(1980) The Second Lady (40 page)

‘Thank you,’ said Patrick. He sounded choked.

‘Another reason I’m phoning,’ said Vera. ‘I need your help on a little matter. I wonder if I might stop by, look in on you for a few minutes? Will you be there?’

‘Oh, certainly I’ll be here. When did you mean? Tonight?’

‘Right now. I could be over in maybe ten or fifteen minutes. Sure you don’t mind?’

‘I’d be highly honoured.’

‘See you shortly,’ said Vera, hanging up.

So far, so good. Now, the next call, the big one. From a rack near her bedstand hung four London telephone directories. She bent over to read their spines. The orange one read A—D, the pink one was imprinted E—K, the green one L-R, and the blue one S-Z. She pulled the first one, the A-D one, upward from the rack. On the cover was the heading, LONDON POSTAL AREA. She opened the directory near the back, turned the pages until she found the listing for the Dorchester Hotel and its telephone number. She jotted it

down on a pad. Lowering the directory to its place, she glared at the phone number on the pad and gradually her expression became malignant.

Sitting on her bed, she lifted the hand set. An operator’s voice responded. Vera gave the Dorchester number. After what seemed interminable ringing, her call was picked up. It was a switchboard operator at the Dorchester. Mustering some authority in her voice, Vera asked to be put through to Premier Dmitri Kirechenko’s suite. She knew that she would not get the Premier, but rather some buffer person, which was good enough, because the person would quickly relay her message.

A person with a gruff voice had answered in Russian. He had said, ‘The Soviet delegation.’

She recognized the voice. She said in Russian, ‘Is this General Chukovsky?’

The voice on the other end was wary. ‘Who are you? What is your business?’

With sadistic pleasure she replied in Russian, ‘You do not know, General? This is Vera Vavilova.’

‘Vera Vav -‘ He sounded as though he was going to explode. ‘No! It is not permitted. You must never call.’

‘But I am calling,’ she continued calmly in Russian. Then, sharply, ‘Please put me through to Premier Kirechenko.’

The voice on the other end hesitated. ‘I cannot. Impossible. He is busy - occupied. Then he must rush to dinner. After that - after - later - you will see him as arranged.’

T am changing the time of our meeting,’ she said firmly. ‘Not later, but earlier. In fact now, I intend to see him now. I am leaving for the Dorchester immediately.’

‘You cannot! It is dangerous for you if you come-‘

She interrupted coolly. ‘It is more dangerous for you if I do not come.’

With that, she cut off his sputtering by hanging up.

Until now, it had gone without a hitch, as Billie Bradford might have said, thought Vera Vavilova. Vera had made no attempt to slip out of the suite. Instead,

she handled her initial move openly and according to strict procedure. She had summoned her Secret Service agents, Oliphant and McGinty, to inform them that she was leaving the hotel to call upon the family of a friend who resided at Castleman House located at 21 St James’s Place. She had requested one of the American delegation limousines as soon as possible. This had been arranged. The agents had escorted her downstairs and into the limousine. Together they had driven to Piccadilly Circus going east, backtracked via the Haymarket to Pall Mall, past St James’s Palace, and into narrow St James’s Place, an attractive dead-end street.

Now they were parked before Castlemain House, where Janet Farleigh’s husband and son still resided. It was a seven-storey structure, the front lobby hidden behind glass walls speckled with gold stars. Vera had to pretend that she had seen it before.

Agent Oliphant stepped out of the car. When Vera half rose to follow him, McGinty deterred her. McGinty explained, ‘Oliphant wants to case the place first. He’ll only be a few minutes.’

Vera sat back impatiently, as Oliphant went inside. Through the glass she could see him engaged in conversation with a porter standing behind a counter to the right. Presently, Oliphant came out, held up his hand to indicate that they should wait. He strode past the garage beside the building, inspecting it, then reached a cramped alleyway leading to the rear. He plunged into the alleyway and was out of sight.

Five minutes later he returned to the limousine. He spoke across Vera to McGinty. ‘I’m sure it’s secure enough. There’s a back lawn enclosed by brick walls on the sides and by an iron railing set in concrete at the far end. No exit or entrance in the back railing. Nothing to worry about. You patrol the street in front, McGinty. I’ll go in with Mrs Bradford.’

Troubled by the knowledge that there was no rear exit, Vera left the limousine and preceded Oliphant into Castlemain House. There was a staircase on the left side of the

lobby. As they started for it, Oliphant said, ‘The Farleighs have the rear flat on the second floor.’

‘I know,’ said Vera, but she was grateful.

‘There’s an elevator,’ he added.

‘It’s a lift here,’ she corrected him. ‘I prefer the stairs.’

Reaching the flat, Olfphant stationed himself beside the front door.

Pressing the bell, Vera said to him, ‘This is a condolence call. I’ll be at least an hour, maybe an hour and a half.’

Oliphant inclined his head. ‘I’ll be right here.’

The door opened, and the sole occupant of the flat at the moment, Patrick Farleigh, admitted her and closed the door. Despite her haste, Vera tried to maintain some social grace. She kissed the gangly young man on his pimpled cheek and held him off to study him. ‘My, how you’ve grown, Patrick,’ she said.

Awkwardly, he asked her to please have a seat, and she said unhappily that she could spend only a short time with him but did want to know how he and his father had been since their bereavement. Then, to make him more comfortable, she sat down in a corner of the nearest oversized armchair. She made Patrick talk about himself, his schooling, his interest in being a writer as his mother had been.

At last, with the formalities behind her, she decided to get straight to the point.

‘I’m enjoying this, Patrick, and I’d like to find out more about you, but we’ll have to do that another time,’ she said. ‘I mentioned to you, on the phone, I needed your help about something.’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Actually, I have another appointment that I wish to keep privately. I mean, I prefer that no one knows about it. Nothing naughty, mind you, just someone I have to meet on my own. Unfortunately, privacy is not one of the privileges a First Lady enjoys. Everywhere I go, I have to go in an official limousine, and with the Secret Service tagging along. I’ve told the Secret Service I’ll be in here with you for an hour or more. That was only to deceive them, put them off

my track. I’d like to let them think I’m in here with you, but meanwhile I must slip out and make my way to my private meeting alone. Do you mind?’

‘Not at all. I find it rather exciting.’

‘Is there a way I can leave without my Secret Service men seeing me? There’s one man outside in front. Maybe there’s a service entrance - a tradesmen’s entrance - in the back somewhere?’

‘No. The tradesmen’s entrance is in front.’

‘If I remember correctly the rear is surrounded by brick walls and-an iron-rail fence. Is that true?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

Vera’s heart sank. ‘There’s absolutely no exit in the back?’

The boy was silent, and then he looked pleased with himself. ‘Oh, you know, there is a way, if - if you don’t mind the inconvenience.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You go down to the back garden. There are several ladders stacked on the lawn. Some builders are making repairs in the daytime. They leave the ladders when they go home. I could set one up against the metal railing, and drop another on the other side. You could climb up one and down the other, if you’re game.’

Vera came off the chair and embraced Patrick. ‘You are a darling. Of course, I’m game.’ She hesitated. ‘But when I come down the ladder on the other side, where will I be?’

‘There’s a wide asphalt footpath between our building and Green Park. You can simply walk up to the first major street.’

‘Will there be taxis?’

‘By the hordes. The street is Piccadilly.’

‘Wonderful.’ She kissed the young man again and he blushed. She had one more concern. ‘Will the ladders be there when I return?’

‘I’ll see that they are.’

‘You’re marvellous, Patrick. I’ll be back in an hour -remember, I’m supposed to be with you during this time -and then I’ll go out to my Secret Service agents and the

limousine.’ She took him by the arm. ‘Now, will you show me the way to your special exit?’

The taxi curved around the island in the street and brought her up in front of the Dorchester Hotel.

Vera Vavilova opened her purse and paid the driver the fare, adding a handsome tip. She extracted a handkerchief from her purse before closing it. She had a worn a cloth coat with a high collar to mask her giveaway face, but the collar only partially covered her features. The handkerchief, she hoped, would screen the rest.

A doorman had the taxi door open and touched the brim of his hat as she stepped out. She hurried into the revolving door, pushed it, and in the reception area she walked hurriedly past the reception desk into the mammoth lobby. Several seated Arabs raised their heads from their newspapers to appraise her, but she kept the handkerchief to her face as she searched for the elevators. She spotted them off to her right and swiftly entered the first one.

The elderly operator closed the doors and inquired, ‘Floor, ma’am?’

‘Premier Kirechenko’s floor, please.’

The operator appraised her doubtfully.

T am expected,’ she added.

‘Yes, ma’am. Number eight, ma’am.’

The elevator rode upward smoothly, until the light above the door blinked on number eight and it halted. She stepped out and then stood still, uncertain of where she was going.

The operator indicated the direction. ‘To your left and then right, ma’am. Watch for the Terrace Suite.’

Vera nodded her thanks, started walking, turned into the long corridor illuminated by electric candles set in brass-trimmed boxes bracketed to both walls. She continued up the corridor slowly, made an inquiry of a passing maid, and at the second intersecting corridor turned right. Almost immediately she came upon a group of four men deep in conversation standing in front of a door with the lettering HARLEQUIN AND TERRACE SUITES.

As Vera started for the door, one of the plainclothes men swiftly left the group to bar her way. ‘No one permit enter without pass,’ he warned her in broken English.

That moment, another member of the group, whose back had been to her, turned around and she recognized him as Colonel Zhuk. His surprise was evident. Taking her by the arm, he led her aside. In an undertone, she told him that the Premier was expecting her. Colonel Zhuk nodded and preceded her to the door. He opened it and called inside in Russian that the visitor could be let through.

Vera entered, and was confronted by three more armed KGB guards planted before a steep staircase. Smiling at the guards, she gripped the railing and ascended the steps. At the top landing she saw another door bearing the lettering TERRACE SUITE. Beside it stood two KGB guards. She inclined her head to them, then rang the bell.

The response was almost instantaneous. In the doorway stood one of her country’s leaders, the one she recognized as Anatoli Garanin, of the Politburo.

He looked at her with a twitch of annoyance. ‘Comrade Vavilova? You were not to see the Premier until later, much later.’

‘I telephoned,’ she said curtly, i must see him now. It has been arranged.’

Garanin shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’ He signalled her inside. ‘Please wait here in the guest foyer. I will speak to the Premier.’

She had waited there no more than a minute, feeling determined and righteous, when Garanin reappeared and beckoned.

He led her into a living room, a grand one, luxuriously furnished.

‘The Premier has consented to see you briefly,’ said Garanin. ‘But I must tell you he is angry.’

‘So am I,’ said Vera.

Garanin appeared to consider her disrespectful. ‘Remember, he is the Premier.’

‘Remember, I am the First Lady,’ she said.

Garanin scowled. ‘He will be with you in a moment,’ he said, and he left the room.

Alone, impatient, Vera wandered about the impressive living room. There were costly drapes carrying a floral print that featured Chinese figures. There were French doors and a wide terrace overlooking the treetops of Hyde Park. Elsewhere in the room were three sofas, antique chairs, a French desk.

Pirouetting, she realized that Premier Dmitri Kirechenko had soundlessly materialized from a bedroom. He was tieless, wearing formal shirt and trousers, busily inserting his cufflinks. His long bearded face and rimless spectacles concentrated on the French cuffs. He advanced toward Vera without looking up at her.

‘You take great risks, Comrade Vavilova,’ he said quietly. ‘Very unwise of you.’

He had spoken in Russian, and she realized that he preferred to conduct the entire conversation in Russian. She also decided, no matter what his awesome position, she must not crumble before him, nor play the servile subject. She steeled herself with the reminder that she had power, too.

She said, T am used to risks, Comrade Kirechenko. Everything I do for you involves risks. I would not have come here if it were not of vital importance.’

‘Understood.’ He seated himself at the French desk. ‘Bring up a chair. Let us talk now.’ He waited as she complied, and then he resumed. ‘Do I congratulate you? I am told you have fulfilled your assignment and obtained what we want.’

T have.’

‘I hope it is significant.’

‘Very.’

His eyebrows shot up. ‘Excellent. A moment then while I summon General Chukovsky.’

She said emphatically, T do not want him here. I will speak only to you alone.’

She thought her audacity might anger him. But as he pulled his hand back from the buzzer, he soberly eyed her in a new way. Perhaps, she thought, with new interest.