The Assassins Gallery - [Dr Mikhal Lammeck 01]

by David L. Robbins

  What was the answer? Lammeck wanted to know, or at least take a position. If he could muster a convincing argument one way or another, he could capture it on the pages of his book, intended to be the scholarly last word on the impact of assassinations throughout history. Thereafter he’d be hailed or reviled in academia; he didn’t care which.

  An old historian’s instinct and common sense told him the times must change if the leaders are taken away. How could they not? The voices of insurrection silenced, the conqueror’s sword dropped to the sand, a throne toppled? These were more than the personalities of history: They were her engines. But the weight of evidence didn’t support this conclusion. Not when history was viewed in the long term, across the decades and centuries. Other leaders inevitably stepped in. Other forces rose to counteract. Even Nature intervened, with storms, volcanoes, earthquakes.

  Lammeck had spent his adult life chasing the answer. He’d pored over annals and archives, studied not just assassinations and their ripples but the killers themselves, their mind-sets, private lives, customs, tactics, conspiracies. He’d trained himself in the assassin’s weapons and ancient craft. He collected images, pinning them up on the large corkboard covering one wall of his office, slayer beneath the slain, matching them for his book the way history had.

  As much as he knew, he was convinced of very little. This was why the treatise he’d been writing since he came to Scotland five years ago was unfinished.

  He stared at the corkboard. The hundreds of withholding faces gazed back. With his finger, Lammeck again snapped the naked page in his typewriter.

  A knock sounded at his door.

  Lammeck scowled. Who would bother him at home during lunch and his work? He left his cluttered desk to head down the hall, ready to blister someone.

  Opening the door, he found the man in the foyer was no student, no soldier, but a civilian in a rumpled mackintosh and a beat fedora.

  “Well, well. Look at this bad penny showing up on my doorstep.”

  “Professor.”

  “Mr. Nabbit. Do come in.”

  Lammeck stood aside. The man strode into the small flat, looking around.

  “Nice,” he observed.

  “Small. But well located. I have a pub twenty steps away.”

  The man did not remove his hat. “I owe you,” he said, narrowing his eyes.

  “Me?” Lammeck feigned innocence. “Whatever for?”

  “It stuck. That damn nickname you gave me. I can’t get away from it.”

  Lammeck laid a hand to his former Jedburgh’s shoulder.

  “Honestly, I had no choice. If someone came to you with the last name of Nabbit, what else could you call him?” Lammeck shrugged, helpless. “Really. Now have a seat and I’ll get you a drink.”

  Lammeck smiled, then turned away to fetch the bottle of Drambuie.

  When he returned, Dag Nabbit had taken off his hat and raincoat. He’d tossed them over the sofa arm. His shirt and tie needed either a good pressing or an incinerator. Lammeck shook his head and went to the kitchen to fetch another glass. He called into the den, “Before I ask what you’re doing here, how’d the mission go?”

  “Lousy,” Dag said. He accepted the glass, then held it out while Lammeck poured. The two clinked glasses and swallowed.

  Lammeck eased into a rocker. The chair creaked to his girth. Dag took the sofa.

  “You’re still a bear,” Dag remarked, pointing his Drambuie at Lammeck.

  “And you’ve lost a stone, at least. What happened in France? That was last April, yes?”

  “April Fool’s Day. Perfect. I lost my radio man on the drop. Lost our equipment in a bog. Got captured after three days of wandering around ten miles from where we were supposed to meet the resistance. I didn’t stay long. Didn’t like the Nazis’ accommodations.”

  “How’d you get out?”

  “Actually, pretty much like you taught us. Amazing the things you can make a garrote out of.”

  Lammeck raised an inquiring eyebrow.

  “Shoelace.”

  Lammeck nodded. “Excellent.”

  “And a belt.”

  “Of course.”

  “And a vine.”

  “Dag, that’s ... that’s quite a specialty. Would you like to come to the Highlands with me tomorrow and teach technique?”

  “Nah.”

  “Of course. I assume you’re in St. Andrews on business. Too cold to play golf. Although these Scots will tee off in a blizzard.”

  Dag drained his Drambuie. Lammeck noted the man still had his nervous energy.

  “So, Dag, who has the pleasure of employing you at the moment?”

  “I’m with the Secret Service.”

  Lammeck raised his glass. “Special Agent Dag Nabbit. That is a far cry from crawling in the mud with a shoelace between your teeth. How did this plum fall your way?”

  “When I got back to the States, I took their test. After two months with you in the damn hills shooting every morning at dawn, I was pretty crackerjack with a firearm. I asked for my discharge to join up and the Army let me go. I’m on the President’s security detail.”

  “Ah, FDR. How is the old son of a bitch?”

  Dag met his eyes squarely. “Okay. Knowing how you feel about Czechoslovakia, you get that one for free. But no more. Alright?”

  Lammeck let it go; he’d taken his shot and hit center. “Certainly. Anyway, congratulations, Dag. I assume everyone calls you Dag. I take pride in that.”

  “Let’s just say you’re never far from my thoughts.”

  The two grinned at each other.

  “Professor, I came back to get you.”

  “Get me?”

  “Take you back to the States. We might have a situation.”

  “Who is we?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “Why not?”

  “There’s four people in the whole United States who know what I know. Before I make you number five, you’re going to be standing on American soil. I’ll send a car for you in an hour.”

  “I’m going back to the States? You’re joking. What about my university classes?”

  “I’ve already talked to your department head. He’s not happy but he understands who I work for.”

  “And the Jedburghs?”

  “Same.”

  Lammeck rose from the rocker. On his feet, he looked back down the hall to his office.

  “But my work.”

  Dag looked up at him, chuckling. “You still on that book?”

  Lammeck glowered. Dag was a philistine, an unrefined American killer now working for the other side. Lammeck couldn’t expect him to appreciate a scholarly work like his, of import and historical breadth.

  “Yes. The Assassins Gallery. I’m still working on it and I plan to continue.”

  “Well,” Dag grunted, rising from the sofa, “you’re just gonna have to get back to it later.”

  “You seem pretty sure I’m coming.”

  “I figure you know who I work for, too. Anyway, trust me. It’s right up your alley. And you’re the best man on the planet for what I need.”

  “Tell me what you’ve got, Dag. Or no deal.”

  Dag screwed the felt fedora on his head. Lammeck wanted to swipe it off and reshape it, then plant it back on the man’s messy crown.

  “I’ll tell you what’s public,” the Secret Service man said. “The rest you get when you step off the plane. We got two dead Civil Defense wardens on a remote beach, a man and a woman in Newburyport, Massachusetts. Both were knifed to death around two-thirty on New Year’s morning. And we got the husband of the dead woman, committed suicide in his house. Gunshot to the temple. About three-fifteen that same morning. A big kitchen knife with blood on it was found in his sink.”

  Lammeck watched Dag don the rumpled raincoat. “Sounds open-and-shut.”

  “It isn’t.”

  Dag headed for the door, lips tight. Lammeck didn’t move.

  “So what got the attention of the S
ecret Service? Why do you need me?”

  Dag turned the doorknob to let himself out.

  “Pack a bag, Professor. Quick. I’ll tell you in Boston.”

  * * * *

  CHAPTER THREE

  January 9

  Washington, D.C.

  JUDITH STEPPED OUT THE front door of the Commodore Hotel. Across the street, beyond the corner of North Capitol and F, sprawled the immense station house and acres of rail of Union Station. She’d come to enjoy the sounds and dark diesel exhaust of the trains coming and going at all hours. Taxis and crowds arrived and departed; many times Judith waded into the tides of people to listen, walk like them, observe their clothing, and speak on occasion.

  She’d spent the last six days in shops, in restaurants, on sidewalks, listening to the radio, reacclimating to America. She’d practiced her Midwestern flat tones and her Negro accent. She’d made herself facile at the humility of the colored girl, the springy step of the pretty American white girl, and could instantly switch between the two. She’d assembled a small wardrobe for her poses in both races.

  This morning, a blue and crisp day, Judith was ready.

  She wore a dark blue woolen dress with a ribbon at the throat, bought at a thrift store in the Trinidad section of the city, along with a cobalt pillbox hat and blue flats without nylons. Before leaving her room, she’d made sure to put on a mismatched brown coat, slightly but unmistakably secondhand.

  The walk to the Public Welfare Building lasted only eight blocks and took her closer to the White House. The last time she’d been in Washington, this nation was not yet at war, and this city was not the capital of the Free World. Now, the classic dome rose high against the sky with a deeper meaning, a sort of proud puffing of America’s white chest at a world saved by its hand. Judith nodded at the dome. She relished the increased power of Washington and America now, better adversaries than the last time they met.

  At the P.W. Building, she found the listing on the wall for the District Housing Assistance Office. Moving deeper into the building, she rounded a corner and halted at two signs. Arrows pointed different directions: right for white, left for colored. Judith turned left.

  Quickly she stepped into the rear of a long line. Most of the Negroes waiting in it were dressed like her, in proper but worn clothes, while a few of the men stood out in pressed suits and fedoras, carrying leather briefcases. More brown men and women filtered around the corner to fill in behind Judith. Several in the line recognized one another, but voices stayed low. The corridor smelled of hair products, soap, and wool.

  Judith listened to the talk in the line. The Negroes made smiling reference to yesterday’s Amos ‘n Andy radio show, at how Kingfish had snookered Andy Brown again and landed in hot water with wife Sapphire. A few held open the Washington Post; many nearby leaned in to read the spread pages. They remarked on the banner headline: U.S. Forces Land on Luzon, Philippines. They tapped the pages approvingly over articles describing the imminent victory, mostly Patton’s credit, of beating back the Nazi winter offensive in Belgium. One proud lady’s boy was “over there.” The sports section gave rise to laments about the Redskins’ heartbreaking season. Quarterback Sammy Baugh got hurt and only played eight games, and had his worst statistical year. The Redskins got knocked out of the championship by losing twice to the New York Giants at the end of the season; the last game, without Sammy, was a 31-0 humiliation. A few women knit from bright balls of yarn secreted in oversized handbags. Most of the folks just stared ahead and shuffled forward when the line crept ahead.

  Forty minutes passed before Judith reached the head of the line. She stepped through an open door into a small room divided into two cubicles. The desk on the left was busy with the woman who’d been in front of her in the line. From behind the righthand desk, a squat, sharp-faced white lady beckoned her.

  “Over here, honey.”

  Judith took the seat before the desk. The woman greeted her with eagerness, an odd energy since she’d likely seen several dozen people in Judith’s seat already this morning.

  She put forth her hand, tweeting, “How’re you? I’m Miz Sanderson.”

  Judith took the lady’s hand for a firm shake.

  “What’s your name, honey?”

  Judith hesitated, needing to adjust to the thickness of the woman’s accent, a southern twang Judith had not heard before. To Judith it sounded as if she’d been asked for her “nime.”

  “Desiree Charbonnet.”

  “My, that’s a bee-utiful name. Where your people from?”

  “New Orleans.”

  Miz Sanderson touched her breast with an open palm. “Oh, my stars, I was there once before the war and I am still tryin’ to recall how much fun I had. Well, welcome to Washington. You just get in?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Where you stayin’ now?”

  “A hotel.”

  “Well, that cain’t be cheap. Let’s us see if we cain’t find you someplace to live...” she scrunched her features and turned her face sideways, “... a little more reasonable. Okay?”

  Judith watched the woman work through the typewritten sheaves on her desk. While she dug, Miz Sanderson asked questions: “How much education you got, sweetie?” “What kind of work you expectin’ to do?” “How much experience you got?” “Your folks sendin’ you any money to help out?”

  Finally, she lit on two specific pages that she felt best matched pay and expectations to Judith’s abilities.

  “Okay, we ought to have somethin’ here. You’re a nice-looking girl, I’m gonna bet you’ll find some good job lickety-split. Now, Desiree, as you know, the federal government works with a couple hundred real estate firms here in the District to help find places for folks just like you.”

  “You mean blacks.”

  Miz Sanderson reached across the desk with a touch to Judith’s arm. “Honey, I’m sorry, but yes. Even so, you’ve done yourself a big favor by coming to this office. It’s gonna save you a lot of heartache. Comin’ from New Orleans, I’m sure you understand.”

  “Yes, ma’am. But isn’t this America’s capital?”

  “You sound surprised, darlin’. Don’t be.” Miz Sanderson considered Judith for a long moment. She looked up at the long line waiting to follow into Judith’s chair, then made some decision to spend a few extra moments with this pretty and naive colored girl.

  “Desiree, let me tell you how things work here in America’s capital. You know Washington is a federal district, don’t you? We don’t have our own city government; Congress administers us. And to be honest, Congress, in the middle of a war, couldn’t care less about us.” Miz Sanderson lowered her voice. “The District Committees in the House and Senate are the two worst assignments in Congress. All they got is junior members or ol’ bastards they’re tryin’ to punish. And let me tell you, sweetie, sometime you should meet the ancient sumbitch who heads the District Committee in the Senate, the honorable Theodore Bilbo from the enlightened state of Mississippi. He hates everybody—Communists, unions, Jews, foreigners, and, of course, coloreds. Last month he recommended on the Senate floor that all America’s Negroes be deported to Africa, and that Mrs. Eleanor Roosevelt be sent with them as their queen.”

  Miz Sanderson put her fingers to her lips, fearing she’d said something too volatile for Judith’s ears. But Judith laughed, squelching her own grin behind her fingers. It was too ludicrous to believe, this secret America.

  “Go on,” Judith prodded.

  “Well, honey, honestly, it’s not going to get better for a while yet.”

  “What about President Roosevelt? Hasn’t he done anything for the colored people here?”

  Again, Miz Sanderson paused in scrutiny of Judith, a hint of surprise on her face. Judith reproached herself: She’d exposed her lack of knowledge about being an American Negro in the South. And no mistake, Washington, D.C., was southern.

  The woman answered, “For all the good works of the New Deal, racial issues were left out. There
’s no way Roosevelt is ever going to antagonize his power base, and that’s the southern Democrats. So no, Desiree, don’t look to the President for much help. Not this president, anyway.”

  Judith repeated the phrase in her head. Not this president.

  Miz Sanderson lifted the two pages. Looking over them, she smiled sympathetically.

  “Desiree, I trust you are not looking for the Ritz-Carlton. This city is crowded, tight enough to bust. Once the war started, D.C. grew by leaps and bounds, it seemed overnight. There’s work here, there’s opportunity, yes. But I want you to know, it’s not all good. Our murder rate is twice that of New York’s. Last year alone there were more than fifty thousand cases of venereal disease. The telephones and water systems are ready to explode from overwork. Traffic is terrible. And, like you noticed, this city is still very segregated. Washington is packed solid, confused and doggone stubborn. Half the places I can offer you have no indoor plumbing. The other half are only a little bit better, but twice as expensive. Everything on this list is run-down and in a dangerous neighborhood.”