She rolled her eyes. It was unmistakable—she rolled her eyes. “Another one,” she said in Russian to the blocky minder at her shoulder, balling up the letter and tossing it at him, and then she was sweeping off toward the hotel elevator. Heading upstairs to her luxurious whore’s bed and a good night’s sleep, no doubt. Having herself a good chuckle.
The marksman came to a sudden decision as she disappeared from sight. Tossing down his newspaper, he made for the hotel doors and the warm night outside. “Taxi,” he told the bellboy curtly. No more orange groves, no more Beverly Hills chatter, and no goddamn Fresno: he was abandoning the Packard and his current cover identity and getting a flight back to Washington. Lady Death had to return to the capital at some point—he’d get her （and the President） then.
It occurred to him, settling into the taxi, that getting Lyudmila Pavlichenko now seemed just as important as getting FDR. Before, he’d left his plans open: frame her or kill her, whichever proved simpler.
He reckoned he’d just decided.
“ARE YOU TIRED of signing autographs yet?” Laurence Olivier gave me his trademark burning glance: every bit as handsome in person as he was on the screen. Lena would have had him up against the wall and his trousers down by now. His hand drifted to my lower back as he remarked, “I always thought autograph hunting was the most unattractive manifestation of sex-starved curiosity.”
Slide your hand any lower, and you’ll be drawing back a stump, I thought. A popping sound made me start, but it was only a champagne cork. Beside the wide French doors thrown open to the balmy California night, I could see the actress Mary Pickford throw her head back in laughter at something the silver-sequined Myrna Loy was whispering in her ear: this graceful Italianate house was packed to the rafters with film stars. Not that I knew who half of them were; I hadn’t seen many Western films. My poor friend Sofya from Odessa, she’d have known every face after all her covert poring over Western film magazines—she’d have been thrilled to her toes for a chance to meet Mary Pickford at a Hollywood party. I’d just been bemused. And missing Sofya . . .
“Charlie Chaplin is throwing a bash for the delegation at Breakaway House—that’s his home in Beverly Hills,” the staff of the Soviet consulate had told me giddily that afternoon after a luncheon event, an embassy meeting, and a speech at a hotel overlooking the long blue rollers of the Pacific. “Now that the First Lady is away”—Eleanor had had to depart for Washington that morning, leaving me with a fond hug—“we’ll have a chance for a little fun!” So far I’d had my hand kissed by Charlie Chaplin, my champagne poured by Tyrone Power, and my backside appreciated by Laurence Olivier.
I smacked his hand off as it drifted downward, but the Englishman didn’t appear offended. He just laughed, tucking a strand of my hair behind my ear. “No need to be so tense and watchful, darling. You might get stabbed in the back at a Hollywood party, but no one’s going to shoot you.”
“Very clever, Mr. Olivier.”
“Do call me Larry.”
“Nyet,” I stated. The film star reminded me far too much of Alexei: the same glitter, the same charm, the same complete inability to hear the word no.
“Charlie’s got a swimming pool at the bottom of the slope,” Call Me Larry was purring, oblivious. “Why don’t we slip away for a little private party while your friends are enjoying themselves?”
The Soviet consulate people certainly were enjoying themselves, taking over this sumptuous space with its French doors, its ink-black grand piano, its silver platters of hors d’oeuvres and ice buckets of champagne on every surface. Even Yuri was positively giggling as he watched Charlie Chaplin grip a bottle of champagne between his teeth and walk on his hands across the marble floors.
Hollywood people, I mused. If Americans sometimes seemed strange to me, these film stars seemed even stranger. Breezy, informal, not nearly as inclined to bristle at socialist ideas as guests at a Washington party . . . but they seemed to perform more than exist, and I wasn’t sure they saw my uniform as anything more than one of the outlandish costumes they were all wearing.