The Assassins Gallery - [Dr Mikhal Lammeck 01]

by David L. Robbins

  “Geez, you know about that, too?”

  “Just a rumor.”

  “Yeah, fine. In Erie once during his second campaign, when the Boss was standing on the rear platform of the train, some guy threw a rubber knife at him. It missed and hit the guy next to him.”

  “That’s funny.”

  “No. It’s not.”

  “I assume measures have been taken to prevent these sorts of things from happening again.”

  “Yes. Professor. For the record, now’s not a good time to aggravate me.”

  Lammeck walked on, considering that Dag was always aggravated, but thinking mostly about the company-sized troop that guarded the President in his own home, plus the armor and firepower that accompanied him when he traveled. Even with these protections and hired guns in place around Roosevelt—surrounded by a cadre of short-tempered, wary men like Dag, eyeing every possibility—there were cracks in the wall, uncovered in dangerous and comic ways by isolated individuals who just wanted to scare the President, watch him eat, or kill him.

  Without more prodding, Dag continued the defense of his agency.

  “Every month, Roosevelt gets forty thousand letters. Five thousand of those are threatening, ranging from guys who just want to punch him in the nose to people who say they’ll shoot him dead on sight. Each of these letters is investigated by Secret Service field agents. If FDR makes a trip to a city, every one of the local nut jobs on file gets his picture handed out to the agents on the detail. A few days before the President arrives, agents pay a call to the hate mailers’ families, asking them to keep their relative off the streets until the President is gone. If Aunt Sally can’t control Cousin Tom, we put a tail on him. And if the guy is a real pinwheel, we swear out a warrant with the local cops.”

  Lammeck marveled at the amount of hate mail FDR generated. Not even Lincoln got that many threats. Lammeck recalled how Andrew Jackson, also a well-despised president, used to sign his best bits of hate mail and have them published in the Washington newspapers.

  “I get the picture. You’re thorough.”

  They arrived at a door in the West Wing blazoned with the Secret Service five-star emblem. Dag waggled the envelope again.

  “We’ll see,” he said glumly.

  They entered a windowless anteroom manned by an austere woman behind a desk. A few framed certificates broke the white of the walls. The mood was reminiscent of the principal’s office. A placard on the secretary’s desk read: Assistant to the Supervisor, White House Detail.

  She peered over her pince-nez, “Agent Nabbit.”

  Dag approached, clasping the report behind his back. “Mrs. Beach.”

  “Go right in. Dr. Mikhal Lammeck?”

  Lammeck stepped beside Dag. “At your service.”

  The woman indicated one of the hard-backed chairs.

  “Charming. Have a seat.”

  Lammeck gave Dag an encouraging thump on the shoulder and did as he was told. Dag passed through the interior door, looking sheepish.

  Lammeck spent ten minutes watching wiry Mrs. Beach scribble and answer her phone with a clipped manner. He decided the woman might be two or three times the age of their Persian assassin, and would still be a handful in a fight.

  The inner door opened. Dag waved Lammeck inside. Mrs. Beach did not look up.

  Lammeck entered a warmer office, small but leavened with leather chairs and photographs of the man behind the desk with many world leaders. A quick scan of the pictures revealed Churchill, Haile Selassie, Stalin, and King Ibn Saud, before Lammeck put his attention on the thickset Irishman who rose and offered a hand in greeting.

  “Professor Lammeck, thanks for coming such a long way. Mike Reilly.”

  Lammeck shook hands. “Chief.”

  The report lay open on Reilly’s desk. They all sat. Lammeck looked between Dag and Reilly, waiting for one to begin. Both seemed to be waiting for him.

  “Okay.” Lammeck lifted his palms in an opening gesture of surrender. “I know there’s some leaps of logic in there.”

  Reilly laughed outright. “Leaps? Yeah. Like Superman.”

  Lammeck liked the man and played along. “Tall buildings in a single bound.”

  The detail chief chuckled. Beside Lammeck, Dag sat looking flayed.

  “Professor, Dag speaks highly of you.” Reilly patted the report. “And your resume is impressive. You’re an interesting man. You specialize in assassins, the exact sort of people Dag and I, and a thousand other men and women with us, are dedicated to stopping. I look forward to reading your Gallery book when it’s done. Now, if you don’t mind, I want to ask you some questions.”

  “That’s why I’m here.”

  Reilly grilled Lammeck about the gashes on Bonny’s arms, and his conclusion that the wounds evidenced a special martial training by her killer. He inquired into the dropped crowbar and the tire tracks in the sand. The timing of the murders. The mystery of Arnold’s suicide, for which Lammeck and Dag had no explanation, not even an implausible one. The possibility that the assassin had a local accomplice. The long black hairs. The two bloody knives, one from the twelfth century, the other from a kitchen.

  “And in your estimation, all this,” Reilly concluded, “adds up to some foreign female killer coming here to Washington to murder the President. Right?”

  The man’s tone was patient. It was also indulgent.

  “No, Chief. It doesn’t.”

  Dag moaned. Lammeck continued.

  “What it does add up to is unknown. But when Dag and I connect ail these dots, we can’t rule out the possibility that the President is the target of an internationally driven plot to assassinate him. Since we can’t rule it out—and with all due respect, Chief, I trained Dag and I know when he’s on to something—then you have a duty to listen to him, and to make sure the possibility gets run to ground.”

  Reilly narrowed his eyes. “Thank you for reminding me of my duty, Professor. Now give me the truth. What are the odds?”

  “Slim.”

  Dag dug his fingers in his eye sockets.

  Lammeck pressed on. “Keep in mind, Chief, that every president who’s been assassinated died from odds just as slim. Maybe even slimmer. That goes for kings and queens, too. If you like, I can give you chapter and verse.”

  Reilly measured Lammeck, then nodded.

  The chief said, “You’re saying she’s a level six.”

  Lammeck returned Reilly’s nod.

  Dag righted himself abruptly. “What the hell is that?”

  Lammeck answered. “She’s so good, there’s no evidence that she actually exists. She’s a theoretical assassin.”

  Dag mulled this, shaking his head. “Great. Frigging great. So we have to defend the President against a theory.”

  Reilly and Lammeck said nothing, but looked at each other. Lammeck watched the chief consider what he’d heard, while Dag rubbed his forehead in mounting misery. Then Reilly spoke.

  “Dag, I can tell you’re serious about this case. You went to the dry cleaners before you came to see me. So here’s what I’m going to give you.”

  Reilly scooted the papers and photos of the report together into a sheaf. He tapped them into shape and dropped them back into the envelope.

  “I haven’t got a Chinaman’s clue if this is a plot, a frame, a hoax, or just botched police work in Massachusetts. You tell me you’ve got some Persian doll who was dropped off by a sub to come and kill FDR. I say prove it better than this.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But Dr. Lammeck’s right. There’s nothing here that lets me rule out your premise. Nothing but common sense and a dose of reality. Be that as it may, I’m going to let you keep the good professor here at the Blackstone Hotel as long as you need him, or until I get tired of this case. I’m going to let you work on it for the same duration.”

  Dag sat upright. “How about manpower?”

  “Denied. It’s still just the two of you. And for the time being, I’m not going to alter any
of the President’s protection. However, I’ll put some subpoenas to work for you. Tell me what you need, and I’ll see if I can get it. But quietly, Dag. I don’t want this investigation on anyone’s radar, you understand? The FBI stays out of it, the newspapers don’t get even a whiff, and most of all, the Boss doesn’t hear about it. Okay?”

  “Yeah, Chief. Thanks.”

  Lammeck jumped in before Dag could say more.

  “One thing. We need your Boston agents to run down every car purchased in the Newburyport area in the eight weeks before the murders. Check the buyers especially for German or Japanese surnames or ancestry. Also tell your boys to look for someone who bought a car and titled it, or their own car, over to someone else in short order.”

  “You think your Persian gal was given a car to drive south?”

  “I think our Persian gal is already here in D.C. somewhere. But I think her associate in Newburyport is still in Newburyport. The car angle is the only thing I can figure for right now. So that’s where I want you to look, while we try to find the assassin here. Under the radar, just as you say. Once we get some hard evidence, we’ll be back for more help.”

  Reilly plopped Dag’s report into the in-box on his desk. He tossed Lammeck a twinkling Irish smile.

  “You say the most ridiculous things like you’re sure, Professor. Do you know that?”

  “I’m a teacher. It’s part of the job.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I’ll need my own vehicle and gas rations. And a stipend for food and expenses.”

  “I’ll take care of it. Dag, anything?”

  “Nothing. Thanks, sir.”

  Reilly stood, the interview concluded. He shook hands again with Lammeck.

  “Professor, I know this is a long way from your classroom in Scotland. Thank you for coming home. I can’t tell you how much I hope you’re full of shit.”

  Lammeck grinned and headed for the door.

  “Professor?” Reilly called.

  “Yeah, Chief?”

  “I’ll get those car sales records for you. Then I’m headed out of town for a few weeks. I’ll be in touch with Mrs. Beach. She’ll handle anything you need while I’m gone. I know that thrills you, Dag.”

  “Couldn’t be happier, sir.”

  “I’ll expect glowing reports. Tell me something, Professor. How do you figure on finding your assassin?”

  “I’m not going to look for her.”

  Dag’s jaw dropped. The agent was not having a pleasant afternoon, even though they were not walking out of Reilly’s office empty-handed or rebuked, as Dag had feared. Lammeck decided to buy him a beer afterward to cheer him up.

  “Chief, I’d never find her by looking for her. The woman’s good. She’s ruthless. And she’s in no hurry. The only shot I have is to cross paths with her.”

  Reilly laid palms on his desk, intrigued. “And how do you intend to do that?”

  “The only way I can.”

  Lammeck glanced to the picture of FDR hung behind Reilly’s head. He imagined the President with eyes closed, lying in state.

  “I’m going to hunt Roosevelt myself.”

  * * * *

  ALL THE WAY DOWN the corridor, Dag ranted in Lammeck’s ear.

  “You’re going to hunt Roosevelt? Are you out of your...” He controlled himself enough to drop his voice, but his hiss bounced off the walls in the West Wing, “... out of your fucking gourd?”

  “I’m not going to kill the man, Dag.”

  “You’re goddam right you’re not! But Jesus, did you have to say hunt in front of Reilly?”

  “He took it okay.”

  “Then you didn’t see the look he gave me. It was his ‘He’s-your-problem-Dag’ look. I almost choked you on the spot.”

  “Thank you for sparing me.”

  “Don’t get cute, Professor. Look, don’t go off half-cocked like that again. I don’t sleep well as it is.”

  Dag kept up his streaming plaint to the parking lot. At the Packard, Lammeck stopped.

  “I’ll walk.”

  Dag grunted, exasperated. “Don’t start pouting on me. I’m sorry I jumped on you. Get in.”

  “It’s okay. I need to do a little thinking. I’ll meet you for dinner at the hotel. And Dag, when you arrive, don’t honk, don’t bitch, just come in and sit down in the lobby.”

  Lammeck strolled away, enjoying the scowl he left on Dag’s face. He exited the lot and walked south along Executive Avenue. The afternoon bore a crisp blue clarity. He passed perhaps five hundred people, every one bundled against the cold, on their way, on the clock, all anonymous to him. He strolled to the center of the Ellipse, then stopped. Four baseball diamonds were laid out on the big circular meadow. Lammeck stood in the patch of grass that was the center field shared by all four diamonds.

  Lammeck had spent the last five years in Scotland; the White House viewed from a baseball field on a postcard afternoon was a peculiarly patriotic image. Lammeck scanned all four directions, spotting an uncountable number of vehicles and people moving within sight of where the President sat. He breathed in the winter nip of the day, and began with the thought that she had drawn the same cold breath.

  * * * *

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  January 16

  Washington, D.C.

  JUDITH LIFTED HER NEW dress out of the chifforobe, tore the thin paper sheath off, and spread the fabric across the bed.

  The outfit was bought yesterday on New York Avenue, intended for this morning. The cut was a belted waist, mid-calf, of shimmering cornflower-blue silk. Beaded embroidery adorned the short-sleeve cuffs and a bow set off the neckline. The saleswoman had assured her this was the latest fashion, just like the dress Claudette Colbert wore in her latest film, Practically Yours, a comedy costarring Fred MacMurray. Judith took from a drawer a matching scarf and arranged it on the bed atop the dress. On the floor, she set new high-heeled patent leather shoes dyed cobalt, and for her head she placed a navy, brimmed felt hat boasting a pheasant’s feather. Judith stood back from the bed and hoped that, when she left Washington this time, she might be able to take some of her outfits with her. Putting the clothes on, she doubted this could happen. She donned a new fur-collared winter coat.

  Mrs. P. waited on the cold porch. When she saw Judith emerge, the old woman tightened the knitted green muffler at her throat.

  “You lookin’ awful sharp to be goin’ to ask a white woman if you can polish her silver.”

  Judith said only, “Good morning, Mrs. P.” She followed the old woman to K Street.

  Workers crowded the bus stop. Most were black domestics. Mrs. P. seemed to know every one of them. She introduced Judith to a few, but Judith took no part in the conversations and swapping of stories rippling around her. She learned nothing by talking. Mrs. P. leaned in close to her listeners to tell them what she knew and surmised about the beating death of her landlord’s son in the alley four days before. Her listeners cooed at the scandal; Judith heard nothing mentioned about herself. The ladies’ talk switched to gossip. Mrs. P. jiggled her great bosom with laughter and swatted her hand through the air with her responses: “No you did not! Go on with yourse’f.”

  When the bus came, Mrs. P. trundled up the steps with the other maids. Judith lagged and saw no seat with the old woman in the packed rear. She took a seat near the front next to a light-skinned girl in cornrows. The girl was too young to be scrubbing for others. She exchanged a smile with Judith.

  “I like yo’ dress,” the girl said, pointing at the hem exposed under Judith’s overcoat.

  Judith said, “I like yo’ hair,” trying out the dialect.

  The two traded no more words until the girl rose for her stop at M Street in Georgetown.

  “Bye, pretty lady.”

  Judith shifted her knees to let her slide past. She watched the girl walk away. The next few stops were in a neighborhood of brick-and-ivied homes, where the bus emptied itself by half. Most of those stepping off were Negro women in powder-bl
ue skirts, white aprons, and mobcaps. The bus took on more passengers, but these were whites. They all sat in the front around Judith. One man eyed her and winked. Judith lowered the brim of her hat.

  The bus continued west, following the road onto a bridge across the Potomac. Judith glanced to the rear seats where Mrs. P. prattled with her friends. Along the north bank, the Gothic towers of a grand university rose. Judith was looking at these buildings when the bus pulled to the shoulder and stopped.

  The driver turned in his seat, studying her. Judith was unsure why this was happening. The driver looked puzzled. Judith lowered her chin so the brim of her feathered hat hid her eyes.