(1980) The Second Lady (37 page)

‘Andrew?’

‘Yes, dearest?’.

‘The way I feel, I could do this every night.’

‘I know. Me, too. I wish it were possible. But considering what we’re up against with the Russians the next few days, we’re going to be walking wrecks. It’s high-tension time. Everything at stake. I can’t say how I’ll feel each night.’

She turned fully toward him. He had moved over to his bed and dropped his head into the pillow, and lay flat on his back staring up at the ceiling.

‘What’s so especially tense about this time, more than any other time?’ she asked casually. ‘It’s always tense, I know.

But this meeting seems to be taking more out of you. I don’t understand.’

‘Well, I’ll tell you the problem,’ he said. ‘Usually, we negotiate from strength. That makes it easier. But this time -‘ His voice trailed off as he lost himself in some thought.

‘This time — this time what, Andrew? Don’t leave me hanging.’

‘Oh, sorry,’ he said, bringing his mind back to their conversation. ‘This time we have to maintain a bluff to win. Not easy. Complicated. I’ll explain it all to you one day.’

She pretended exasperation. ‘Not fair, Andrew. Don’t treat me like a second-class citizen. You’ve always confided in me. I’ve confided in you. You’re interested in what I do every day. Well, I’m just as interested in what you do. We’re a team, Andrew. We share. So don’t suddenly go chauvinist and relegate me to the kitchen. Tell me the problems you’re dealing with. I want to share them with you.’

‘I don’t mean to withhold anything from you,’ he said apologetically. ‘It’s just that I’m bushed and it’s so late. But you’ve a right to know. Let me make it uncomplicated. I hope you’ll settle for a capsule version for the time being. I’ll expand on it another time. Will the capsule version do?’

‘It doesn’t even have to be a capsule version. I’ll settle for a thumbnail version. I’m sure it has to do with that African place — Boende — and your disagreement with the Soviets. But what’s the problem? Why are they making it so tough for you? I’ve got to know about anything that interferes with my sex life.’

He grinned. ‘Right you are.’ He thought about it and was serious again. ‘The Soviets have that rebel Communist in Boende, Nwapa by name, ready to move in for a take-over of the country. But the Russians are unsure of us. If we’ve armed President Kibangu and the government, if we should be ready for them, if we should intervene, they’d be crushed. A defeat would affect Communist power all over Africa.’

‘Well, have you armed him?’ she asked almost casually — an interested-wife question, no big deal. ‘That’s exactly what the Russians have to know.’ He

sighed. ‘The fact is, we have not armed him.’

‘You’ve not armed him?’ she repeated.

‘No, we’ve not. We’re only pretending we have. That’s my problem, maintaining the bluff.’

Vera felt a charge of thrill. Three years of effort had finally paid off. She had it all for Kirechenko, she had secured his victory.

Vera ran her fingers through Andrew’s hair. ‘Poor darling,’ she said tenderly. ‘No wonder you’ve been so troubled.’

He took her wrist and kissed her hand. ‘And you’ve been so lovely.’

‘Thank you, Andrew.’ She wondered whether it would be pressing her luck to go on. She decided to try cautiously. She put on a puzzled expression. ‘Just one thing I don’t understand.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Even if the Russians knew you were bluffing, and they made a move, couldn’t you intervene fast, airlift supplies to the Boende government?’

‘Yes, we could, but no, we can’t. It would cost me any chance of reelection. I’ll show you our latest private polls when we get home. So we can’t move in to save Boende at the last minute.’ He paused. ‘Fortunately, the Soviets don’t know that. If they knew, they’d have their rebels rolling over Boende and taking it in less than a week. They’d certainly refuse to sign our nonintervention pact. They’d break off the Summit.’

‘You’re sure they don’t know?’

‘Of course they don’t. And they won’t know. Which means a victory for us, the lion’s share of Boende’s uranium, an edge in controlling central Africa, an end to Communist inroads. So now you know what’s been on my mind.’

Vera found it difficult to contain her excitement. She had learned all that was vital to learn. She had his big secret, the only Soviet on earth to know it. Until tomorrow.

‘Andrew, we’ll win, won’t we?’

‘You can bet on that. If we play our cards right, maintain our bluff, we win.’

You lose, she thought.

She yawned. ‘Andrew, you don’t know how much better it makes me feel, sharing things with you. At least now I can understand what you’re going through.’ She raised herself on an elbow. ‘Good night, darling.’ She kissed him. ‘Thanks again for a marvellous evening, the best ever. Just forget your worries, and think of us. Now get some sleep.’

‘Good night, sweetheart. We both better get some sleep.’ He pulled the blanket over his shoulder, and curled under it. She left her bed, took the sleeping pill, walked to the side of his bed, put out the lamp, and in the darkness felt her way back to her bed and got beneath the blanket.

She was lying on her back, waiting for the pill to take effect, when she heard his snoring. For herself, sleep would come slowly, she knew. She was too elated with success to shut out the joy of it.

She went over her next instructions. When and if she learned anything important, she had been told, she was to contact Fred Willis. He, in turn, would contact Ladbury, who would arrange for the meeting with Premier Kirechenko. At the designated time, Willis would see that she be provided with a car and driver without her Secret Service guards. She would be driven to Westridge, the abandoned RAF airfield ten miles out of London, the landing strip turned over exclusively to the Soviets for their air transports. At the airfield she would be escorted to the limousine where Premier Kirechenko and General Chukovsky would be waiting. She would pass on to them everything that she had learned from President Bradford. Immediately after, she would be placed aboard a Soviet jet and returned to Moscow, while Billie Bradford was being flown to London.

Kirechenko would have his triumph. Vera Vavilova would have her own. Curtain call after curtain call, a heroine of the Soviet Union.

She snuggled under the blanket. She had never been happier.

Vera Vavilova, heroine and legend.

That was something to sleep on.

It was late afternoon, getting later, getting more overcast, when Guy Parker once more drove up before Buckingham Palace, circled the Queen Victoria Memorial, came along the curb, braked his Jaguar to a stop, and let the engine idle as he searched the three entrances for any sight of Nora Judson.

For twenty minutes he had been driving around St James’s Park, continually slowing before the Palace to pick up Nora. But she still had not shown herself.

He was supposed to have interviewed the First Lady in the morning, and had planned to devote the afternoon to following her if she left Claridge’s. A short call and a scribbled note from Nora had changed all that. Nora’s call advised him that the interview on the book had to be cancelled. The note from her, arriving after lunch, told him, ‘The Prince of Wales is having Billie and Madame Kirechenko to tea at Buckingham Palace this afternoon. I am taking Billie there. Can you pick me up at front entrance around four o’clock? Please do.’

It was now 4.20 and no Nora. About to take another spin around the Memorial, Parker spotted Nora in the courtyard beyond the tall iron rails, hastening past the police guard house, toward the side gate, the north-western gate. She came through quickly, skirted a cluster of tourists, paused to look for him. He hopped out of his car, signalled her, and finally caught her attention. She hurried to the car, and got in.

Spinning the Jaguar into the stream of traffice, he glanced at her. ‘How are you?’

‘Our Queen is still with their Prince,’ she said. ‘I was

tangled up with the Palace press office. Sorry to be late. I asked you to pick me up not because I needed a lift, but because I wanted to hear what happened to you last night. Did you actually go in to see the President?’ ‘I did.’

‘You told him what you thought?’ ‘Everything, every suspicion I had about the First Lady.’ ‘Well?’

‘Well, you were right. He almost fired me.’ ‘Was he that sore?’

Parker nodded gloomily. ‘Damn sore. He said I was crazy. He had an explanation for every slip-up she made. He warned me that, if I mentioned any of this to anyone, I was through.’

Nora puckered her lips thoughtfully. ‘I suppose if you look at it from his point of view, his attitude is understandable. After all, he’s living with her. She is his Billie, as she has always been, nothing different or changed.’

Parker halted the car at a red light. ‘That’s what made it difficult. To him, the same old Billie. That’s what is so depressing. You and I know something is wrong, and there is nowhere to turn, no one who will believe us.’ The traffic light showed green and he stepped on the gas pedal. ‘I even advised the President what his next move should be.’ ‘Which was?’

‘Have the British stage a raid on Ladbury’s. Billie’s secret visit makes it very suspect. I feel sure the Soviets use it as a drop. A sudden search might turn up the proof we need.’ ‘How did he react?’

‘As expected.’ Parker sighed. ‘A man who thinks there is nothing wrong with his wife isn’t going to think there is anything wrong with her visiting her dress designer. He just wouldn’t consider my request. And he sure was mad as hell that I followed his Billie.’

Parker was suddenly aware of a movement beside him, and he saw that Nora was sitting up straight, her eyes bright with excitement.

‘Guy, I’ve just had a great idea,’ she said. ‘It was so obvious

we overlooked it. If the President needs a real fact to be convinced, I know how to get him one. Billie’s fingerprints. They must be on file somewhere. Get them — somehow see if this First Lady’s prints match hers —’

Parker interrupted her with a shake of his head. ‘No go. You’re on the right track, Nora. But a little late. I thought of that already — meant to tell you. I hoped to have the facts

— if they supported us - to show the President. I phoned the White House, asked a close friend in the West Wing to locate Billie’s prints in confidence and send them over to me on the next courier flight. A routine hunt for her prints was instigated. Will you believe what happened? The computer showed the prints on file in the FBI, in the California Motor Vehicle Department, and I forget how many other places. So my friend requested a set. You know what? Not a single set of Billie’s prints was available anywhere. They were missing. Gone. Someone did a good job. So there we have another suspicion, but no facts.’

‘Dammit.’

‘You can say that again.’

They had turned into Brook Street and were approaching Claridge’s.

‘What’s next, Guy?’

He heaved his shoulders. ‘I suppose I’ll keep trailing Billie and see if anything happens.’

‘Don’t bother any more today. Billie won’t be back from Buckingham Palace until later. She won’t be going out tonight. Wants to catch up on her correspondence. Wouldn’t you like to spend the evening with me?’

He hardly heard her. ‘No,’ he said, slowing the car. ‘I mean yes, I’d like to — but —’ Deep in thought, he edged the Jaguar against the curb, some yards before the hotel doorman, and stopped it. His face lit up, and he slapped the steering wheel. ‘You know what?’ he said. ‘It just struck me

- what I should be doing.’ ‘What?’

‘Visiting Ladbury’s myself. Have a look around. Maybe invite him to dinner.’

‘I’d think twice about that,’ Nora said worriedly. ‘If your hunch is anywhere near right, you could be getting into trouble.’

‘What do you mean?’ Parker made light of it. ‘The First Lady’s ghostwriter paying a visit to the First Lady’s dressmaker? Absolutely normal. Absolutely innocent.’

‘Well, I don’t know. When do you intend to do it?’

Parker held up his wristwatch. ‘Right now.’

He brought the car up in front of Claridge’s entrance. The resplendent doorman hurried forward to open the Jaguar door.

Nora leaned over and kissed Parker. ‘Guy, be careful.’

‘I’ll try. I want to see you again. Maybe even tonight. Hang around.’

‘I’ll be waiting.’ She touched his sleeve. ‘Guy, be very careful.’

She stepped out of the car, and he drove off.

Although the traffic was heavy at this hour, Parker reached Motcomb Street in less than fifteen minutes. He found a space a block from the Halkin Arcade and Ladbury’s shop, locked his car, and covered the distance on foot.

At the elegant entrance to the dress designer’s shop, he paused momentarily to collect his wits. At last, he grasped the door handle, and the door swung inward. As he crossed the threshold, a bell somewhere above him announced his entrance.

Standing on the deep plush off-white carpet, Parker surveyed the showroom. No salesperson was in sight. The room itself was richly and tastefully decorated. In the forefront, on a pedestal, a mannequin was draped in a black velvet cocktail suit and green scarf. Behind the mannequin rested a long glass case displaying jewellery. The walls on either side were lined with expensive clothes. Rectangular slots held sweaters and blouses. Dresses, skirts, suits, pants, were hung in alcoves. To the rear were two full-length mirrors, and a scattering of valuable antique chairs. Half the rear wall was covered with live vines that had climbed up several trellises. The other half of the rear wall featured a spiral staircase to

the second floor, as well as an opening into a corridor that apparently led to fitting rooms and offices.

Parker had almost a half-minute alone — the chic casualness, the air of aloofness, amused him — before someone materialized from the back. This was the mannish, heavy-set woman that Parker remembered seeing in the White House, Ladbury’s assistant, Rowena Quarles.

She planted herself in front of Parker, eyeing him as she might an intruder. ‘Yes? May I help you?’

T’d like to see Mr Ladbury,’ Parker said politely. ‘I’m working for Mrs Bradford. She suggested I see him.’ ‘Mrs Bradford?’