Bombshell by Max Collins (pdf ebook reader TXT) 📕

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 … under-prepared.

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