As Harrigan threw off the bedcovers, Krueger was at his side, adding gravely, “One of the bodyguards is dead.”
“One of Khrushchev’s KGB ones,” Harrigan said, on the move, smoothing the rumpled suit that had doubled as pajamas.
Krueger was frowning in surprise. “Yeah — how did you know—”
“I didn’t — Marilyn Monroe did.”
“Marilyn Mon… Are you dreaming?”
With Krueger on his heels, Harrigan raced down the hotel corridor toward the Presidential Suite, cursing under his breath. There’d be plenty of time to fill the FBI agent in on the actress’s now largely moot information.
Still, all Harrigan could think of was that he’d let the woman down — and the premier. After the attempt on Khrushchev’s life at the Ambassador Hotel, and the fuss that had followed, he’d been bone tired. He knew he never should have gone to bed, he should have babysat K all night and followed up MM’s lead, but fuck! He’d been bushed, goddamnit — how much could one man withstand? He wasn’t superhuman.
Rushing toward Khrushchev’s room, Harrigan asked Krueger if any of the extra security he’d requested had shown up.
“After you hit the sack, you mean?”
Harrigan glared at him. “Yes — after I hit the sack.”
“Nope,” Krueger said, shaking his head. “Nobody. Not federal, not local. Not even a Campfire Girl.”
Even doing advance work in Des Moines-fucking-Iowa — not exactly a hot-bed of agitators — Harrigan had been able to round up at least five thousand officers to protect Khrushchev. Here, only a few hundred men had stood between the dictator and disaster. They’d been lulled by the finality of the junket, seduced by the California climate…
…and, once again, Jack Harrigan had been caught with his pants down around his ankles.
Harrigan entered the outer room of Khrushchev’s opulent suite; right in his path was the sprawled body of the uniformed KGB agent who’d been guarding the premier’s bedroom door.
“Get on your walkie-talkie and get some more bodies up here,” Harrigan told Krueger. “Live ones.”
Harrigan knelt briefly over the KGB officer, who lay on his back, arms casual at his side. The right lens of the man’s wire-framed Coke-bottle glasses was spiderwebbed and blood-spattered, but enough visibility remained through the lens to make out the black gore-ringed hole where his eye should have been. The Russian’s gun was still holstered. The man had not expected this — either he was one of the conspirators himself… tied off as a loose end by a fellow conspirator… or he’d been caught off-guard by someone he trusted.
The poor dead bastard wasn’t the only one who’d been caught off-guard tonight. As Krueger used the walkie-talkie out in the hallway, Harrigan stepped over the corpse and crossed the outer area of the suite and entered the bedroom through its door, which yawned open, the wood around the lock splintered by the “key” of a bullet.
Quickly the State Department agent surveyed the sleeping quarters.
Feathers littered the mattress, the pillows shot to hell, several bullet holes on the bedcovers as well.
He yanked back the blankets and sheets, and found no sign of blood anywhere. Harrigan read the scene — in the darkness, the assassin had approached the bed and just started shooting, not realizing that the premier was no longer there.
Krueger approached. “We have men on the way, but Jack — there’s another dead guard out in the bushes.”
“Another Russian? KGB?”
Again mildly surprised that Harrigan knew this without being told, the FBI man nodded. “The guard who was supposed to be watching the fire escape… We got a coup on our hands?”
He placed a hand on the FBI agent’s shoulders. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Sam. We have to search these grounds and the whole goddamn hotel, to see if we have any more dead Russians layin’ around.”
“I already have that in motion.”
“Our people only — not K’s!”
Krueger nodded. “Strictly Secret Service… But so far, two dead Rooskies is all we got.”
“Isn’t that enough?”
Krueger’s face was pale as milk — spilt milk. “What if a certain other Russian stiff turns up?”
Harrigan’s laugh was devoid of humor. “Then, Sam, you and I may be the first Americans ever sent to Siberia.”
Harrigan was staring at the open window onto the fire escape, the heavy velvet curtains billowing gently from the autumn night breeze.
“If it weren’t for the bullet-riddled bed,” he said to Krueger, “I’d make this a kidnapping.”
“But it isn’t — it’s an assassination attempt gone… please God… awry.”
“I agree. But then… where’s Khrushchev?”
Krueger shrugged. “If I were him, and thought my own people were after me, I’d run and hide. You try under the bed, Jack?”
Harrigan just looked at Krueger, who’d been kidding of course… but then the FBI man did check under there…
Oleg Troyanovsky rushed into the bedroom just as Harrigan was turning away from the window. The previously unflappable translator — wearing only hastily thrown-on trousers and a blue silk pajama top — had unruly hair and wild eyes.
“What have you done?” the translator demanded.
Harrigan let out a breath. “We haven’t done anything — your people, your KGB guards, got themselves killed.”
“Your incompetence has cost us dearly!”
“Our incompetence? If you people hadn’t insisted on using your own staff—”
Troyanovsky got right in Harrigan’s face. “You try to shift blame at a time like this! Don’t you know what this means?”
“Not yet I don’t. Before you came in, I was starting to conduct an investigation. This is a crime scene, and I’d like you to move out into the hall. We’ll be setting up some kind of task force HQ, and—”
“Well, I know what it means!”
Harrigan raised his eyebrows; if the man had a theory, he’d like to hear it.
But all the translator had to offer was more frenzy: “It means war between our countries! And that means annihilation for us both!”
Harrigan grabbed the frantic man firmly by the forearm.
“Pull yourself together, goddamnit,” Harrigan said. “Stop and consider — maybe whoever is behind this wants us at each other’s throats!”
The translator blinked, looking somewhat embarrassed, and his composure began to return.
Harrigan took command. “We’ve got to contain this,” he said to Krueger and Troyanovsky. “The Secret Service will continue to handle the search of the grounds and this facility. I want the KGB to stay put.”
The translator’s eyes tightened. “Why would you close us out of this? It is our man who is missing…”
“I’m not at liberty to disclose everything I know, Mr. Troyanovsky… but those two dead KGB agents may have been part of an assassination conspiracy. We don’t know who, among your people, can be trusted.”
Troyanovsky brooded on that for a second, then said, “This will go down hard.”
“Too bad. Leave it at this: we already have two dead Russians; we don’t need any more… Mr. Troyanovsky, has Mrs. Khrushchev been informed?”
The translator shook his head. “She is still asleep… the children, too. How is it you say? Ignorance is bliss.”
Harrigan thrust a finger at the man’s silk-pajamaed chest. “Who among the entourage knows what’s happened?”
Troyanovsky shrugged. “Only me.”
“Fine — and we’ve got to keep it that way… If anyone asks, the premier couldn’t sleep, and is out on a moonlight stroll with his two bodyguards.”
Troyanovsky considered this for a while; finally, he nodded solemnly. “You are right. To protect the premier, we must… as you say… contain.”