The Patient Assassin

by Anita Anand

  Into his left jacket pocket, Udham slipped his diary.28 It is unclear why he felt the need to take it with him that day, unless he meant for the police to find it later. The entry for that very day was as incriminating as the weapons he carried: ‘3 p.m. Caxton Hall, S.W.1 Meeting.’29 Elsewhere in the same little book he had written the words: ‘Action’,30 ‘Only the way to open the door’,31 and ‘My last month’.32 Elsewhere in its pages, he had written Sir Michael’s countryside address as well as the home address of the Marquess of Zetland, the present secretary of state for India, and Lord Willingdon, a former viceroy. How he got his hands on those addresses, we do not know.

  Udham would have to be careful not to stick his hand too quickly into the left-hand pocket of his coat. In it was a squat, heavy-bladed knife, and if he was hasty, he risked slicing off his own fingers. The sharp blade was curved like a crescent moon,33 specially designed to cut linoleum. A man simply had to jab and pull to leave a long, neat, deep cut.

  When he dropped the Smith and Wesson Mark 2 into his pocket, he felt the stitches strain. A big and heavy gun, it measured ten inches from tip of muzzle to flick of the trigger and when loaded it was more than a kilo in weight. At least this coat, with its thick material, would not betray suspicious bulges like his clothes in Southampton. If he pulled his collar up it would hide the bottom of his face. The brim of his fedora would take care of the top half. He would look like just another Londoner facing the chill air.

  Udham took the gun from his overcoat to check it one last time. The cylinder clicked out from its pin position and he looked through its six chambers, making sure they were clean before he dropped in the bullets. This gun was double action, so there was no need to cock it after every shot. He could get off a number of rounds in quick succession.

  The size of the revolver was not ideal. His outstretched arm would have to fight gravity to keep the muzzle from drooping towards the floor. It also kicked like a mule. Every time he fired it felt like a cricket ball had been thrown into his hand by a powerful fast bowler.

  He would have to focus after every shot, keeping his arm stiff enough to hold his aim, but not so stiff that the shock of the recoil made him drop his weapon. Udham had practised shooting in the woods, but trees did not move. He had to believe that muscle memory would keep his aim true, even as adrenaline coursed through his body.

  Udham had waited twenty years for this, and now the day had finally arrived, it required just a little more patience from him. The assassin found he had a lot of time to kill before he would come face to face with his nemesis, but was so relaxed about what lay ahead, he even considered going to the cinema beforehand. A new Paul Robeson picture had been released that week and everything about it would have appealed to him. Robeson was playing an African American sailor named David Goliath in The Proud Valley, who travels to south Wales, where miners hear him sing and invite him to join their male voice choir. They give him a job in the colliery and accept him as one of their own. The workers of the world united.

  Robeson in turn fights for their rights, laying down his life while trying to save them from a pit disaster. A dark-skinned hero providing hope to the oppressed. In his mind it was Udham’s story too. He would have related to Robeson on many levels. The American actor had made enthusiastically pro-Soviet statements in his career, leading him to be blacklisted in many parts of the industry. There could be no more fitting curtain-raiser to his main event.

  Udham never got the chance to spend those final hours with Paul Robeson. The cinema was closed until later that afternoon. So instead Udham meandered through the cold London air towards the India Office in Whitehall. Sometime between 11.30 and midday, he went in and asked to speak to Sir Hasan Suhrawardy. When later asked why he had needed to see the Oxford-educated Indian diplomat, Udham would tell police he wished to discuss the block on his passport, but that seems somewhat implausible. His travel difficulties were well below the pay-grade of such a man.

  Suhrawardy was an establishment figure in 1940, but he had not always been. The IPI had files on him stretching over two decades, dating back to his student days. He had come to the attention of the security services because of his close connections to Russia. Suhrawardy, a brilliant Bengali student, had won a scholarship to study in Moscow in 1914. He liked the country and the people so much that he stayed on to become professor of English at Moscow University and was therefore caught up in the Russian Revolution of 1917. Managing to escape the violence, he went home for a while, only to return to Russia to work with the Moscow Art Theatre between 1926 and 1929. The IPI had only stopped taking an interest in Suhrawardy’s Russian connection in 1935.

  Could it be that Udham was trying to pass one last message to Russia before the end? We will never know, because when he came to call, Suhrawardy was not in. Udham was told to come back later. Of course, he never did.

  ‘I’ll be back for tea at five o’clock.’ These were the last words Sir Michael O’Dwyer spoke to his wife Una before he headed out of the door.34 The snow had cleared by midday and bright light streamed through the high regency windows of his London apartment. Sir Michael’s housekeeper made a mental note to put the crockery out in time for his return. She liked things to be ready for him and his particular nature had always allowed servants to function with supreme efficiency. Yet something important that afternoon was making him break his usual routine.

  The O’Dwyers usually took in an early evening film on Wednesdays, ensconced in the womb-like darkness of a local cinema.35 Kensington Picture House was their preferred retreat and The Old Maid, starring Bette Davis, was showing that week. The film had received mixed reviews when it debuted first in the United States. Unimpressed by the director, critics had been wowed by Davis’s performance: ‘It probably is not a good motion picture, in the strict cinematic sense . . . dramatically it is vital, engrossing and a little terrifying . . . As the old maid, Miss Davis has given a poignant and wise performance, hard and austere of surface, yet communicating through it . . . deep tenderness.’36

  The same description had often been used of Sir Michael. A hard man when it came to his politics, but deeply loyal and loving to friends and family and devoted to his wife. Sir Michael had grown increasingly sentimental with age, especially when it came to his animals. One yappy little Scottie dog called Mackay brought him particular joy. Mackay was the kind of animal most found profoundly irritating, a dark and spirited creature that ‘raced up and down the stairs’, barking at every knock at the door.37 Knowing he was going to have to leave the old boy locked up in his apartment most of the day, Sir Michael spent the entire morning of 13 March making it up to Mackay, taking him for an extra-long walk before he had to go out himself. The two of them had the run of the finest parks in the capital thanks to the location of Sir Michael’s smart home, situated on Prince of Wales Terrace, close to the Royal Albert Hall.

  Hyde Park, Green Park and Kensington Gardens opened out in great spaces around Sir Michael’s home. Though the greenery was quintessentially English, on the other side of Sir Michael’s front door the nine rooms of his first-floor apartment were redolent of India. He had collected curios from his time in the ICS and liked to have them on display, each an aide memoire to both entertaining anecdotes and important chapters in history.

  The engagement keeping him from his cinema commitment to his wife was to take place at Caxton Hall. The building had played host to its fair share of drama over the years. Situated in the shadow of the Houses of Parliament in Westminster, fiery trade union meetings, passionate suffragette gatherings and raucous political debate had filled Caxton Hall’s spacious rooms over the years. The Tudor Room was the perfect venue for a meeting of the East India Association and Royal Central Asian Society. Sir Michael would not be giving the lecture that day, but he was extremely keen to hear it. ‘Afghanistan, the present position’ seemed like an important topic for the time.

  The Russians had been using Afghanistan as a staging post for their intrigues for years. Af
ter signing the non-aggression pact with Germany, they had pounded the Finns into submission. Between them, Russia and Germany seemed to be carving up the world. It was only a matter of time before they turned their attention east towards the oil fields of Persia, then on to India.

  Brigadier General Sir Percy Sykes, the keynote speaker that afternoon, was an expert on Russia, India and Persia. A soldier statesman, Sykes had served in the Indian army with the 2nd Dragoon Guards, and later supported Russian forces at Isfahan in 1915. He had also served with army intelligence, and as consul at Kerman in Persia. He knew the terrain and the temperament of the region. He also happened to be one of Sir Michael’s closest friends.

  The pair had known each other for decades, and Sir Michael had agreed to say a few words to supplement his friend’s thoughts. Men like Sykes could help bring Britain safely out of the chaos, Sir Michael believed, and he was only too happy to do his bit to help.

  He was not alone. The Marquess of Zetland, secretary of state for India, had carved a space in his wartime diary to chair the meeting. Raj luminaires like Sir Louis Dane, Sir Michael’s predecessor as lieutenant governor of Punjab, and Lord Lamington, the former governor of Bombay, had also agreed to attend.

  When the doors finally opened at around 2 p.m., the 130 laidout seats filled quickly. The audience was peppered with former ICS officers, important military men both retired and serving, and members of the public. Considering the VIP list, it was astonishing that there was barely any security at the door. People filed in without having their bags checked. Many got in without having to show their tickets. One would hardly have believed the country was at war.

  Speeches were to begin at 3 p.m., and by 2.30 the room was already heaving. A ticketed affair should not, by rights, have been so oversubscribed, but even when the speakers took their seats, people were still squeezing in, finding standing room wherever they could. Sir Michael’s seat had been reserved at the very front, on the right-hand side of the hall. Just a few feet away from where he sat, a slightly raised dais had been arranged for Lord Zetland, the secretary of the East India Association, Sir Frank Brown, and Sir Percy Sykes. The clock ticked towards the hour as stragglers continued to slip in apologetically. Most stood at the back wishing to cause as little disruption as possible. Udham was one of the last to squeeze in.

  His hat was pulled low, his overcoat now folded neatly over one arm. Waved in impatiently, to his relief, nobody asked to see Udham’s ticket. It was lucky, because he had none to show. Unlike other latecomers, Udham headed for the aisle on the right-hand side of the hall instead of the back, and edged his way forward, stopping just shy of the fourth row. He was just a few feet away from Sir Michael O’Dwyer, who sat with his back to him.38

  All Udham could see of the former lieutenant governor was his snowy white head bobbing in conversation. This was the man who had dominated his thoughts for decades, who had inspired him to travel thousands of miles, who had pushed him into foreign circles and underground organisations. This white-haired man had brought him to the edges of his endurance and capability. The untouchable O’Dwyer within touching distance of the Kamboj orphan at last. Udham watched as Sir Michael chatted animatedly without a care in the world.

  Four strides would bring him face to face with his enemy, but Udham held his position and instead settled his back into the wood panelling. As the first of the speakers rose to his feet, he popped a boiled sweet into his mouth. The very spirit of calm attentiveness.

  Most people would later say that they did not even notice Udham standing there. Major Reginald Alfred Slee was one of the few exceptions. A retired army officer with the Duke of Cambridge’s Regiment, he had a soldier’s eye and had been watching Udham standing a few rows in front of him. It had struck him as odd that this man had pushed his way past people to stand where he was. It was not the most comfortable place to watch proceedings. A fellow would have to twist his body sideways in order to see the dais. Almost unconsciously, Slee noted the man’s appearance: ‘Dark skinned . . . middle-aged . . . probably about forty to forty-five years of age. He was a heavily built man and was dressed in dark morning dress.’39

  Claud Wyndham Harry Richie, a retired assistant bank manager, also noticed Udham, mostly because he had brushed past him as he walked down his aisle: ‘I had not seen him enter but my attention was drawn to him because I could see that he was not a European. I thought that he was a north Indian or an Afghan . . . He seemed very interested in the meeting.’40

  Introduced by Frank Brown, Sir Percy spoke for about three quarters of an hour, followed by Lord Zetland, who spoke for fifteen minutes. As time ticked on, Udham’s face began to betray his feelings. He was smiling to himself, even though Sykes’s speech was far from funny. So close. He was so very close.

  When Sir Michael O’Dwyer eventually rose to his feet to turn and address the audience from the floor, Udham saw his face for the first time. Sir Michael was older, but had lost none of his presence or energy. He captivated the room with his lively blue eyes, speaking animatedly about ‘the riot in the Punjab after the Great War’ and the lessons that could be learned and applied in Afghanistan. It was vintage O’Dwyer: portentous but at the same time humorous and engaging.

  It must have taken everything Udham had in him not to reach for his pistol when Sir Michael started talking about Punjab. He inched closer, his back still against the wall. There was only one chance to get this right. Patient . . . He had to be patient.

  As Sir Michael sat down, a flutter of activity caused heads to turn, but it had nothing to do with Udham. A middle-aged woman had just been let in and there was some shuffling of feet and bags to accommodate her. Marjorie Usher was a prominent member of the East India Association and had been running horribly late. She had been allowed to enter at 4.25 p.m.,41 though the doors had been closed to other latecomers. Marjorie looked around the room and her eyes immediately settled on Udham: ‘About three yards from the platform, I saw an Indian. His face seemed familiar, and on more than one occasion I saw him looking around the room.’42

  When Lord Lamington stood to deliver his vote of thanks, Marjorie looked away from the Indian. Lamington spoke in the kind of booming voice typical of the chronically hard of hearing. Marjorie missed Udham’s imperceptible shuffle forward.

  Bertha Herring, a volunteer ambulance driver,43 was one of the only people to keep her eyes on Udham despite Lord Lamington’s distracting contribution. The dark-skinned man had put her on edge: ‘I wondered who this man was and how he came to be there. He appeared to be of very unpleasant appearance.’44

  To the sound of warm applause, the meeting was brought to a close. The snow of the morning had now turned to sleet and people, Bertha included, began to gather up their things, pulling on coats, buttoning up, reaching under chairs for umbrellas. Sir Michael and the other speakers were out of their seats now, gathered in a distinguished-looking huddle at the front, congratulating each other.

  Pushing against the flow heading for the exit, Udham made his move. Sir Michael had turned to speak to Lord Lamington when he first noticed Udham approach him. His hand was extended.

  At first Sir Michael must have thought he wanted to shake hands. By the time he saw the gun, it was too late. No time to run, instincts kicked in instead and he turned away from the revolver, hands across his body, protecting his chest. The gun was practically touching his back when it went off for the first time.

  Udham’s bullet bored a path through Sir Michael’s 75-year-old body, shattering his tenth rib and slicing through the base of his lung. It travelled through the right ventricle of his heart before emerging out of his left side.45 A wisp of white smoke and sulphur filled the space between them as Udham’s gun hand reared up towards the ceiling. He brought it down so quickly that Sir Michael didn’t even have time to fall when he was hit again.

  The second bullet also flew into the old man’s back, entering at a slightly lower angle than the first. Udham’s firing was precise and deadly. The round fo
llowed a path almost parallel to the first: ‘The lower [bullet] smashed the twelfth rib, [and] ploughed up the right kidney, passed through the soft issue of the back of the abdomen.’46

  Sir Michael crumpled and fell to the ground, in an almost foetal position. He rolled onto his back, staring blankly at the ceiling. It is doubtful whether he even heard the Tudor Room erupt around him. Amid the screams, chairs clattered on the wooden floor as people dived for cover. Udham, crouched behind one of the frontrow seats, pivoted and very deliberately took aim at the dais. Firing his third shot, he hit Lord Zetland at chest height. Once again, the heavy Smith and Wesson kicked hard against his grip, and once again, Udham wrestled it back into position to let off another round almost immediately. Both bullets found their mark. Lord Zetland, who had turned his body in an attempt to get off the stage, was hit twice in the left side. He slumped in his chair clutching at his chest.

  Believing he had delivered fatal wounds, Udham now turned his fire on 79-year-old Lord Lamington, the hard-of-hearing former governor of Bombay, and 83-year-old Sir Louis Dane, Sir Michael O’Dwyer’s predecessor in the Punjab.

  Dane had been standing next to his old friend Sir Michael. The order in which Udham had selected his victims gave him vital seconds to get away. He had managed to put around six feet between himself and Udham when he too was caught by Udham’s fifth bullet. Dane raised his hand in an instinctively protective way and the bullet smashed through, shattering the bones in his forearm. By rights it should have continued its trajectory and embedded itself in his torso, but something was very wrong with Udham’s gun. He was firing with precision, but the bullets were not travelling with as much force as they should have been.

  Lord Lamington, a frail man, was not so fast on his feet as Dane. He was shot at much closer quarters by Udham’s final bullet. It too was destined for his torso, but like Dane, Lamington’s outstretched hand took the bullet and all of its force.