LAMMECK PLANTED HIS FEET square and hard, flexing at the knees. Both eyes stayed open, the way he trained his Jeds, keeping the periphery available to spot secondary threats. He sighted, right-eyed, down the short barrel at the end of his extended arms, the left hand cupped under the butt. In quick succession, he squeezed off six rounds, pressing the trigger with the first fold of his index finger. The paper man forty feet away shivered and tore.
Lammeck set the smoking gun on the counter. He tugged off his earmuffs and hauled on the clothesline to spool the target to him. The paper sprinted forward on its wire rail.
A Colt .38 Super Automatic was not Lammeck’s first choice. He’d bothered Dag for a Smith &c Wesson .44. Dag refused him that sidearm, claiming “God forbid” Lammeck would ever use that hand cannon in a crowd; the rounds would go right through whoever he hit—especially a woman—and knock down somebody else. Dag didn’t want Lammeck carrying a gun at all, rule number four. But Lammeck insisted he be provided a pistol, and not a lightweight .22 but something with punch. If he was going to be looking over his shoulder for Judith, he wanted more than a sleeve gun between them next time.
Dag relented and handed over a favored weapon from his rival agency, the FBI. This morning he gave Lammeck the Colt. Lammeck chose a 130-grain round, which flung the bullet at 1300 fps. That would be as accurate and powerful as any cartridge this .38 could fire. Lammeck wanted to be able to stop her the moment he saw her, from whatever distance. He had no desire to get close to Judith again.
The paper torso halted abruptly in front of Lammeck’s station. The target flipped at him and he snagged the lower edge, yanking it out of the clips. Concentric circles branded the chest of the silhouette. Lammeck had put four rounds inside the rings, one on the outer edge. The sixth round he’d purposely pulled out of the circle and aimed at the big-eared head. He’d missed, leaving a bullet hole that would have taken off an ear but not stopped the body. Lammeck folded the target and set it behind him. After reloading a fresh magazine, he stuck a new paper man into the clips, pulled on the rope, and sent it back into the line of fire.
After an hour’s practice at the range, Lammeck grew satisfied with the sidearm. He snugged it into the holster under his left armpit and left the military base, located outside the western rim of Arlington Cemetery. He drove into the late morning for the White House.
Stopping at a convenience store in Rosslyn before the Potomac, Lammeck paid a nickel for a Washington Post. He parked in a government space on Executive Avenue, across from the Ellipse. His appointment with Reilly wasn’t for another hour, at one o’clock. He spread the newspaper across the steering wheel.
Tedium was settling on Lammeck fast. Prevented by Reilly and Dag from actively searching for Judith, he’d been relegated to stakeout duty and cogitating. Others would take the bit and run when he next got an idea about where she might turn up. In the meantime, Lammeck was reduced to spying on the White House grounds, scratching his head in his new hotel, and reading the papers to keep track of the war.
Judith had vanished again. After encountering her up close, and almost paying for it with his life, Lammeck firmly believed she could get to Roosevelt. The woman was ruthless, focused, invisible. Worse, she would wait as long as it took and use whatever means presented themselves. Judith seemed at peace with her role in history as a murderer; she was even somewhat moral about it, regretting the collateral deaths. On top of that, she had associates, unwitting or otherwise, like the old colored woman who’d delivered the invitation to the Blackstone. By contrast, Lammeck was isolated and lonely.
Every passing day, Judith blended deeper into the fabric of Washington, and beyond that, America. No question; she would not relent. But he would, Dag and Reilly and Mrs. Beach would, because Judith would lull them into it. Just five days after surviving the Persian, Lammeck was already tired of sifting the long hours for a clue or an insight. He saw the hubris that Reilly carried as chief of the President’s protection detail. Dag had been infected with it. We can handle it, they said. No clamor, no all-out search, raise no hue and cry. Every night that FDR laid his head down to sleep, they figured they’d done their job, maybe even scared her off. Lammeck was certain that they hadn’t.
Reilly and Dag thought of Judith as a killer. She was not. She was an assassin. For four years in Scotland, he’d trained assassins. Dag, one of them, had forgotten what he’d been willing to do.
Reilly had told Lammeck he could go home only when the war was over. This presumed that Judith was working for an enemy. Lammeck had no basis to speculate who she worked for, though Reilly’s reasoning was sound. Still, if the two keys to Lammeck’s liberty were catching Judith or the war ending, he was betting on peace happening first. He scanned the Post for articles on the state of the war.
Last week, the Allies took an intact bridge across the Rhine in the little town of Remagen. General Bradley had flooded a hundred thousand troops into the German heartland before the bridge fell into the river. The Marines had just about captured all of Iwo Jima. Manila was liberated. Wreckage in Berlin from Allied air raids was estimated at 87 percent. American dead, wounded, and missing since Pearl Harbor was estimated at 859,587. In Parliament, Churchill announced that “Victory lies before us—certain and perhaps near.” Lammeck wandered farther into the paper, glancing at his watch for his upcoming appointment still thirty minutes off. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn began its third week at the Roxy Theater in New York. Judy Garland would be opening soon in Meet Me in St. Louis. Nationwide there was an acute shortage of fats; citizens could help by turning them in to their butcher. Several early advertisements for Mother’s Day touted sales of hats, candies, and flowers. Chuck steak was 30 cents a pound, lamb 35 cents, spinach 9 cents, tomatoes 25 cents. These were better prices than what Lammeck had paid in Scotland.
He set the paper aside. Afternoon foot traffic around the White House picked up as staffers plied their way back to their desks from lunch. Lammeck caught himself vetting each stroller, every vehicle, for some suggestion of Judith. He shook his head at how he’d tumbled into the paper for fifty minutes, ignoring the street and his task, forgetting everything but the little clock on his wrist and the world in small print and pictures. To goad himself, he created Judith in the noon sunshine, walking with poison in her purse, with a dagger sheathed and hidden against her thigh. Did she, for one minute, forget Roosevelt? Did Gabčik and Kubiš forget Heydrich?
“No,” he said aloud.
Lammeck got out of his government car to walk in the crowds. He gazed hard into every tall woman’s face, knowing she was not among them, but forcing himself to look anyway. Quickly, this game became artificial, plainly too small an effort in too great a pool of faces. Lammeck stopped at the corner of Pennsylvania Avenue and let his burst of fervor drain away. Of course, Judith counted on this erosion, and he couldn’t stop it. He looked around one more time in case she was watching, to see herself winning. Lammeck threw up his arms, to tell her it was so. He turned back for his appointment with Reilly.
Walking to the west gate, he saw a dark Packard pull in from Pennsylvania. The guard at the main gate recognized the vehicle and driver and waved them through. Lammeck watched the car head around the half-moon drive for the north portico, the front door to the White House.
He entered through the west gate, showing his Secret Service credentials. After checking his .38, he headed down the long West Wing hall. Inside the office door, Mrs. Beach pointed to a chair.
“The chief’s not here.”
Lammeck looked at his watch. He was right on time.
“When’s he coming back?”
“You can ask me whatever you were going to ask Chief Reilly.”
“Reilly’s not coming?”
“The chief said you could ask me, Dr. Lammeck. Do so or good day.”
Lammeck dug fingers into his beard and observed Mrs. Beach, who didn’t even bother to hold his eyes. She typed while he considered her. This was how far he’d fallen; Reilly didn�
�t keep Lammeck’s appointments anymore. Had Judith set this in motion on purpose? Did she know he would make an ass of himself spiking his thigh right on the floor of the Peruvian embassy? That there could be no honest explanation coming out of Reilly’s office? She’d taken Lammeck right out of the game without killing him. Fucking brilliant.
“Mrs. Beach?”
“Yes, Doctor?” She continued typing.
“Alright. I suppose Reilly would have passed this request on to you anyway.”
“I’m sure.”
“I’d like to see the President’s daybook.”
“His what?”
“FDR’s schedule. Where he goes, who he sees, hour by hour. Who keeps those records?”
“They’re kept by the White House usher, and we sometimes cross-reference with the steno pool. The President’s schedule is off limits. You must know that, Doctor. There’s a war on. The President’s movements are strictly confidential to his staff and this office.”
“I am part of this office, Mrs. Beach.”
The woman took a second to adjust her pince-nez on her nose. Perhaps she paused so Lammeck would reconsider that statement, so she wouldn’t have to do it for him. He did not, and she continued with cold precision.
“Doctor, you may have enjoyed flaunting your Secret Service credentials to get into diplomatic parties and restaurants. But you are not a member of the Secret Service, and your credentials exist at the pleasure of Chief Reilly. Neither you nor God Almighty is going to compromise the security of the President of the United States—”
“That’s what—”
She cut him off, “—and access to the information you have requested would do exactly that. I cannot approve your request, Doctor.”
“Are you saying I’m a security risk?”
“No, Doctor. I’m saying this Judith woman has demonstrated that she can find you whenever it suits her purposes. And the next time she comes knocking, we cannot have her getting her hands on a full repository of the President’s whereabouts and plans. You understand.”
Lammeck got to his feet.
“I do.”
He stomped toward the door, making up his mind to confront Reilly before the day was out.
“I can, however,” Mrs. Beach stopped him before he turned the doorknob, “give you access to the records you’re asking about, but only after a three-week lag time.”
Lammeck faced her. She peered up at him over her glasses, implacable and placid.
“So I get it cold.”
“Cold enough, Doctor, so that it can do no harm. Take it or leave it.”
“I’ll take it. Date it back to January one, this year.”
“I’ll have everything sent to your new hotel. It will be delivered to you personally, for your signature.”
“Of course. The desk clerk’s a spy for the Germans.”
She ignored this. “I should have it ready by noon tomorrow. Needless to say, you are responsible for the privacy of those documents.”
“I’m not sure they’re hot enough off the presses to make much difference.”
“You disappoint me, Doctor. I expect you to see that they do make a difference. Or why give them to you? Anything else?”
Lammeck recalled the dark Packard pulling into the grounds.
“Who was in the car that just arrived at the west gate?”
“That was Chief Reilly. He went to pick up an old friend of the President’s for lunch at the White House.”
“Does this old friend have a name?”
Mrs. Beach managed a face balanced between an annoyed glare and a bemused grin of tolerance. She made no reply.
“I can follow that car when it leaves, Mrs. Beach. Save me the trouble.”
“Her name is Mrs. Paul Johnson. She came for lunch. Mrs. Johnson and the President go back a very long time. She is above reproach, I assure you.”
Lammeck inclined his head to the secretary. “I’m sure Mrs. Johnson appreciates your faith in her.”
Lammeck stalked out of the office. He collected his pistol and strode back to his car. A softball game had started on one of the fields in the Ellipse. Lammeck bought a hot dog from a kiosk and took a seat on the grass in the unlikely spring warmth.
* * * *
Aurora Heights
Arlington, Virginia
“YOU’RE LEAVING?”
Mrs. Tench took a seat on a divan. She produced a kerchief and fanned herself as if she had the vapors. “Do you have another job?”
“I might, ma’am.”
“But... but I need you here. I can pay you better. Is that it? Do you need a raise?”
“No, ma’am. The pay’s fine.”
“Then... ?” Mrs. Tench shook her head at the carpet and curtains, the tabletops and silver that were about to be abandoned. “Then what is it? Is it me? Have I been too difficult?”
“No, ma’am. You’re fine. I just don’t like the city. I’m trying to get a job in the countryside. It’s more to my liking.”
Judith knew to ask for the letter of reference quickly, before this mercurial woman’s mood turned sour.
“Desiree, I...” Mrs. Tench stood, jamming the lace kerchief into her pocket. Judith cringed; she’d waited too long. “I am very disappointed in you. Do you have any idea what kind of lurch this leaves me in? Do you know how difficult it is to find adequate help in Washington? I’ve been good to you, have I not?”
Better than you know, Judith thought.
“Yes, ma’am. But I got to move on and I figured I should tell you straight off.”
“Is there nothing that will change your mind?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Well, I hope you know Mrs. P. will also be extremely hurt by this.” The woman checked Judith’s face for some twinge of regret, then said icily, “Fine. I can see you’ve made your decision. Can you at least stay ‘til the end of the month? Mr. Tench and I will be hosting several parties to mark our return home.”
“I can’t say, ma’am. Probably not.”
Mrs. Tench brought her rail-thin hands up to her temples, edging closer to one of her fits. Judith wedged her words in before the woman could disappear into the house for a crying jag.
“I’ll do my best to stay as long as I can, ma’am. Alright? I’ll ask.”
This mollified Mrs. Tench enough to lower her arms. “Fine,” she sniffled.
“Also, I’ll need a letter of reference. If you don’t mind.”
“And what shall I say, Desiree? That you deserted your last employer?”
“I’d rather you not.” Judith smiled. “But at least that would show how much you missed me.”
Mrs. Tench shook a finger. “Don’t try to charm me, missy. Alright. I’ll be in the library writing your reference. Please bring me a vodka tonic on ice.”
Judith watched the woman whirl away in a flurry of thin wrists and skirt. She went to the liquor cabinet in the salon to mix the drink, then to the kitchen medicine cabinet.
In the library, Mrs. Tench took the cold highball glass and swapped Judith an envelope, then looked away peevishly. Judith left the library to read the handwritten note:
to whom it may concern:
Desiree Charbonnet is a fine girl. You may hire her.
Mrs. Jacob Tench
Arlington, Virginia
Judith dusted until the woman called for her customary second highball. This Judith also made with rubbing alcohol, even stronger than the first. She delivered it to the library and told Mrs. Tench it was almost two o’clock, she would be leaving for the day, and thank you for the reference letter.
Judith put on her coat and stood in the front hall, not wanting to cheat herself. She waited, making no sound. In five minutes, Mrs. Tench shouted from the library for Desiree. Judith waited to hear the woman retch, then turned the doorknob silently and slipped away.
* * * *
Washington, D.C.
AT THREE O’CLOCK, THE same black Packard pulled out of the north drive of the White
House. The car turned left on Pennsylvania. It continued west through Washington Circle, past the Rock Creek Parkway, toward Georgetown.
Lammeck followed at a safe distance into the tony residential lanes. On Q Street, at the steps of a brownstone, the car halted. Mike Reilly got out and opened the door for Mrs. Paul Johnson. The woman held her skirts nicely when she climbed out of the backseat, very ladylike. Tall and graceful, she was measured in her movements. Reilly even bowed a little at the waist when she took her leave of him. From a block away Lammeck could tell she had a creamy complexion and long legs.
He waited until she was halfway up the steps before driving forward. Once Mrs. Johnson reached the landing, Reilly drove away down Q Street. Lammeck slipped in behind. He got only a glimpse of her before she disappeared through the front door: early to mid fifties, short gray hair still seasoned with auburn, soft figure; she probably was lanky years ago. In profile, Mrs. Paul Johnson was beautiful.
The Assassins Gallery - [Dr Mikhal Lammeck 01] Page 31
