Oleg spoke to Nikita.
Nikita nodded.
“Tell the premier it will be our pleasure,” Harrigan said, and backed out of the sedan and closed the door. As the agent began to organize the other plainclothes security around the car, Oleg rolled down the window.
“Please use some of our own men, as well, Mr. Harrigan,” Oleg called out. “Mr. Khrushchev thinks they are getting too fat on your rich American food.”
Harrigan chuckled, and grinned; he nodded to Khrushchev, who smiled and nodded back.
Soon — as the procession of limousines, surrounded by trotting American and Russian agents, moved slowly on toward the movie studio — the sidewalks began to fill up with people. They ran out of the shops and houses, to point and gawk. A V.I.P. was passing!
Nikita settled back with a self-satisfied smile, and Nina — who knew him so well — beamed at him, eyes twinkling.
The premier of Russia didn’t need that son of a bitch Poulson to draw a crowd!
Chapter Five
The Wrong Room
As Marilyn Monroe’s limousine whipped into the parking lot of the commissary at Fox Studios, the movie star’s eyes widened in shock and her mouth dropped in dismay — her mood, anxious though positive, seemed suddenly poised to plunge into despair.
The lot — but for a handful of cars, expensive ones in personalized spaces, sunshine ricocheting off their smooth metallic surfaces — was empty. Tumbleweed might have blown through.
“Oh, damnit,” Marilyn moaned. “After all that effort — we’re late! The party’s over.” She could just cry! When would she ever learn? Why had she taken so long to get ready?
But her unflappable secretary, May Reis — seated next to her, like a plainclothes cop extraditing a prisoner — was, as usual, cool; cucumbers had nothing on her. The trim, brown-haired woman shook her head and patted Marilyn’s knee. “No, no my dear — we’re early.”
Marilyn’s eyes tightened in thought, as if this word — “early” — was foreign to her.
May continued, with a gesture to the empty lot: “The others simply haven’t arrived yet.”
Marilyn’s eyes popped open again, as she regarded her secretary with astonishment. “Well, what do you know about that! I am on time.” She grinned and gave May a gentle elbow. “When has that ever happened before?”
May smiled tightly. “Never, dear.”
Marilyn’s longtime Los Angeles chauffeur, Rudy Kautzsky — looking jaunty in his black suit and cap, as perfect for his part as if Central Casting had sent him ’round — helped the glamorous star out of the back of the limousine, wishing her luck by way of a wink and “thumbs up.”
“Thanks,” she said, and kissed the air in Rudy’s direction.
Along with the chauffeur, May remained behind in the car. Like an overly cautious mother, she’d only ridden along to make sure that Marilyn made it safely inside the door. The secretary had learned long ago that her employer — whom she adored — was a vulnerable, distracted creature capable of losing her way across a living room. May need not have worried — not today. Marilyn Monroe might have been the current blonde bombshell, but — when she set her mind to it — that bombshell was a veritable guided missile. Today was important to her — flattered by the premier’s desire to meet her, Marilyn felt proud she could serve her country as Hollywood’s ambassador, and in some small way forge good will between two world powers who seemed on such a terrible collision course.
The big bland room that was the studio commissary — where normally stars, studio bosses, and crew members alike gathered for lunch or coffee at dozens of scuffed round tables — had for today’s event been transformed into an elegant Parisian restaurant. No soundstage set could have rivaled the “Cafe de Paris,” with its linen tablecloths, sterling flatware, and sparkling crystal. From the ceiling hung hundreds of colorful balloons and streams of crepe paper, and in the center of each table perched a lovely floral arrangement with a French flag — the tricolor justifying the red-white-and-blue theme that pretended to salute one country while invoking another.
A half dozen or so reporters were milling around by the entryway, in a haze of cigarette smoke, waiting for the event to start, when Marilyn approached.
One of the newshounds was saying, “…so the one-legged jockey says, ‘That’s all right, honey — I ride sidesaddle!’ ” He was a tall, thin hawkish-looking man Marilyn had never seen before. She knew most of the others by name.
His cronies howled with laughter until another of them, Bob Clemens, round-faced and beefy, a stub of a stogie tucked in the corner of his mouth, caught sight of Marilyn. The L.A. Times reporter nearly swallowed what was left of his cigar, so surprised was he to see her arriving early.
“Hello, boys,” she said innocently. She pretended to frown and shook a reprimanding finger. “I hope you aren’t telling off-color stories again.”
Pandemonium broke out as the men rushed her, flocking around, firing questions. For once she was prepared for the press — even glad to see them; she stood her ground and smiled radiantly, regally.
Clemens elbowed his way to the front of the pack, growling, “Hey, I saw her first!”
Marilyn had known Clemens since he covered her marriage to Joe DiMaggio in 1954, and the reporter had always treated her fairly — even after she’d divorced the baseball hero.
“Bob gets the first question,” Marilyn said, with a solemn nod. She was like a teacher with a bunch of unruly boys — though in the sheer black dress, she made an unlikely schoolmarm.
“Marilyn, what’s this about Khrushchev wanting to see you?” Clemens asked.
Publicist Rupert Allen must have called ahead, in spite of his misgivings about her attending. The dear man.
Marilyn slowly parted her lips. “I’m deeply honored that the premier of Russia would want to talk to me.”
“Not everybody thinks old Nikita’s worth meeting,” Bob said.
She beamed and shrugged. “Well, I think it’s just elegant!”
“What would Khrushchev possibly want to talk to you about?” the hawkish man asked snidely.
Marilyn studied the man’s face for a moment, her smile turning brittle; she made a habit of remembering new enemies. “World peace, I hope,” she responded.
The enemy snorted a laugh — several reporters around him winced, as they apparently understood what sort of special audience they were being granted — and he did not bother to write down her response.
“And where’s your husband?” he followed up, with a smirk. “Didn’t he want to meet the top commie?”
All eyes were on her, pen tips to pads, primed for her answer. This wasn’t just show business, after all, but politics — her husband Arthur Miller was one of America’s leading playwrights and had been a victim of what she considered a witch-hunt left over from the days of Joe McCarthy.
“Mr. Miller,” she said pleasantly, “couldn’t accompany me from New York because he’s finishing up a screenplay…” And now she turned the wattage up on her smile. “One that I’ll be starring in.”
In truth, Arthur could have made the trip, and had wanted to; he was as keenly interested in politics and world events as Marilyn was. But after much soul-searching and deliberation, he had decided — due to his past trouble with the House Un-American Activities Committee, regarding his refusal to name other writers sympathetic to the communist party — he had best not go.
“The press might make a meal of me,” he’d said.
And — obviously — Arthur had been right.
Paul Hays, from the Hollywood Reporter, asked, “Is there any truth to the rumor that you and your husband are separating?”