The second lady, p.22
The Second Lady, page 22
Parker emitted a low whistle. “What a doozy—”
“Double doozy, like double gin.” Nora lifted her glass and almost drained it.
“And the British press people, what was their response?”
“Like I told you, she got out of it. Well enough for the press. Not well enough for me. She’s slick all right.”
He studied her once more. “Nora, why did this one shake you up more than the incidents I had been reporting to you?”
“I don’t know. I do know. Not only because this one just happened in front of me, but because the morning before we went to Moscow, in the White House—a few hours before she told you that you were coming along—remember?”
“Yes.”
“—she had got word of Janet Farleigh’s death. She really came apart. It was a big thing, emotionally, not something she would be apt to forget.”
“Umm. How did she hear about Janet’s death? A letter? Wire?”
“Not regular channels. The British ambassador sent over a personal note, hand-delivered.”
“Private.”
“Private, by hand. Just Billie knew and you and I knew.”
“What about obits?” asked Parker.
“None. Janet meant nothing in the United States.”
“But Billie herself knew.”
“Of course.”
“So how could she not know an hour ago?” Parker puzzled about it. He saw Nora finishing the last of her gin. “Have another.”
Nora pushed away the glass. “No, thanks. I’m a mile high.” She stood up woozily. “Let’s go up to your room.”
Parker signed the check, took Nora firmly by the arm, and led her to the elevator.
A few minutes later, they reached his room. He unlocked the door, was about to turn on the light, when she pulled back his arm. “No. Lamp’s enough.”
He turned up the standing lamp near the bed. Nora shut his door, secured the chain. He watched her uncertainly. She walked toward him with care, so as not to lose her balance.
She looked up at him. “I’m a little drunk, Guy. I admit it. Before I do anything foolish, answer me one thing honest honestly. Do you have a letch for me?”
“A big one, Nora.”
“A serious one?”
“Real serious.”
“All right. I liked your face and body from the start. But I thought you were maybe kind of maybe egotistical—self-centered expecting all women to have round heels for you. Later, I thought you were kind of a kook. Understand?”
He didn’t, but he nodded.
She went on. “I couldn’t get involved with anyone that flawed. Guy, I had a husband. It was bad. He was selfish and spoiled. I finally shook him off. But everyone needs someone. So there was Billie. I could be devoted to her. But now—I don’t know—now suddenly Billie’s not there. Then you, you’re there. I could see you better, a whole person. Nice, sensible, even sexy. I need someone I can believe in right now, Guy. Can I believe in you?”
He took her in his arms and kissed her. She felt the heat in her breasts, in her thighs. She felt his fingers unbuttoning her blouse.
With effort, she pushed away. “You take off your things. I can take care of mine.”
He hesitated. “Do you want to wait until you’re sober?”
She had her blouse off. “I don’t want to be sober. I want to be high, higher than I am.”
As she unhooked her brassiere, he turned away and busied himself undressing. Stepping out of his tight briefs, he turned back and saw her lying totally naked on the bed. As he advanced, his swollen penis began to rise. She was the most sensual sight he had ever seen. It was beyond belief. From the moment he had first met her, he had been undressing her in his mind, picturing what she was like nude. And here she was, glossy dark hair, green eyes fixed on him, ruby lips parted, milky white breast mounds with the brown nipples already pointed, the full thighs spread wide apart, the soft triangle of pubic hair visible.
She needed someone who needed her. So did he, so did he.
He was kneeling beside her on the bed. He lowered himself to kiss her mouth, touch her tongue with his. He kissed her neck and shoulders, massaging her breasts. He licked and kissed her nipples. He buried his head between her legs and kissed the moist vulva.
He was up on his knees as her fingers ran along his stretched penis. He was panting. She was finding it difficult to breathe.
“I’m ready,” she gasped. “Love me, darling.”
His body sank down between her thighs, and resting on his elbows, he slowly slid into her all the way.
Twenty minutes later, they were both relieved and spent. Disengaged, he lifted himself off her, and lay back beside her.
“You’re divine, Nora,” he said.
“You’re not bad yourself, Parker,” she said. She kissed him. “You’re wonderful, you’re incredibly wonderful. I never knew I could love fucking this much. Let’s do it again some time.”
“Like tonight?”
“And tomorrow morning, too,” she said. “You’re a wonder boy. You’re restored my faith in men completely. Do you have a cigarette?”
“I’m a pipe man, but I keep a spare pack around for the likes of you.” He opened the drawer of the bed table, fumbled for the package, extracted a cigarette for her and one for himself. He lighted each, and passed one to her.
“Another thing, Guy. An hour ago, I wouldn’t have thought it possible. It was a horrible day. I was traumatized by Billie’s blunder. I was in the dumps, miserable, and obsessed by the entire incident. Now I feel great, just great. No hangover from her or the drinks. You’re a Merlin, You just made me forget the whole thing.”
Parker looked at her seriously. “You can’t forget it—it won’t go away, you know.”
She blew a puff of smoke at the ceiling. “I know,” she said. “I’ll tell you this. If I didn’t know she was the First Lady, I would think she was someone else. But—” She stared at him. “—that’s unthinkable, isn’t it?”
He shrugged. “Nora, all I can say is—you and I, we better start thinking about the unthinkable.”
VII
The radio music was on louder than ever.
Billie Bradford stood motionless in the center of the living room of her Kremlin suite awaiting Alex Razin’s judgment as he circled around her, inspecting her attire. She had her long blonde hair drawn up in a tight bun at the back, to make her less conspicuous. She was wearing a short brown jacket, a striped beige blouse beneath it, a brown skirt, and serviceable flat-heeled shoes.
“Well?” she asked, anxiously, as Razin came in front of her.
“Fine,” she said. “You look like a typical Western tourist, one of the wealthier ones, but that won’t be uncommon. There will be plenty of them milling around in Red Square, snapping pictures of Lenin’s tomb and St Basil’s Cathedral. You shouldn’t attract too much attention.” He glanced at his watch. “Fifty percent of your chance for success in escaping will depend on timing.”
“And the other fifty percent?”
“Luck,” he said.
Billie’s frown deepened. “And you think I can make it?”
“Most likely, you will make it. Let’s get back to timing, the one factor we can control. I have calculated carefully. You will emerge from this building and head for the Spassky Gate. I am allowing ten minutes for you to cross to the gate and exit. It will take another five minutes to cross Red Square, and walk unhurriedly past GUM’s department store to the voda canteens on 25th October Street. There you will buy a drink—” Razin dug into his pocket for some coins and handed them to her. “Here are several kopeks, to be on the safe side. Wait there after finishing your drink, and watch for a man carrying a blue suitcase. You will approach him. He will be expecting you. He will take you to the American embassy. From that moment on, it will be up to your ambassador.”
“You make it sound so easy,” said Billie.
“It might be. It might not. We shall see.” Razin consulted his watch again. “We don’t have much time, if you’re to keep to the schedule. I will explain your route as simply as possible, and show it to you on a map I have drawn. We have fifteen minutes to go over the escape route. After that, I will leave you alone for ten minutes to memorize it. Then you must start, with no delays.”
“Where am I exactly? How do I start?”
“You are in the Supreme Soviet Building, in a suite of offices converted into these living apartments. Now follow me. I will show you where you start.” He preceded her into the kitchen. A few feet past the sink, he halted, and kneeled. “There is an old trapdoor here, its outlines are lost in the design of the linoleum—Petrov overlooked it, if he even knew about it but look here, two small notches.” He put the forefinger of each hand into the notches and partially lifted a square of the flooring upward. “You see how easy it opens.”
Billie, intent on his every movement, nodded. “Then what?” she asked.
“There are steps—really a wooden ladder—that will take you down to an underground room, a room that was used for cold storage in 1785. The walls are stone. It is extremely cold down there, and dark. Leave this lid off so you can have light from the kitchen. On the opposite side of the room, you will find another set of stairs. Climb the stairs to an open hole. There was a second trapdoor. I’ve removed it. You will come up into another storage room, at ground level, used for furniture. There will be some light from two windows. There is only one door. Go to it and step outside. By outside, I mean out into the Kremlin street. Now I’d better show you the rest on my map.”
Razin lowered the trapdoor into place, and guided Billie back into the living room, gesturing her to the sofa. He sat beside her, pulling something from his jacket pocket. It was a folded sheet of paper, which he unfolded and flattened on the coffee table, smoothing it.
Billie peered down at the crude, penciled map. Only one portion of it, on the right hand side, was filled in with line drawings.
“The Kremlin is a mammoth place, as you probably know,” said Razin. “Three walls in the form of a triangle. The inside covers twenty-eight hectares that is sixty-nine acres. So as not to confuse you, I’ve penciled in only the part that concerns you. This X mark shows where you are in the Supreme Soviet Building. The smaller x shows you where you will emerge. Actually, you’ll find yourself in a corridor, but right across from you will be a doorway to the outside. Am I being clear so far?”
“Perfectly.”
His finger traced a dotted line. “Walk this way, along this building, parallel: to the wall with arches. Now cross the street and go along the Administrative Building. At this point, at your left, is a spired tower with a red star on top. See it? This is the Spassky or Spasskaya Tower, in English called the Saviour’s Gate. There will be no more than one guard. Go past him into Red Square. He probably will not stop you. If he does, explain you were on a tour of the Armory in the Oruzheinaya Palace and became separated from your tour group and expect to meet it at GUM’s. The guard probably won’t understand English. Point to GUM. The odds are he’ll pass you through. Most of them are nice guys. And you are a pretty and innocent-looking American tourist.”
She tried to smile. “I wish I was.”
“What?”
“A tourist. Pretty. Innocent.”
“At that point, you’ll get by. Go right on. Stroll. All the way across Red Square, past the department store, to the street, right up to the voda canteens here. Buy yourself a drink. Wait for the man carrying the blue suitcase. Have you got it?”
“I—I think so.”
“If you have any questions, now is the time to ask them.” She thought of several questions, and he answered them carefully.
“Very well,” he said. He took a second sheet of paper out of a pocket and laid it next to his map. The paper was blank. He handed her a pencil. “Copy my map,” he said. “I must destroy mine. I can’t let you have anything in my handwriting.” With an unsteady hand, she copied his map. “There,” she said. “Better carry it on you.”
She folded her sheet until it fitted into her jacket pocket. He picked up his map, tore it, and carried it into the bathroom. She heard the toilet flush. He returned empty-handed. Billie got up, intercepted him, and facing him took both his arms. “Alex, I don’t know how I’ll ever thank you.”
“Never mind. My time is up here. I have to go. Watch the clock. Remember, you have only ten minutes to memorize your route. Then leave at once.”
“I’m grateful beyond words,” she said. “When I get home, I’ll help you, I promise. You’re the only thing that has made this nightmare endurable.”
“I’ll remain in the Kremlin on other business until I’m sure you’re safely out of here. If the alarm, the siren, does not sound, I’ll know you’re safe. Good luck, God speed.”
“Thank you, Alex.” She kissed him on the lips. His eyes held on her. He was about to say something, but apparently thought better of it. Quickly, he left the room.
Once more alone, she returned to the sofa, sat down, removed the map from her pocket, laid it out and studied it, her eyes darting to the antique clock every few minutes. She tried not to think of the pitfalls ahead, the consequences of failure. The only diversion she would permit herself was the thought of a reunion with Andrew in London. Concentrating on her route, she saw that nine minutes had passed. She refolded the map, shoved it into her pocket, threw the strap of her purse over her shoulder, and headed for the .kitchen. Her heartbeat was accelerating as she lifted the trapdoor and shoved it aside. She backed down into the opening, got one foot and then the other on a rung of the ladder, and made a creaking descent.
The storage room, walls of rough-hewn stone, was almost unbearably cold. Shivering, Billie tried to get her bearings. In the shadows, at the far side, she made out what appeared to be rising steps. Reaching them, she saw the staircase was narrow and rickety. She climbed it on tiptoe, came up through the square opening into a dim, musty storeroom crowded with furniture covered with pieces of canvas.
At the door, she hesitated. Fear held her like a heavy weight. Her mind was clogged. She could not remember her next step. She tugged the map out of her jacket pocket, began to unfold it, then remembered. She pushed the map back in her pocket. The door would be unlocked, Razin had promised her. She would come out into a corridor. There would be an exit opposite her. She must go through it, turn right, walk along the building, cross a street, continue along the Administrative Building, see the Spassky Tower to her left, get over to it, and head for Red Square.
She wondered if Razin had allowed her enough time. Every afternoon, since she had been a prisoner, KGB guards had entered her suite to deliver lunch or supplies. The exact time they appeared was erratic. If they entered soon, and realized that she was missing or that the trapdoor in the kitchen had been removed, they would sound an alarm.
This thought impelled her to move faster. She took the doorknob and pulled. The door opened, Razin had kept his word. She was in a wide corridor, no one in sight on either side, and the exit across from her. She went through it and was outdoors at last, the air humid, the sky overcast. She saw the reddish wall ahead, a lesser tower identified on her map as the Senate Tower beyond which stood the Lenin Mausoleum, a group of four Red Army soldiers—visored caps, red shoulder tabs on their uniforms—in a deep conversation, and finally, the walk to her right. She turned right—go casually, Razin had warned her—and started alongside the Supreme Soviet Building. She reached a street as a Russian truck rumbled past. Then she traversed the street. Another structure, the Administrative Building. Eyes straight ahead, purse swinging, she strode close to the building. Off and ahead, to her left, was the huge tower with the Red Star on top, Spassky Tower, her last trial before escaping this fortress.
About to leave the curb, a thin, shrill, distant sound pierced her eardrums. The sound rose higher, fuller, louder into a wail. It shrieked again and again, incessantly. Billie froze in place. A siren.
What had Razin said? He would know she was safe if the alarm, the siren, does not sound.
But it was sounding. She was unsafe. The siren was for her.
She was chilled and immobilized, uncertain which way to turn. She cast about to see if anyone was responding. No one was in view, not even the group of soldiers she had noticed when she emerged outdoors. For a split second, she considered her options. To brazen it out and try to make the Spassky exit? To find some place to hide until it was quiet again? To scramble back to her suite?
Suddenly, as she teetered on the edge of decision, the entrance of the Spassky Gate exploded with life. A squad of uniformed Soviet soldiers, carrying rifles, catapulted into the open, swarming into the street.
Instinctively, Billie reacted. She had no choice now but to run, to get away from them, to hide. Her heart pounding, she spun back to the building behind her, hurried along it searching for the nearest door.
She heard shouts not far away. Looking back, she saw at least three of the guards point toward her, yelling at her in Russian. She plunged into the building, holding on to the strap of her flying purse.
Around the corner she went, slipping, regaining her balance, rushing past a row of office doors bearing incomprehensible plates with Cyrillic lettering. She searched for something that resembled a closet or bathroom door, could make out none. A new sound assaulted her. She heard the pounding of boots and clatter of guns in the corridor she had left behind. She slowed, tripped to a stop before the handiest office, its entrance an impressive double door. Her fingers snatched at the door lever, pressed down, and she pushed inside and shut the door behind her.
Breathless, she swung around to find out where she had landed. She was in a vast ornate room, a glass chandelier, massive fireplace, oriental rug, a line of gilded chairs against one wall. The room was empty, thank God, and then she saw that it wasn’t, and her throat constricted. The farthest chair along the wall, next to another set of tall double doors, was filled by a stout, older lady in a print dress, who sat staring at her.
