The two men, both winded — only one of them armed with a blade now — again squared off. Marilyn looked frantically around for that fallen razor and could not find it; at the same time the assassin was putting some distance between himself and the premier, and she felt certain would hurl the knife…
Nikita saw her, threw her a conspiratorial signal by the tightening of his eyes, circling further, maneuvering until the assassin’s back was to her.
Then Marilyn threw herself on the man, covering his eyes with her hands, locking on with her legs, holding on with dear life, praying this would buy Nikita a few precious seconds to bring this monster down.
Though he was small, the assassin was lithely powerful, and with a growl of rage he flung her off, pitching her roughly against the curving wall, where she slid down in a pile, the air knocked out of her.
But Nikita took advantage of this latest Monroe distraction and leapt at the man, knife or no knife, and grabbed him by the throat, and — his face split with a terrible smile Marilyn would never forget — the premier of Russia twisted the would-be assassin’s neck with bear-claw hands until there was an awful, terminal… crack!
The killer — his eyes wide but empty — crumpled to the floor, his body twitching once before going limp, his head at an impossible angle, knife tumbling with a thunk from impotent fingers.
Marilyn, shakily on her feet now, covered her face with both hands and began to sob: the horror, the jeopardy, the emotions, all catching up with her.
Nikita came to her and held her tenderly.
“Is all right, now,” he said softly, stroking her hair. “Is all over… You are very brave woman. Braver than many Russian soldiers. You I owe my life.”
She looked at him through her tears; his eyes were as moist as hers.
“That goes for me, too, Nikkie,” she whispered.
And there on the landing of the moon rocket at Disneyland, in the presence of a common enemy the Russian man and the American woman had worked together to defeat, their lips met in what was not a passionate or lustful kiss, but meant so much more than just friendship.
The pandemonium of an army of men swarming up onto the landing brought their embrace to a close, and Marilyn discreetly buttoned her blouse.
Suddenly Agent Harrigan was at her side. “Miss Monroe, are you all right?”
She nodded weakly.
Khrushchev’s KGB agents had surrounded him, and the men were joyously giving their leader hugs, speaking in Russian, some laughing with relief, the premier beaming, emitting a chuckle or two. One of them found his absent shoe and helped him on with it.
An American agent was leaning over the dead assassin.
Typically, Khrushchev’s mood changed.
“This assassin,” he said gruffly, gesturing to the corpse. “Who is he?”
A tall cadaverous man stepped forward with an answer. “John Munson, Premier Khrushchev,” he said, meaning himself not the corpse. “Central Intelligence… and that’s Lee Wong. We were tracking him in Hong Kong until he dropped out of sight a month ago.”
“Nationalist China send him?”
“We believe this is Chairman Mao’s work, sir… Perhaps we should reserve the debriefing till we’re off-site.”
Marilyn blurted, “See, Nikkie — what did I tell you? Red China!”
Harrigan and Munson exchanged bemused looks — several of the men were turning to each other to mouth, Nikkie? — but Khrushchev only grunted, nodding solemnly.
Harrigan spoke, “Let’s get you and Miss Monroe down off this thing… and get that arm looked at.”
As Marilyn was helped down the flights of stairs by an attentive Harrigan, she heard Khrushchev and Munson chatting like old friends, coming down behind them.
“Maybe,” the premier was saying, “we could help each other.”
“How do you mean, Mr. Khrushchev?” the CIA agent asked.
“We are first in space, yes? But you are first in espionage. Perhaps we could share… information.”
“Go on.”
“I believe we get many secrets from same sources. Why not we combine forces, and cut down bill?”
There was a pause. Then the CIA agent responded with a laugh. “You know, Premier Khrushchev — if you don’t mind my saying, that’s a hell of an idea.”
“Ah, I have been to hell already tonight. Let us call it… heaven of idea.”
“Fine. Fine.”
Everyone had to jump down from that first platform onto the cement “launching pad,” and Harrigan and Nikita were the first to make their landings, after which Marilyn lowered herself into Harrigan’s waiting arms. The State Department agent began issuing orders and four groups of assorted Secret Service agents, KGB guards, and police moved off in various directions.
Then Harrigan approached the actress and the premier, his expression somber.
“I’m going to escort the two of you out of here,” Harrigan said. “The assassin wasn’t working alone, and his back-up could still be on the grounds…”
Marilyn hugged the premier’s good arm. “Is Mr. Khrushchev still in danger?”
Perhaps to calm her, Harrigan lightened his expression; his tone was light, too, as he said, “Just a precaution — frankly with all this activity, he’s probably hightailed it over a fence the heck outta here.”
Harrigan escorted the unlikely couple around one of the curving paths, heading toward the looming castle, on their way toward Main Street. Despite his assurances, Harrigan had his revolver in hand, a fact that neither Marilyn nor Nikita missed. Still, she had a real sense that the crisis had passed. At the east the sky had a faded look, the sun just beginning to make itself known.
“We’ll get you to an emergency room, Premier,” Harrigan said, walking between Nikita and Marilyn.
“I have had my shots,” Nikita grunted.
Harrigan laughed, gently. “Nevertheless… we’ll have that wound tended to.”
Nikita said, “Has been tended to — by Miss Monroe.”
As they walked, the State Department agent glanced at Marilyn, warmly — but a little embarrassment was mixed in. “I hope you know,” he said, “that America… the whole world, in fact… owes you a great debt. Hell, if it hadn’t been for you—”
“Any American would have done the same,” she told him, and meant it.
The path was curving around a pagoda. “If there’s anything,” Harrigan was saying to her, “anything at all I can do, just let me know.”
After that Harrigan encouraged no further conversation as they walked along, and despite his casual demeanor, the agent was obviously on alert, his eyes everywhere, reacting to the smallest sound.
As they were approaching the castle, Marilyn — who had been reflecting on Harrigan’s offer to do “anything at all” — began to speak, intending to broach the subject of Nikita returning to the park in the safe light of day.
But she never got a word out, Harrigan cutting her of rudely with, “Quiet,” as he froze on the pathway, eyes narrowed, the revolver swinging toward thick bushes to the their left.
Marilyn didn’t hear a thing.
But Harrigan obviously had, because he yelled, “Down!”
The agent shoved Marilyn to the asphalt, while Nikita dropped himself like a trap door had opened under him. She looked up, terrified, and standing half-hidden in those bushes was a figure that Marilyn at first thought was the assassin in black, somehow come back to life!
But this was a different man in black, his face Asian but rounder, though the eyes were equally cold and hard and dead.
And in his hand was a weapon — an automatic with an extended snout, probably (she thought) what in the movies they called a “silencer”…
Marilyn took all of this in, in half a second, during which Harrigan dropped to a knee and assumed a firing position with his.38. In the next half second Marilyn realized, with a terrible certainty, that the assassin and Harrigan had each other in their sights, that one or both men would surely die…