“You’re serious, aren’t you?” she asked.
He nodded. “You don’t always prize attractiveness in your men, my dear… You’ve always been more attracted to power, and fame.”
She stiffened. “Rupe, you’re crossing the line, now…”
“Frankly, I was thinking of your meeting with Sukarno.”
Marilyn stood abruptly. “Nothing happened between us,” she said emphatically, putting her hands on her hips. “How many times do I have to tell you, before you believe me? You’re worse than my husbands!”
“Nothing happened? Okay. Fine. But something could have… and I believe the CIA put you next to Sukarno for their own purposes.”
Rupe had a point. Sparks had flown between her and the darkly handsome President of Indonesia, Achmed Sukarno, at a reception held for diplomats a few years ago… right here at the Beverly Hills Hotel, coincidentally enough.
“I’ll admit,” she said, chin up, “that later that night, after the party, I called President Sukarno, for a private meeting. But I just wanted to know more about his country, which really isn’t a country at all but a bunch of islands. You know how eager I am for knowledge. Do I have to tell you I’m not just another blonde bimbo?”
He arched an eyebrow, as if to say, No, you’re the blonde bimbo. But all he said was, “And?”
“And,” she continued with a toss of her sumptuously coifed head, “at the last minute I decided that I was too tired.”
Rupert looked up at her sharply. “Hedda Hopper reported that you kept that meeting.”
Marilyn frowned. “Jeez, Rupe… I always thought you told her that… for publicity’s sake.”
“No,” he said, with a head shake, “I did not.”
Marilyn sat back down on the sofa, puzzled, a cushion swallowing her bottom.
“You know,” she said, eyes tightening as she leaned toward him. “There was a kind of click on the phone when I called President Sukarno that night…” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “You don’t suppose… the line was tapped?”
“After what you and Arthur have been put through by the House Un-American Activities Committee,” the press agent said tightly, “do you have trouble believing as much?”
She was shaking her head now, risking Guilarof’s handiwork. “But why in hell would anybody care about the President of Indonesia meeting with some actress?”
“Not ‘some actress,’ dear… Marilyn Monroe.” Rupert shrugged. “Obviously, to get something on him.”
“Why? I just don’t understand…”
“Uncle Sam put Sukarno in power expecting Indonesia to go democratic,” Rupert explained. “Then what does the ungrateful wretch do? He stops free elections and aligns himself with the communists… Russia and China.”
Marilyn’s eyes widened. “I didn’t know that. I… admit I really haven’t kept track. I thought Sukarno was one of the good guys.”
“So did our government, early on. Now they’d use anything against him… even you. And if they feel that way about a comparative small fry like Sukarno… how do you think they feel about Nikita K?”
Marilyn put one finger to her lips and bit down on the platinum nail. She trusted Rupert. He was smart, and knew things she didn’t. Yes, she always wanted to learn things, but her methods were pretty hit or miss. The press agent hadn’t risen to his rarefied position without great instincts and greater knowledge.
Why did politics have to make things so difficult? If a man and a woman wanted to get together, why shouldn’t they? Why couldn’t people just be people?
“Now do you understand why I don’t want you to meet with Khrushchev?” Rupert was asking.
Marilyn stood again. “I’m already ready,” she said stubbornly, spreading her arms wide. “I’ve gone to a lot of trouble. My people have gone to a lot of trouble, too. And damnit, Rupe, I want to go. Khrushchev asked to see me… of all the stars in the Hollywood heavens… me.”
“How do you know that?”
“The State Department said so. I mean, I don’t want to go up against the State Department — you want me to start World War III or something?”
Rupert stood and his eyes drilled through her. “You know the press will skewer you,” he said, not giving up. “They’re going to dredge up all that commie nonsense about Arthur, and they’ll drag you down with him.”
Marilyn felt her face grow hot. “Arthur wasn’t charged with anything,” she retorted. “Anyway, I’m no communist… I’m an American. I haven’t even been to Russia!”
Rupert patted the air with his palms in a “calm down” fashion. “All right,” he said. “Go if you want. Make the public appearance… but avoid anything else, no private meetings, no ‘educational’ rendezvous with the little fat man. And, please, Marilyn… be careful.”
The heat had left her face, and a warmth for Rupert had taken its place. “I will, Rupe,” she said. “I promise.”
He put his hands on her shoulders, smiling, his eyes sad. “You know, no matter what happens, how much or how little we might see each other, that I care about you, very much. That I’m your friend, always will be.”
Marilyn nodded, swallowing, touched by his concern. “Rupert?” She took one of his hands.
“Yes, my dear?”
“I’m… I’m sorry I haven’t called you.”
He shook his head, shrugged. “We’ve both been busy,” he said.
It was so goddamn sweet of him to let her off the hook so easily.
“Let’s stay in touch,” she said.
“Let’s.” He gave her a tender smile. “Now… go knock ’em dead, Miss Monroe.” He looked her over, and raised his eyebrows. “With that dress… what there is of it… you can’t miss.”
As Marilyn watched him go — pausing to toss her a little wave and smile, before slipping out — she felt a surge of melancholy roll through her, and linger. Then, taking a moment to summon back her movie star persona — that character she had created, that she played so well, and that to some degree she had become, leaving Norma Jeane behind — she put on her sunglasses and exited the bungalow and walked out to the waiting limousine.
Chapter Two
Welcome To L.A
In a remote corner of Los Angeles International Airport, from the yawning mouth of a North American Aviation hangar, Jack Harrigan — his mental and emotional state a mix of detachment, concern, and fatigue — watched as an Air Force 707 landed in the heat-shimmering distance. The forty-two-year-old agent, assigned these days to the State Department Security Division, had flown ahead the day before from Washington to finalize preparations for the visiting Russian delegation, arriving at this moment on that jet.
At six foot two, Harrigan had a shaggy, rugged handsomeness — there were those who said he resembled a leaner Robert Mitchum, the movie actor — that made him almost too distinctive for the security division, which favored banality in its agents’ appearance, the better to blend in with crowds. Among Harrigan’s distinguishing characteristics were hazel eyes, singed eyebrows (age nine; fire-cracker), and a re-set nose (age twelve; fist-fight), false front tooth (age sixteen; hockey puck); one other deformity, only his ex-wife and a few other females knew about: a fistful-sized chunk of his left buttock was missing (age twenty-five; German mortar).
A sorry excuse for a welcoming committee had gathered at the hangar to wait quietly for the premier of Russia — and the sixty-some entourage accompanying him. This small assemblage was a pale shadow of the festivities that had been arranged for Khrushchev back east, when he flew in to Idlewild a week ago. Mayor Wagner of New York rolled out a literal red carpet, complete with waving banners, effusive speeches, a huge cheering crowd, and three blaring brass bands.