(1980) The Second Lady (11 page)

The second morning had meant more reports. The second afternoon and evening countless panels, seminars on job equality, voting freedom, sexual equality, and more and more of the same. The third morning, this morning, the representatives of twenty nations, each reporting on her hopes for future progress. This afternoon, lengthy statements from delegates of eight major nations on the future of woman’s rights. Now, Mrs Kirechenko was bringing it to an end.

Thank God for the farewell banquet this evening. After that it would be over, and Billie could sleep. But not long, she realized unhappily. Tomorrow, airborne again to Washington. Then to Los Angeles to report on this meeting. Then to London with her husband and the Summit. Too much. Her brain cells were unhinged. She wondered if she possessed one muscle that didn’t ache.

She became aware of a resounding silence in her ears. People around her, throughout the hall, were on their feet applauding. Mrs Kirechenko had finished, just as Billie felt almost finished. Billie put aside the headphones and rose to clap her hands.

Presently, she was inching up the aisle, two Soviet security men leading her and her own Secret Service men at her heels. She was jostled four or five times by other women delegates who wanted her autograph, and she obliged. In the lobby, photographers ran alongside her, their flash-guns winking on and off.

One brash middle-aged female, apparently a reporter from India, pushed toward her shouting, ‘Why do you bow to the sexists with that transparent dress?’ Billie kept her temper and her set smile and called back, ‘Because I want men to look at me — not only as an equal but as a woman.’

Outside, at the curb with its four steps, two black eight-cylinder Chaika limousines were waiting for them on the cobblestoned street. As the chauffeur of the first car opened the rear door, Billie hesitated, and faced the members of her party who were gathering around.

‘How are we for time, Nora?’ she inquired, i’d like to do just a little souvenir shopping.’

Nora Judson looked up from her wristwatch. if it’s not too long. You could have an hour.’

‘Let’s do it,’ said Billie. ‘I’ll be in Los Angeles in a few days. I should take something for the family.’ She spoke to her interpreter. ‘Where would I go, Mr Razin?’

‘I’d suggest the nearest Beryoska shop,’ said Razin. it is a state-controlled store that sells only to foreigners with foreign money. A Beryoska shop will have the best choice of goods - furs, hand-cut crystal, handpainted boxes, wine.’

Billie wrinkled her nose. ‘But that’s just for foreigners. No, I want to see someplace where Russians themselves go.”

‘Ah, then you want to see GUM, the state department store,’ said Razin..it is just across Red Square. It has 1000 shops in its arcades, but you won’t find much to buy of any value. You’ll find material for dresses, some kitchen gadgets, children’s toys. And you’ll need roubles.’

‘No problem,’ said Ambassador Youngdahl.

‘And the Russians go there?’ Billie inquired.

‘Oh, absolutely,’ Razin promised.

‘Then I want to see it,’ said Billie.

‘Let me call the store director,’ said Razin. ‘He can speed things up for you. He speaks perfect English. You go. I’ll be right behind you.’ Razin dashed back toward the lobby.

Ten minutes later, Razin came forward on the rear seat of the second limousine, where he was sitting with Ambassador Youngdahl and Guy Parker, and pointed beyond the windshield. ‘There they are, waiting. Park right in back of them.’ Billie Bradford’s Chaika was standing before an entrance to the spired, three-storey, marble and granite department store. Even as they drew up behind it, Razin opened the rear door of the moving vehicle and jumped outside, almost losing his balance. ‘I’ll bring the director,’ he called back.

In a few minutes, Razin had the portly director by the arm and propelled him to Billie Bradford and the others, who were together beside the first limousine. Razin introduced the director to Billie Bradford, then to Ambassador Youngdahl and Miss Judson and Mr Parker. The director gave each a dip of a bow.

‘Honoured, honoured,’ the director said. ‘Come inside, let me show you around.’

Billie spoke to Nora and the others. ‘Nora, I’ll need your advice. Do you mind? As for the rest of you, don’t bother. Stay right here. The shopping will only exhaust you. Besides, I don’t want to attract too much attention.’

‘I’d better go with you,’ said Ambassador Youngdahl, falling in step behind Billie.

Alex Razin and Guy Parker remained next to the cars, watching the group head into GUM’s.

Razin said, ‘Want to stretch your legs and have a smoke?’

‘Not a bad idea,’ said Parker.

‘We can stay in sight,’ said Razin, starting off. ‘Just stroll back and forth in front of the store.’

He offered Parker a cigarette, took one for himself, and applied a lighter to both.

They walked in silence for a full minute. Parker was the

first to break the silence. ‘You don’t speak English English,’ he said. ‘You speak American English. Where did you pick it up?’

‘In the United States,’ said Razin, T was born in Virginia.’

‘Really? That’s surprising. You seemed so — so Russian.’

‘I am Russian, half-Russian, on my father’s side. My mother was American, from Pennsylvania. I - well, I don’t want to bother you with my genealogy.’

‘No, I’m interested,’ said Parker.

‘You’ll be sorry,’ Razin said with a solemn smile, and he proceeded to recount more on the background of his parents, his own growing up in the United States, and a censored version of his return to Russia with his father. He did not mention his training and job with the KGB. He stated that he was a full-time government interpreter.

‘So now you know it all,’ concluded Razin.

Parker nodded, as they walked. He accepted a fresh cig-, arette and the light. ‘Odd,’ he said. ‘There’s something so’ familiar about you, I could have sworn I met you in the United States. But that would be impossible, since you left at fifteen.’

Razin decided to tell him. ‘Not impossible,’ he said. T forgot to tell you. I was back in the United States four or five years ago for a short time.’

‘As a tourist?’

‘I was a Washington correspondent for TASS.’

‘Well, that might explain it,’ said Parker. ‘We could have met. Around that period, before I became one of President Bradford’s speech writers, I spent some months in the Washington bureau of Associated Press. Off and on, I covered the White House. We may have seen each other at a press conference.’

‘Very likely,’ agreed Razin.

‘Did you enjoy working in Washington?’

‘I loved it.’

‘Why did you leave?’

Razin decided that there was nothing to lose. ‘I didn’t leave,’ he said. ‘I was thrown out.’

Parker stopped in his tracks. ‘You were thrown out?’ ‘Exactly. I was railroaded out. Some of my people in Moscow had arrested one of your embassy people for collaborating with dissidents. Your government decided to retaliate. At random, I was selected to be the innocent victim. I was set up, arrested on some preposterous charge, then returned to Moscow in exchange for your embassy person. I’m afraid I’m persona non grata in the United States.’ He shook his head. ‘Too bad. I’ve always considered the United States my first homeland. I was born there. I loved it. Now I am afraid I will never see it again.’

‘I’m sorry.’

Razin would never know what impelled him to say what he said next. He thought he had buried his fantasy. But here, with an American official close to the First Lady and the President, he could not resist reviving the hope for an option, perhaps one he and Vera might be able to pick up on some future date. ‘I wish there was a person over there who could know the truth, and perhaps help lift the ban on me. It would be nice, but I suppose it is unlikely.’

The last had been a muted question. Parker did not quite answer it. He shrugged, as they resumed their stroll. ‘Who knows what can happen? You never know. The political climate can change. Old decisions can be reversed.’

‘If it ever does change,’ said Razin, ‘I would appreciate it if you kept me in mind. You are well connected. A few words from you in the right ears, it could mean much to me. Understand, I like my lot here. I am happy. But it would be good to know that I could see the United States again.’

‘I’ll remember that,’ promised Parker. ‘But this is not the time for it, as you know. The climate between our countries is not the best. If it were better now, there would be no necessity for a Summit in London next week. But the future? Who can tell what that will bring? I’ll keep an eye open for you.’

‘You won’t forget?’ said Razin earnestly.

‘I won’t forget.’

‘I appreciate that,’ said Razin. ‘I know what I’m going to say next is ridiculous, but if ever I can reciprocate, do any small thing for you, I’d be happy to oblige. I admit, I’m not very important. But I do have some good contacts.’

‘Thank you,’ said Parker. He smiled. ‘I might call you on it — a case of your local vodka some day.’

Razin did not smile. ‘Try me,’ he said.

Parker was pointing toward the store’s entrance. ‘Isn’t that Mrs Bradford?’

Razin squinted off. ‘Yes. She seems to have found something to buy.’ .

Billie Bradford had emerged with the GUM director, both carrying plastic shopping bags, with Nora Judson holding a package and Ambassador Youngdahl following.

‘We’d better meet her,’ said Parker, starting ahead.

Razin went after him, thinking. Had he made a mistake, speaking his mind to the American? Had he been indiscreet? What if it got back to Petrov, his love for America, his desire to go there?

But then he knew it would never get to Petrov. It was obvious that Guy Parker had not taken him seriously. Parker had only pretended to. Parker, like all Americans, had been polite.

It really didn’t matter, Razin told himself. The old dream of America was only a nostalgia for his youth. He was grown up now. Only one thing mattered.

He saw First Lady Billie Bradford climb into the limousine. He saw Vera Vavilova climb into the limousine.

That was all that mattered. Vera safely back in his arms.

Night had fallen over Moscow, but inside the floodlit Kremlin there was activity, especially in the large and airy office of Premier Dmitri Kirechenko, General Secretary of the Communist Party, Chairman of the Presidium of the Supreme Soviet, Marshal of the Soviet Union.

The four walls of the Premier’s office, wallpapered in white silk, offered no more than two decorations - a framed portrait of Karl Marx and a framed portrait of V. I. Lenin. In the centre of the room under the glass chandelier stood a

conference table covered in green baize. In a corner of the hexagonal office rested the Premier’s L-shaped desk. The desktop was devoid of knick-knacks or equipment, save three white telephones and a pushbutton console, a green desk pad holding an open typed briefing book, a square brass clock, a pen and inkwell, a calendar. A dark brown button-back leather chair accompanied the desk.

This moment of the evening, the chair was solidly filled by Premier Kirechenko, rubbing his Vandyke beard as he looked through his rimless glasses at his associates around him. Across from him, briefing books in their laps, sat General Chukovsky, Colonel Zhuk, Politburo members Garanin and Umyakov, and two specialists on African affairs.

‘All right,’ said Premier Kirechenko, ‘I have your suggestions. I appreciate them. Now, so that there is no misunderstanding, let me sum up our position and let me sum up America’s position before we go to the meeting in London.’

He lay back in his leather swivel chair, slipped off his rimless spectacles, closed his eyes, and resumed speaking.

‘Boende,’ he intoned, ‘until now an insignificant country of thirty million in south central Africa. A year ago it became significant. Huge deposits of uranium ore were found and mined. We in the Soviet Union need uranium. The United States needs uranium. To maintain a facade of neutrality, Mwami Kibangu, President of Boende, in reality an American puppet, set a quota on what he would sell us, while at the same time he sold the United States three times as much. An intolerable situation.

‘We know that Kibangu heads a government that lacks solid popular support. His government is an artificial democracy propped up by his American ally. On the other hand, our man, Colonel Nwapa, heads a people’s underground army of rebels pledged to adhere to the principles of Communism. Our ties to Colonel Nwapa are close, and he has informed us that he is ready to move, prepared to overthrow the American puppet government. So much for the background.’

Premier Kirechenko opened his eyes, his glasses dangling from his fingers.

‘So we arrive at the situation as it stands today,’ he continued. ‘Colonel Nwapa has the necessary manpower to succeed. However, he does not have the sophisticated armament that would assure victory. On the other hand, America’s President Kibangu claims to be strongly armed with the latest new weapons, an arsenal supplied by the United States. He also claims to have a treaty with the United States that would supply him with added weapons should there be any threat against his government. So we face the big question. Are President’s Kibangu’s claims true? And the subsidiary questions. Has his government army been fully equipped with American weapons? Can Kibangu get help from President Bradford if the rebel forces should strike?

‘If Kibangu’s claims are true, the government army would crush Nwapa with no difficulty. If his claims are true, we would not dare to airlift armament from Ethiopia for the rebel forces, and Nwapa would be helpless to go forward without us. However, if the government claims are not true, if the United States has not built up Boende’s defences, if the United States would not reinforce them in an emergency, then we would have the upper hand. We could rush Nwapa sufficient supplies, technicians, advisers to enable him to take over control of Boende in a single week. Nwapa would head the country. We would have all the uranium we require. Boende’s uranium exports to the United States would be shut off. Our nuclear standing would be enhanced. Our dominance over our capitalist rival would be complete.’