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

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.

9 Rescue Mission

In the Presidential Suite at the Beverly Hills Hotel, Nikita Khrushchev lay on his back