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

“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