Spy in a Little Black Dress - By Maxine Kenneth Page 0,42

Having seen what was behind the curtain that she had opened, she was unwilling to try any of the doors.

Jackie stood in the hall, frozen to the spot, knowing that in a matter of moments, Jack Kennedy would be this close. Frantically, she looked around, searching for something to hide behind, but saw nothing. But then, beside a large door at the far end of the hall, Jackie spotted her salvation: a telephone on the wall and a phone book on a stand beneath it. She ran to the phone, hurriedly thumbed through the book until she found the number for La Europa—an office number that was different from the one on the hall phone—and dialed it with trembling fingers.

“Hola,” a gruff man’s voice said.

Disguising her voice, which she needn’t have done since it was trembling so hard, and in passable Spanish, Jackie said, “This is United States congressman John F. Kennedy’s personal secretary. Please have him come to your office immediately. I have an urgent message for him.”

“Un momento,” the man said.

Jackie waited, and when she finally had the courage to turn around, at the bottom of the stairs she saw a burly-looking man leading Jack Kennedy away from the showgirl.

With a sigh of relief, Jackie hung up the phone and quickly rejoined Emiliano, who was standing at the bar. “Is it all right if we leave now?” she asked. “I’m afraid I’m not feeling well. I think I just need some air. I’ll wait outside while you call a cab.”

“Of course,” Emiliano said, looking concerned. “You look as if you’ve just seen a ghost.”

X

So tell me, what did you think of La Europa?” Emiliano asked Jackie over lunch at Café Rodney, the Tropicana’s charmingly bohemian restaurant.

“It’s a strange place,” she said after a long moment. “You never know who you’ll bump into there.”

Not wishing to elaborate any further on the chance encounters of the night before, Jackie sipped her mojito, savoring the way the citrus and mint flavors enhanced the kick of the rum—I could get addicted to these, she thought—and quickly changed the subject. “The Nacional is absolutely magnificent, Emiliano. It was so good of you to arrange for me to stay there.”

“Deputy Director Dulles is the one you should be thanking. I was only the messenger. When I told Mr. Dulles about the unfortunate experience that happened to you on your first day here, he was very sorry to hear it. He wanted to make it up to you, so he chose a world-class hotel that has airtight security. You know, Winston Churchill and his wife stayed there after the war. It’s a luxurious place, but it’s also very safe.”

“I hadn’t counted on such a treat,” Jackie said, remembering her delighted surprise when Emiliano told the cabdriver outside La Europa to take them to the Nacional. She couldn’t believe how short the cab ride was from the sleazy club to the legendary hotel in Vedado. It was like going from the Bowery to Park Avenue in the blink of an eye.

Glorious, Jackie had murmured to herself as she stepped out of the taxi and admired the breathtakingly lush tropical setting of tall royal palms, giant fruit trees, and cascading fountains. It was also apparent to Jackie that with so many eye-catching sights to behold and so many famous people around, Dulles had assumed that a nobody like Jacqueline Bouvier was likely to go unnoticed. Why would anyone be looking at her when they could be ogling big-name stars like Gary Cooper, Rita Hayworth, or John Wayne?

“Don’t worry about your suitcase,” Emiliano had told her before she checked into the hotel. “I already arranged for it to be sent up to your room.”

Once again, Jackie had been impressed with how considerate Emiliano was. He’s going to make some woman a good husband one day, she’d thought, if he ever warms up a bit.

Standing in line at the reception desk, Jackie began tapping her foot impatiently as she waited behind a woman giving the clerk a litany of instructions in a thick European accent. A bellhop stood by with the woman’s truckload of Louis Vuitton luggage, looking as if he had turned to marble. Finally, the tall, urbane-looking man at the woman’s side prodded her arm.

“Zsa Zsa darling, I’d rather not spend the entire night in the lobby, if you don’t mind. Let’s get on with it, shall we?” the man said in a smooth, upper-class British accent. Jackie had thought he looked familiar, but now he was