Spy in a Little Black Dress

EPILOGUE


“Seven Minutes to Midnight”, Tuesday, October 23, 1962


Jackie was suddenly awake.

She looked at the clock on the nightstand. It was seven minutes to midnight. She turned over and saw that the other side of the bed was empty. Jack was once again working late. She needed him, among other places, here in bed with her. They had been trying to make another baby and his current schedule wasn’t making things any easier.

She got out of bed, put on a robe, slipped on a battered pair of tennies, and then walked down the hall to the children’s bedrooms. She looked in on them, Caroline and John-John; they were both sleeping. How lovely to be a child and to be oblivious to all the frightening news that was being broadcast night and day, announcing that the U.S. and U.S.S.R. were teetering on the edge of nuclear war. She envied them their unencumbered slumber and wished that she could enjoy it as well.

Still unable to sleep, Jackie went down to the kitchen, which was empty at this hour. It had recently been remodeled, and its stainless-steel counters and appliances and hanging copper pots and pans gleamed even in the partial light. As she made herself a cup of coffee, she thought about the latest terrifying news.

Several hours ago, Jack had gone on TV to tell the nation that the Russians had placed offensive nuclear missiles in Cuba and that a naval blockade was now under way to prevent the Soviets from shipping any more offensive military weapons there. What happened when the Soviet ships already en route to Cuba would meet that blockade line tomorrow—today, actually, since it was now after midnight—was anyone’s guess at this point. Would they turn back or would they attempt to break through the blockade and quite possibly precipitate World War III?

There was a clattering from the hall and suddenly there he was in the kitchen with her. The Executive Committee meeting in the Cabinet Room must have just broken up. “Oh,” Jack said in surprise. “I was hoping one of the cooks was here.”

“Hungry?” Jackie asked.

“Starving,” said Jack, rubbing the palms of his hands together to indicate just how much. “I sure could go for a club sandwich.”

“I’ll make you one,” Jackie volunteered, happy that there was something concrete she could do for him.

She went over to the restaurant-sized refrigerator and began pulling out the makings for a sandwich: leftover turkey, bacon, tomatoes, mayonnaise, and bread. She took the bacon over to the stovetop, threw some pieces into a pan, and began frying them. As she did so, she turned to Jack, who was simultaneously leaning against the freestanding stainless-steel counter opposite the range and massaging his back, which suffered from a chronic condition exacerbated when his torpedo boat, PT-109, had been rammed by a Japanese destroyer during World War II. The injury could become further exacerbated by stress, so Jackie could imagine that her husband’s back must have been radiating constant pain since day one of the crisis.

“So how are things going?” she asked him.

He paused before answering. “It’s still touch and go. That Khrushchev is one stubborn son of a bitch. And you can say the same for his own personal Charlie McCarthy, Fidel Castro.”

Jackie had a difficult time keeping a poker face. She knew that ever since the Bay of Pigs disaster in April 1961, Jack had been looking for any chance to give the Cuban dictator a pasting. She had never told him about her secret mission to Cuba for the CIA, exactly ten years ago. Even though she was long retired from the agency, that assignment was still classified top secret by Langley.

She remembered that meeting with a beardless Castro. Everybody knew what he was doing today, Fidel having overthrown Batista on New Year’s Day 1959 to become the new leader of Cuba. An acceptance of Communist principles soon followed. But what about Emiliano and Gabriela? Were they still a part of the people’s revolution? She had lost track of them, and they only ever came to mind once in a while. The past ten years had been a whirlwind of activity for her, taking on one covert CIA assignment after another, then being in a high-profile marriage to a U.S. senator, and ultimately assuming the role of first lady of the country. Add two children to the mix and Jackie hadn’t been left with much time for looking back.

Once, though, she had seen a wire-service picture of Castro and thought she recognized Emiliano standing behind him, but the figure was kind of blurry and it was impossible to tell for certain if it truly was him. There had also been a photograph of marching women in militia uniforms. One of them seemed to resemble Gabriela, but it was hard to tell for certain behind the aviator sunglasses hiding the woman’s eyes.

But now, because of the events of the past several days, her memories of those brave Cubans and the way they had stood up to Batista were constantly with her.

As the bacon was frying, Jackie went over to the counter and began to prep the rest of the sandwich: putting bread in the toaster, cutting tomato slices, and picking out choice pieces of turkey. Jack stood next to Jackie and cleared his throat. She looked up at him, knowing that he was about to say something important.

“Jackie,” he said, “I want you and the children to leave Washington.”

Jackie looked at him with incredulity and said, “What?”

“If this goes bad, Washington will be a prime target for Russian nuclear ICBMs. I don’t want to take any chances. If the worst does happen, I want you and the children as far from D.C. as possible.”

The toast popped. Jackie covered one side of all three pieces with mayo, then began layering the tomatoes, turkey and bacon between the three slices of bread. She needed this time in order to gather her thoughts.

When the sandwich was finished, she put it on a plate, pushed it in front of her husband, now seated, brought him a bottle of Heineken—his favorite beer—from the refrigerator, and said simply, “No.”

Now it was Jack’s turn to look incredulous. “What?”

“You heard me—no.”

“Jackie, you can’t be serious. Do you know how dangerous things could get?”

“Yes, but that doesn’t change anything. My place is here with you.”

“This is totally unprecedented—”

“No, it’s not,” Jackie interrupted. “During the Blitz, King George the Sixth made sure that he and the royal family remained at Buckingham Palace, to set a good example for the people of London and provide moral support to the nation.”

“But no one’s going to know whether you’re here or not. We’ll keep that a secret.”

“I’ll know,” Jackie said simply.

Jack looked at Jackie and gave her a rueful smile. He sighed and took a bite of his sandwich.

“Delicious,” he pronounced between mouthfuls. “Thank you.”

“For the sandwich,” Jackie said, seating herself next to him, “it was nothing.”

“Not for the sandwich,” Jack said, and paused. “For—”

He looked at Jackie. She knew a million thoughts were racing around in that complicated mind of his, a million possible ways to finish that remark. She waited to hear what he would come up with.

“For being my rock.” He took her hand and squeezed it as hard as he could.

“Ouch,” Jackie said. She extricated her trapped hand and caressed it with exaggerated motions, pretending that he had really hurt her.

That caused him to laugh, something he must have done little of in the past week, despite his fabled sense of humor. She joined in with him. There they were, Jackie thought, an ordinary husband and wife, sitting in their kitchen in the middle of the night, picking at leftovers, holding hands and sharing a laugh. But they weren’t an ordinary couple. They were the president and his first lady. And their kitchen wasn’t located in Brookline or Riverdale or Bethesda; it was in the White House. Like any other married couple, they had had their ups and downs, but, despite all the big and little upheavals, they were still together.

In a little while, Jackie knew, Jack would have to return to his Ex Comm meeting, and she would return to bed, where, she felt sure now, sleep would come. She had faith that her husband would commit to whatever course necessary to ensure the safety of the country, to turn the world away from the brink of nuclear destruction. And no matter what happened, and no matter how things turned out, Jackie affirmed to herself that she would be there, right where she had always belonged, by Jack’s side.





Acknowledgments



It’s been a long and circuitous road since I first came up with the concept for a series of novels about young Jacqueline Bouvier working as a spy for the CIA. And these are the people I would like to mention for providing me with assistance on this leg of the journey. With thanks and gratitude—

To our editor, Alex Logan, for having the patience of Job, the wisdom of Solomon, and the diplomatic skills of Dean Acheson.

To Beth de Guzman and the entire dedicated team at Grand Central Publishing, including our intrepid publicists, Jillian Sanders and Brianne Beers.

To our wonderful agent, Melissa Chinchillo at Fletcher & Company, for service above and beyond the call of duty.

To our movie agent, Rich Green at CAA, for displaying such early faith in the project.

To the baristas at Bourbon Coffee, where much of this book was written, for keepin’ the iced tea comin’.

To Vince Cosgrove, for lending an old newsman’s practiced eye to chapter 27.

To Hope Tarr and the good people at Lady Jane’s Salon in NYC for making a newbie author feel right at home.

To novelist Caroline Leavitt for her generosity of spirit toward her fellow writers.

To Terry Mort, whose The Hemingway Patrols (Scribner, 2009) helped place me on the flying bridge of Pilar alongside Papa.

To T.J. English, whose Havana Nocturne (Morrow, 2008) transported me back to Cuba in the days leading up to Castro’s revolution.

To Richard D. Mahoney, whose Sons and Brothers: The Days of Jack and Bobby Kennedy (Arcade, 1999) took me behind the scenes at the White House during the Cuban Missile Crisis in October 1962.

To David J. Skal, whose The Horror Show (Penguin Books, 1994) first introduced me to the “Mexican Dracula.”

To Henri-Georges Clouzot, Sir Carol Reed, Francis Ford Coppola, Richard Lester, Sydney Pollack, Julian Schnabel, and Andy Garcia for their visual cues.

To Tito Puente, Celia Cruz, Arturo Sandoval, Perez Prado, and the Buena Vista Social Club for providing the soundtrack to which this novel was written.

And above all, to Marilyn and Rachel, for the constancy and amplitude of their love and support.

—Ken Salikof





Acknowledgments



My career as a writer has had many midwives. None of the books I’ve written or co-authored over the years would have seen the light of day had it not been for some wonderful agents who have represented my work, including Meredith Bernstein, Mary Tahan, and, currently, Melissa Chinchilla of Fletcher & Company. Thanks to Melissa for getting this book and its predecessor, Paris to Die For, to Grand Central Publishing and to Alex Logan, who assiduously edited both books and has been unflagging in her support. Beth deGuzman and the incredibly hardworking staff at Grand Central have provided an ideal home for the two novels.

I’m very grateful to the friends and family who enthusiastically embraced the concept of Jacqueline Bouvier as a CIA agent. Some early and particularly vocal supporters who deserve special thanks are Klaus Braemer, Tom King, Ellen Gordesky, Ibi Nathans, Seth Barsky, Dr. David Mitnick, Lisa Mitnick, and the rest of the Mitnick clan (you know who you are). I’m also especially grateful for the kindness I received from Monica Cataluna-Shand, Teanna McDonald, and Sally Grant of the National Association of Women Business Owners and from Evelyn Benson, Gonny Van Den Broek, Jonathan Rose, Lynn MacKinnon, Norma Chew, and Dorothy White of the South Florida Writers Association. NBC Miami’s Trina Robinson has to be the best television host ever when it comes to promoting an author’s work.

Edward Klein’s All Too Human and William H.A. Carr’s Those Fabulous Kennedy Women were valuable resources for the budding romance between Jacqueline Bouvier and Jack Kennedy. I’m also grateful for a wealth of information on Fidel Castro and Fulgencio Batista provided by T.J. English’s Havana Nocturne.

As a Floridian, I want to thank Little Havana in Miami for giving me a taste of life in its namesake city, particularly the best mojitos this side of Cuba at the landmark Versailles restaurant.

For three decades now, my husband, Larry Mitnick, has offered love and encouragement unstintingly, including footing the bill for the debut novel’s gala launch party (no greater love hath any lady author’s husband). My heart and thanks go out to my daughters, Ilene Schnall and Rona Schnall, who suffered with me through the early years of my journey and have been so supportive throughout. I love you more than I can say.

—Maxine Schnall





PARIS TO DIE FOR



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1



Paris, May 8, 1951


Jacqueline Lee Bouvier wasn’t exactly dressed for discovering a corpse. A black Givenchy evening ensemble was no substitute for a white lab coat or whatever those people who examined dead bodies were supposed to wear. Nor was she dressed appropriately for this place—a cramped garret in a rundown apartment building in one of Paris’s less fashionable arrondissements.

Jackie found to her surprise that she could handle stumbling over the dead man on the floor of the garret, even though this was the very first corpse she had ever encountered.

She could handle it when she saw the obscenely gaping wound in his chest with the blood still dripping down, although the sight of blood, even in films, usually made her sick.

She could even handle it when she watched as a scrawny rat scurried across the scarred wooden floor and tentatively began to taste the blood that had pooled beside the corpse’s torso.

What she couldn’t handle was the “dead” man reaching out with his hand to grab her by the ankle.

Jackie jerked her knee up—a knee-jerk reaction if ever there was one—to get away from the apparently not-so-lifeless hand, trying to stifle the scream that was fast rising up in her throat, and asked herself what she, une fille américaine, was doing here. Born to wealth and privilege, crowned Queen Deb of the Year when she was presented to society at eighteen, schooled at Vassar and the Sorbonne, and recently graduated from George Washington University with a degree in French literature, how on earth had she wound up in this improbable apartment, babysitting a corpse?

Why, just twenty-four hours ago, she had been dining with this same dead man, the Russian, Petrov, at Maxim’s. Of course, he hadn’t been dead at the time.

And just twelve hours before that, she had been cocooned in the plush belly of a four-propeller Lockheed Constellation, curled up with a good book while flying across the Atlantic from National Airport to Le Bourget in Paris on her way to meet the Russian.

And just twelve hours before that, she had been at a party at her parents’ estate in a suburb of Washington, D.C., where a chance encounter with a family friend, Allen Dulles, had set these events in motion like a rogue gene or a wayward train barreling toward an unforeseeable destination. But Jackie was forced to put all thoughts of this surreal chain of circumstances out of her head as she jumped back several steps to avoid the dead man’s hand.

The Russian convulsed on the floor, and his hand opened spasmodically. Something fell out and floated across the floor to her. She leaned down to pick it up, mindful to keep a safe distance.

She looked fleetingly at what she had retrieved. It was a single ticket for the opera. She stuffed the ticket in her evening bag, then looked once more at the Russian. This time, he appeared to be well and truly dead, lifeless as the end of time. The convulsions had stopped, and he lay still. She could detect no rising and falling of his chest. She knew that she should do something. Listen for a pulse. Hold a mirror over his mouth and check it for condensation. But somehow, she couldn’t bring herself to do any of those things. The fey thought nibbled at the edges of her mind that Death might be something contagious, and if she weren’t careful, she could catch it too.

Incongruously, an old line from Oscar Wilde came to her: “Dying in Paris is a terribly expensive business for a foreigner.”

For the first time, Jackie became aware of her surroundings. She had discovered the corpse almost as soon as she entered the garret. Now, looking around, she took in the room’s few furnishings. A bed with an iron bedstead and a sagging mattress. A threadbare Algerian rug on the floor, its rucked-up condition showing that a struggle had definitely taken place here. A wooden chair and desk, both heavily pockmarked and worn with age. In the two open windows overlooking a cityscape of low rooftops, twin moth-eaten curtains fluttered in the breeze. From outside, a recording of Edith Piaf singing “La Vie en Rose” wafted through the steamy air of a Parisian summer night. The poignant music and the sultry night air created an alluring mood. And if it hadn’t been for the corpse on the floor, Jackie could have seen the romantic possibilities of even such an impoverished garret. She could imagine Rodolfo and Mimi and their bohemian friends feeling right at home in this seedily seductive attic setting.

The room was illuminated by a single bare lightbulb set in an uncovered fixture in the low-hanging ceiling. The light from the lone bulb was dim, but not so dim that she couldn’t see it shining off the tips of a pair of men’s shoes peeking out from the bottom of the hanging sheet that served as a closet. And when one of those shoes moved ever so slightly, she knew, with a chill that froze her breath, that she was not alone in the garret.

Suddenly, the shock-induced aplomb that had carried her along like a robot until now shattered, and her numbed senses jangled alive. Every nerve in Jackie’s body screamed for her feet to make for the exit. But that closet stood between Jackie and the door leading to the hallway. She was afraid of being seized as soon as she attempted to move past it. There was no other way out of the garret except through the window. But she was saving that as a last resort.

The only thing left was to stay and defend herself against an almost certain assault. But she wasn’t armed. Dulles hadn’t allowed for that eventuality. So Jackie looked around the room and inventoried it as quickly as possible. She saw nothing obvious that she could use as a weapon. No lamp. No heavy ashtray. Even the modest kitchenette looked bare of utensils. Where was a steak knife or a meat cleaver when you really needed one? Not that she had any expectation she could ever use one to defend herself. That kind of self-defense had not been part of her finishing-school education.

And then a lightning flash of inspiration struck, divinely, and she realized there was something in her evening bag that she could use as a weapon. Not for killing certainly, but for causing a distraction. She flicked open the clip on her beaded evening bag with her French-manicured thumbnail and fumbled around until she found what she was searching for.

With one hand in her bag and the other left free, palms sweating and her heart thumping insanely in her chest, Jackie approached the sheet-covered closet. It was only a few steps, but it felt like the longest journey of her life. With the warped floorboards creaking shrilly with each movement of her feet, there was no chance of her sneaking up on whoever was hiding in the closet. But Jackie came from a long line of storied military heroes—it was well-known among her relatives that twenty-four of her ancestors came over to America from France to fight in the Revolutionary War. As a young girl growing up in a household with a proud history, she listened in on many fascinating accounts of relatives’ exploits on the battlefield. And she knew that a good general didn’t wait to be attacked, but always took the attack to the enemy.

Arriving at the closet, Jackie took a deep, deep breath and flung back the sheet. A beefy, sinister-looking man was standing there inside the empty closet, and it was difficult to judge which of them was more surprised. The man recovered first and abruptly brought up a wicked-looking knife. It gave off a deadly gleam, even in this dim light.

As the knife began its swift downward plunge toward Jackie’s chest, she grasped the object of her search in her handbag and held it up in front of him. She dropped her purse so she could squeeze the bulb, and the atomizer jetted a pungent spray of Chanel No. 5 smack into his face. The man screamed, pawing at his burning eyeballs, and was forced to drop the knife.

Jackie kicked the weapon across the room—it skidded under the bed—and tried to make it to the door. But the man reached out blindly, caught her by the arm, and flung her back across the cramped room. Fortunately, Jackie landed on the sagging mattress, and it broke her fall. With no other way out, she knew she had no choice but to go with the dead Russian’s original plan.

She levered herself off the bed, then quick-stepped over to the nearest window and went through it, first one leg over the sill, then the other, cursing Givenchy for making this season’s skirts so tight. Holding on to the windowsill with both hands, she felt around below until her feet came in contact with the narrow ledge that, according to the Russian, would be there. Jackie looked down and saw that it was six dizzying stories to the courtyard below. The Russian said to follow the ledge around the building and escape to the roof of a neighboring building in the next rue. As forbidding as it looked, she would take this dangerous route to avoid the killer, who looked much too big to follow her onto the ledge. Before moving any farther, she kicked off her shoes—there was no way she could negotiate this narrow ledge in black satin peep-toe stiletto heels—and heard them land with a clatter in the courtyard below.

Just then, the ledge beneath her feet crumbled away, and she lost her grip on the windowsill. So much for the Russian’s plan. Jackie could feel herself falling and closed her eyes, her panic mercifully turning into stoicism. She braced herself, hoping that the impact wouldn’t hurt too much or make a grisly mess in the courtyard.

Something unexpectedly arrested her fall. She opened her eyes, looked up, and saw that the man, blinking rapidly from the sting of the perfume spray, was gripping her by her right hand. He had the iron clasp of a catcher in a trapeze act, and it was this steadfast grip that had saved her life. Jackie’s body swung like a pendulum from her one outstretched arm. But she was wearing silk evening gloves. Her hand began to slip ever so slowly but inexorably out of its glove, and she knew that her salvation was only temporary. This is what happens when you’re a slave to fashion, she told herself as she felt her hand slip even farther.

As she dangled six stories above the courtyard, alone except for a dead body in the room above her and a killer providing a lifeline just so he could do her in himself, Jacqueline Lee Bouvier asked herself, For God’s sake, how did I get into this mess?