White House itself, she had never been forced to partake of a dinner as filling as this one tonight. She tried to think of the first course and counted forward. The first course, my God, fresh caviar and vodka, fish puffs, more fish jellied, followed by venison with dill pickles, and a salad. Merely the first course. After that had followed wild fowl broth with quenelles, then cold kvass soup, whatever that had been. Next a baked white salmon. Next, sterlet or Russian sturgeon with Georgian white wine. This followed by the fillet of beef. She had survived by eating only half of everything. And still the dessert to come. She would have to remember to tell Andrew they were being pretty skimpy at the White House.

  Recalling her husband made her recall her frustration in failing to reach him before dinner. While getting into her black velvet evening gown, she had phoned the White House for Andrew. She had got Dolores Martin, his personal secretary, instead. She had learned that Andrew was in a Cabinet meeting, and had left word not to be disturbed. Billie had been disappointed. She ached to talk to him, to dispel her loneliness and fatigue. Miss Martin had wondered whether she wanted the President to call her back. Definitely, she had replied. She should be in her hotel shortly after midnight. Her thoughts were disturbed by the waiter. He was setting a dish of strawberry ice cream before her, placing a bowl of fruit near it, filling her coffee cup. Then she saw that he was pouring champagne into the crystal glass. She started to protest — she detested champagne, but too late, it was already poured, her glass filled near to the brim.

  She realized that all heads were turning to the centre of the banquet table, perhaps a dozen seats away. She saw a

  male figure was standing, his champagne glass held high, and she made him out to be Premier Kirechenko, to her surprise. Earlier, his chair had been empty, and his wife had hosted the evening alone. Apparently he had just arrived and was offering a toast in Russian. Billie felt Alex Razin’s breath in her ear as he whispered a translation. The Premier was toasting the success of women everywhere, the jobs they would hold, the babies their husbands would have. Joke. Laughter. Then, more seriously, he toasted the forthcoming London Summit and a meeting of minds that would lead to peace on earth for ever.

  Billie could see everyone was standing, joining in the toast. She quickly got to her feet, holding the champagne glass. Reluctantly, she touched it to her lips, took a sip, made a face. Aware that Razin was watching her, she said, ‘I can’t finish. I hate the stuff.’

  Razin bent to her, whispering, ‘Please, Madam, you must drink it. Not to do so would be a breach of etiquette, especially from you.’

  She turned helplessly to Ambassador Youngdahl, who had been listening. He nodded. Past him, she sought out Nora Judson, who disliked champagne as much as she did. Nora was downing her glass of champagne. Shrugging, Billie closed her eyes, brought the champagne to her lips and in quick gulps swallowed the entire contents of the glass. It was more bitter than usual, and immediately she had a short coughing spell. At last, putting down her empty glass, she sat, relieved that the toast was over.

  An amplified voice was announcing something in Russian. Razm translated. The finale of the evening would be more entertainment by Russian women.

  Lights dimmed, spotlights caught and held on the ballet troupe in the middle of the hall, poised to begin twenty minutes more of vignettes from memorable ballets.

  Despite her weariness, Billie tried to devote herself to the whirling, wheeling, leaping dancers on the floor/Gradually, she felt a bodily weakness overcoming her. She started to slump, realized it, and pulled herself together. Through

  bleary eyes, she followed the acrobatics of the dancers. About to nod off, Billie heard the music stop, saw the spotlights black out. Everyone in the hall was clapping. Billie tried to clap, too, but one palm missed the other. Relieved that it was over, she pushed back her chair attempting to rise, but Razin’s hand gently held her down.

  ‘Mrs Bradford, please,’ he said in an undertone, ‘there is one more entertainment to end the programme. Our world champion women gymnasts.’

  Billie smiled foolishly, as the spotlights came on to reveal parallel bars and various other pieces of equipment on the floor. The Russian female gymnasts, all young and tiny birds, attired in leotards, appeared. Light as air, they bounced about, tumbled, balanced, spun on the bars, to bursts of applause.

  As their graceful routine continued, Billie tried to focus on them. It was impossible. The six on the floor became twelve and shimmied into eighteen or more. Billie squeezed her eyes, for better focus, but lost sight of the troupe. Her eyes were pasted shut. Her head lolled to one side.

  The next thing she knew, someone was shaking her awake. Ambassador Youngdahl had her by the shoulder, and the hall lights were on.

  ‘Come on, Mrs Bradford,’ the ambassador was saying, ‘time to get back to the hotel and bed.’

  His hand under her arm, he helped her to her feet.

  ‘Sleep,’ she mumbled from a deep pit. ‘I got to - must -I must sleep.’

  She was locked in a crowd pressing to the exit. Surrounded by her Secret Service agents and KGB guards, she shuffled forward.

  She wondered if Nora, somewhere, was as sleepy. Once, she stumbled, but strong hands held her upright.

  Embrace me, she thought, embrace me, dear sleep.

  They were out of the elevator and in the third floor corridor of the Rossiya Hotel.

  Billie Bradford had been awakened to leave the limousine

  and enter the hotel. Briefly, at the entrance, in the lobby, she had revived. But now, in the corridor, proceeding slowly toward her suite, she felt faint again, her limbs almost paralysed.

  The Secret Service men on the night shift, Oliphant and Upchurch, were on either side of her, each holding an arm, tightening their grips every time it appeared she would collapse. A few feet behind them, Guy Parker was assisting a groggy Nora Judson.

  To Billie Bradford, it seemed an eternity, but they had finally reached the majestic double doors of the First Lady’s suite. Near the suite entrance, Billie’s personal maid Sarah Keating, replacing the usual Russian dezhumaya, the woman who doled out room keys, shot out of her chair. Hastily, key in hand, she unlocked one door.

  The maid studied her mistress with concern. ‘May I help you get ready for bed, Ma’am?’

  Billie tried to raise a hand to send her away. ‘Not neces … necessary. You go. I’m fine, fine. I can undress myself.’

  Guy Parker turned Nora over to Agent Upchurch, and came forward. ‘Are you all right, Billie?’

  ‘Perfect - perfec
tly fine. Just too tired, I guess.’

  ‘Remember, we’re off to the airport at seven.’

  ‘No worry. Alarm’s set.’

  ‘Get some rest then. You certainly need it.’

  Parker retreated to Agent Upchurch, who was propping Nora up. Parker took her free elbow, and together they continued around the corner to deposit their charge in her double room.

  Holding on to the door frame, Billie watched Nora being led away. Nora blurred in and out of focus. ‘Poor thing,’ Billie said. ‘Overworked.’

  She pivoted to her open doorway.

  Agent Oliphant still had her by the arm. He looked anxious. ‘Can I help you inside, Ma’am?’

  ‘No, no.’ She pulled her arm free. ‘Going right to bed.’

  She weaved into the living room.

  ‘I’ll be right outside your door all night,’ Agent Oliphant called after her. ‘Just let me know if you need me.’

  She bobbed her head and shut the door in his face.

  The lights were on in her living room. She scanned the room. It rose up and down as if shaken by an earthquake. Dizzily, she started to traverse the rocking room, bumping into furniture, until she fell against the wall light switch. She snapped it off.

  On rubbery legs she entered the bedroom, darkened except for the yellow lamp that illuminated the double bed. She willed herself to reach the bed. Halfway there, she halted, teetering, pushed off her pumps, unzipped her velvet gown and let it drop to the floor, managed to step over it. She tugged down on her panty hose, almost falling as she got them off. Naked, one foot in front of the other, she stepped on the small oblong throw rug not far from the bed. Her green nightgown was neatly spread on the bed. She groped for it, clutched it, with difficulty put her head through it, her arms through it, and yanked it down. A corner of the blanket was folded back. She tore at it, throwing it aside. One step. Another. She felt the edge of the mattress. She let go, and dropped like a stone into the bed.

  With effort, on her back, she wriggled under the blanket, tugged the rest of it to her breasts. She forced her eyes open. There were several ceilings on a seesaw above her. The walls of the room were going round and round. She brought the bedside lamps into sight, held on them until they materialized into a single lamp. Beneath it ticked her travelling clock. It was jiggling too much too read. But then she had one glimpse of the time. Ten after something — twelve - ten after twelve, after midnight. Her cold hand fumbled for the base of the lamp, turned it off.

  In the darkness, she lowered her head into the downy pillow. Delicious pillows the Russians had. She let her heavy eyelids close. From somewhere distant she heard a ringing. Maybe her phone. Maybe Andrew calling back. Andrew. She made a small effort at rising, but her shoulders, her spine, refused to help her. She gave up. To hell with the phone.

  She lay motionless. She’d never in her life felt like this before. Pinned down. Helpless. Only her head felt movement. There was a pinwheel in her head. She must be terribly drunk, she told herself.

  The pinwheel spun on.

  A flash of clarity superseded the pinwheel. She could not be as drunk as this from what she’d been served. Had she been drugged? Should she call the ambassador? Should she call the Secret Service man outside the door? Her mind laboured for a decision, tried to hold on one, but it was slipping away.

  The pinwheel was back, turning more slowly, receding, fading into a void that was filling with darkness. Her body sank and drifted into slumber. Her head blacked out and joined her body.

  Billie Bradford was asleep.

  The clock on the bedstand read 12.14.

  Darkness.

  The clock on the bedstand read 2.10.

  Billie Bradford slept on, slept deeply, unconscious to the night.

  She was still. The bedroom was still. Then something moved. The small throw rug, the four-foot oriental rug on the planked wooden floor beside her bed, moved. Slowly, eerily, one end of the rug began to rise, one inch, two inches, three, four, five.

  The oak planks of the floor beneath the carpet, two planks, and one on either side, were rising higher. A big-knuckled hand and a sleeved arm materialized next to the rug, chunky fingers seeking the fringe of the rug, gripping it, pulling it aside to reveal the four elevated planks moving upward. The farthest of the planks had come a full twelve inches off the floor and was being lifted sideways and quietly lowered. Then quickly, silently, the other three planks, one after the other, were being pushed high, balanced, juggled to the side and set down.

  The bedroom floor now had a gaping, irregular, squarish hole in it, an opening five feet in length, four feet in width.

  A form, a shape, outlined in the dark, began to emerge from below. A slender male figure, black clad, pulled itself up through the hole, pushed itself to its knees, then unfolded and stood erect. Moments later, another shadowy male figure, bulkier, emerged from the hole and stood up in the darkened bedroom.

  Both figures, on tiptoe, closed in on the bed, stopped, looked down at the sleeping woman. One nodded to the other. Simultaneously, as if rehearsed, both reached into their jacket pockets. One drew out a handkerchief, the other a hypodermic syringe. One nodded to the other again. In a flash of motion, the handkerchief whipped across Billie Bradford’s mouth, cutting into it. The same instant, the hollow needle of the syringe slid into the flesh of Billie’s arm. The pressure, the stab of pain, made her start, body heaving as she tried to struggle awake. Her unseeing eyes fluttered open, stared, showed terror, lost focus, began to close, eyelids drooping, closed tight, as her head sank back into the pillow. The lips worked, then relaxed. The handkerchief was knotted tighter. The hypodermic, emptied of fluid, was withdrawn.

  She lay limp, totally unconscious.

  The blanket was yanked off her. The two figures bent low, their arms going under her shoulders and her legs. The four arms cradled her, with ease lifted her out of the bed. The four arms carried her, the four feet treading softly, as she was hurried toward the opening in the floor.

  Carefully, carefully, she was lowered into the opening. Four new arms reached up for her, accepted the transfer of the slack body, hands and feet dangling, from the ones above. Carefully, carefully, the new arms curled around her, drew her downward until the body and green nightgown disappeared from sight.

  The pair of figures in the bedroom waited. Then one went to its knees, stepped into the hole, and climbed down out of view. Seconds later, the remaining figure crouched, stepped into the hole, and was gone.

  The bedroom was emptied of life.

  For a minute only.

  The top of a head was growing out of the floor opening. The outline of a full head emerged, a full head and a female shape, pushing herself to the floor alongside, pushing herself to her knees, rising to her feet, adjusting her green nightgown, standing still, trying to adjust her eyes to the darkness.

  She was ready. She moved rapidly, gracefully, without wasted motion, with purpose. She lifted one of the loosened oak planks, brought it to the hole in the floor, and with great care fitted it into the opening as if she was filling in a jigsaw puzzle. She picked up the second oak plank and coaxed it into place in the floor, covering another section of the hole. Next, the third and fourth planks. The gaping hole was gone, the floor once more complete. Bending, she retrieved the oriental throw rug, flapped it out straight, and laid it down flat across the wooden floor.

  She scanned the bedroom in the now familiar darkness. As far as she could see, everything was in place. Nothing amiss. In the doorway to the living room, she cocked her head toward the main double doors. Silence. The American Secret Service agent, at his monotonous post in the corridor, had not been disturbed.

  Smiling to herself, she went barefooted to the bed. She studied it briefly, plumped down on the edge, swung herself on it, made herself comfortable under the crumpled blanket. Stretching herself at full length in the still warm bed, she brought the blanket to her chin, and nestled her head in the indentation in the pillow.

 
; She peered at the illuminated travel clock.

  2.26.

  She put her hand out for the sleeping pill, and found it next to the glass of water. Her predecessor had not been in shape to take it. She realized she should not take it either.

  Satisfied, she lay back, tried to make out the ceiling. She listened to her heart, thumping hard but steadily. She was anything but sleepy. The adrenalin still pumped through her veins, her nerve ends pulsated, her body throbbed with the

  -I fr

  excitement of danger. There was no denying that she was keyed up, and on edge, exactly as she had always been while waiting in the wings for the moment she must walk onstage. She supposed it was a good sign to feel this way, so up and alert. It usually promised a perfect performance.

  But she must come down, she must relax. Sleep was necessary. Her mind rummaged through the attic of the recent past. Kiev. The evening Petrov first came backstage. Moscow. The day she was summoned to the KGB. The day she learned the true part she was to play. The day she knew she wanted Alex, and the afternoon he first entered her. And the delicious last time, too. Her mind left the realities of the past three years, vaulted high in slow motion into the future. The project over, herself a heroine of the Soviet Union, a princess among commoners, darling of the elite. Herself and Alex.

  She was conscious of her head emptying, pictures of yesterday and tomorrow fading, her limbs easing. She yawned. Sleep was creeping over her. She welcomed it. She must be awake at five. The curtain would be going up.

  She turned on her side.

  Tomorrow. She must remember her role, her identity, her lines. She tried to remember. She could not remember a thing. But the nearness of sleep muffled panic. She would remember, she would remember. The curtain was going up. The play would begin.

  Last thing remembered.

  Good-bye, Vera Vavilova.

  Hello, First Lady of the United States of America.

  It was like climbing a steep and endless staircase, her coming out of sleep.

  But Billie Bradford was awake in her head, her eyes still shut. Behind her forehead and the thin band of ache that lay there, her brain was a quagmire. Her mouth felt dry, with an aftertaste of bitterness.