The Assassins Gallery - [Dr Mikhal Lammeck 01]

by David L. Robbins

  “Sorry, sir. But what made you come all the way to Scotland?”

  “I was born in Prague.”

  The Jeds all nodded. Each man knew the portion of shame his own country would suffer in history over little Czechoslovakia. How, six years ago, each of their nations turned their backs when Hitler first cast his hunger at his eastern border. England and France violated their own treaties by refusing to defend their hapless ally. America had not yet stiffened its will to stand up to the Nazis, to engage again in another bloody European conflict. In a span of six months, Czechoslovakia had been gobbled up, carved into slices, parceled out to Germany, Hungary, and Poland.

  “I was not happy that Czechoslovakia was sacrificed to the Hun for a few paper promises, a few more months of peace. Peace for who? Not for the Czechs. And I am still unhappy about it. So here I am. With you lads. Doing what I can.”

  Hesperus, in kilt, asked, “So, you’ve been with SOE since the beginning?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you must have trained ANTHROPOID.”

  Lammeck kept his surprise from his face. “Yes, I did.”

  Hesperus aimed a solemn glance around the ring. “They were the best, laddies,” he whispered. “The best.”

  A few of the Jeds agreed. Amazing, Lammeck thought. A myth had sprung up.

  The boys all seemed curious. Certainly they’d heard the story, everyone in SOE had. But clearly they were not aware of how badly it ended.

  “Tell,” the Scot said.

  Lammeck hesitated, considering that it might be better to herd everyone outside with the Jap rifle. ANTHROPOID’s tale was not going to help their morale. It had done little for his.

  “Professor?”

  “It’s not pretty.”

  “Neither are we, man. Tell.”

  Lammeck shrugged, admitting he was in no hurry to stand outside and watch the boys shoot a poor weapon on such a dismal day. He folded his legs and took a spot on the floor. The Jeds shifted on their rumps to settle in. Most lit cigarettes.

  Lammeck told them first of the hundreds of displaced Czech volunteers, who came from their betrayed land in 1940 to defend France, looking for places and ways to fight the Nazis. When France capitulated—Loo winced at this—the Czechs made their way next to England.

  The Czech government-in-exile and SOE selected from the Czech Brigade three dozen commandos to return to their occupied nation. These thirty-six men would show the Soviets and British that the Czechs were still in the fight, and that an active underground existed that could be brought into play against the Germans there.

  “Josef Gabčik and Jan Kubiš,” Lammeck said, remembering the faces of the two boys, both young and smooth. Blue eyes. Best friends.

  “Gabčik and Kubiš made up the team code-named ANTHROPOID. I had them here in Scotland for Weapons. They were not my best students, but they were the most enthusiastic. They dropped into Czechoslovakia, I remember, on December 29, ‘41. Their assignment was the same as yours, my lads. At the right time and at the right place, to perform sabotage or terroristic acts. But their job description went a little further. They were instructed to do something so big it would be known outside Czechoslovakia.”

  “And that’s what they did,” piped up Hesperus. “Wait’ll you hear.”

  Yes, Lammeck thought. Wait.

  “Gabčik and Kubiš spent months in the Prague underground, moving from safe house to safe house. Finally, they sent word to London. ANTHROPOID had chosen their target. They intended to kill Reinhard Heydrich, Reichsprotektor of Czechoslovakia.”

  The Jeds stirred and murmured. They’d heard of the killing of Heydrich. Lammeck guessed that was all these boys knew.

  “ANTHROPOID gathered intel from Heydrich’s house staff and gardener in Prague. The decision was made to attack the Reichsprotektor’s car as he was driven into the city to his office in Hradčany Castle. Gabčik and Kubiš picked a hairpin turn Heydrich had to pass on his way to work. The car would have to slow to make the turn. Right beside it was a tram stop where civilians gathered.”

  Lammeck paused. He recalled both boys on the weapons range. Gabčik was a below-average marksman with every weapon he picked up. He practiced extra hours but never improved. Kubiš was the better marksman, smarter with the machinery of guns. Both boys enjoyed a pub. Gabčik was a fine dancer, Kubiš a comic.

  “Gabčik was like you, Thumbs. He preferred a Sten Mark II. On May 27, 1942, he carried it to the tram stop under a raincoat, with an extra clip, a grenade, and a .32 pistol in his pockets. Kubiš had two modified Type 73 antitank grenades in a briefcase. The grenades were packed with a pound of nitro each.”

  They did it backward, Lammeck thought. Kubiš should have had the Sten.

  The Jeds leaned in, elbows on knees.

  “Two Czech paratroopers from other teams were already on site. One kept a lookout to the south, the other had a mirror ready to signal Heydrich’s approach. They expected the Reichsprotektor at 9:30 a.m. He was an hour late. The mirror flashed. A dark green Mercedes convertible slowed to go into the tight curve. Gabčik dropped his raincoat, stepped into the street, and pointed the Sten at Heydrich in the rear seat.” Lammeck shook his head. “Nothing.”

  Some Jeds sat upright, some clucked tongues. Capone elbowed Thumbs. “I told you the Thompson was better. But no. Now look. Oh, sorry. Go ahead, Professor.”

  “In this case, Capone, I agree with you. The Sten malfunctioned.”

  Hesperus spit into the center of the circle. “I didn’t know this part. Damn.”

  “The car sped up into the turn. Kubiš ran forward and threw one of his grenades. The thing exploded near the Mercedes’ running board, tearing up the right-hand side of the car. Heydrich and his driver jumped from the car. The driver took off after Gabčik, who ran to a butcher shop. He got into a gunfight and wounded the driver. The butcher chased him out of the shop, and Gabčik disappeared into Prague. Kubiš lit out on his bicycle. The other two paratroopers did the same on foot.”

  Loo asked, “But Heydrich, he is dead, oui?”

  Hesperus piped up, peeved, “Of course he’s dead, you silly git.”

  “No.” Lammeck raised a hand to soften Hesperus. “He’s not. And Hitler was furious at the attempt on his governor’s life. As punishment, he ordered a million-Reichsmark reward, and the execution of ten thousand Czech hostages.”

  “What?”

  “By the next day, the Gestapo had collected enough evidence, like the dropped Sten and the British grenades, to figure out that the attackers were British-trained parachutists and not from any Czech underground or resistance group. So the Nazis held off on Hitler’s orders. Instead, they started a massive manhunt for Kubiš and Gabčik.”

  “And Heydrich?” The Sphinx asked.

  “He died in the hospital a week later from his wounds. An autopsy blamed blood poisoning from the grenade fragments. Probably he died from bacteria and lousy medical care.”

  “Good,” the boys said. “Bastard.”

  “What about ANTHROPOID? Did they get away?”

  This was the crux for these Jedburghs, for every boy going to war. These keen lads around Lammeck would surely do their jobs in Burma, Malaya, Japan, wherever they wound up. They’d been chosen by SOE on that basis. They would die if they had to. They wanted to know if Gabčik and Kubiš had.

  “No. They did not get away.”

  The Jeds reacted with disgust. A few gazed away from Lammeck, who pressed on to make the ending quick, though it had not been for Kubiš and Gabčik, and a thousand others like them.

  “Twenty thousand police and Gestapo started a manhunt across Prague for the four parachutists. A reward of twenty million crowns was posted. Every resident of the Czech Protektorate over the age of fifteen had to register with the police by May 30. In the first three days of June, a hundred and fifty violators of this rule were shot.”

  “Black-hearted Nazi rotters.”

  “What about Gabčik and Kubiš? How’d the Nazis get them?”


  “The four parachutists who attacked Heydrich tried to get as far underground as they could. The Gestapo’s house-to-house sweep almost nabbed them. They changed their appearances and looked for a place to hole up until the search died down. On June 1, they found an Orthodox priest who agreed to hide them in the basement of his church. Three more parachutists from other teams managed to get to the church, too. There, they were all betrayed.”

  “By who?” Every one of the Jeds was mesmerized. A stab in the back was the worst of fates. Each of these boys would soon be working in secret far behind enemy lines. Keeping that secret was the ultimate priority, for their missions and their lives.

  “Hitler worked himself into a fit that his Reichsprotektor’s killers hadn’t been discovered. He upped his ante. Now he threatened to execute thirty thousand Czechs. Amnesty was promised to anyone who came forward with information on the assassination. Tips poured in to stave off Hitler’s temper. One letter came right out and named Jan Kubiš and Josef Gabčik as Heydrich’s killers. It was sent by an SOE-trained parachutist.”

  Curses burst forth. “Son of a bitch.” “Bastard.” “Bloody coward. “ Lammeck let them rage, before going on.

  “On June 16, Karel Čurda walked into Gestapo headquarters in Prague. The Germans established he’d been trained by us and parachuted in. Čurda told them he wanted no more reprisals against innocent Czechs, and that he wanted to save himself and his family. He gave them the names of every SOE operative and Czech underground member he knew. At dawn the next day, the raids started.”

  The Jedburghs were silent. None could meet Lammeck’s eyes.

  He continued: “I had Čurda here, too, with the rest. No one knew he’d turn out to be a weasel. He seemed like a good enough chap.”

  Lammeck resurrected Čurda’s angular face for an instant. It was one that would have been forgotten, along with Kubiš’s, Gabčik’s, and the rest, had it not been for their brief roles in history.

  “Several in the Prague underground, folks who’d hid or helped the parachutists, bit their cyanide capsules with the Gestapo at the door. More were rounded up and thrown into cells and interrogated. One young man was shown his mother’s severed head floating in a tub of water. He broke, telling the Gestapo that his poor mom had warned him that if things went south and he needed shelter, he should head for the Orthodox Cathedral of Saints Cyril and Methodius.”

  Yukon muttered, “I don’t fucking believe this.”

  “At dawn on the eighteenth, Gestapo and local police cordoned off the church and entered. A firelight broke out in the choir loft. Two of the parachutists were killed. Kubiš used his last bullet on himself. The priest was forced to show the Germans the small door leading down to the crypt. Čurda was brought in to talk the four remaining parachutists into surrendering. Then he had to duck from a machine gun blast.”

  Grizzly rattled a big fist. “Good.”

  “The fire department flooded the church basement. The water seeped out through drains and cracks in the floor. The police tossed tear gas canisters down to the crypt and the parachutists threw them back out to the street. Finally, after six hours of this, the Gestapo lost patience. They blew a big hole in the main entrance to the crypt. When they rushed in, four shots rang out. The parachutists killed themselves. The Germans found eleven weapons in the basement and not one round of ammunition left.”

  Lammeck had never told this story, gathered over the past two years from fragments of intelligence smuggled out of Prague. Now, seeing the way his Jedburghs were affected, he made up his mind that relating it would be a permanent fixture of his training regimen. Opening these boys’ eyes and tearing a piece of their hearts was as important as instructing their hands.

  “Then Hitler took his revenge.”

  The boys moaned.

  “In June, the Führer ordered the destruction of the villages of Ležáky and Lidice. All the adult inhabitants of both villages were executed, about five hundred men and women. Lidice was obliterated. A road and a creek were diverted so no trace of the town would ever be seen again. Later, two hundred and fifty friends and relatives of the seven parachutists were executed. All the officials of the church where the parachutists hid were executed. Čurda the turncoat collected a five-million-crown bounty.”

  “Someone needs to cut that lad’s throat.”

  “Or stretch it.”

  Lammeck surveyed the twelve young men around him. This would be all for now. He’d lead them back to the warm barracks and let them have the afternoon off. He didn’t feel up to taking more weapons in hand, either. He wanted to put his feet up on the woodstove in his quarters and consider the human math of sending these boys, not much older than children, to murder one symbolic figure like Heydrich, resulting in so many subsequent deaths. Was it fair, even necessary? Yes. History, he thought, is built on bones. The lucky bones at least get to keep their names attached.

  Lammeck gave his Jeds the ending to the tale.

  “The skulls of those seven parachutists are kept on a shelf in the Gestapo headquarters in Prague.”

  “That’s good enough for me.” The Wizard rose from the circle, impatient. “Lads, what say we tell SOE to sod off on Burma. Let’s drop into Prague. A bit of work left to do.”

  Capone shouted, “Here, here!”

  Lammeck got to his feet, creaky from the cold floor. “The Japanese, boys,” he told the Jeds. “Focus on the Japs. They’re next for you.”

  “Professor, someone’s got to take care of that bastard Čurda.”

  “He’ll be dealt with, I suspect. Let’s head back to the barracks.” The boys picked up their gear and filed for the door. Hesperus, his Scots face scarlet, wasn’t done.

  “Alright, laddies, it’s the Jappos for us. What say we swear right now, every one of us, that if we get one shot at fucking Hirohito, the professor here can drink an ale out of our bloody skulls, and that’s bloody alright with us. Hey? I swear.”

  All the Jedburghs formed a ring and piled their hands into the center. Hesperus led them to repeat, “I swear.”

  Lammeck stood aside, knowing he’d done his job today. He’d taken a step toward making these boys into assassins. He walked into the cold day, following their swagger, listening to their oaths. And, silently, as he had with Gabčik and Kubiš, he envied them.

  * * * *

  January 8

  University of St. Andrews

  St. Andrews, Scotland

  LAMMECK STEPPED TO THE podium.

  His classroom windows looked north across St. Andrews Bay. The world outside shone blue and tranquil, glinting off riffles on the water, a calm and rare Scottish winter morn. Inside, his walls and chalkboard bore a pink cast, the reflection of the sun off the many ruby gowns of his students.

  He smoothed the folds of his own black masters gown and pressed his belly against the lectern. “Good morning, scholars.”

  Lammeck marveled, as he did at the beginning of every semester during these war years, that Britain could somehow field enough young men and women to fill his classroom. The University had weathered the six-year storm well, with only the Botany and Geology labs destroyed by bombs. Though blackouts remained in effect, and the staff worked overtime to cover for war-absent colleagues, St. Andrews reflected Churchill’s admonition to his countrymen: “KBO”—Keep Buggering On. Spirits stayed high, especially on opening days as glorious as this, with the promise in the air that the war might end sometime this year. But no one at the University forgot The Count: So far, 153 students who’d left campus for National Service would never return from their graves in Europe, Africa, and the Pacific. Lammeck often regretted his extraordinary ability to recall their names and faces.

  This semester’s class held more new faces. At the desks were a fresh round of Air Force cadets, always clean-shaven and eager young bucks; a handful of Polish officers billeted in the area who were granted access to the University; two wounded veterans mustered out honorably—one lad wore an eye patch; a few young ladi
es from the London Medical School for Women, relocated to St. Andrews after bombs damaged their buildings down in London; and the usual smattering of bejants and bejantines, the ancient name here for first-years.

  “Just so we are all on the same page, and to be certain no one has wandered in by error, this class is Beginning World History. I am Dr. Mikhal Lammeck. So rise now and retreat, or hold your place and away we go.”

  None of the cardinal gowns stirred. Lammeck left the podium.

  “Right. Let us dive into the bloody mess that is human history. We’ll start with a question. It is the single most important query for any historian, because the answer determines your point of view, the lens through which everything you study and decide about history will be colored. Tell me: Do you believe that history is made by men or by events? By this, I mean to ask, can a single man change or direct the course of history, or must history inevitably be the result of massive inevitabilities?”