Bombshell by Max Collins (most life changing books .TXT) 📗

an American echo of the insane Rasputin, pressing and distorting his features against the thick glass, smearing it with saliva, banging on it with grimy hands, his shouts muffled.

Nikita, leaning protectively over his wife, was jolted again as the sedan screeched to a stop.

Within seconds, the State Department man, Harrigan—having leapt from the car following them—wrestled the man quickly to the pavement. And within a few more seconds, the limo windows revealed that Nikita and his family were surrounded by more security men, both American Secret Service and the premier’s own uniformed KGB agents.

With the danger now past, Nikita ascertained that his family members had not been injured by the sudden stop; then he peered out the vehicle’s window at the beggar-like man in tattered clothes, who was being dragged away by two of the plain-clothes agents at Harrigan’s direction.

The State Department agent opened the back door of the limousine and poked his head inside.

“Everyone all right?” Harrigan asked. His voice sounded calm, but Nikita could see excitement dancing in the man’s hazel eyes.

Oleg Troyanovsky translated.

Everyone nodded numbly.

“That was just an indigent,” Harrigan explained with a shrug that did not entirely conceal his chagrin. “You know, a poor homeless wretch. California has more than its share, because of the warm weather.”

Troyanovsky reported what the agent had said.

Surprised and pleased by the agent’s candor, Nikita grunted and spoke to the translator, and Troyanovsky turned to Harrigan.

“The premier said we have the homeless too … only in Moscow they freeze.”

Nikita watched closely for the agent’s reaction. He wanted to know if the man understood Russian humor.

And perhaps he did: Nikita thought he caught a tiny smile … or was that just a twitch?

Nikita again spoke to his personal translator.

“Mr. Khrushchev,” Oleg said, “saw something very interesting in Washington last week… Men running alongside President Eisenhower’s limousine.”

There was a pause as Harrigan considered this, the eyes widening, the excitement gone now.

“Yes,” Harrigan said, with a nod. “The Secret Service does that to provide the president with extra protection.”

This was translated for Nikita, who replied (and Oleg conveyed this to Harrigan): “Would this extra protection be, for example, to keep a homeless man from assaulting the president’s rear window? Upsetting the president’s family, perhaps?”

Harrigan paused again—and he smiled … that tiny smile again, lingering past the twitch stage into unmistakable if gentle amusement.

The agent asked, “Would the premier feel more comfortable if we did that?”

Oleg spoke to Nikita.

Nikita nodded.

“Tell the premier it will be our pleasure,” Harrigan said, and backed out of the sedan and closed the door. As the agent began to organize the other plainclothes security around the car, Oleg rolled down the window.

“Please use some of our own men, as well, Mr. Harrigan,” Oleg called out. “Mr. Khrushchev thinks they are getting too fat on your rich American food.”

Harrigan chuckled, and grinned; he nodded to Khrushchev, who smiled and nodded back.

Soon—as the procession of limousines, surrounded by trotting American and Russian agents, moved slowly on toward the movie studio—the sidewalks began to fill up with people. They ran out of the shops and houses, to point and gawk. A V.I.P. was passing!

Nikita settled back with a self-satisfied smile, and Nina— who knew him so well—beamed at him, eyes twinkling.

The premier of Russia didn’t need that son of a bitch Poulson to draw a crowd!

5 The Wrong Room

As Marilyn Monroe’s limousine whipped into the parking lot of the commissary at Fox Studios, the movie star’s eyes widened in shock and her mouth dropped in dismay— her mood, anxious though positive, seemed suddenly poised to plunge into despair.

The lot—but for a handful of cars, expensive ones in personalized spaces, sunshine ricocheting off their smooth metallic surfaces—was empty. Tumbleweed might have blown through.

“Oh, damnit,” Marilyn moaned. “After all that effort—we’re late! The party’s over.” She could just cry! When would she ever learn? Why had she taken so long to get ready?

But her unflappable secretary, May Reis—seated next to her, like a plainclothes cop extraditing a prisoner—was, as usual, cool; cucumbers had nothing on her. The trim, brown-haired woman shook her head and patted Marilyn’s knee. “No, no my dear—we’re early.”

Marilyn’s eyes tightened in thought, as if this word— “early”—was foreign to her.

May continued, with a gesture to the empty lot: “The others simply haven’t arrived yet.”

Marilyn’s eyes popped open again, as she regarded her secretary with astonishment. “Well, what do you know about that! I am on time.” She grinned and gave May a gentle elbow. “When has that ever happened before?”

May smiled tightly. “Never, dear.”

Marilyn’s longtime Los Angeles chauffeur, Rudy Kautzsky— looking jaunty in his black suit and cap, as perfect for his part as if Central Casting had sent him ’round—helped the glamorous star out of the back of the limousine, wishing her luck by way of a wink and “thumbs up.”

“Thanks,” she said, and kissed the air in Rudy’s direction.

Along with the chauffeur, May remained behind in the car. Like an overly cautious mother, she’d only ridden along to make sure that Marilyn made it safely inside the door. The secretary had learned long ago that her employer—whom she adored— was a vulnerable, distracted creature capable of losing her way across a living room. May need not have worried—not today. Marilyn Monroe might have been the current blonde bombshell, but—when she set her mind to it—that bombshell was a veritable guided missile. Today was important to her—flattered by the premier’s desire to meet her, Marilyn felt proud she could serve her country as Hollywood’s ambassador, and in some small way forge good will between two world powers who seemed on such a terrible collision course.

The big bland room that was the studio commissary—where normally stars, studio bosses, and crew members alike gathered for lunch or coffee at dozens of scuffed round tables—had for today’s event been transformed into an elegant Parisian restaurant. No soundstage set could have rivaled the “Cafe de Paris,” with its linen tablecloths, sterling flatware, and sparkling crystal. From the ceiling hung hundreds of colorful balloons