Bombshell

Chapter Fifteen Wild Frontier

A rough hand slipped gently over the mouth of the slumbering Marilyn, and an elbow nudged her, waking her from a deep sleep. Groggy and disoriented, for a moment — as on so many mornings, after swallowing too many Nembutals — she at first didn’t remember where she was, sleep having mercifully removed their peril. Then the moon face of Nikita Khrushchev — stern, determined — came into focus.

The premier’s frowning expression was not directed at her. Pointed ears perking like a dog’s, he stared intently at the square hole in the floor where the stairwell led to this upper landing in the rocket’s nose cone.

She stiffened in his arms: had the assassin found them?

Slowly, Nikita removed his hand from her lips, and together they listened. For a long, agonizing minute or more, she heard nothing other than their own shallow breathing. Then it came… faintly, but unmistakably, from below, as if that hole in the floor were speaking to them — the creak of a foot.

Marilyn’s heart was a trip hammer. They were trapped, no way out, cornered without a weapon. Her eyes darted in panic around the small curved-walled enclosure, the dreary insides of a futuristic tomb.

There wasn’t even a plank to pry loose.

Trembling, Marilyn clung to Nikita’s arm. She looked at him and realized that the eyes in the otherwise resolute face glimmered with something that might have been fear. He had said, back in the teacup, that he too was frightened…

What can we do? her eyes asked him, terror mounting.

His eyes, however, turned suddenly hard and black, like the lumps of coal stuck in a snowman’s face. He slipped something in his pants pocket — she didn’t know what, and couldn’t exactly ask — and then he smiled at her, his expression seeming to say, I have idea.

Gently, he withdrew himself from her, then reached along his trousered leg and began to untie one of his heavy, thick-heeled brown shoes.

He whispered in her ear: “Distraction” was all he said. Then he looked significantly toward her bosom, and gave her a small smile and an arched eyebrow; Marilyn understood and smiled a little herself and nodded.

Crawling quietly away from him, like a baby only quieter, she positioned herself directly opposite where the stairs emptied out. Re-staging one of her notorious calendar poses, she leaned against the wall, tucking her legs to one side, bringing an arm up to cradle her head, thrusting her ample bosom out. She looked at Nikita for his verdict.

His head bobbed, but he mimed his fingers along the buttons of his pajama top, and she mouthed, Oh!, and unbuttoned her blouse, exposing most of her bosom in a teasingly provocative way. The moonlight conspired with her, streaming in from the little round window, providing her with a nice soft-focus key light. Too bad a photographer wasn’t around, to show just how sumptuous a pin-up girl Marilyn Monroe could still be in her thirties.

Nikita — moving in remarkable silence for so large a man — positioned himself in the shadows to one side of the staircase opening; he got on his knees with a shoe in his right hand, poised to strike from the darkness.

She shot him a look, as if to say, Well — how is this? And, briefly, as he glimpsed her posing there, he wore a stunned expression she’d seen countless times on many a man.

Which made her think this strategy just might work…

Nikita gave her an approving nod; and Marilyn gave him an encouraging wink, before half-closing her eyes, then breathing deeply, affecting slumber.

Suddenly she was no longer frightened. It was as if a movie camera had started to roll, and the fear that clenched her before she was on set, and working, had vanished. She was doing what she did so well: acting out a scenario, playing a part… She did not allow herself to realize this might well be the most important role of her life.

Marilyn Monroe would be the first thing the killer saw, as he stealthily climbed the last flight of stairs, his head cautiously rising above the opening in the floor, eyes piercing the darkness in search of his victims… then — if she was any judge — those eyes would pop at the sight of the semi-nude Marilyn, her blonde hair shimmering in the moonlight, bedroom eyes seductively closed, sensual lips parted provocatively, white creamy skin inviting a man’s touch, full breasts half exposed under the open plaid shirt…

He wouldn’t stand a chance.

A thought jumped into her mind: unless he was gay!

Long seconds ticked by, as wood below them creaked, the sound of feet on stairs soft, subtle, yet building as the party-crasher drew nearer…

Through her slitted eyes she saw him, an Asian face on a head that sneaked itself up into view, a hand with a gun in it, a bulky thing, nosing up over the edge of the hole in the floor; then dark eyes fastened on her and opened wide, his mouth gaping, too…

…and a shoe flashed out of the darkness and she opened her eyes wide as that brown hammer came around and smacked the intruder in the forehead, hard, and the open mouth yelped in pain and the eyes narrowed with the same thing. Nikita slammed the shoe down again, this time on a mostly out-of-sight gun hand, apparently knocking the weapon from the man’s grasp because she could hear it fall clatteringly down the stairwell to make a distant thunk at the bottom.

Somehow the assassin managed to swivel toward Nikita, in a posture that suggested a martial arts move might be next; but the premier dealt firmly with the matter, Nyet!, whamming the shoe down on top of the man’s head like he was driving a nail, finally dislodging him from the stairs, sending him toppling down a flight, plunging out of her view, whumping to the landing below.

Nikita was moving quickly, nimbly, amazingly so for such a corpulent man, and a wounded one at that; he was already out of sight, heading down to the landing below when she leapt to her feet and rushed to the stairs, and looked down. The assassin was sprawled on the landing, on his back, like an overturned black beetle, groaning in pain, a red welt the shape of a heel rising on his forehead.

Nikita, finishing his two-stairs-at-a-time descent, seemed about to leap on the man, as Marilyn — halfway down the stairs herself now — saw a glint of steel in the killer’s hand, winking at her flirtatiously.

She yelled, “Nikkie! He’s got a knife!”

As Nikita jumped back, again with unusual grace, the assassin sprang to his feet, and smiled at his target, showing him a long, slender blade, threateningly thrust forward in an assured hand.

Afraid for her friend, Marilyn — a bystander on the stairs — wondered desperately what she could do to help… She remembered the assassin’s gun, but it had fallen somewhere below… and she could hardly reach it in time, even if she did get past the two men who faced each other now, like western gunfighters.

Nikita withdrew something from his pocket — Marilyn wondered if this was the object he’d slipped away, before arming himself with a shoe, minutes before.

“I do not want to kill you,” Nikita said conversationally. “Is better for trash like you to live… and talk.”

But the assassin wasn’t talking; maybe he didn’t even understand English.

Then the man did understand, obviously — as did Marilyn — why Nikita was so unafraid: the premier, with a confident flip, threw open the blade of the straight razor, and now its sharp, glistening edge was doing the winking… and nothing flirtatious about it.

The two men with blades circled one another on the landing, waiting for the right moment to attack — the assassin, small but nimble, skilled in hand-to-hand combat and wielding a knife, wore a confident smirk, Nikita’s weapon not seeming to give him any worry… and Nikita — determined, armed himself now, but tired, wounded — made a very big target.

Marilyn refused to play the damsel in distress, hovering helplessly on the periphery… she had to do something!

The actress ran back up the stairs and went to the small round window in the cone of the ship, and — using one of her own shoes — knocked out the glass on the first try. She leaned her head out through the jagged teeth of the broken window and began to scream — big, blood-curdling shrieks that could summon someone, anyone, who might be at the park.

Soon Marilyn was growing hoarse, her voice cracking with each new scream, realizing that she couldn’t keep yelling much longer, when finally a figure below — running down one of the curving pathways — revealed itself.

Then came another figure… and another… racing down the path.

Marilyn cried out again, managing one last shriek, but this one was tinged with joy.

“We’re in here!” she yelled. “Hurry! Hurry!”

And the men — Agent Harrigan, and policemen, Secret Service, and uniformed KGB — streamed toward the spaceship like ants to a picnic.

Marilyn extracted her head from the window and rushed back down the stairs, onto the landing where the two warriors were on the floor now, locked in a deadly embrace, the man in black on top.

The assassin was trying to stab Nikita in the throat, Nikita holding the man’s hand back with one hand, his own blade in the other hand, wrist pinned to the floor by his adversary. They grunted and squirmed and then the killer kneed Nikita in the side, and the pain-wracked premier lost his grip on the razor, which the assassin swept away with a hand releasing itself from Nikita’s wrist, sending the razor skittering into the darkness, even as the blade of the knife drew closer to the premier’s throat. But this allowed Nikita, his hand freed, to deliver a short yet powerful blow, a fist to the chest that sent the assassin reeling back, off of the Russian…

“Stop!” Marilyn shouted, jumping up and down like a child in a tantrum. “It’s over! They’re coming!”

But even with the end drawing near — Marilyn could hear the shouts of men far below — she could see that the assassin would not stop until his grim task was finished.

The two men, both winded — only one of them armed with a blade now — again squared off. Marilyn looked frantically around for that fallen razor and could not find it; at the same time the assassin was putting some distance between himself and the premier, and she felt certain would hurl the knife…

Nikita saw her, threw her a conspiratorial signal by the tightening of his eyes, circling further, maneuvering until the assassin’s back was to her.

Then Marilyn threw herself on the man, covering his eyes with her hands, locking on with her legs, holding on with dear life, praying this would buy Nikita a few precious seconds to bring this monster down.

Though he was small, the assassin was lithely powerful, and with a growl of rage he flung her off, pitching her roughly against the curving wall, where she slid down in a pile, the air knocked out of her.

But Nikita took advantage of this latest Monroe distraction and leapt at the man, knife or no knife, and grabbed him by the throat, and — his face split with a terrible smile Marilyn would never forget — the premier of Russia twisted the would-be assassin’s neck with bear-claw hands until there was an awful, terminal… crack!

The killer — his eyes wide but empty — crumpled to the floor, his body twitching once before going limp, his head at an impossible angle, knife tumbling with a thunk from impotent fingers.

Marilyn, shakily on her feet now, covered her face with both hands and began to sob: the horror, the jeopardy, the emotions, all catching up with her.

Nikita came to her and held her tenderly.

“Is all right, now,” he said softly, stroking her hair. “Is all over… You are very brave woman. Braver than many Russian soldiers. You I owe my life.”

She looked at him through her tears; his eyes were as moist as hers.

“That goes for me, too, Nikkie,” she whispered.

And there on the landing of the moon rocket at Disneyland, in the presence of a common enemy the Russian man and the American woman had worked together to defeat, their lips met in what was not a passionate or lustful kiss, but meant so much more than just friendship.

The pandemonium of an army of men swarming up onto the landing brought their embrace to a close, and Marilyn discreetly buttoned her blouse.

Suddenly Agent Harrigan was at her side. “Miss Monroe, are you all right?”

She nodded weakly.

Khrushchev’s KGB agents had surrounded him, and the men were joyously giving their leader hugs, speaking in Russian, some laughing with relief, the premier beaming, emitting a chuckle or two. One of them found his absent shoe and helped him on with it.

An American agent was leaning over the dead assassin.

Typically, Khrushchev’s mood changed.

“This assassin,” he said gruffly, gesturing to the corpse. “Who is he?”

A tall cadaverous man stepped forward with an answer. “John Munson, Premier Khrushchev,” he said, meaning himself not the corpse. “Central Intelligence… and that’s Lee Wong. We were tracking him in Hong Kong until he dropped out of sight a month ago.”

“Nationalist China send him?”

“We believe this is Chairman Mao’s work, sir… Perhaps we should reserve the debriefing till we’re off-site.”

Marilyn blurted, “See, Nikkie — what did I tell you? Red China!”

Harrigan and Munson exchanged bemused looks — several of the men were turning to each other to mouth, Nikkie? — but Khrushchev only grunted, nodding solemnly.

Harrigan spoke, “Let’s get you and Miss Monroe down off this thing… and get that arm looked at.”

As Marilyn was helped down the flights of stairs by an attentive Harrigan, she heard Khrushchev and Munson chatting like old friends, coming down behind them.

“Maybe,” the premier was saying, “we could help each other.”

“How do you mean, Mr. Khrushchev?” the CIA agent asked.

“We are first in space, yes? But you are first in espionage. Perhaps we could share… information.”

“Go on.”

“I believe we get many secrets from same sources. Why not we combine forces, and cut down bill?”

There was a pause. Then the CIA agent responded with a laugh. “You know, Premier Khrushchev — if you don’t mind my saying, that’s a hell of an idea.”

“Ah, I have been to hell already tonight. Let us call it… heaven of idea.”

“Fine. Fine.”

Everyone had to jump down from that first platform onto the cement “launching pad,” and Harrigan and Nikita were the first to make their landings, after which Marilyn lowered herself into Harrigan’s waiting arms. The State Department agent began issuing orders and four groups of assorted Secret Service agents, KGB guards, and police moved off in various directions.

Then Harrigan approached the actress and the premier, his expression somber.

“I’m going to escort the two of you out of here,” Harrigan said. “The assassin wasn’t working alone, and his back-up could still be on the grounds…”

Marilyn hugged the premier’s good arm. “Is Mr. Khrushchev still in danger?”

Perhaps to calm her, Harrigan lightened his expression; his tone was light, too, as he said, “Just a precaution — frankly with all this activity, he’s probably hightailed it over a fence the heck outta here.”

Harrigan escorted the unlikely couple around one of the curving paths, heading toward the looming castle, on their way toward Main Street. Despite his assurances, Harrigan had his revolver in hand, a fact that neither Marilyn nor Nikita missed. Still, she had a real sense that the crisis had passed. At the east the sky had a faded look, the sun just beginning to make itself known.

“We’ll get you to an emergency room, Premier,” Harrigan said, walking between Nikita and Marilyn.

“I have had my shots,” Nikita grunted.

Harrigan laughed, gently. “Nevertheless… we’ll have that wound tended to.”

Nikita said, “Has been tended to — by Miss Monroe.”

As they walked, the State Department agent glanced at Marilyn, warmly — but a little embarrassment was mixed in. “I hope you know,” he said, “that America… the whole world, in fact… owes you a great debt. Hell, if it hadn’t been for you—”

“Any American would have done the same,” she told him, and meant it.

The path was curving around a pagoda. “If there’s anything,” Harrigan was saying to her, “anything at all I can do, just let me know.”

After that Harrigan encouraged no further conversation as they walked along, and despite his casual demeanor, the agent was obviously on alert, his eyes everywhere, reacting to the smallest sound.

As they were approaching the castle, Marilyn — who had been reflecting on Harrigan’s offer to do “anything at all” — began to speak, intending to broach the subject of Nikita returning to the park in the safe light of day.

But she never got a word out, Harrigan cutting her of rudely with, “Quiet,” as he froze on the pathway, eyes narrowed, the revolver swinging toward thick bushes to the their left.

Marilyn didn’t hear a thing.

But Harrigan obviously had, because he yelled, “Down!”

The agent shoved Marilyn to the asphalt, while Nikita dropped himself like a trap door had opened under him. She looked up, terrified, and standing half-hidden in those bushes was a figure that Marilyn at first thought was the assassin in black, somehow come back to life!

But this was a different man in black, his face Asian but rounder, though the eyes were equally cold and hard and dead.

And in his hand was a weapon — an automatic with an extended snout, probably (she thought) what in the movies they called a “silencer”…

Marilyn took all of this in, in half a second, during which Harrigan dropped to a knee and assumed a firing position with his.38. In the next half second Marilyn realized, with a terrible certainty, that the assassin and Harrigan had each other in their sights, that one or both men would surely die…

Then another figure lurched within those bushes, behind the assassin, swinging something that might have been a golf club but wasn’t, smashing it against the assassin’s neck and back, sending the man in black pitching forward out of the foliage, to lay sprawled like an offering at Harrigan’s feet.

Quickly Harrigan plucked the weapon from the hand of the stunned, flat-on-his-face assailant.

From the bushes stepped a big man in a short-sleeved pale yellow shirt and corduroy trousers.

Marilyn — who, like Khrushchev, had slowly risen from the asphalt to her feet — gasped in surprise and delight.

A grinning, self-satisfied Walt Disney was standing there, breathing hard, and in his arms was an old-fashioned rifle.

“One of our Davy Crockett props,” Mr. Disney explained, almost sheepishly.

Marilyn’s eyes were huge. “Ol’ Betsy!”

“Be sure you’re right,” Mr. Disney said with a shrug, “and then go ahead.”

Calling in the troops on his walkie-talkie, Harrigan knelt over the unconscious figure; Marilyn hadn’t seen it happen, but the State Department man had already slapped handcuffs onto the half-unconscious assailant, hands behind his back.

Marilyn made introductions, and Mr. Disney and Nikita were shaking hands and grinning at each other.

“If you’re up to it,” Mr. Disney said to the premier, as casually as if knocking out assassins was just another of his many responsibilities here at the park, “I’d like to show you around, some — we don’t open up for a number of hours, you see.”

“Now I really get to see Disneyland!” Nikita said, his face bright with childish anticipation.

Standing guard over his prisoner, Harrigan said, “Really, gentlemen, I don’t think—”

“Jack,” Marilyn reminded the agent, “you said if there was anything you could do… anything!”

Harrigan sighed. “Then let’s start with the nearest first aid station.”

Mr. Disney said, “You won’t need an E ticket for that.” Then, beaming a wide, warm smile back at the premier, the animator settled a fatherly hand on his V.I.P. guest’s shoulder. “I’d very much like to show you my Disneyland fleet, Mr. Premier — tenth largest battle armada in the world!”

“Already have seen, thank you.” Khrushchev turned to the young woman at his side, a movie star who might have been a Russian peasant girl… and a lovely one. “Where should we go first?”

Marilyn touched a cheek with a platinum-nailed finger, giving the problem some serious thought, ignoring the rush of hard footsteps on asphalt as cops and Secret Service men and KGB agents and a CIA man came running pell mell to join them. “We’ve been to Fantasyland,” she said, “and’ve already had quite an adventure… Why don’t we stay in Tomorrowland for a while?” She shrugged and granted them her famous smile. “After all, Nikkie — who knows what the future will bring?”