The Assassins Gallery - [Dr Mikhal Lammeck 01]

by David L. Robbins

  In the bushes ten feet from where he stood, at the foot of a thick oak, lay some clothes. Lammeck stood erect, marshaling his breathing. He lifted the .38, scanning the barrel in every direction up the hill. He sidestepped through the leaves, eyes and pistol on watch for motion in the forest. Standing over the clothes, he looked quickly down. At his feet lay a black maid’s dress, set off with white piping and lace.

  His hands tightened on the Colt. He stood rock still, searching the woods for the sound of crunching leaves, the flash of a figure between the trunks.

  “Hello, Mikhal.”

  Lammeck swung the gun to her voice, straight ahead uphill. He did not find her.

  “Judith.”

  “How incredible to see you. I wondered who was making all that noise behind me. At first I thought someone was riding a horse.”

  “I don’t see you. Come out.”

  “Is that a Colt .38?”

  “Yes, and it’s goddam heavy.”

  “I can tell. You look winded.”

  “I am.”

  Judith laughed.

  “When Allah wants to give us strength, He sends labors to make us strong.”

  Lammeck took a deep breath to compose himself. He stood straight now, feeling his pulse racing in his temple and hands.

  “Come out, Judith.”

  Sixty feet up the slope, her head leaned from behind a wide oak. Her hair was shorter than the wig she’d worn at the embassy.

  Lammeck said, “He’s dead.”

  “Or he soon will be.”

  “How’d you do it?”

  “You’ll figure it out soon enough. Did you visit Annette?”

  “Yes.”

  “How is she feeling?”

  “She’s fine.”

  Slow and two-handed, Lammeck brought the pistol dead center on her face.

  “It’s over,” he said.

  “No, it’s not, Mikhal. Not at all. I still have a long trip home. So if you’ll excuse me, I need to be going.”

  Lammeck tightened the first fold of his index finger against the trigger.

  “Put your hands where I can see them, and step in the open.”

  Even at a distance, Lammeck could see the white of her smile and blue glint in her eyes.

  “That’s a big gun, and not very accurate. Plus it’s an uphill shot, I’m a rather small target, and you’re exhausted.”

  Lammeck fired. The bullet blasted a chunk off the center of the tree inches from her ear. At the splatter of bark, Judith ducked behind the trunk. The blast’s report echoed across the woods. Birds fluttered off to quieter branches. Slowly, she slanted out again.

  “One-hundred-thirty-grain round,” he called out, training the barrel on her forehead. “And for the record, I’m a fucking expert shot.”

  “My, you are.”

  “I’m taking you back.”

  At this, Judith stepped full from behind the tree. She wore a dark blouse above a green skirt. A black purse hung over her shoulder. She looked like a woman ready to go shopping, in colors perfect for running through a forest.

  Lammeck made his way up the slope, holding her steady in the gun’s sight. She did not raise her hands but joined them at her waist, tapping the thumbs impatiently.

  “Believe me, Mikhal. The last thing anyone wants you to do is bring me back.”

  Lammeck winced at this. The statement made no sense. He continued to climb the hill, eyes cocked behind the gun.

  “Listen to me,” she said. “Your job was to stop me. It’s too late for that. My job was to kill him. Both of us are done. Let’s go home.”

  Lammeck continued to approach, halfway to her now. Judith lifted a foot to move backward up the hill. Lammeck shifted his aim and sent a round past her. She snapped her head around at the bullet’s whisper close to her cheek. She froze.

  In silence except for his steps on the forest floor, Lammeck closed the distance to five yards. Then he stopped, keeping the Colt aimed between her eyes.

  “Drop the purse.”

  Judith let the black bag go. Lammeck closed the gap two more strides. She sighed as if his caution were needless.

  “Mikhal, I’m not armed. Honestly, I wasn’t expecting anyone to come after me. I did a very good job back there of setting myself up for this panicked little run. Only you, my amazing dear. Only you. Who could have guessed?”

  Lammeck pointed at the earth. “Sit down.”

  Judith made no move to comply.

  Never lowering the Colt, Lammeck surged forward. With a tiger-fast blow, he shoved her shoulder and swung his big leg behind her, sweeping her feet. She went down hard, flat on her back.

  Lammeck retreated a step. Judith grimaced. She rolled to her side to rub her rump.

  “Ow. But nice. I didn’t think you were that type.”

  “We’re not even yet.”

  Lammeck lowered the pistol. A slug in her thigh would clip her wings while they waited for the agents or Marines to follow the sounds of his gunfire and arrive. Then he’d turn over the President’s assassin.

  “Wait.”

  Lammeck glanced up.

  Judith held one hand in what looked at first glance to be the OK sign. Between her finger and thumb was a gray capsule.

  “I will not be captured, Mikhal. You know that’s not an option.”

  Lammeck raised the gun from her leg to her chest. She propped herself on an elbow, brandishing the capsule close to her lips.

  “Go ahead,” she said. “Or I will.”

  “No, you won’t.”

  “Mikhal, you disappoint me.” She sucked her teeth, making a tsk, tsk. “Who should understand an assassin better than you? Think about it. No one ever kills the high and mighty of this world without first accepting that death and a little infamy might be the only payoffs. Some even go looking for them. It’s always been that way. From Egypt to Alamut Castle, right up to this pretty afternoon in your America.” Judith shrugged, nonchalant, the pill pinched at her lips. “If that little old lady in Newburyport could do it, you know I can.”

  Lammeck blinked, amazed. She lay at his feet, beneath his weapon. He held what he thought was complete sway over her, but she acted as if he had no power at all. At that moment he realized fully in whose presence he stood. Gabčik again, and Kubiš. Agrippina, Charlotte Corday, Booth, Gavril Princip. This woman with poison inches from her tongue wasn’t answerable to him; moments ago, she had changed the course of a century. Mikhal Lammeck was nothing more than an interpreter, a manservant, of the history she created.

  “Killing me serves no purpose,” she said.

  “It’ll stop you from ever doing this again.”

  “No, it won’t. Stopping me doesn’t stop me.” She sat upright. “Pull the trigger if you think that’s true. But the next king to die will still die. You go ahead and watch. You write it down. Then remember I told you.”

  Unbelievably, Judith rose from the ground. She brushed sticks and leaves off her skirt. She arranged herself one-handed, never taking the capsule from her lips. She slid her eyes off Lammeck only to reach down for her handbag.

  “But you’re not going to shoot me, Mikhal. I know well what a killer looks like, and so do you. Back in the embassy, when you had that cute little Welwand in my ribs, the moment I looked into your eyes I wasn’t worried.”

  Again, Lammeck centered the .38 on the space between her eyes. Five feet from the end of the barrel, Judith’s expression didn’t change. She fixed her eyes on Lammeck’s face.

  ”You realize what that .38 will make the back of my head look like. Even worse than Arnold’s.”

  Involuntarily, Lammeck flinched, remembering the husband in Newburyport murdered by Judith.

  ”I know,” she said, softening, “it must have been gruesome. And I know it affected you. You’d like to be a killer, Mikhal, you’d like to know what it’s like. But I’m afraid your destiny is to report rather than participate.”

  ”Maybe I’ll prove you wrong.”

  Judith smi
led, disarming. “Oh, don’t be like that, Mikhal. It’s not an insult to your manhood to have a woman say that you’re good and gentle and can’t murder someone. But I haven’t got the time right now to make you feel better about it. I must go. You understand.”

  Lammeck shook his head. “You’re not leaving here.”

  She nodded, contradicting him. “History, Mikhal. She’s speaking very clearly at the moment. She needed the President of the United States dead; that’s why she sent me to do the job. Now that it’s done, history needs me alive.”

  He asked down the barrel of the Colt, “How do you know?”

  She laughed again and pointed between his eyes, matching his weapon with an assassin’s finger.

  ”For the second time you disappoint me. The answer’s astonishingly simple.” She spoke across her turned shoulder, past the pill still hovering at her mouth.

  “History sent you to stop me. Befarma-ri, Mikhal.”

  Lammeck drew a bead square in her back, into the heart.

  ”Don’t.”

  Judith smiled. In an instant, she took off up the hillside with amazing fast strides, accelerating like a wolf. Lammeck held her just above the gun sight, following her up the hill. For seconds she stayed within the range of the Colt’s heavy cartridge. He drew a breath to yell at her again.

  He let the breath go, and with it, Judith.

  In the last yards of the Colt’s reach, for no reason he could understand—he figured he’d sort everything out later; after all, that was his role—Lammeck fired.

  She didn’t break stride up the hill. As the shot echoed, Judith lifted both hands above her head. Lammeck could not tell if this was a gesture of victory or farewell.

  She vanished.

  * * * *

  * * * *

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  May 9

  Washington, D.C.

  DAG LIFTED LAMMECK’S DUFFEL into the trunk and slammed the lid. The two climbed into the government Packard. Pulling away, Lammeck didn’t look back at the hotel, at the passing White House, or the sunny city. Washington hadn’t been much of a home to him; he was glad to leave. His kept his eyes fixed on the road, even when he spoke to Dag. “You didn’t need to do this.”

  “Yeah, I did. I got you into it. Least I can do is drive you out of it to the airfield.”

  Dag headed south on Fourteenth Street. He slowed to let a crew of street sweepers with big-wheeled trash cans get out of the way. Newsprint, whole or cut into confetti, trash, liquor bottles, hats, and clothes littered the streets from yesterday’s immense celebration. The Germans had officially called it quits. Every person in America who was able to had kissed someone, drunk a toast, and tossed something in the air. Lammeck had tottered back to his hotel last night covered in lipstick and smelling like a tramp. The celebration had been his send-off. This morning, he awoke late with his head aching and his bag packed for Scotland.

  Easing beyond the sweepers, Dag chatted. “Now if we can just get this crap over with Japan. I hear the Marines are closing in on Okinawa. And the Aussies are making their move on New Guinea.”

  Lammeck let the words hang unanswered. Dag let out a long breath.

  “Sorry I haven’t been around much, Professor.”

  “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

  “Aw, cripe. Give me a break. Truman’s a lot tougher to guard than Roosevelt.”

  “The guy’s got legs that work.”

  “That’s mean, but accurate.”

  Dag swung left on Independence, then veered onto Virginia, headed east for the Anacostia Bridge. For blocks, the two men let silence flow between them. The day was pleasant and Lammeck was finally set free, but the mood in the car curdled until Dag stopped at a street light. The Capitol dome rose blocks away on their left. With no motion or wind, the quiet in the car grew even more uncomfortable. Dag broke it.

  “I read your report.”

  Lammeck nodded, not turning his head from the red light.

  Dag snorted. “I can tell you this much for absolute sure. That report is going to set a record for how deep it gets buried. Top Secret doesn’t even begin to describe it.”

  “Great. I finally achieved my life’s work. I wrote an historical document that’ll become the standard for no one reading it.”

  The rumpled agent, even in this weather wearing his raincoat, sped the car beneath the changed light. Dag chuckled.

  “Christ, Professor, give it up already. What did you expect? That the United States government was going to announce in the last days of a world war that the President had been murdered? And we don’t even know by who? What do you think that would have done to the nation’s morale? To peace negotiations? There would’ve been a witch hunt bigger than the fucking Inquisition. The whole globe might have gone right back up in flames. And that’s probably exactly what whoever’s behind this wanted. No goddam way, uh-uh. Your report got buried and it stays buried. Roosevelt had a brain hemorrhage. The old man died of natural causes, hardening of the arteries. End of story. Forever.”

  Lammeck glared at the rolling road, the flag-decked buildings, the banners and bunting draped over every railing and windowsill. Confetti lay trampled and filthy everywhere. The city wouldn’t be clean, or fully sober, for days.

  “Shame your Persian gal got away. I would’ve liked a little talk with her before I put a bullet in her brain.”

  Lammeck said nothing.

  “You had your chance though, huh? Three shots.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You get a good look?”

  “Not good enough, apparently.”

  Dag tapped fingers on the steering wheel.

  “You know, you might not have had the chance to read Agent Beary’s report. He said, judging from what he heard, he thought there might’ve been two minutes between your second and third rounds.”

  “She was hiding from me.”

  “She’s a good hider,”

  Now Lammeck glanced at Dag. The agent kept his eyes on the road.

  “She say anything?” Dag asked.

  “No.”

  “She didn’t mention what a surprise it was to find you one minute behind her all the fucking way down in Warm Springs, Georgia? Nada?”

  “We didn’t talk.”

  “Okay, sure. So let me get this straight. You chased her uphill into the woods, starting about a minute behind her and a hundred pounds heavier, and you caught up, probably while she was changing out of the maid’s uniform. You got close enough to fire twice with a handgun and missed both times. All of sudden she hid, though you’d just had her in your sights good enough to squeeze off two rounds. You looked for about two more minutes and couldn’t spot her. She said nothing and did not take a step on a forest floor covered with dead leaves. Then you saw her again one last time and you took your last shot. Missed again. Then poof. She’s gone. That about how it happened, Professor?”

  Lammeck watched Dag’s profile, until the agent turned his head to face him.

  “Exactly how it happened, Agent Nabbit.”

  Dag grinned. “Just asking.” He returned his attention to the road. “You know, ‘cause I spent a few days down there walking around where you were shooting at her. I dug two of your slugs out of two different tree trunks. Both dead center. And to tell you the truth, the woods seemed kind of thin to me. There just weren’t that many places where a woman at a dead run could duck completely out of sight from a man close behind shooting a .38 Colt at her with a 130-grain round. A man who’s an expert shot. So you’re right, Professor. Judith was incredible. For that matter, so are you.”

  Lammeck pulled his gaze from Dag’s grin. The car crossed the Anacostia River to the naval air station on the south bank. With no more talk, Dag drove through the security gate, credentials in hand. He parked in front of a hangar. Turning to Lammeck, he rested an elbow on the seat back.

  “Professor, it’s been a real pleasure and an honor. Mrs. Beach and Reilly send their fond regards and farewells, of course. Reilly
says you can keep the hand cannon.” Dag poked a finger across the seat at Lammeck’s underarm, touching the leather sheath around the pistol. These days Lammeck strapped on the gun with his morning coffee, taking it from under his pillow.

  “What else did Reilly have to say?”

  Dag shrugged. “Not much. Just that if any mention of what you know ever appears in print, or anyone ever hears about it, emphasis on the word ‘ever,’ then Scotland ain’t far enough, and that Colt under your arm ain’t big enough. The full weight of the United States government will be applied to destroying you and your career. Again, ever. So don’t think in terms of leaving some legacy behind. The chief ordered me to hear you say that you understand.”