Bombshell

by Allan, Barbara

  Poulson was scheduled to give a short introductory speech after the dinner.

  But something in the mayor’s eyes said otherwise.

  Harrigan tensed as Poulson, at the podium, chin high, looked sideways at Khrushchev and patronizingly pronounced, “You shall not bury us, and we shall not bury you. But if challenged, we shall fight to the death to preserve our way of life.”

  Poulson’s delivery was worthy of a high school kid playing Patrick Henry in a Fourth of July pageant… but perhaps a little more pompous, and a bit less skillful.

  Lodge lurched forward in his seat and glared at Poulson, looking like he wanted to strangle His Honor.

  Khrushchev’s previously cheerful face turned purple, and the premier launched from his seat like a rocket. Clutched in the Russian’s hands was the speech he’d intended to deliver after receiving yet another “introduction” from the mayor; but Khrushchev ripped the pages into little pieces and threw them in Poulson’s face.

  The audience gasped, while the reporters grinned and flashbulbs popped and pencils flew on pads; that swarthy unfamiliar journalist was still working to get a better view of the premier.

  Khrushchev pointed a thick finger at Poulson. “Why would you mention that?” he shouted, as his translator quickly gave the English version. “Is it your tradition to invite people to a banquet to insult them? Already in the U.S. press I have clarified this ‘We will bury you’—I only meant that communism will outlive capitalism…. I trust that even minor officials in your country learn to read.”

  There was a smattering of applause from the crowd.

  “In our country,” Khrushchev continued, eyes wide, nostrils flared, his whole body shaking, “chairmen of councils who do not read what is in the papers are at risk of not being re-elected.”

  Now the entire audience clapped its approval.

  Harrigan couldn’t help smiling; the mayor, soon to be up for re-election, had shot himself in the foot… or perhaps higher up.

  “And I promise if your president comes to Russia,” the premier said with acid sweetness, “the mayor of Moscow will not dare to insult him.”

  This invoked a few smiles.

  Poulson’s face turned crimson, and—trembling, obviously as afraid as he was embarrassed—returned to his chair and sat.

  Khrushchev took the podium.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the premier said loudly, Troyanovsky interpreting at his side, “you want to get up on this favorite horse of yours and proceed in the same old direction. Fine—if you want a continuation of the arms race, then, very well, we accept that challenge. And as for the output of our missiles, those are on the assembly line.”

  A hush fell over the room.

  “I am talking seriously because I have come here with serious intentions,” Khrushchev went on, the interpreter struggling to keep up, “and yet you try to reduce the matter to simply a joke. It is a question of war or peace between our countries, a question of life or death of the people.”

  Silence draped the room like a shroud, a silence that the premier shattered by pounding the podium with a fat fist.

  “I have never before in any of my addresses in your country spoken of or mentioned any missiles… but I did so just now, because I had no other way out—because it would seem that we have come here to beg you to eliminate the cold war. Perhaps you think we are afraid. If so, and if you think the cold war is profitable to you, then go ahead. Let us compete in the cold war… but in my country we have a saying: it is much better to live in peace than to live with loaded pistols.”

  The audience broke out in applause to show the Soviet leader some much-needed support. But Khrushchev was not to be pacified by their gesture.

  “The thought sometimes,” he went on angrily, “the unpleasant thought, creeps up on me as to whether I was not invited here to enable you to sort of rub my face in the might and strength of the U.S., so as to make me shake in my shoes….”

  Khrushchev bent and removed one of his brown leather shoes, which he brought up and banged on the table, startling everyone in the room, making those seated on the dais jump, spilling drinks and rattling dishes.

  “If that is so,” the premier growled, “then if it took me about twelve hours to get here, I guess it will take me no more than that to fly home!”

  The banquet hall fell deadly silent again, at the implication of his words.

  “I am going to close,” Khrushchev said, more restrained now. “I believe you have suffered through my speech… and I would apologize for that, but so was I made to suffer. You see, I have such a nature that I do not want to remain in debt… nor do I not want to be misunderstood.”

  Khrushchev was turning away from the podium when William Lawrence called out from the cluster of reporters on the left.

  “Where were you when Stalin was killing innocent people?” the New York Times reporter shouted.

  Instantaneously, the audience reacted. Fearful of antagonizing Khrushchev further, they rushed to their guest’s defense and jumped the journalist, some booing him, others yelling, “Shut up!” and “Leave him alone!”

  Fire returned to Khrushchev’s eyes. “I will not answer such a stupid question!” the premier snapped. “You are a silly, ignorant man….”

  Then, from that same pack as Lawrence, that dark reporter shouted in a thick Middle European accent, “What about the people you murdered in Hungary?”

  On the right side of the dais with the other journalist, Harrigan—who had stayed aware of the reporter as he’d kept inching forward—wondered who this fellow was, this reporter with no pad or pencil for notes, and a camera that, so far, had not taken any pictures.

  Hadn’t he seen this man before… ?

  But where?

  From his position across the room, Harrigan could not read the man’s badge… and a chill went through him as he wondered if that might be a badge lifted from John Davis….

  Harrigan moved through the throng of reporters that had closed in around the front of the dais, squeezing by Davis, whose own makeshift badge was pinned to his shirt.

  “Well, you see,” Khrushchev responded from the podium, “the question of Hungary sticks in some people’s throats like a dead rat.”

  Harrigan ducked behind the dais, picking up his pace.

  Khrushchev was saying, “He feels that it is unpleasant, and yet he cannot pull the dead rat out…. We, for our part, could think of quite a few dead rats we could throw at you!”

  Harrigan reappeared on the other side of the dais, now able to see the questioning reporter’s badge…

  … John Davis, Newsweek!

  The swarthy “reporter” was fumbling with his camera, trying to open its back, saying defiantly, “No, no—it is you who are the dead rat.”

  There was no time to raise Krueger on the walkie-talkie, or even signal him; the FBI agent was at the back of the room, stationed by the banquet doors.

  So Harrigan rushed the dark-haired man, coming between him and Khrushchev.

  “That’s enough of you,” Harrigan said, grabbing onto the camera—which the man would not let go of—while forcibly pushing him back. Harrigan kept shoving, the two doing an awkward little dance, until the agent bodily forced them both through the swinging kitchen doors.

  The “reporter” was slender but strong, and he would not let go of that camera, even after Harrigan slammed a forearm into the man’s chest, sending him to the hard kitchen floor. As the kitchen staff reacted by rushing the hell out of there, Harrigan jumped on the son of a bitch, whose eyes were wild, body thrashing… but that camera still locked in his hands.

  They were still scuffling over the camera, Harrigan on top of the man, when Sam Krueger burst into the kitchen.

  “Jesus Christ, Jack!” Krueger blurted. “How many times I gotta tell ya—you can’t treat the press that way!”

  With a final yank, Harrigan wrenched the camera out of the man’s fingers, but with such momentum that the thing flew out of his own hands, hittin
g the floor with a crack, spilling its deadly contents: a small black revolver. The gun skittered across the linoleum, spinning to a stop under a utility cart laden with dirty dishes.

  Harrigan figured the assassin would dive for the weapon, but instead the man scrambled to that cart and shoved it, sending it careening toward the agent, who dove out of the way, leaving the cart to narrowly miss a startled Krueger, and slam into a wall, sending dishes flying and crashing and cracking. In the meantime, the would-be assailant took advantage of the upheaval to make a dash for a door at the rear of the kitchen.

  Yanking the .38 from its holster under his shoulder, Harrigan took pursuit, as Krueger yelled behind him, “I’ll take the service elevator!”

  Shouldering through the door, revolver clutched in both hands, thrust forward, poised to shoot, Harrigan found himself on the landing of a stairwell; above him the stairs led to little landings where the doors were locked—these stairs were for room service pick-up and delivery, the agent knew, accessible only by a kitchen-staff keys.

  Of course maybe the would-be assailant had pilfered one of those, too.

  Shoes above him echoed like gunshots off the metal steps, and Harrigan peered up, gun poised as he leaned out the stairwell; he could see above him the would-be assassin’s hand on the railing.

  If the guy didn’t have a key, they had him: Harrigan raced up the stairs, knowing that any moment Sam would come barreling down, squeezing their man between them.

  Then he heard Krueger’s voice: “Stop! Freeze! Hands up!”

  But Harrigan kept running anyway, in case the guy came back down…

  … which he did, but not in the way Harrigan expected.

  The would-be assassin came flying past him, down the stairwell, like an Olympic diver heading for the water, filling the space between the railings, and Harrigan barely saw him, catching just a flash of the whites of wide eyes in the dark, tortured face.

  The man was screaming something, and at first Harrigan thought it was just a cry of terror: “EEEEeeee…”

  But it turned into something else, a word… a name?

  Eva?

  Then came a dull thud below, punctuated by the twig-like snapping of bones.

  Harrigan looked down at the twisted form, then glanced up at Krueger, leaning over the railing several floors above, arms spread wide (revolver in one hand), as if to say, Hey, I didn’t touch him.

  By the time Krueger joined him, Harrigan was bending over the limp body of the young man, searching for a pulse he knew wouldn’t be there. The poor bastard had landed on the side of his head and half of his face was smashed in, one shoulder crunched under him unnaturally.

  “The guy just fucking jumped,” Krueger said, out of breath.

  Harrigan checked for I.D. and—other than the pilfered press badge—found nothing. He stood.

  Holstering his revolver, Krueger asked, “Who the hell is he?”

  “Well,” Harrigan said, putting his own weapon away, “he sure as hell’s not from Newsweek.”

  “Shit—Davis’s badge…. I screwed the pooch on this one, Jack.”

  “No. We stopped him, Sam—that’s all that counts. Anyway, I had my chance earlier and blew it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I saw him at the airport this morning, when he was heckling Khrushchev…. That’s no doubt where he lifted the badge….”

  Krueger stared down at the twisted body. “I wonder what ol’ Nikita did to piss him off.”

  “I think we’re looking at a serving of Hungarian goulash,” Harrigan said dryly, nodding at the corpse. “We have to keep a lid on this, Sam—full lockdown.”

  “The kitchen’s already sealed off,” Krueger said, patting his walkie-talkie. He looked up the stairwell. “All those doors, too.”

  “Well, aren’t you right on top of things tonight?”

  “Don’t rub it in. Jack….”

  Harrigan frowned, taking in the FBI man’s quizzical expression. “What, Sam?”

  Krueger shook his head. “You know what those goddamn Russians did in Hungary—those kids they mowed down. You know this pitiful slob was just trying to strike back, most likely.”

  “Yeah. Your point being?”

  “My point being—how in the hell can you stand it?”

  “Stand what?”

  Krueger made a distasteful face. “Putting your life on the line for that commie prick…. It’s not like when you were Secret Service, guarding Ike….”

  Harrigan shrugged. “Khrushchev’s just a guy I’m sworn to protect. I leave it to the world to decide if he’s good or evil… or something in between.”

  Krueger sighed, then gestured to the body. “We’ll get him out of here—without the press knowing. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

  “That’s what I want,” Harrigan said, smiled, and patted the agent on the back.

  “Anything for you, buddy,” Krueger said. “You and ol’ Nikita.”

  “Now who’s the card?” Harrigan asked, and left the FBI man to his corpse.

  Chapter Nine

  RESCUE MISSION

  IN THE PRESIDENTIAL Suite at the Beverly Hills Hotel, Nikita Khrushchev lay on his back in bed like a beached sea beast, arms and legs spread wide, in an X-formation. Darkness enveloped the room and he could not see the ceiling at which he stared. The most powerful man in Russia felt like the most impotent man in America, and he did not like it one bit.

  In the suite next door, his wife Nina and their older daughter Julia (Rada and her husband Alexei had their own room), would be slumbering soundly, not a care in the world, visions of capitalist sightseeing dancing in their untroubled minds. Nina had not shared a bed with her husband for some years, because (she said) of his thrashing about, when he couldn’t sleep, and his night-rending snoring, when he could. Tonight was one of the “couldn’t” ones; though it was well after midnight, and he was thoroughly exhausted—both mentally and physically—Nikita had not yet even tried to court slumber. His mind danced furiously, racing from one outrage to another, from assaults by the press to poor security from the American government, the premier incensed over the generally boorish, disrespectful treatment he had received during his short stay in Los Angeles, especially from that vyesh brakovanaya mayor, Poulson.

  Beyond that, the premier was disheartened, feeling more depressed than he had in years. The stakes were so high now: these Americans, in their arrogance, could not seem to fathom the reality of potential Armageddon. He had not felt such despondence since World War II, when he was left at the front to fight the overpowering Germans, while Stalin hid under the bed back at his dacha, having his latest nervous breakdown.

  Nikita’s trip to America had not gone at all well. He could not fault himself—hadn’t he been on his best behavior, throughout? He realized his occasional so-called “outbursts” had brought criticism and not just in the American press; but Nikita could not have looked the other way when he was insulted, because to insult him was to insult Russia; it was not a matter of pride, rather the projection of strength.

  But so much, so very much might have been accomplished by a successful visit, affecting positively the future of Soviet Russia, the United States, the very world itself.

  Didn’t the egotistical Americans realize they were playing with atomic fire? That when you got burned in such a game, the result was more than just blisters… or had they forgotten Hiroshima? Maybe so, since it had been the enemy on the receiving end. Well, if the Americans weren’t concerned about disarmament, then so be it! The Russians already had nuclear rockets aimed at every one of the USA’s major cities… and there could easily be more Russian rockets to aim at more American cities….

  Nikita rolled onto his right side, and the bedsprings seemed to cry in agony.

  Rage gave birth to frustration. The problem with this arms race was that all these missiles cost money… money that was necessary for seed to feed the Russian people. And the people needed to be working the farms, not making rockets, or
out fighting wars. When farmers traded wheat fields for battlefields, where were the crops?

  Why, in this modern world, must men still harvest death?

  The Soviet Union was not like the affluent, decadent United States, where waging war turned a profit, benefiting big business; even Eisenhower had warned of the power of the U.S. military industrial complex, had he not?

  But for Russia, another war would only bring starvation and further suffering… and the Russian people had suffered enough! And so, when the Americans challenged him, he blustered and threatened. They might think him a bully or a thug, but what else could he do? He had to show America his… his country’s… might.

  After all, if they ever came to his country, and had a good look around… they would see just how poor Russia really was.

  Nikita rolled onto his back again and the bedsprings whined and he put his hands behind his head, elbows splayed out on the pillow, his eyes searching unsuccessfully for the ceiling. His insomniac’s mind leapt to another indignity, one that seemed especially galling to him.

  Why couldn’t he go to Disneyland?

  The State Department had promised he could! He had made so few specific requests that by denying him, the Americans had served up yet another insult. And he had so been looking forward to it. After his journalist son-in-law had visited America several years ago, Mikhail had enthusiastically described the park’s magnificent “rides” and “attractions,” as the Americans called them.

  But whenever he’d brought up the subject to his hosts, Nikita had been treated like a child denied his fun, when he knew full and well the Americans were protecting the park from prying eyes, treating it like another state secret.

  And they were right: if he could have even the most cursory tour of the site, he could copy the idea for his country. After all, he built the Moscow subway by patterning it upon the New York one; he could certainly make the plans for a similar amusement park.

  Russia’s amusement park would not be named after one man—the California park was named for this “Walt Disney,” in a debauched deification of a capitalist entertainer—and he would resist any effort to have it called Khrushchevland. After the abuses of Stalin, who had changed the name of Leningrad to Stalingrad, Nikita had forbidden anything—city, building, or otherwise—to be named after a politician… even himself… because it might elevate that person to a “cult personality,” a concept that flew in the face of true Lenin doctrine.