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 hands was the speech he’d intended to deliver after receiving yet another “introduction” from the mayor; but Khrushchev ripped the pages into little pieces and threw them in Poulson’s face.
The audience gasped, while the reporters grinned and flash-bulbs popped and pencils flew on pads; that swarthy unfamiliar journalist was still working to get a better view of the premier.
Khrushchev pointed a thick finger at Poulson. “Why would you mention that?” he shouted, as his translator quickly gave the English version. “Is it your tradition to invite people to a banquet to insult them? Already in the U.S. press I have clarified this ‘We will bury you’ — I only meant that communism will outlive capitalism… I trust that even minor officials in your country learn to read.”
There was a smattering of applause from the crowd.
“In our country,” Khrushchev continued, eyes wide, nostrils flared, his whole body shaking, “chairmen of councils who do not read what is in the papers are at risk of not being re-elected.”
Now the entire audience clapped its approval.
Harrigan couldn’t help smiling; the mayor, soon to be up for re-election, had shot himself in the foot… or perhaps higher up.
“And I promise if your president comes to Russia,” the premier said with acid sweetness, “the mayor of Moscow will not dare to insult him.”
This invoked a few smiles.
Poulson’s face turned crimson, and — trembling, obviously as afraid as he was embarrassed — returned to his chair and sat.
Khrushchev took the podium.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the premier said loudly, Troyanovsky interpreting at his side, “you want to get up on this favorite horse of yours and proceed in the same old direction. Fine — if you want a continuation of the arms race, then, very well, we accept that challenge. And as for the output of our missiles, those are on the assembly line.”
A hush fell over the room.
“I am talking seriously because I have come here with serious intentions,” Khrushchev went on, the interpreter struggling to keep up, “and yet you try to reduce the matter to simply a joke. It is a question of war or peace between our countries, a question of life or death of the people.”
Silence draped the room like a shroud, a silence that the premier shattered by pounding the podium with a fat fist.
“I have never before in any of my addresses in your country spoken of or mentioned any missiles… but I did so just now, because I had no other way out — because it would seem that we have come here to beg you to eliminate the cold war. Perhaps you think we are afraid. If so, and if you think the cold war is profitable to you, then go ahead. Let us compete in the cold war… but in my country we have a saying: it is much better to live in peace than to live with loaded pistols.”
The audience broke out in applause to show the Soviet leader some much-needed support. But Khrushchev was not to be pacified by their gesture.
“The thought sometimes,” he went on angrily, “the unpleasant thought, creeps up on me as to whether I was not invited here to enable you to sort of rub my face in the might and strength of the U.S., so as to make me shake in my shoes…”
Khrushchev bent and removed one of his brown leather shoes, which he brought up and banged on the table, startling everyone in the room, making those seated on the dais jump, spilling drinks and rattling dishes.
“If that is so,” the premier growled, “then if it took me about twelve hours to get here, I guess it will take me no more than that to fly home!”
The banquet hall fell deadly silent again, at the implication of his words.
“I am going to close,” Khrushchev said, more restrained now. “I believe you have suffered through my speech… and I would apologize for that, but so was I made to suffer. You see, I have such a nature that I do not want to remain in debt… nor do I not want to be misunderstood.”
Khrushchev was turning away from the podium when William Lawrence called out from the cluster of reporters on the left.
“Where were you when Stalin was killing innocent people?” the New York Times reporter shouted.
Instantaneously, the audience reacted. Fearful of antagonizing Khrushchev further, they rushed to their guest’s defense and jumped the journalist, some booing him, others yelling, “Shut up!” and “Leave him alone!”
Fire returned to Khrushchev’s eyes. “I will not answer such a stupid question!” the premier snapped. “You are a silly, ignorant man…”
Then, from that same pack as Lawrence, that dark reporter shouted in a thick Middle European accent, “What about the people you murdered in Hungary?”
On the right side of the dais with the other journalists, Harrigan — who had stayed aware of the reporter as he’d kept inching forward — wondered who this fellow was, this reporter with no pad or pencil for notes, and a camera that, so far, had not taken any pictures.
Hadn’t he seen this man before…?
But where?
From his position across the room, Harrigan could not read the man’s badge… and a chill went through him as he wondered if that might be a badge lifted from John Davis…
Harrigan moved through the throng of reporters that had closed in around the front of the dais, squeezing by Davis, whose own makeshift badge was pinned to his shirt.
“Well, you see,” Khrushchev responded from the podium, “the question of Hungary sticks in some people’s throats like a dead rat.”
Harrigan ducked behind the dais, picking up his pace.
Khrushchev was saying, “He feels that it is unpleasant, and yet he cannot pull the dead rat out… We, for our part, could think of quite a few dead rats we could throw at you!”
Harrigan reappeared on the other side of the dais, now able to see the questioning reporter’s badge…
… John Davis, Newsweek!
The swarthy “reporter” was fumbling with his camera, trying to open its back, saying defiantly, “No, no — it is you who are the dead rat.”
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!”