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

Nikita leaned on an elbow in the bed, and reached for the Tokarev Model TT-30 that he always kept under the pillow on his absent wife’s side of the bed.

But the pistol wasn’t there.

Wide awake now, sitting up, knowing that the only way the gun (which he’d tucked under that pillow personally) could be gone was if someone had stolen it … and he doubted a maid had done so … Nikita Khrushchev listened as the tapping persisted.

Nikita crawled out of bed, as quietly as possible—which wasn’t quiet at all, the bedsprings screeching—and padded in his bare feet and silk burgundy pajamas across to the bathroom, where he did not turn on the light. In his shaving kit he found his straight razor; he flipped open the blade and a sliver of light from somewhere in the room winked of its deadly steel.

The tapping continued … picking up in pace, a frantic edge to its unspecified message.

Peering through the darkness, Nikita—razor at the ready— moved slowly toward the sound, which revealed itself as coming from one of the velvet-curtained windows. A guard was stationed on the fire escape beyond … was he signaling Nikita?

Was something wrong?

Cautiously, at one side, he touched the heavy, drawn drapes and peeked around their edge.

Out on the black wrought-iron balcony of the fire escape, the guard was nowhere to be seen—but a young woman was, crouching on the other side of the window. The fingers of one of her hands were tapping on the glass, and her eyes were wide in the moonlight.

Could it be … ?

No, his eyes must be betraying him. Was he dreaming? Yet the sharp-edged blade in his hand was real. Still, he closed his eyes, and opened them again.

Yes, it was her!

Marilyn Monroe … outside his bedroom window…

Nikita Khrushchev had no idea what the actress wanted; he was a faithful husband and a good communist, but he was also a man whose blood was at least as red as his politics, and he was not about to take lightly such a visitor. He moved around and drew the curtains wide. Quickly he unlatched the window, raising it up high.

She gasped.

Then she said, “Hello. Remember me?”

He just stared at her.

She was wearing American blue jeans with sandals, a red-and-blue plaid blouse knotted at her waist. Her hair was tousled, a tangle of blond curls, her face free of any make-up.

In the moonlight, she was even more beautiful than she had been at the luncheon. It was as he’d mused: without the Hollywood paint, she was radiant, like a young, fresh-faced, well-scrubbed Russian peasant girl. To gaze on such beauty made his heart ache.

“You have to get out of here!” she whispered. The woman’s forehead was taut with terror.

Her distress took him aback; the missing pistol gave the woman credibility, but how was she part of anything that might concern him … ?

She narrowed her eyes and shook her head, clearly frustrated, obviously distraught. “How can I make you understand? … I only know a little Russian… I don’t know how to tell you in your language…”

“I understand you perfectly,” Nikita said in English.

Her eyes became large. “You … you do?”

He nodded.

“But … but … your interpreter … ?”

Nikita shrugged. “Letting others think I speak no English gives me advantage.”

“Oh,” the movie star said, impressed, “I see … how clever of you!”

Her reaction pleased him, and he was wondering if he should invite her into his bedroom; but he was a married man, a husband, a father, and the woman was young and beautiful … and they were both what Americans called a “V.I.P.,” and the danger presented by the missing pistol was matched by the scent of scandal.

These thoughts passed through Nikita’s mind in a moment.

“Why have you come?” he asked, leaning a hand on the sill, playing portly Juliet to her comely Romeo.

The terror returned to her eyes. “I’m afraid something bad is going to happen to you,” she said, “if we don’t leave here at once.”

Holding the razor behind him—he did not suspect her, he instinctively trusted the woman, but he did not want to frighten her—Nikita smiled. He was flattered that the famous Hollywood actress was concerned for him, and it affirmed his belief that the American people and its government were not necessarily of the same mind.

“What could happen to me here?” he said with a chuckle and a shrug. “Over one hundred people are on this floor and around hotel ground, to guard and protect me.”

“Well, if that’s true,” she said, eyes big and seemingly innocent, “then how come I made it up this fire escape and nobody stopped me?”

Nikita felt his smile fade. The woman had made a valid point. Where was the guard supposedly stationed on the fire escape? Had the guard gone to that same place as the pistol under his pillow?

Nikita crouched down, face to face with Marilyn now, the windowsill between them, his eyes locking onto hers. “Why is it you think I am in danger?” he asked.

He listened intently as she told him of overhearing a troubling conversation today in a men’s room between two of his trusted KGB guards; she suspected a conspiracy to assassinate him among his own people.

In these circumstances—in this unfriendly town, in a hotel room where his personal pistol and the guard guarding his window had both vanished—the woman’s words rang all too true.

“Please,” she pleaded as he pondered, “it’s almost two o’clock! That’s the time they say ‘goodbye’ to you! You must come with me…”

He frowned, confused. “Come with you … ?”

“I rented a car for us—hurry up!” She reached out with both hands, grabbed onto his pajama top, and tugged, trying to pull him out onto the fire-escape balcony.

“Please,” he said, pulling away with dignity, holding up one hand. “You must allow me to get pants.”

“All right—but shake a leg!”

Having no idea how shaking a leg would quicken the act of putting on pants, Nikita rose from the window. Should he believe