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.
What do You think about The Assassins Gallery - [Dr Mikhal Lammeck 01]?
![The Assassins Gallery - [Dr Mikhal Lammeck 01]](/i/cover.jpg)
