(1980) The Second Lady

by Irving Wallace

  Her thoughts waded through the quagmire, at last reaching a memory of last night. The banquet, the exhaustion, the drunkenness. That was it, the heavy drinking. She had a terrible hangover, and no wonder.

  She kept her eyes shut, hoping that her brain would clear, that the headache would go away.

  After a few minutes, lying very still, she felt the headache dull and begin to recede. Her brain freed itself from the quagmire, began to work. She was becoming alert. She recalled where she was, the day it was, where she was expected.

  She was to be up at five o’clock in the morning, to depart Moscow for home.

  She opened her eyes, as she turned her head on the pillow to read her bedside travel clock. The clock told her it was four. Thank God, she had not overslept. There was still an hour before the alarm would go off. She could steal another hour’s sleep.

  She was about to curl up, close her eyes for more rest, when she was struck by something odd. The clock on the table next to her bed. It was different, not her trusty little travel clock encased in red leather. It was a big timepiece set in a walnut frame. How strange. Had her maid Sarah been

  in and substituted another clock for her own? It made no sense. She shifted her head on the pillow, taking in her bedroom. At once with a jolt, she realized that this was not her bedroom in the Rossiya suite. This was a different bedroom, utterly different, from the flocked wallpaper to the modern furniture to the headboard posts on her bed.

  She sat up confused, puzzled.

  Yet, other things were familiar, the wedding band on her finger, the green nightgown, her own fluffy mules on the floor, her light wool turquoise robe across the chair.

  But the room, definitely not her own.

  What had happened? Had she been too drunk last night to be taken to her room, and been put to bed in Nora’s room instead?

  That was possible, unlikely but possible.

  Then she heard two voices, male, indistinct, reaching her from the next room. Someone, two persons, were in the living room. Probably her Secret Service agents, Oliphant and Upchurch. She determined to find out. And find out why she was in this different room.

  She came off the bed, pushed her feet into her slippers, stood up holding her robe, and got into it. After tying the belt of her robe, she sought the spare comb she always kept in the deep pocket. It was there. She went over to the dresser mirror, combed out her tangled hair, pulled it back, surveyed herself. The hangover had dissipated, and she looked and felt almost human.

  The buzz of voices in the next room alerted her again. Curious about the voices, still puzzled by her surroundings, she left the bedroom and went into the living room.

  She did not see the persons who belonged to the voices at first. She saw only another different room, one she had not seen before, different and far more spacious and modern than the room she had occupied in the Rossiya Hotel yesterday and the two days before. Then she saw them, the owners of the voices, off to her left and slightly behind her. She was startled, because neither was one of her Secret Service protectors.

  They appeared to be Russians, one familiar, one completely unfamiliar. What were they doing here? What was she doing here? She stared at them, trying to bring an explanation to the mystery. Then, from his armchair, one man noticed her, and nodded to the other, who glanced back at her.

  The familiar one was her Russian interpreter for the past three days, Alex Razin. The other one, a short barrel of a man with piercing small eyes, she had never seen before. Both were on their feet now.

  ‘Ah, Mrs Bradford,’ the burly one said. ‘We were waiting for you to awaken.’

  Billie ignored him and addressed herself to Razin. ‘What is this? What’s going on?’ Her gesture encompassed the living room. ‘How did 1 get here? I don’t understand.’

  Razin stepped forward. ‘I’ll try to explain,’ he began apologetically.

  The burly one raised a hand to silence him. ‘I will answer your question, Mrs Bradford … Razin, bring her some coffee.’

  Obediently, Razin hastened through the dining area into the kitchen.

  ‘Come here,’ said the burly one as he went to the nearest of the two light beige sofas flanking the fireplace. Bewildered, she followed him. ‘I suggest you be seated,’ he said.

  She meant to defy him, but sat down, drawing her robe together at the knees. The burly one remained standing over her.

  He resumed speaking to her in a low, hoarse voice. ‘Understandably, you are confused.’

  ‘I’m more than that,’ said Billie indignantly. ‘This makes no-‘

  ‘No sense?’ interrupted the burly one. ‘It will, it will. Let me introduce myself. I am General Ivan Petrov. You’ve heard of me?’

  ‘No.’

  He fished into his pocket, withdrew his ID card and held it before her. His finger underlined three large Cyrillic initials beside his photograph. ‘KGB,’ he said.

  She stared at the card without comprehension.

  ‘I am the chairman of the KGB, our security police,’ he said, returning the ID to his pocket. ‘I shall answer your questions. You ask where you are? You are in a guest apartment of the Kremlin. You ask how you got here? We removed you from your hotel last night and brought you here.’

  ‘You — you what?’

  ‘Removed you, brought you here,’ Petrov repeated patiently, it was necessary. You wonder why —’

  ‘Wait a minute!’ Billie flared. ‘Are you telling me you — you kidnapped me?’

  Petrov gave a little shrug, i suppose it could be called that.’

  Billie was astounded, almost beyond words. ‘You kidnapped me, abducted me, in my sleep? It’s impossible. How could anyone —’ She faltered. ‘Unless — unless I was drugged. Did you drug me?’

  ‘Of course,’ replied Petrov in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘At the banquet, with the champagne.’

  ‘Are you crazy?’ cried Billie, her voice rising. ‘You must be crazy, completely mad! When my husband hears -‘

  ‘Mrs Bradford, your husband will not hear,’ said Petrov with an infuriating smile, i promise you, he will not hear.’

  She was speechless, utterly confounded.

  Razin had returned with a tray of coffee, cream, sugar, a plate of black bread and jam. He placed the tray on the glass-topped low table in front of her, avoiding her eyes.

  ‘Mr Razin,’ she said to him, ‘tell me this isn’t true. It can’t be true.’

  He did not respond, continued to avoid her eyes as he withdrew to a position at the rear of Petrov.

  Her eyes again held on Petrov. ‘I’m dreaming,’ she said. ‘Tell me I am dreaming.’

  ‘You are not dreaming,’ said Petrov flatly, it is true.’

  ‘I must be going crazy,’ she said, her voice touched with hysteria. ‘This makes no sense. You kidnapped me. No one kidnaps a — a First Lady, unless they are insane. You must be insane. Do you know what this can lead to — do you

  know the consequences? Do you? What are you after? Is it ransom? Or blackmail? Are you trying to blackmail the President? It won’t work. This is unbelievable, total madness. Tell me — what are you after? Let’s be done with it. I have to be on my plane in a few hours. We’re leaving at eight this morning.’

  ‘It is long past eight in the morning,’ said Petrov calmly. ‘It is four in the afternoon. Your plane left many hours ago.’

  ‘It wouldn’t leave. The plane wouldn’t go without me.’

  ‘You are quite correct, in one sense,’ agreed Petrov. ‘Air Force One would not depart without Mrs Bradford. Nor did it. I assure you — Mrs Bradford is on that plane.’

  She stared at him, uncomprehending.

  ‘I see you are still mystified,’ Petrov continued. ‘Let me be blunt, tell you exactly what is happening. Then you will understand, and I can go. I have a busy day. If you have more questions, after I finish speaking, Mr Razin has been assigned to answer them.’ He paused. ‘Mrs Bradford, your husband and our Premier are conferring at a Summit Meeting in London next
week. Much will be at stake affecting world peace. It is vital to us to know what your husband has in mind, what his private plans are in dealing with us. To accomplish this, we hoped to place an undercover agent in the White House, someone who might be privy to or have access to your husband’s thinking. This is not an uncommon practice, one often employed by your own CIA. We were fortunate in having anticipated the need for such an agent. Almost three years ago, even before you entered the White House, we began to plan for such an agent. By chance, we happened to find someone here in the Soviet Union who looked exactly like you —’

  ‘Exactly like me? Impossible. Persons are like fingerprints, no two alike.’

  ‘Not at all impossible,’ said Petrov. ‘Believe me, very possible. The young lady we came upon could not be told apart from you. Same face, body, and she spoke perfect English. There were a few discrepancies, which were resolved.

  We spent three years patiently training her to be your double —’

  ‘My double?’ Billie was aghast. ‘I’ve never heard anything so wild — so absurd — A double for a public figure?’ She shook her head vigorously. ‘It could never work. Such a thing has never happened —’

  Petrov beckoned behind him. ‘Razin, to improve our credibility, tell her. You were a history student. Convince her.’

  Reluctantly, Razin came forward. ‘I’m afraid you are — well, wrong, Mrs Bradford. This undertaking we are discussing is not anything new. It is as old as history. There are countless instances in the past where doubles, for a variety of reasons, have successfully enacted the parts of their leaders. Napoleon had a standin named Eugene Robeaud. Your President Roosevelt sometimes used a double. Certainly you have heard how Sir Bernard Montgomery, the British general, employed a double named Clifton James during the Second World War. It has happened before.’

  ‘Yes, and it is happening now,’ Petrov said to Billie.

  ‘It can’t work,’ Billie insisted.

  ‘It has and it will work,’ said Petrov.

  Billie was shaking her head again. ‘I just don’t believe this.’ She stared at Petrov. ‘And me, what about me? What are you going to do with me?’

  ‘Not a thing, Mrs Bradford, nothing at all. Your life is not in danger. Do you think we are barbarians? You are safe. We will keep you incommunicado in this Kremlin apartment for approximately two weeks, while our agent — let us designate her the Second Lady - while she acquires the information we need. On the last day of the Summit, after we are victorious, we will return you, fly you to London, exchange you for our double, and you will go home with your husband. No one will ever know it happened.’

  ‘Never know?’ Billie exclaimed. ‘Do you expect me to be quiet about this? I’ll expose you. I’ll tell my husband, everyone — I’ll shout it from the rooftops -‘

  ‘Don’t try, Mrs Bradford, don’t for your own sake,’ Petrov said. ‘Would you expect your husband to believe you? Anyone to believe you, give credence to your babblings about such a mad and insane — as you have called it - enterprise? You, yourself, told us you can’t believe it. If you can’t, who will? If you persisted in your fanciful, paranoidal story, without a shred of evidence, you would embarrass your husband before the world. You would end up in — Razin, what’s the place called -?’

  ‘Menninger Clinic, sir.’

  ‘Yes, in a hospital for the mentally unbalanced. No use, Mrs Bradford. When you are returned home, you will have to remain quiet, as if it never happened. We have no worry about being exposed. The very audacity of our scheme, the unbelievability of it, will keep us safe.’

  Petrov retrieved his cigar case from the coffee table and shoved it into the inner pocket of his tight double-breasted jacket. ‘Now I definitely must go,’ he said to Billie. ‘Mr Razin will see that you have every comfort. I hope you will keep yourself occupied. Eat, sleep, exercise, read. We have English books for you, your favourite authors. We have videotapes of American films for you to watch on television. You will find two radios. You can listen to the Voice of America or BBC. Duplicates of your bags and travelling wardrobe are in the bedroom. You will come to no harm if you accept your condition.’ Petrov’s face grew threatening. ‘Try to escape, or get word to the outside, and you will be deprived of your comforts and suffer. For you own sake, adjust yourself to your temporary fate, to this brief vacation, and all will go well for you. If you require anything, within reason, Mr Razin will provide it. I, personally, will look in on you from time to time.’

  He walked to the door.

  Billie cried out after him, ‘You’ll never get away with it!’

  Hand on the doorknob, Petrov favoured her with a brief smile. ‘Never get away with it?’ he repeated. ‘We already have … Razin show her.’

  He was gone.

  Alex Razin came forward, tentatively sat on the edge of the sofa across from her.

  Her bewildered eyes met Razin’s. ‘Is this really happening?’ she asked with disbelief. ‘Can it be true?’

  Razin nodded unhappily. ‘I am afraid it is true, Mrs Bradford.’

  She frowned. ‘Are - are you part of this? You seemed so nice yesterday, the day before.’

  ‘I’m no less nice today,’ he said seriously. ‘As to being part of this, the answer is yes and no. I am against the plot. I found it outrageous. But this is strictly a KGB operation. I am not KGB. I was forced to participate with them, perhaps because I am half-American. My mother was American. I was raised in the United States. My father, Russian, brought me back here after my mother died, when I was fifteen.’

  ‘Why didn’t you return to America?’

  He hesitated before replying. He stood up, walked over to a radio set on a table, turned it on to a music programme. Then he twisted a dial until the volume was much higher. He came back to the sofa and gave her a sheepish smile. ‘Just a precaution,’ he explained. ‘Now — your question. Why didn’t I return to America? I wanted to, and still do. That is nothing I’d like you to repeat. Although I went to Washington once, as a journalist. I was compromised in a spy case, even though I was innocent. I was banned from the United States.’

  ‘I could get you back - speak to my husband - if you’d help me.’

  ‘Help you? How? You are in the Kremlin, inside a fortress. You are under guard. It is too dangerous even to contemplate escape. Believe me, I’d like to help, but -‘

  ‘Not to escape,’ she said. ‘Just to let someone know, the American ambassador -‘

  Razin cut her off. ‘He wouldn’t believe me. But suppose he did, how would he find you? If he came here, he’d find nothing. By then you’d be far outside Moscow. As for myself, if it was learned I had informed, I’d wind up in front of a firing squad. I tell you, any move to free you would be futile.’

  ‘You’re right,’ she said weakly. She paused. ‘Will they really let me go in two weeks?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘They won’t hurt me?’

  ‘They’d have no reason to. It is to their own interests to see that you remain alive and well. They may need more information from you — some things the — the Second Lady - may not know. After the Summit you will be safely home.’

  She was brooding, her mind on her situation, on the reality of someone impersonating her. ‘It can’t work,’ she said, half to herself. She looked up. ‘Don’t you see? It simply can’t work. The minute she steps out of the helicopter on the White House lawn, my husband will know - he will know the other one is not me — he knows the real me too well — the moment he sees her, he’ll know she is an imposter.’ She hesitated. ‘The other - other man who was here —’

  ‘General Petrov.’

  ‘Yes, Petrov. When I said he’d never get away with it, he said, “We already have.” Then he said to you, “Show her.” What did he mean? Show me what?’

  Razin nodded, left the sofa, went to his briefcase, pulled out a small reel of tape. After turning off the radio, he carried the reel to the videotape machine, which was tied into a closed-circuit television set. He inse
rted the tape into the machine. ‘He wanted me to show you this,’ Razin explained. ‘We just recorded this event from American television which came to us via satellite.’ He turned on the television set. ‘Your arrival today at the White House.’

  Billie fixed her gaze on the television screen. There was the presidential helicopter from Andrews Air Force Base hovering over the White House south lawn, settling slowly on its tarmac. There was the movable ramp being rolled into place. There was the helicopter door opening. There was — she — Billie Bradford, emerging, standing, waving.

  Billie, viewing this, gave an audible gasp.

  On the screen, she, herself, no question. Her own hair, facial features, body, clothes. She was descending. She was on the lawn. A shot of her husband moving to the foot of the stairs. Andrew. She was in his arms. They were embracing. He kissed her, took her arm. There was applause off

  scene, as he kissed her once more and led her toward the press, photographers, battery of microphones. She was speaking briefly. The International Women’s Meeting in Moscow had been a success. She would be going to Los Angeles tomorrow to speak to the convention of the Women’s Clubs of the United States and give her report on what had been achieved in Moscow. While she had found Moscow receptive, friendly, fascinating, nevertheless, it was so good to be home.

  From the sofa, Billie stared at the television screen. She had heard her own voice, inflections, seen her gestures. All faultless. All from a Russian imposter. She watched Andrew leading her to the South Portico and into the Diplomatic Reception Room. Andrew taking her into their home as his own, as his wife.

  You’ll never get away with it!

  We already have… .

  Billie sat stunned.

  Razin turned off the television set and confronted her sadly. ‘You’ve seen what Petrov asked me to show you. No one knows she is not you, not even your husband. I’m afraid Petrov was right. He did get away with it. I’m sorry, Mrs Bradford.’