Bombshell

by Allan, Barbara

  “I don’t know….”

  “I do. Hell, May—I don’t have any real proof…. Just a few Russian words and a… a feeling.”

  “Your fleeting ‘feelings’ are worth more than most people’s well-considered thoughts,” May said, sincerely if placatingly.

  But Marilyn was not mollified. She looked helplessly over the back of the couch at her secretary. “What if no one believes me?” she asked.

  “Why shouldn’t they, dear?”

  How could Marilyn explain to this refined, intelligent woman, who could be as naive as she was wise? How could May understand this the way Marilyn did? That you could tell your foster mother how the father of the house was molesting you, and be ignored? Or even vilified?

  Then came a sharp gunshot of a knock.

  Marilyn jumped up from the sofa and dashed toward the bungalow door; but a spiked heel caught in the hem of her robe, and just as Marilyn opened the door the robe fell from her shoulders, puddling at her feet, leaving her naked as September Morn.

  The rangy, hazel-eyed man standing on the bungalow stoop wore a dark suit, blue shirt, gray tie, and stunned expression.

  Marilyn herself was mortified—she’d suddenly realized her perfectly manicured and polished nails were now ragged and chipped. She hoped Harrigan—was it Jack, or Frank?—wouldn’t notice.

  May, coming to her employer’s rescue, retrieved the robe and snugged it up and over Marilyn’s shoulders.

  Marilyn had a sensitivity that often allowed her to read people unerringly; but she did not understand the odd look of relief in Harrigan’s eyes when May appeared, to return the robe to her. The actress had no self-consciousness about her body, and was particularly proud of it at the moment, because she had lost just enough weight to get the chubbiness off her belly and return the sleekness to her legs while still retaining the bustiness she was famous for (few knew that, when her weight was down, her bosom was a rather average B-cup affair).

  Marilyn, tying the robe’s belt in a secure knot, beamed at him. “I’m so glad to see you, Agent Harrigan. Please come in… what’s your first name again? I’m afraid I’ve forgotten.”

  Like May had earlier, the man seemed to frown and smile at the same time; he said, “It’s, uh… Jack, Miss Monroe. Or do you prefer Mrs. Miller?”

  “Marilyn’s fine. Jack, come in… make yourself at home. This is my secretary—May. I’d trust her with my life. You can speak freely in front of her….”

  May—who had already returned to her desk—smiled and nodded at the agent.

  Marilyn, her back to May, whispered to Harrigan, “Except for… you know.”

  His eyes flared, then narrowed, and he nodded. “Of course,” he whispered.

  She took the agent by the arm and led him to the white couch by the stone fireplace, saying, “You spoke to Mr. Skouras… Spyros. He sent you.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he tell you anything?”

  “No… just that you had something important to report, about the premier. Concerning his safety?”

  Marilyn felt a wave a relief. Agent Harrigan… Jack… was taking her seriously. The State Department was listening to her… something could be done, something would be done….

  “I was afraid maybe you were no longer in charge of Mr. Khrushchev’s security,” she said. “I didn’t see you at the luncheon.”

  He smiled a little. “Oh, I was there. Sort of on the fringes… running around like a crazy man.”

  She shrugged. “It’s like Hollywood. All the really important people are behind the cameras and lights.”

  “I guess that’s right, Miss Monroe.”

  “Marilyn.”

  “Maybe we should make it ‘Miss Monroe.’”

  “Marilyn… you’re mad at me.”

  “I am? I mean, no, of course not. Why would I be mad?”

  “Because I forgot your name. It’s just… you look more like a Frank to me than a Jack. I won’t forget again… I promise.”

  He swallowed. “Miss Monroe… Marilyn… I don’t mean to be rude, but I have a lot on my plate.”

  “Oh! Did I interrupt your lunch?”

  “No, I just…”

  “How thoughtless of me! You couldn’t have lunch until after the festivities… and now I’ve—”

  “No. I just meant, I’m very busy. Looking after the premier’s security and such. Much as I’d like to socialize…”

  The relief faded. “This isn’t a social call, Jack. Agent Harrigan. This is serious. Very, very serious.”

  “I apologize, Miss Monroe. What is this about?”

  She took a long, hard look at him. His hair could use some Brylcreem, she thought, and his face could stand a shave—that five o’clock shadow made his cheeks look dirty, and the pouchy darkness under his eyes said he’d suffered a lack of sleep. Poor baby.

  And this was her leading man? The hero who would ride in to save the world from destruction? He might look a little like Bob Mitchum, but she would have preferred the real, fake thing.

  “You look like hell,” Marilyn blurted.

  His eyebrows climbed. “Thanks a bunch.”

  She placed a hand on his knee, which twitched at her touch. “No—you’re a beautiful man. I only meant that it’s obvious your job’s been a terrible strain.”

  He chuckled, leaned back on the couch, admitting, “It has been one hell of a bad day.”

  “Well,” she said, leaning in close enough to kiss him (but didn’t), “it’s going to get a lot worse….”

  “It is?”

  She nodded. “It is if somebody doesn’t do something about… something.”

  His brown tightened. “Do you think you could be just a little more specific, Miss Monroe?”

  “Marilyn.”

  “Marilyn.”

  She nodded gravely. “I have to whisper.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes—one time I was with Sukarno… the President of Indonesia?”

  “Really.”

  “Yes, and somebody in the government monitored our conversation. So I can’t take any chances.”

  “Oh. Well, of course. I understand.”

  She looked around, even though she knew it was silly—what, did she expect to see one of those KGB guards peeking out from around a potted plant?

  Sotto voce she said, “Unless you stop it, Jack… Mr. K is going to be killed tonight.”

  He frowned, as if hard of hearing. “Mr. who?”

  Silently she mouthed the name, Khrushchev.

  “Oh.” And right out loud, he said, “Khrushchev.”

  She glared at him and slapped his arm, as if he’d said a bad word. Wasn’t he at all concerned about bugging?

  Harrigan ignored the slap and asked her, “What makes you think that?”

  Marilyn sighed and returned to her normal voice; if the State Department wasn’t taking any precautions, why should she? “Because… I overheard them plotting.”

  “Overheard who?”

  “The ones doing it. Plotting it. The conspirators. His own people!”

  “Oh, really.”

  Marilyn shifted on the couch, suddenly feeling insecure—she might have been back at Hollywood High, in class… underprepared.

  She tried to start over, and stay calm, and be clear. “I was in the men’s bathroom, at the commissary, when—”

  “Excuse me?”

  She blinked at him. “Excuse you for what?”

  “You were where?”

  “In the commissary.”

  “No… before that.”

  She shrugged. “Well, before that I was here… getting ready. Why?”

  He put a hand on his forehead, as if trying to take his own temperature. “No… I meant, what did you say before you said…” He swallowed; he sighed. Maybe he had been trying to take his temperature, Marilyn thought; he looked like he didn’t feel so good, at that.

  “Never mind,” he said. “Marilyn, could you just start over… from the beginning?”

/>   Marilyn took a deep breath. “Well, my masseur, Robert, came around at eight-thirty… a.m. He must have worked on me until about—”

  “Not that beginning. The other beginning.”

  “Oh! Oh. Well. Like I said, I was in the men’s bathroom…”

  “There! That beginning! What were you doing in the men’s bathroom?”

  “Oh. I go in there, sometimes.”

  Again Harrigan’s eyebrows shot up—Groucho Marx minus the punchlines, mustache, and cigar.

  “Just some times,” Marilyn quickly went on. “You know… by mistake. Or sort of by mistake, but sort of on purpose.”

  Harrigan looked like he was just realizing someone had slipped him a mickey.

  She hurried on to explain. “My analyst in New York… Dr. Kris?… says I do that, sometimes, because I have a Penis Envy Complex.” Marilyn shook her head. “But I don’t agree! What would I do with a penis?”

  Harrigan just looked at her.

  “I mean, do I look like I would know what to do with a penis?”

  The agent’s head lowered; he seemed to be staring at his lap.

  Marilyn leaned toward him. “Do you need an aspirin, or maybe a Tums?… Or anything else, really. If you need some kind of pill, believe me, I can get you one.” The State Department must have really been overworking this poor man.

  “No,” he said, “I’m fine… really,” then, “let’s pick this up again…. You were in the men’s room in the commissary… now what was it that you overheard?”

  In a businesslike manner, she said, “I heard two of Mr. K’s men talking—the uniformed ones. What is it, KGB?”

  “KGB, yes.”

  “Anyway, one had really bad skin, and the other had thick glasses. Coke bottles.”

  Harrigan was nodding. “Titov and Yepishev.”

  She breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh, you know who I mean!”

  “Of course,” he said, nodding again. “They’re two of Khrushchev’s top guards.” His eyes narrowed, his voice deepened, as he said, “Can you tell me, Miss Monroe… Marilyn… what did they say, exactly?”

  Marilyn drew herself up on the couch, and her face was as expressionless as a bisque baby’s as she recited dramatically, “‘Sivodnya vyechiram,’ one said. ‘Dva chisa,’ the other said. And the first one said, ‘Da svidaniay, Khrushchev.’”

  Harrigan seemed shocked, but not by the content of what she’d said… rather by her ability to say it at all. “You speak Russian? You understand the language?”

  “Some,” she said, and quickly explained about her Russian drama coach.

  “Well, I don’t speak it and I don’t understand it,” he said. “Can you translate for me?”

  Again Marilyn reported what she’d heard by playing the scene with all its melodrama: “The words mean: ‘Tonight.’… ‘Two o’clock.’… ‘Goodbye, Khrushchev.’”

  It was a moment before Harrigan, eyes wide, face blank, asked, “That… that’s it?”

  Marilyn nodded somberly.

  “And from this you think there’s a plot to assassinate Nikita Khrushchev?”

  Again she nodded.

  Harrigan’s next reaction alarmed Marilyn: he broke into a grin, and chuckled softly.

  “Don’t laugh at me,” she snapped.

  “Oh, oh… I’m not.” And he forced his smile from his face, and the chuckling ceased.

  Hurt, angry, she touched the terrycloth over her heart. “I’m just trying to prevent World War III!”

  He covered his mouth with a hand, and, a few seconds later, removed it; any lingering amusement had left the agent’s face. “I apologize,” he said.

  “If you’re writing me off as just some… some dumb blonde,” she said, “you’re making a big mistake… a mistake a lot of Americans will have to pay for.”

  “Miss Monroe, please settle down….”

  With a frustrated squeal, she jumped up from the couch and, lips trembling, spread her hands, palms up, fingers apart, like she was trying to grab onto something. “It was the way they said it—those two men spoke with such contempt… even hatred!”

  Harrigan rose and faced her.

  His smile was slight, not mocking, rather serious and conciliatory. “Miss Monroe… Marilyn. I’m not laughing at you… truly. Please understand—it’s just that I’m relieved that there’s nothing more to your story.”

  “Nothing more… ?” she repeated. She looked at him with wide eyes, as if trying desperately to bring this man into some kind of focus.

  The agent took one of her hands in his. “Look,” he said gently, “this Russian visit has got all of us jumpy. Right now I’ve got several real, credible threats on the premier’s life that we’re investigating… bomb threats, that kind of thing. Believe me, what you overheard was nothing.”

  Marilyn pulled her hand from his grasp. She turned to look at her secretary, who had been quietly listening at the desk.

  “May,” the actress said tensely, “he’s not going to do anything.”

  The secretary got up from the desk and approached the agent.

  “Mr. Harrigan,” May said, coming to her employer’s defense, “I’ve been with Marilyn a good number of years… and I’ve learned one thing: her instincts are seldom wrong.”

  Harrigan put both hands in the air, surrendering. “Please! If you both will just take a deep breath, I’ll explain to you why I’m not concerned….”

  He gestured for the women to sit. Marilyn returned to her previous spot on the couch, while May perched on the armrest. Harrigan remained standing.

  “First of all,” he told them, “the two men Marilyn overheard are trusted KGB agents—Okhrana—special guards sworn to protect the premier, hand-picked by Khrushchev himself.” He paused, then continued. “And second… and critically… there’s a regular changing of Khrushchev’s personal bodyguards at two o’clock in the morning.”

  Harrigan shifted his gaze to Marilyn. “That’s what the exchange you heard meant. ‘Two o’clock. Goodbye, Khrushchev.’” The agent spread his arms wide, like Al Jolson singing “Mammy.” “Now… do you see? Perfectly innocent.”

  May was nodding; she seemed to accept Harrigan’s explanation. But Marilyn could not.

  “I don’t care if those men are okra—or whatever you call them,” Marilyn said firmly. “I didn’t just hear what they said—I heard how they said it. And Agent Harrigan… they intend to kill Mr. K tonight.”

  Harrigan sat next to the actress. “Okay,” he conceded, nodding, “let’s assume you’re right. Let’s say there’s a conspiracy among several of the premier’s key, most trusted guards, to assassinate him… political assassination is a way of life in Russia, after all.”

  “Thank you,” Marilyn said.

  Harrigan went on: “Then why wait until Los Angeles to do it? They could have just as easily assassinated Chairman Khrushchev in Washington, or New York.”

  “But they didn’t,” Marilyn said, unconvinced. “They waited—knowing you would think exactly what you’re thinking, that you’d let your guard down. By waiting until the end of the trip, they have their best opportunity… because you and your men are all worn out.”

  The agent seemed almost startled by this analysis. And her words clearly had struck a chord, because the agent gave her a sharp, respectful look.

  “If you don’t mind hearing a dumb blonde’s opinion,” she added.

  Harrigan nodded and smiled a little. “Very well reasoned,” he said, genuinely impressed.

  “Thanks.”

  Then he sighed and again got to his feet and looked down at her with a wry yet peace-making grin. “What if I promise you that I’ll be on hand… personally present… at the changing of Khrushchev’s guards, at two a.m. tonight?”

  Marilyn gazed up at him. “Would you do that for me?”

  “I’d do it for any concerned citizen,” he said, “reporting suspicious activity of such a vital nature… and I hope that will put your fears of an assassination attempt to rest.” />
  Marilyn rose and extended her hand, which Harrigan took, in a gesture that was half-handshake, half something else. “Thank you, Jack,” she whispered.

  May patted Marilyn’s arm. “There now, dear—don’t you feel better?”

  Marilyn nodded.

  But after the State Department agent had gone, and May had disappeared into the bungalow’s kitchenette to fix them a salad for supper, Marilyn remained on the couch, fretting.

  Would Jack Harrigan be able to rouse himself in the wee hours of the morning, exhausted as he seemed? Or would he sleep right through the execution of the conspirators’ plot?

  Marilyn believed he’d been sincere; his promise to supervise the changing of the guards had seemed more than just giving her the bum’s rush… but Harrigan was a harried man, getting hit from all fronts and on every side. So she couldn’t take that chance. She had to do something, and fast.

  Marilyn Monroe believed, however, that one should always make haste slowly….

  So it took her a few hours to devise her own scenario… one that did not include a leading man, unless you counted Nikita Khrushchev himself.

  Chapter Eight

  THE HUNGARIAN AMBASSADOR

  ON WILSHIRE BOULEVARD, between Seventh and Eighth Streets—set back on an expansive, immaculately manicured lawn, as if a palace had dropped from the sky into the midst of so unlikely a place as Hollywood, California—the Ambassador had been a mainstay in downtown Los Angeles ever since its grand opening on New Year’s Day in 1921.

  The construction and decoration of the stately hotel had racked up the then-outrageous cost of five million dollars. Built on twenty-three acres of former dairy land, the H-shaped structure (“H” for hotel) boasted 1,200 rooms and suites; on the first floor, a guest could stand on the grand ballroom’s stage and gaze all the way through the elaborate fern-adorned lobby and into the immense dining room at the other end.

  Anybody who was anybody stayed at the Ambassador—from movie stars to captains of industry, from statesmen to sports figures—but they came not merely for the prestige of the place, or even the elegant rooms and five-star service. Rather, the elite lodged here because of an added attraction that offset the otherwise somewhat stodgy air of the hotel: the renowned Coconut Grove nightclub.