Bombshell Max Collins (best ereader for textbooks .txt) 📖

Khrushchev seemed to be enjoying himself, beaming, clapping loudly, like a trained seal. His wife’s plain, round face looked flushed … whether this was from the heat of the stage lights, or the well-documented effect Sinatra had on women, Harrigan wouldn’t hazard a guess.

The premier seemed to be over his snit at being denied Disneyland, which relieved Harrigan, since the State Department man had, after all, been the one who’d pulled the plug on the excursion.

It had been an embarrassment, too, where Walt Disney himself was concerned. Harrigan’s other dealings with the mouse mogul—arranging the details of the Khrushchev tour of the amusement park—had been pleasant, the famous animator businesslike but affable.

When Harrigan had called Disney earlier today, however, to inform him of the decision not to allow the premier to visit the park, the father of Mickey Mouse had exploded like Donald Duck.

“We’re ready to go with this thing!” Disney’s voice was gruff and not at all that of the kindly uncle of the television series that shared its name with the park. “Do you have any idea the trouble we’ve gone to? The expense?”

“I do. But we simply don’t have the security, Mr. Disney. We’d been assured by Mayor Poulson that we would have the cooperation of the Los Angeles Police Department … but the mayor and the premier have rubbed each other the wrong way, and now Poulson’s pulled his people.”

“Well, hell, man,” Disney said dismissively, “I have the Anaheim police in my pocket. They’ll provide whatever you need.”

“They just don’t have the manpower, sir.”

Disney roared back: “I’ve done my share of favors for the FBI, I’ll have you know! I will call J. Edgar Hoover myself, personally, and your job will be on the line, Agent Harrigan!”

“Mr. Disney, with all due respect, I don’t work for Mr. Hoover. And this decision is final.”

Disney’s response was the click of hanging up.

As the applause for the singer faded, Frank Sinatra—flashing a smile of impressive wattage—made a gracious bow toward the seated Soviet guests.

Then translator Oleg Troyanovsky stood in the balcony and said in a loud yet cordial voice, “Mr. Khrushchev would like to apologize for his earlier outburst; it was very hot in the dining room, and he was tired from our strenuous schedule … and while this is not Disneyland, he very much likes the show so far.”

The room erupted into more applause.

Harrigan was still not sure if he had the premier figured out—was he really this willful child, subject to almost psychopathic mood swings? Or was he playing all these Americans like a five-cent kazoo?

After the clapping subsided, Sinatra, the studio’s designated master of ceremonies, spoke. “Mr. Khrushchev,” the singer said, with a sweeping gesture to the nearby set, “before we film an actual scene from the movie, Can-Can, I should explain what it’s about.” He grinned boyishly. “Frankly, it’s about a bunch of pretty girls and some fellows who like pretty girls.”

Oleg translated, and the premier smiled, nodding his recognition of a common human situation—you didn’t have to be American, or Russian, or French for that matter, to understand this dynamic.

“In the picture,” Sinatra continued, “we go into a saloon.” He paused, then said with a straight face, “That’s a place where you go for a drink.”

Again Oleg spoke, and Khrushchev roared with laughter.

The room echoed this laughter; it reminded Harrigan of a gangster movie, where a Capone-type gang lord laughed and all his men, a step behind, laughed self-consciously with him.

“But before we film the dance number,” Sinatra went on, “Maurice Chevalier and Louis Jourdan will perform their song from the picture… It’s called ‘Live and Let Live.’ ” Sinatra looked directly at Khrushchev with a more restrained smile, now. “And I think that’s a marvelous idea, don’t you?”

On cue, trotting out from the back of the set came the legendary Grand Old Man of world show business, Chevalier, looking dapper in a black tuxedo with silver quilted lapels that complimented his silver hair; he was followed almost immediately by the much younger Jourdan, handsome, tanned and suave, wearing a gray suit with double-breasted vest and black Stetson bowler.

If either Frenchman had any qualms about following the likes of Frank Sinatra, he didn’t show it, as they launched into their number.

In his famous French accent, Chevalier advised Jourdan to live and let live, and Jourdan—in an equally thick accent—countered with advice to be and let be. With a gesture to his ears, Chevalier suggested they should hear and let hear, and Jourdan pointed to his eyes to recommend they see and let see.

A cute number, and Harrigan noted that when the pair sang in unison—to the effect that the business of the one was the business of the other—a smiling Khrushchev sat forward and nodded in agreement.

Harrigan frowned—that was peculiar. How in hell could the premier have understood those last words? Troyanovsky hadn’t had time to translate…

Maybe Khrushchev was just nodding his approval of the performance.

As the Frenchmen continued their act, Harrigan walked the floor. He had paused among the technicians, when a hand settled firmly on his shoulder.

Harrigan about jumped out of his skin.

“Sorry Jack,” a voice whispered in his ear, followed by a wry chuckle. “Should’ve known better than to come up behind a gunfighter like you.”

Harrigan let out some air. Were his nerves that shot? He turned to Sam Krueger, his Los Angeles-based FBI contact, and admitted, “Jesus I’m jumpy.”

“Who isn’t?” Krueger smirked. The FBI man stood several inches shorter than Harrigan, his sandy hair cut military short, his eyes hard and professional in the round, pleasant face. He curled a finger for Harrigan to follow him.

Harrigan did, whispering, “What the hell is it, Sam?”

Krueger shook his head: not here.

When Harrigan had first met the FBI agent at the Los Angeles Airport, just before the Russians landed, he’d been immediately impressed with Krueger’s competence, and his friendly yet professional manner. Perhaps the agent had sensed—or seen the dark-circled eyes that gave it away—Harrigan’s fatigue, and had