Bombshell

by Allan, Barbara

  There had been no falling out between them, just a… a sort of falling away. In New York, Marilyn had begun using a Manhattan P.R. agent, Patricia Newcomb. To May, Rupert was a stranger; to Marilyn, he was family.

  May stepped aside to let the gentleman in; however, she gave him a gesture with a scolding forefinger. “Only a minute or two,” she warned, “or Marilyn will be late to the luncheon.”

  “May,” Marilyn said, “go ahead and wait in the limousine, would you?”

  The secretary frowned at this suggestion, but did not argue, slipping out of the bungalow, leaving the two old friends alone.

  “Do you mind if we sit?” Rupert asked, nodding to the white couch next to a beige stone fireplace.

  “So formal?” Marilyn asked.

  “I admit to feeling… a little awkward.”

  She sighed. “Good. We have that in common. But it’s wonderful to see you, Rupe—”

  “Please. Sit.”

  Marilyn complied, perceiving a problem, but she couldn’t imagine what.

  He settled into a soft chair opposite the couch where she sat. His smile was strained as he said, “I understand you’re meeting with Chairman Khrushchev today.”

  She beamed at him. “Yes…. Isn’t that wonderful? Can you imagine better publicity?”

  “Frankly, yes.”

  “Rupe…”

  “I don’t think you should go.”

  Her smiled dropped. She couldn’t believe she was hearing these words from the lips of such a renowned P.R. agent. Meeting Khrushchev, one of the most powerful men in the world, would be the ultimate publicity coup, an event covered worldwide in the press, from Life to Pravda.

  And this publicity was coming at a time when she most needed it, when she was getting back into the Hollywood swing, after having exiled herself to what many considered the pretentious New York artiness of the Actors’ Studio.

  Amazed, she sat forward, eyes tensed, and—not confrontational, knowing Rupert always had his reasons—asked, “Not see Khrushchev… but why?”

  His eyes were kind; his voice was harsh. “Because, Marilyn, you’re going to be used.”

  “No one uses me unless I want them to!”

  He smiled, just a little. “Remember who you’re talking to.”

  A bit of hurt, a tinge of defensiveness, crept into her voice. “Who’s going to use me, then?”

  “The government,” the press agent said. “Or the CIA or State Department or somebody else who wants to get that chubby Russian S.O.B. into a compromising position.”

  Relieved, Marilyn waved that off with a laugh. “Oh, Rupe! I’m just going to meet the man. We’re not going to bed or anything. I mean, you’ve seen him, right? He looks like Marjorie Main in drag!”

  The publicist didn’t smile.

  “You’re serious, aren’t you?” she asked.

  He nodded. “You don’t always prize attractiveness in your men, my dear…. You’ve always been more attracted to power, and fame.”

  She stiffened. “Rupe, you’re crossing the line, now….”

  “Frankly, I was thinking of your meeting with Sukarno.”

  Marilyn stood abruptly. “Nothing happened between us,” she said emphatically, putting her hands on her hips. “How many times do I have to tell you, before you believe me? You’re worse than my husbands!”

  “Nothing happened? Okay. Fine. But something could have… and I believe the CIA put you next to Sukarno for their own purposes.”

  Rupe had a point. Sparks had flown between her and the darkly handsome President of Indonesia, Achmed Sukarno, at a reception held for diplomats a few years ago… right here at the Beverly Hills Hotel, coincidentally enough.

  “I’ll admit,” she said, chin up, “that later that night, after the party, I called President Sukarno, for a private meeting. But I just wanted to know more about his country, which really isn’t a country at all but a bunch of islands. You know how eager I am for knowledge. Do I have to tell you I’m not just another blonde bimbo?”

  He arched an eyebrow, as if to say, No, you’re the blonde bimbo. But all he said was, “And?”

  “And,” she continued with a toss of her sumptuously coifed head, “at the last minute I decided that I was too tired.”

  Rupert looked up at her sharply. “Hedda Hopper reported that you kept that meeting.”

  Marilyn frowned. “Jeez, Rupe… I always thought you told her that… for publicity’s sake.”

  “No,” he said, with a head shake, “I did not.”

  Marilyn sat back down on the sofa, puzzled, a cushion swallowing her bottom.

  “You know,” she said, eyes tightening as she leaned toward him. “There was a kind of click on the phone when I called President Sukarno that night….” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “You don’t suppose… the line was tapped?”

  “After what you and Arthur have been put through by the House Un-American Activities Committee,” the press agent said tightly, “do you have trouble believing as much?”

  She was shaking her head now, risking Guilaroff’s handiwork. “But why in hell would anybody care about the President of Indonesia meeting with some actress?”

  “Not ‘some actress,’ dear… Marilyn Monroe.” Rupert shrugged. “Obviously, to get something on him.”

  “Why? I just don’t understand….”

  “Uncle Sam put Sukarno in power expecting Indonesia to go democratic,” Rupert explained. “Then what does the ungrateful wretch do? He stops free elections and aligns himself with the communists… Russia and China.”

  Marilyn’s eyes widened. “I didn’t know that. I… admit I really haven’t kept track. I thought Sukarno was one of the good guys.”

  “So did our government, early on. Now they’d use anything against him… even you. And if they feel that way about a comparative small fry like Sukarno… how do you think they feel about Nikita K?”

  Marilyn put one finger to her lips and bit down on the platinum nail. She trusted Rupert. He was smart, and knew things she didn’t. Yes, she always wanted to learn things, but her methods were pretty hit or miss. The press agent hadn’t risen to his rarefied position without great instincts and greater knowledge.

  Why did politics have to make things so difficult? If a man and a woman wanted to get together, why shouldn’t they? Why couldn’t people just be people?

  “Now do you understand why I don’t want you to meet with Khrushchev?” Rupert was asking.

  Marilyn stood again. “I’m already ready,” she said stubbornly, spreading her arms wide. “I’ve gone to a lot of trouble. My people have gone to a lot of trouble, too. And damnit, Rupe, I want to go. Khrushchev asked to see me… of all the stars in the Hollywood heavens… me.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “The State Department said so. I mean, I don’t want to go up against the State Department—you want me to start World War III or something?”

  Rupert stood and his eyes drilled through her. “You know the press will skewer you,” he said, not giving up. “They’re going to dredge up all that commie nonsense about Arthur, and they’ll drag you down with him.”

  Marilyn felt her face grow hot. “Arthur wasn’t charged with anything,” she retorted. “Anyway, I’m no communist… I’m an American. I haven’t even been to Russia!”

  Rupert patted the air with his palms in a “calm down” fashion. “All right,” he said. “Go if you want. Make the public appearance… but avoid anything else, no private meetings, no ‘educational’ rendezvous with the little fat man. And, please, Marilyn… be careful.”

  The heat had left her face, and a warmth for Rupert had taken its place. “I will, Rupe,” she said. “I promise.”

  He put his hands on her shoulders, smiling, his eyes sad. “You know, no matter what happens, how much or how little we might see each other, that I care about you, very much. That I’m your friend, always will be.”

  Marilyn nodded, swallowing, touched by his concern. “Rupert?” S
he took one of his hands.

  “Yes, my dear?”

  “I’m… I’m sorry I haven’t called you.”

  He shook his head, shrugged. “We’ve both been busy,” he said.

  It was so goddamn sweet of him to let her off the hook so easily.

  “Let’s stay in touch,” she said.

  “Let’s.” He gave her a tender smile. “Now… go knock ’em dead, Miss Monroe.” He looked her over, and raised his eyebrows. “With that dress… what there is of it… you can’t miss.”

  As Marilyn watched him go—pausing to toss her a little wave and smile, before slipping out—she felt a surge of melancholy roll through her, and linger. Then, taking a moment to summon back her movie star persona—that character she had created, that she played so well, and that to some degree she had become, leaving Norma Jeane behind—she put on her sunglasses and exited the bungalow and walked out to the waiting limousine.

  Chapter Two

  WELCOME TO L.A.

  IN A REMOTE corner of Los Angeles International Airport, from the yawning mouth of a North American Aviation hangar, Jack Harrigan—his mental and emotional state a mix of detachment, concern, and fatigue—watched as an Air Force 707 landed in the heat-shimmering distance. The forty-two-year-old agent, assigned these days to the State Department Security Division, had flown ahead the day before from Washington to finalize preparations for the visiting Russian delegation, arriving at this moment on that jet.

  At six foot two, Harrigan had a shaggy, rugged handsomeness—there were those who said he resembled a leaner Robert Mitchum, the movie actor—that made him almost too distinctive for the security division, which favored banality in its agents’ appearance, the better to blend in with crowds. Among Harrigan’s distinguishing characteristics were hazel eyes, singed eyebrows (age nine; fire-cracker), and a re-set nose (age twelve; fist-fight), false front tooth (age sixteen; hockey puck); one other deformity, only his ex-wife and a few other females knew about: a fistful-sized chunk of his left buttock was missing (age twenty-five; German mortar).

  A sorry excuse for a welcoming committee had gathered at the hangar to wait quietly for the premier of Russia—and the sixty-some entourage accompanying him. This small assemblage was a pale shadow of the festivities that had been arranged for Khrushchev back east, when he flew in to Idlewild a week ago. Mayor Wagner of New York rolled out a literal red carpet, complete with waving banners, effusive speeches, a huge cheering crowd, and three blaring brass bands.

  Mayor Poulson of Los Angeles—that pain-in-the-ass prick—felt differently about having a communist dictator delivered to his bailiwick, viewing Khrushchev with the warmth reserved for a bastard child found in a basket on a doorstep.

  As the plane began to taxi toward him, Harrigan stood motionless in the noonday sun’s withering heat; but behind the black sunglasses his trained eyes were darting from the handful of put-upon perspiring dignitaries lined up across from him, to the press corps held back behind a cop-guarded barricade, to the small crowd of citizens who’d been aware of Khrushchev’s coming, and cared enough—for whatever reason—to witness the historic moment.

  Harrigan was cataloguing every movement, scrutinizing every face, looking for any hand-held objects that weren’t fountain pens, cameras, or little American flags… and looking for certain kinds of faces, hot with rage or, even more dangerous, cold with rage….

  Just because the crowd was paltry didn’t mean the agent could let his guard down, not for a heartbeat; it only took one person—in one heartbeat’s time—to pull out a gun and assassinate Khrushchev, and send the United States to the edge of a precipice beyond which was an all-too-real nuclear abyss.

  Yup—just another day in the life of Jack Harrigan.

  And had Harrigan deemed to remove his sunglasses, to take a better look at the meager mob, something else would have been revealed about the agent: dark circles under his eyes, indicating the lack of sleep and abundance of stress he’d endured this past week, which had begun dubiously—a bad omen, for those who believed in that kind of thing (and he did)—with the initial arrival of the Russians on American soil.

  The Soviets had put down at Andrews Air Force Base, fifteen miles southwest of Washington D.C., in a huge Russian Tupolev jetliner. The use of that airplane—considerably longer and taller than its American counterpart—was a disaster in and of itself: when the metal debarkation staircase was wheeled up to its door, the ramp was too short. It was a scene out of a slapstick comedy: chaos broke out on the ground, while Khrushchev and company were left cooling their heels, until some poor bastard finally found a common household ladder.

  When the Russians finally climbed ignobly out, and down, like sweethearts eloping in the middle of the night, Nikita Khrushchev was not in the mood for love; the dictator was red with rage. The press had a field day snapping him and the portly missus, her dress wrapped tightly around her legs for modesty’s sake, coming down the ladder. Harrigan, working closely with the Secret Service boys (until recently he’d been Secret Service himself), saw to it that any film—whether news organization or civilian—was confiscated.

  When a reporter pal of his had bitched, Harrigan said, “No way I’m gonna let World War III start up over some fat Russian broad gettin’ embarrassed… but don’t quote me.”

  Various pomp and circumstance had awaited the Russian premier and his people at Andrews—the usual twenty-one-gun salute, President Eisenhower on hand, honor guards, ten bands massed to play both the Soviet national anthem, “Soyuz Nerushimy Respublik Svobodnykh,” and “The Star-Spangled Banner.” A motorcade through the Maryland suburbs into Washington had been followed by a full-dress parade down Pennsylvania Avenue.

  But none of it took the bite out of the ramp-and-ladder incident: strike one for the Americans—not at all an auspicious beginning to a last-ditch peace mission between two nations on a nuclear collision course.

  At one point early on, when the Russians had still been aboard the Tupolev jet, Harrigan—watching from the sidelines as the catastrophe unfolded—thought he detected a small, smug smile briefly purse Khrushchev’s thick lips, as the dictator peered from the plane’s window at the Americans below, running around like ants that had their colony disturbed.

  Surely the Russians knew the specifications of U.S. commercial jets. Had they built their plane bigger on purpose? Was this a cunning chess move, designed to make the Americans start off the trip with a blunder?

  Later, when an obviously embarrassed President Eisenhower asked Khrushchev to leave the huge Tupolev behind at the base, and offered one of the Air Force’s new 707s for the rest of the premier’s cross-country trip, Harrigan again could only wonder: Had that been Khrushchev’s plan all along? Just how much national security would be compromised in the name of hospitality?

  Harrigan of course had been briefed extensively on Khrushchev at the State Department. There was no denying that this man—however much the roly-poly despot might seem a thug or peasant-risen-to-power—was a smart and formidable adversary. He’d have to be, to have survived the bloody purges of Stalin.

  Now Harrigan had had a week to form his own opinion of the Russian ruler, and found him to be a complicated man, whose disposition could turn on a dime, like a big precocious child. Amusing and warm at one moment, Khrushchev was an erupting human earthquake the next: shrewd and ruthless, and about as subtle about his wants and needs as a sailor on a three-hour pass.

  At the moment, however, Harrigan was not the least bit interested in the inner workings of Nikita Khrushchev’s mind and what made this bomb of a man tick; he was concerned—make that panic-stricken—over the perils of making it through the last leg of what he considered to have been an ill-advised trip in the first place… a trip that had only deteriorated further with each stop along the way.

  While in New York, the premier infuriated the United Nations delegation—Chiang Kai-shek’s democratic Nationalist China had refused to attend—who had generously allowed him to give a speech
before the General Assembly. The Russian guest had repaid this gracious gesture by delivering a tirade punctuated with bellicose blustering and outright threats.

  Still, Harrigan had noted, there had been a suggestion that what Khrushchev wanted most was peace….

  Khrushchev—surprisingly dapper in a blue serge suit with gray tie and gold stickpin, two medals on his lapel—had taken the U.N. podium with his personal interpreter at his side, a handsome if vaguely sinister-looking young man named Oleg Troyanovsky. As Khrushchev spoke in his native tongue, his voice grew sharper and louder. The interpreter was able to soften the premier’s inflection, but not his words, which warned of world destruction unless the cold war came to an end, and disarmament began.

  “Over a period of four years,” Khrushchev suggested, “all states should effect complete disarmament and should no longer have any means of waging war. Military bases on foreign territories shall be abolished, all atomic and hydrogen bombs destroyed….”

  The delegates had no argument with that. But how? Khrushchev never said.

  Twice before—in 1927 and 1932—the Soviet Union had proposed total world disarmament of this kind, but on both occasions the rest of the world had recognized the proposal for what it was—a one-sided attempt to get every other nation to cast its armaments aside… while Russia refused adequate supervision to demonstrate that they were doing the same.

  Khrushchev concluded his seventy-two minute speech by condemning the assembly for not allowing Mao Tse-tung’s Red China to join the United Nations. Nationalist China on Formosa, he told them, was all but dead, “a rotting corpse that should be carried out.” Delegates shifted uncomfortably in their seats, disgruntled murmurs rising among them.

  After the media reported the speech, the mood of the general public—who previously had been guardedly polite toward the Russian leader in Washington and New York—began to shift ominously; and by Chicago, crowds had become downright hostile, as Khrushchev continued his lecturing on the evils of capitalism and of eminent Soviet domination.