The Assassins Gallery - [Dr Mikhal Lammeck 01]

by David L. Robbins

  * * * *

  DUSK GATHERED ON JUDITH waiting in her Chevrolet. Again, the President did not venture from his compound for one of his afternoon drives. Since returning nine days ago from the Crimea, Roosevelt had only set foot off the White House grounds for the funeral of his old friend Pa Watson, an address to Congress on the following day, and a weekend train trip from which he’d returned last night. In the face of so little exposure, Judith maintained the patience of a hunter. She knew the man would emerge at some point, would lead her somewhere, and that would be the key. Or she would finally find a way in to him. Either way, this strategy— preparing, waiting, quickly exploiting—had always worked for her. It would again.

  But tonight, on watch in her car, Judith noted an unfamiliar pang in her gut. The sensation was not fear, but may have been the kernel of it. She sat with it, tried to taste it. Concern, yes, and a bit of curiosity. Never before in her career had anyone seen her coming. Certainly, she had never been the hunted.

  Through the morning and afternoon in that giant library, Judith had read many of Lammeck’s papers. He was clearly an expert in the history of her craft. He was also, according to a June 1942 article in the New York Times, a professor at St. Andrews University. Now he was here, in Washington, dredged up by the Secret Service. His very specialized body of work and his otherwise unexplained presence, first in Newburyport, now here in Washington, convinced Judith that he was the mastermind behind the government’s campaign to track her down.

  Good for the professor, she thought; some hands-on experience.

  She admired his scholarship, an analysis of the effects of political murders across the recorded span of mankind. At the heart of all his commentary, Lammeck had staked out a wonderful position, made all the more so because Judith shared it.

  According to Lammeck’s doctoral dissertation from the University of Rhode Island, the world had seen two types of assassinations: those that stabilized, and those that destabilized, history. Lammeck deemed that a killing either served history’s purposes by helping along the greater imperatives of the time and place, or it upset history’s applecart. Only with the clarities of time and distance did each assassination’s impact—or lack of it—became clear to the historian’s eye.

  Interestingly, this professor hypothesized that, across millennia, history herself, by accident or design, reacted in marvelous ways to the killings. History paved the way for those murders she approved of. To illustrate, Lammeck made much use of ancient Rome, Europe’s royal houses, and Judith’s own bloody Middle East. History, he claimed, often left a door unlocked, a guard asleep, a horse hobbled, a thick fog for a wrong turn. In most of these cases, the leaders and events that ensued after a political murder only hurried along some political inevitability that history had preordained. For the others—the ones Lammeck termed the “wild cards,” those who thought they could alter history with a bullet, a blade, or a few deadly drops—their out-of-the-blue killings seemed to have even less effect. History may have been sent wobbling, but she always righted herself in time to disavow the murders, reducing them to violent orphans. The killers themselves were usually tripped up by the same sort of strange coincidences, again showing history’s intervening hand. Those unwanted and uncalculated assassins were dealt with swiftly and just as quickly forgotten. That is, until Professor Lammeck rediscovered them, and preserved them.

  Lammeck’s conclusion: History was not easily bumped from her course.

  Judith had benefited many times from happenstance: the door left ajar, the drunken secret, the snoozing dog. History favored Judith. That was why she knew she would kill Roosevelt.

  She sensed that the formidable professor thought she could do it, too.

  In her car, Judith waited. She spent the hours listening to her second-favorite radio station, the more talkative WMAL. She learned that last week Hitler had ordered the destruction of all Germany, every store, factory, road, and electric wire, claiming his nation was unworthy of surviving if it could not win this war. At Hitler’s eastern threshold, the Russians were amassing three huge armies on the Oder River, the Führer’s boundary with Poland. To Hitler’s west, the American army gathered along the Rhine. A Lockheed Constellation had set a speed record for the route between New York and Paris. The favorite to win the Oscar next week for Best Motion Picture was The Lost Weekend, and the movie’s star, Ray Milland, was a shoo-in for Best Actor. Joan Crawford was the front-runner as Best Actress for Mildred Pierce.

  Sunset fell on Judith tapping her foot to “Swinging on a Star” by Bing Crosby.

  She started the car and joined the exodus of workers, many of them in uniform, wheeling into the streets. Roosevelt would not appear today. And even if he did at this late hour, Judith’s interest lay elsewhere.

  She drove to the hotel she’d followed Mikhal Lammeck to, the Blackstone, seven weeks ago, after the inauguration. She bundled up in her brown coat and a wool blanket against the dropping temperature, eating grapes from a paper sack, wondering if he was still checked in at this address just three blocks north of the White House. She didn’t wait long for her answer: With the last sun giving over to street lamps, Lammeck emerged, alone.

  The professor was decked out in a tuxedo and overcoat. Judith wondered what he would do if he knew she was watching. He was a big, bearish man in his beard, and the bow tie and ruffled shirt tamed him only a little. He moved well, sliding into his government Chevy.

  Judith followed the Chevy out of the parking lot. Because of the tuxedo and the time of his departure, she guessed where Lammeck was headed, and he proved her right.

  Massachusetts Avenue. Embassy Row.

  She did not follow him more. There was no need for that tonight.

  But the professor was closing the gap.

  * * * *

  MRS. P. CAME HOME to find Judith in her rocker, wrapped in the quilt the woman had given her. Judith rose to give the old maid her place. Mrs. P. waved her back into the seat.

  “I be out in a minute. Set still.”

  Judith rocked, gazing over rooftops at the Capitol dome, the statue of Freedom capping it. City lights knocked out the stars and the sky stretched blank.

  Mrs. P. came out on the porch in slippers and a housecoat. She’d draped a pink blanket over her shoulders. Judith watched her arrange herself on the steps. Mrs. P. produced her tobacco pipe and lit up. Judith breathed in secondhand smoke and craved some tobacco, or even some of her own hashish, but rejected the idea.

  The old woman did not speak until she’d taken several noisy draws on her corncob. She contemplated the same sky as Judith in silence. Judith waited.

  At last, Mrs. P. said, “You know, I had me a husband once.”

  “No, I didn’t know. Did you have children?”

  “Yep. Got two. They long growed up. The girl’s in Kansas City. The boy, I don’ know.”

  Judith rocked, and the small squeals from the chair’s joints filled the silence. The mouth of the pipe glowed red in Mrs. P.’s grip.

  “You got you a man, Desiree?”

  Judith squelched her laughter.

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  The old maid sucked on her pipe and studied the sky. No one trod the alley. A record played somewhere in the building, a ballad by the colored American jazz singer Billie Holiday.

  “You ain’t gon’ tell me ‘bout that Mr. Tench. I don’ wanna know ‘bout him and you.”

  “No, ma’am. I’m finished with him. Someone else.”

  “That’s good. You don’ work for this man, too, do you?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Y’all fuckin’?”

  Judith suppressed another chuckle. “No, ma’am.”

  “Good. Get to know each other fust.”

  Judith rocked, thinking of something to say.

  “We’ve started going to parties.”

  “That’s nice. Showin’ you off.”

  “I think he’s trying real hard to get to know me.”

  Mrs
. P. drew deep on the corncob and released a thoughtful cloud. “You gettin’ to know him?”

  “I’m just starting to. He’s very impressive. Very smart. A little scary, maybe.”

  “Don’ know if that’s good, a woman scared o’ her man. I was scared o’ my Earl.” Mrs. P. grinned. “Turned out I was right, too. Man got hisself throwed in jail. Almost killed a fella in a fight.”

  “Over what?”

  “Over me.”

  Mrs. P. raised her pipe to the evening, some tribute. Or, Judith thought, an apology.

  She turned in the darkness to face Judith. “He a he’p to you? Some men, they jus’ want a woman to be good to them and don’ do the return. You don’ want no man like that. And that’s most of ‘em.”

  “Yes, ma’am. He’s a help. He makes me be better. I have to be at my best around him.”

  Mrs. P. liked this. She tried to speak too soon after a puff and coughed out her first few words. “That sound good. You do that for him?”

  “Oh, yes, ma’am. I’m sure I do.”

  “Now ain’t that somethin’ for you, Desiree. Maybe get you off dis here porch, get you goin’ how you ought to be. You ain’t meant to be cleanin’ Miz Tench’s house, girl, we both know that. So you go on with yo’self. Maybe you bring your man ‘round sometime. Lemme meet him.”

  “I don’t know, Mrs. P. I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

  The old woman stiffened. She bounced on her big rear end and grabbed at the ends of her pink blanket to keep it from falling off her.

  “Oh, I don’ like that at all. Mm-mm, no ma’am, a man you can’t bring around to yo’ friends. A man you can’t show where you live. No, Desiree, that ain’t right. You got to have a man you can be yo’self with. You special, honey, with all your plottin’ and goin’s-on. You got you a head on your shoulders, honey girl. You some kind of different, and a man got to be able to see that no matter where you livin’ an’ what you doin’.” Mrs. P. waved the smoking pipe to make her point. “Naw, girl, you did not tell me your man can’t meet me. Mm-mm.”

  Judith waited. Mrs. P. was not done.

  “See, I knew the minute you started telling me about this fella. He makin’ you be better, like you ain’t good enough as you is. See, this the kind o’ nonsense gon’ hold you back. I had me a man like that. I walked out on Earl’s bad ass, and he come after me and got hisself throwed in jail for it. That’s right. Don’ make no never-mind where I sit on no damn bus. Ain’t no man gon’ own me, tell me he can’t come to my home and meet my friends. You got to get rid of a man like that. You got to toss him off like chains, girl.”

  Mrs. P. snapped her fingers. Like that, she was finished and resumed a quiet and intent sucking on her corncob.

  Judith rocked again and considered. The two women sat while Billie Holiday sang another sorry tune behind the building’s tar-paper walls. A cluster of kids came down the alley. Mrs. P. called, “Hello, chi’rrun.” Judith did not speak.

  After they’d passed, she said quietly, “I apologize, Mrs. P. I didn’t mean to imply anything by what I said.”

  The old maid kept looking off. “That’s alright. You go on and do what you gon’ do.”

  Judith let a minute settle, then rose from the rocker. She stood behind the old woman and laid a hand to her shoulder.

  “Take your chair. I’m going inside. Thank you.”

  Mrs. P. hesitated, then set her own calloused hand on top of Judith’s. She rose and with a long sigh settled in her rocker.

  “Can I drive you to work in the morning?” Judith asked, standing in the shadows of the porch. “So you don’t have to ride the bus?”

  Mrs. P. grinned. “That be nice, Desiree. Thank you.”

  Judith made a move as if to go inside. Then she said, “Oh, and I’d like the keys to the Tenches’ house, and the one in Georgetown, too. I’ve got some time tomorrow, and I want to finish up the silver before they get back.”

  “Alright.”

  “And I’ll pick up the mail again. It’s probably all over the floor.”

  “You know it is.”

  “Mrs. P.?”

  “Girl, go inside. You don’ got to say no more. We straight.”

  “I just wanted to tell you one more thing.”

  “What?”

  “You’re right. He’s holding me back.”

  The old woman started up the rocker, satisfied.

  “Well, then,” she said, “you know what you got to do.”

  * * * *

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  March 9

  Washington, D.C.

  LAMMECK AWOKE EARLY, SMELLING of cigarette smoke. It was a pub reek, beer and ashes, but without the banging head. Before rising from his pillow, Lammeck sniffed his armpits. A shower was in order.

  In the bath he turned on the water and brushed his teeth while steam warmed the tiles. With a measure of disapproval, he checked himself in the mirror. His cheeks were chubby; his bare belly filled both pinching hands. Today was the two-month anniversary of his arrival in Washington, D.C. Over that time, he’d not broken a sweat once. He’d spent all his time in cars and planes, on sidewalks, in chairs. He missed his studies, his students and weapons, his research and manuscript.

  He stepped into the shower, considering his latest strategy. Over the past week, he’d been to twenty-six receptions and cocktail parties. At every one, he flashed his Secret Service letterhead, sent Dag into the fancy crowd like a hound into the brush, and mounted his most suspicious, scrutinizing face, as though he knew what he was looking for. Instead of making smart chat and finding his duty pleasant, he alienated everyone he talked with. It couldn’t be helped: His purpose was to find out if they belonged at that shindig, and if they did, who was their guest? Lammeck intended to set tongues wagging, hoping a tendril would reach Judith’s hidey-hole and she would back away or make some next, glaring move. Along Mass. Ave., he was beginning to be recognized as an unwanted omen at the door, like a crow at a wedding.

  Soaping up, Lammeck grabbed his lapping waist again and lifted. He shook his head and spat into the tub.

  “I can’t keep this up.”

  And why should he, he wondered? For Roosevelt? A president, judging from the newspapers, half of America couldn’t tolerate? Who for four years sat on his country’s hands and let Germany terrorize Europe at will, at a cost that no one will ever reckon? Who now in his fourth term seemed too tired even to govern, now that he’d made himself king? Lammeck thought again of Gabčik and Kubiš, and grew disgruntled that since his arrival in America his two dead heroes had barely come to mind. He could not let himself forget them; that would be like forgetting your way in a forest. The U.S. was that forest, and Lammeck realized that he’d gotten lost.

  And why should he continue to protect the prerogative of the Secret Service in this case? Why not bring in the FBI? Hoover had far more manpower; the FBI was a fearsome investigative agency. Why should Lammeck be dragged into Reilly’s turf war? What had Reilly, Dag, and Mrs. Beach done for him except dragoon him into their witch hunt, away from his real work in Scotland? Even if he did manage somehow to stop Judith, there would never be an official word said about it. A massive cover-up would blanket the whole affair; Roosevelt himself might never know about it. America’s thanks would come in the shape of a handshake from Reilly and a ticket back to Scotland. Maybe someone years later would discover a secret file and write about it.

  “A little while longer,” he grumbled into the shower spray. After that, he decided, he would skip the handshake and just take the ticket home. Then they could send Hoover after Judith. Or maybe Mrs. Beach.

  Lammeck snorted at the image of the two women tangling, and in his imagination rooted for the assassin.

  He stepped out of the shower to towel off.

  And if we do find her? Will there be a chance to talk?

  No. Dag will kill her.

  Lammeck strode out of the bath. Naked, he began to conjure a conversation with Judith. Where wou
ld he start? What would the encounter be like? He saw himself beside her, unconcerned with what she looked like for the purpose of his daydream. It would be like talking to John Wilkes Booth, Cesare Borgia, or Brutus. He would ask...

  He glanced at the clock—7:22 a.m. An envelope had been pushed under his door.

  He tucked the towel around his waist and snagged the envelope. It was addressed in florid handwriting to Dr. Mikhal Lammeck, Room 540.

  He tore across the envelope. Into his hand slipped an engraved invitation. At the top of the card, in embossed stamp, was a gold-foiled coat of arms. The paper was thick and ivory-colored, inviting the bearer to a reception at the Peruvian embassy tonight at 7 p.m.