Bombshell

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.

Originally ensconced on the Ambassador’s lower level, the club had become so popular — after only four months! — that the management was sent scurrying to relocate the nightspot in the hotel’s grand ballroom, renovating it in keeping with the original’s tropical decor. Coconut palms (left over from the set of Valentino’s The Sheik) rose to a twinkling, azure sky, high above rococo Moorish furnishings in Deco-ish red, gold, and black. Simple cane chairs accommodated the ever-changing procession of famous backs and backsides, while a mural of island mountains and waterfalls added to the aura of a movie-set Pacific paradise.

No desert under a real starry purple sky could boast an oasis more dazzling, nor decadent. In the 1920s, Joan Crawford had won Charleston contests here, and John Barrymore brought his pet monkey to swing from the trees. In the 1930s Rudy Vallee headlined, Jean Harlow frolicked, and volatile lovers Lupe Velez and Johnny Weissmuller slugged it out; and until ’36, the prestigious place even hosted the Academy Awards. Throughout the 1940s — even after the war when nightclubbing waned — the Ambassador thrived, and remained Hollywood’s acknowledged “Playground of the Stars.”

As the 1950s wound down, however, the Ambassador Hotel and its famed Coconut Grove were beginning to lose their luster… If the grand old lady of Los Angeles wanted to continue to attract the ever-fickle Hollywood set, she would need a facelift at least as good as those of the older stars who still frequented the place. So in 1957 a $750,000 renovation toned down the palm-flung, Moorish ambience, a modernization appropriate to the likes of Jayne Mansfield, Jack Lemmon, Sophia Loren, and other modern stars.

In the fall of 1959 — even as Los Angeles pushed itself west toward the ocean, threatening to leave the Ambassador straggling behind — the hotel remained the choice of many of the elite of show business and beyond.

It was not, however, the hotel that Jack Harrigan had chosen to house Nikita Khrushchev and crew — although the press had been told the premier was staying there, to throw the bloodhounds off the scent. Keeping tabs on the Russians at the Ambassador, along with all the other guests at the sprawling facility — not to mention the nightclub patrons — would have been a logistical nightmare… especially with the relatively small security team Harrigan had at his disposal.

Which was why the Soviet guests were staying at the more secluded Beverly Hills Hotel, where the main building was smaller than the Ambassador’s, and the landscaped grounds more friendly to Harrigan’s prowling security force.

But the dinner tonight would be held at the Ambassador, a fact that Harrigan deplored; this aspect of the dictator’s itinerary had not been his call.

After the State Department man had left Marilyn Monroe’s bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel, he’d returned to his own room, just down the hall from the Presidential Suite where the premier was billeted; the fat little man should be resting, at the moment, after a hard day of stirring the local shit. Khrushchev’s family was in a separate suite, away from the snorting snoring of their paterfamilias. The agent took a quick shower, and changed into another wrinkled suit — straight from his suitcase, there’d been no time to send the threads out for a pressing — and within minutes was striding through the Beverly Hills Hotel’s lavish lobby and out into the parking lot.

Soon Harrigan was driving along Sunset Boulevard in a government sedan, the California sun just beginning to set, casting soothing unreal shadows on the shabby reality of Hollywood. Traffic was on the slow side, giving Harrigan time to reflect on his meeting with the movie star.

He knew, from his first encounter with the woman, that Marilyn Monroe was no dummy — she had her scatterbrained side, yes, but that brain often scattered itself in most impressive and surprising ways. And certainly she had appeared sincere in her concern for the premier’s safety, and afraid of the ramifications his assassination might bring — she’d had tears in her eyes, for Christ’s sake!

But then, she was an actress, and like all of her ilk, prone to the over-dramatic.

One thing was for sure, though: her story, her concern, was no publicity stunt. After all, the woman had been cleared to sit in the balcony next to Khrushchev during the floor show at Fox Studios, and by her not being there, Marilyn had given up extraordinary media coverage, the kind any actress, or actor, would just about kill for.

Still, it seemed obvious to Harrigan that Marilyn Monroe was not exactly dealing with a full deck — not that he felt any guilt for taking advantage of her back in New York… she had manipulated him, hadn’t she? Any shame he felt was for the unprofessionalism of it. Not that he had minded her answering the door naked today — even now his trousers were tented with the memory.

By her own casual admission, the actress was under psychiatric care, and she’d even offered to play pharmacist for Harrigan. Not that any of this was news to the State Department man: extensive FBI files had been made available to him on everyone coming into direct contact with Khrushchev, including Marilyn, whose file mentioned the movie star’s daily trips to a shrink… and her heavy use of (and even possible addiction to) barbiturates and alcohol, which would naturally distort her perception…

The lovely actress had been correct about one thing, however, which had made the back of Harrigan’s neck tingle; in fact, the skin back there was tingling right now, as he tooled along Sunset. The agents guarding Khrushchev — besides being far too few — were burned-out cases about now, weary, bleary, not at the top of their game… himself included. Even if his boss Bill Larsen could arrange for more men tonight, they would be arriving pretty much after the fact: Khrushchev and his entourage were flying out of Los Angeles in the morning.

So.

Harrigan and his people only needed to make it through one more night…

On the third floor, just outside the banquet room doors, Harrigan found Sam Krueger, gazing in on where the civic dinner honoring Khrushchev was to be held in just a few short hours.

The round-faced, sandy-haired FBI man waved him over. “The hotel has been combed,” he reported. “Looks like we won’t be bothering the bomb squad. As we suspected.”

“Good.”

Krueger nodded to the nearby bank of elevators. “Only the one on the far right stops here,” he told Harrigan. “We have our own men acting as elevator operators on all three. And the other two cars will bypass this floor…”

Nothing of this was a surprise to Harrigan, who said, “Fine.”

“…and we have men positioned on the stairs to check everyone coming up.” Krueger gestured to the two wide carpeted staircases on either side of the elevators.

“Okay.”

“Wish we could have talked the hotel into closing down the Coconut Grove tonight. Those extra people make security all the tougher.”

“Yeah.”

Krueger grinned at him. “You’re a card, today, aren’t you? Are the rumors true, you dropped by Marilyn Monroe’s bungalow this afternoon?”

“Yes.”

“Well?… Get any?”

“Not this time.”

“Not this time… You are a card.” Krueger nodded toward the banquet doors. “Come on inside.”

Harrigan followed the shorter agent into the dining room where massive chandeliers glimmered like icicles high above linen-covered tables set with gleaming sterling silver and sparkling crystal goblets… and where prominent businessmen and businesswomen of Los Angeles would soon have the honor of supping with the premier of Russia, and hear him speak in his less-than-dulcet tones.

Harrigan wondered what these poor bastards had in store for them tonight — raving, ranting, the pounding of a fist on linen-covered table, most likely. He could hardly wait… for it all to be over.

“There won’t be reporters at any of the tables,” Krueger was saying, gesturing around with a pointing finger. “They’ll be divided along the walls… here and here.” He indicated the right and left of the dais.

“I don’t want them crowding the platform,” Harrigan said.

“They’ll be told not to go beyond the first row of tables… So what did the blonde bombshell want? To hold your service revolver?”

“She thinks somebody’s going to try to kill Khrushchev tonight.”

Krueger’s eyebrows climbed. “Really? Did she show you her Junior G-man badge pinned to her brassiere?”

“I don’t think she wears a bra.”

“You don’t think she… you’re a card, I tell ya.”

A swinging door to the kitchen opened and a man in his late fifties, wearing a black tuxedo, emerged carrying a pitcher of water that was a silver closely matching the color of his hair.

“Headwaiter of the Coconut Grove,” Krueger said. “Of course, you know that, from all the times you and Marilyn have been here.”

“We don’t usually go out,” Harrigan said.

“Just stay at home, huh? Quiet evenings.”

“That’s right.”

“Card.”

Following the headwaiter out through the swinging kitchen doors came a dozen or so other men, all younger, wearing black tuxedo slacks, white shirts, and stiff white aprons. They gathered around the older man, who began instructing them on the proper way to fill water glasses and serve dinner plates.

These were not ordinary bus boys, however, rather FBI men under Krueger’s command, whose eyes would be searching the seated guests for anything suspicious, as they waited on the tables.

Harrigan and Krueger returned to the hallway where other security men had taken their posts by the banquet doors and elevators, in anticipation of the soon-to-begin arriving crowd. A few reporters were already there, including William H. Lawrence from the New York Times — and Harrigan groaned when he saw him.

“Christ, Sam,” Harrigan whispered to Krueger, “who let that son of a bitch in?”

In New York, Lawrence had infuriated Khrushchev at a National Press Club conference, by demanding an explanation of the premier’s earlier statement, “We shall bury you.” It was safe to assume the reporter wouldn’t make life any easier on Khrushchev tonight — or Harrigan and his men.

“I did.” Krueger shrugged. “He had a press badge.”

“Is that all it takes to get in here?”

Lawrence was by the elevators, bending over a squat ashtray stand, extinguishing a cigarette, when Harrigan approached him.

“Lawrence,” Harrigan said.

Lawrence looked up, smiled unpleasantly, as he stubbed out the smoke. “Agent Harrison.”

“Harrigan. Get your facts straight.”

The reporter straightened. “I always do.”

“I hope you plan to behave yourself tonight.”

Lawrence gave him a mock-innocent smile. “Who, little old me?”

“Yeah. Little old you.” Harrigan thumped the man’s chest with a finger. “You cause any trouble tonight, I’m going to throw your ass out of here, personally.”

Lawrence’s expression turned lip-curl defiant. “Hey, pal, ever hear of freedom of the press? I can ask that commie bastard whatever I damn well please.”

“Of course you can.” Harrigan latched onto the reporter’s lapels and shoved him against the wall and went nose to nose. “ ’Course, you know what they say — freedom isn’t free.”

“Hey!” Lawrence bleated, wide-eyed. “You can’t do that!”

Harrigan let loose of the man and stepped away. “I must be imagining things, then — ’cause I thought I just did.”

Krueger’s hand settled on Harrigan’s shoulder. “Jack,” the FBI agent whispered, “take it easy.”

Lawrence was smoothing out his suit coat, trying to regain his dignity, sputtering, “Somebody’s gonna hear about this! You don’t fuck with the press.”

“After foreplay I do,” Harrigan grinned and stepped forward, and the reporter jumped back and scurried off toward the banquet room doors.

Krueger was looking at Harrigan, who said, “What?”

“He might file a complaint.”

Harrigan shrugged. “His word against ours, buddy.”

“Suddenly you’re too much of a card.”

“S.O.B.’ll think twice before causing trouble tonight.”

“Maybe. Or maybe you’ve goaded him into bein’ a bigger bastard than he was planning on.”

Harrigan sighed. “Yeah. Well.”

Krueger patted Harrigan’s shoulder. “Jack, why don’t you go cool off somewhere? I got this covered.”

Harrigan grunted a laugh and gave Krueger a rueful grin. “Sorry, Sam. That guy gets under my skin.”

“Which seems to be pretty thin, right now.”

“Maybe so,” Harrigan admitted.

“A guy with Marilyn Monroe in his pocket oughta be in a better mood.”

“I suppose so…” He checked his watch. “…I guess I’ll go on down to the service entrance… K should be arriving soon. You seem to have everything under control up here.”

“I did till you showed.” Krueger smirked. “Go!” He gestured to the small walkie-talkie attached to his belt. “I’ll call, if I need you to shake somebody down or something.”

“Okay.”

Taking one of the curving staircases next to the elevators, Harrigan trotted down to the second floor. As he neared the bottom, a beefy FBI agent with a blond crew cut was in the middle of his own argument with a journalist.

Harrigan knew the reporter, John Davis from Newsweek, a guy about as mild-mannered as Clark Kent but with absolutely no possibility of turning into a man of steel; Davis was also one of the few in the press who’d been giving Khrushchev a fair shake.

The slight Newsweek reporter spotted Harrigan. “Hey! He knows me. Ask him!”

“What’s this about?” Harrigan asked the brawny FBI agent.

“Guy doesn’t have a badge,” the agent said, frowning, jerking a thumb at Davis. “And he’s trying to talk his way in. I’ve told him ten times that’s not a possibility.”

The reporter spread both hands, palms out. “And I’ve told him ten times I must have lost the darn thing.” He looked pleadingly at Harrigan. “You’ve cleared me before… John Davis, Newsweek… remember? You’re agent Hannigan, right?”

“Harrigan. Yes, I remember.” To the FBI agent he said, “This one’s okay. Pass him through.”

But the agent shook his head. “Sorry, sir. No badge, no entrance — those are my orders.”

Normally, Harrigan would have agreed. But his recent altercation with Lawrence had left a sour taste in his mouth; he didn’t need any more bad press with the press.

“I’m the one who sent down those orders,” Harrigan told the agent. “Let him in. I’ll call Sam Krueger by walkie and Sam’ll meet him upstairs, and clear him.”

The FBI agent raised his eyebrows at this breech, but reluctantly stepped aside.

“Thanks,” Davis said to Harrigan, “I owe you one…”

“Then do me a favor,” Harrigan responded. “Take it easy on Khrushchev with the questions, will you?”

“Haven’t I always?” Davis replied, and hurried up the stairs.

Harrigan stepped away from the beefy FBI agent and got Krueger on the walkie-talkie, informing him of the Newsweek reporter coming up the stairs.

“And spread the word we may have an interloper,” Harrigan said.

“What?” Krueger’s voice crackled back. “What do you mean?”

“We may have an extra badge floating around.”

The first segment of the evening, the dinner, went smoothly, and for that, Harrigan was grateful and relieved. The three hundred or so businessmen and businesswomen of Los Angeles — much more conservatively dressed than their Hollywood counterparts — behaved respectfully toward the premier of Russia, giving him an enthusiastic round of applause when he suddenly appeared from an entrance behind the dais. The clapping continued until the beaming Khrushchev took his seat at the long banquet table.

The atmosphere of the room, while certainly not festive, did seem upbeat to Harrigan, even optimistic, as people chatted at their tables while the meal was served, even light laughter occasionally sprinkling itself in.

Absent this evening were Nina Khrushchev and the grown children, who were being shown some of the local sights, an approved, highly controlled list that included Grauman’s Chinese Theater, the Santa Monica Pier, and one of those new outdoor shopping centers.

As Krueger had indicated, two groups of reporters were corralled at the left and right side of the dais — Harrigan noted, among those at left, the notorious William Lawrence of the New York Times, and on the right, Newsweek’s benign John Davis. Not that Harrigan was familiar with every reporter covering the evening’s event; some were new faces… others, members of the foreign press, possibly including a dark-haired, dark-complexioned fellow who seemed to be working hard to jockey his way toward the front of the pack, a camera in hand — though unlike his brethren, he hadn’t bothered snapping any shots yet.

Looking refreshed after his afternoon nap, Khrushchev — seated next to Henry Cabot Lodge — seemed to be enjoying himself. During the meal of garden salad, rare prime rib, and a large baked potato, the premier traded stories (through translator Troyanovsky, seated on Khrushchev’s other side) with the handsome, urbane U.N. ambassador.

As Harrigan made another slow pass in front of the dais, he picked up on Khrushchev saying to Ambassador Lodge, “You know, we had to force the people of Russia to plant potatoes — they were suspicious of them — and now we eat them all the time!”

Lodge leaned toward the premier. “Are they as big as this in Russia?” he asked with a smile, pointing to the huge potato on his plate.

“No,” Khrushchev chuckled. “Where I come from, we call that a Sputnik.”

Lodge’s laughter in response was genuine.

This was going so well that Harrigan was getting nervous.

As FBI waiters were clearing away the dishes, Norris Poulson rose from his chair down at the far end of the dais and approached the podium. Through narrow eyes, the State Department man watched the mayor of Los Angeles as if he were a suspect under surveillance. Harrigan had heard from Sam Krueger that Henry Cabot Lodge — in the lobby of the Ambassador — had given Poulson a dressing-down, over the mayor’s ill-advised, undiplomatic behavior at the airport.

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 flash-bulbs 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 journalists, 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, hitting 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.