The Chancellor Manuscript

by Robert Ludlum

  “They live in a perpetual state of embarrassment out here. They can’t even recognize it I don’t believe that”

  “They’re willing to pay your contract in full, remove your name from the screen credits if you wish—not the title, of course—and deliver a bonus equal to fifty percent of the book purchase.”

  “Jesus.…” Chancellor was stunned. The figure Joshua Harris alluded to was in the range of a quarter million dollars. “For what?”

  “For you to walk away and not make waves over the adaptation.”

  Peter stared at the billowing drapes in front of the glass doors. There was something very inconsistent, terribly wrong.

  “Are you still there?” asked Harris.

  “Wait a minute. You say controversy could only help the receipts. Yet Sheffield’s willing to pay all that money to avoid controversy. He’s got to lose. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “I’m not his analyst. I just heard the money. Maybe he wants to keep his balls intact.”

  “No. I know Sheffield, believe me; I know the way he operates. His balls are expendable.” Suddenly, Chancellor understood. “Sheffield has a partner, Josh. And it’s not the studio. It’s the government. It’s Washington! They’re the ones who don’t want the controversy. To quote from a far better writer than I’ll ever be, they ‘can’t stand the light of day’! Goddamn it, that’s it.”

  “It crossed my mind,” admitted Harris.

  “You tell Sheffield to shove his bonus. I’m not interested!”

  Again, the agent paused. “I may as well tell you the rest. Sheffield’s collected statements from all over Los Angeles and points north and south. The picture isn’t pleasant. You’re described as a wild alcoholic and something of a menace.”

  “Good for Sheffield! Controversy hypes the gross receipts. We’ll sell twice as many books!”

  “He says he has more,” continued Harris. “He claims he has sworn affidavits from women who accuse you of rape and physical abuse. He has photographs—police photographs—that show the damage you’ve inflicted. One’s a kid from Beverly Hills who’s fourteen years old. He has friends who’ll swear they removed narcotics from you when you passed out in their homes. He says you even attacked his wife, which is something he’d rather not make public but will if he has to. He says they’ve been cleaning up after you for weeks.”

  “They’re lies! Josh, that’s crazy! There’s no truth in any of that!”

  “That may be the problem. There’s probably a few grains of truth. I don’t mean the rape or the abuse or the narcotics; that stuff’s easily manufactured. But you’ve been drinking, you haven’t returned calls, there’ve been women. And I know Sheffield’s wife. I don’t rule her out, but I’m sure you weren’t the cause of it.”

  Chancellor lurched from the bed. His head was spinning, the pain in his temples throbbed. “I don’t know what to say! I don’t believe this!”

  “I know what to say; I know what to believe,” said Joshua Harris. “They’re not playing by any rules I’ve ever heard of.”

  Varak leaned forward in the velvet sofa and opened his briefcase on the coffee table. He withdrew two file folders, placed them in front of him, and moved the case to one side. The morning sun was streaming through the windows overlooking Central Park South, filling the elegant hotel suite with shafts of yellowish white light.

  Across the room Munro St. Claire had poured himself a cup of coffee from a carafe on a silver tray. He sat opposite the intelligence man.

  “Are you sure I can’t get you a cup?” asked Bravo.

  “No, thanks. I’ve gone through several pots this morning. Incidentally, I appreciate your flying up. It saves time.”

  “Every day is vital,” replied St. Claire. “Every hour those files are missing is an hour we can’t afford. What have you got?”

  “Just about everything we need. My primary sources were Chancellor’s editor, Anthony Morgan, and his literary agent, a man named Joshua Harris.”

  “They cooperated so easily?”

  “It wasn’t difficult. I convinced them it was standard procedure for a minimum-security clearance.”

  “Security clearance for what?”

  Varak separated a page in the left file folder. “Before his accident Chancellor had the Government Printing Office send him the transcripts from the Nuremberg tribunals. He’s writing a novel on the trials. He thinks Nuremberg was rife with judicial conspiracies. That thousands of Nazis went unaccountable, free to emigrate all over the world, transferring huge sums of money wherever they went.”

  “He’s wrong. It was the exception, not the rule by any means,” said Bravo.

  “Regardless, some of those transcripts still have a security classification. He didn’t get those, but he doesn’t know that. I implied that he did, and my job was simply a routine follow-up. Nothing serious. Also, I said that I was a fan of Chancellor’s. I enjoyed talking to people who knew him.”

  “Has he written this Nuremberg book?”

  “He hasn’t even started it.”

  “I wonder why.”

  Varak scanned another page as he spoke. “Chancellor was nearly killed in an automobile accident last fall. The woman with him was killed. According to the medical records, with another ten minutes of internal bleeding and pathogenic toxemia, he would have died. He was in the hospital for five months. He’s been patched together; eighty-five- to ninety-percent recovery is anticipated. That’s the physical part.” Varak paused and turned a page.

  “Who was the woman?” asked Bravo quietly.

  Varak shifted his attention to the folder on his right. “Her name was Catherine Lowell; they’d been living together for nearly a year and planned to get married. They were on their way to meet his parents in northwest Pennsylvania. Her death was a terrible shock to Chancellor. He went into a long period of depression. It’s still with him to some degree, according to both his editor and agent.”

  “Morgan and Harris,” added Bravo for his own clarification.

  “Yes. They sweated out his recovery; first the physical injuries, then the depression. Both men admitted that during the past months there were times they thought he was finished as a writer.”

  “A reasonable assumption. He hasn’t written anything.”

  “He’s supposed to be now. He’s in California co-authoring the screenplay of Counterstrike!, although nobody expects him to do very much. He has no experience in films.”

  “Then, why was he hired?”

  “The value of his name, according to Harris. And the fact that the studio could have an advantage over others for his next book. Actually, that’s the way Harris engineered the contract.”

  “Which means he wanted Chancellor involved since he wasn’t working on anything.”

  “In Harris’s opinion, his house in Pennsylvania, and his memories, were holding Chancellor back. It’s why he wanted him in California.” Varak turned several pages. “Here it is. Harris’s words. He wanted his client to ‘experience the perfectly normal Gargantuan excesses of a temporary Malibu resident.’ ”

  Bravo smiled. “Are they having a positive effect?”

  “There’s progress. Not much, but some.” Varak looked up from the paper. “That’s something we can’t allow.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Chancellor will be infinitely more valuable to us in a weakened psychological condition.” The intelligence man gestured at both file folders. “The rest of this describes a fairly normal man before the accident. Whatever hostilities or excesses he had were transferred to his writing. He didn’t display them in his lifestyle. If he returns to that normality, he’ll be naturally cautious, he’ll retreat when we don’t want him to. I want to keep him off-balance, in a state of anxiety.”

  St. Claire sipped his coffee without comment. “Go on, please. Describe this life-style.”

  “There’s not much, really. He has an apartment in a brownstone on East Seventy-first Street. He gets up early, usually before dawn, and
works. He doesn’t use a typewriter; he writes on yellow pads, Xeroxes the pages, and uses a typing service in Greenwich Village.” Varak again looked up. “That could be an advantage to us in his research. We can intercept the originals and make our own copies.”

  “Suppose he works in Pennsylvania and has them driven in. Delivered by messenger.”

  “Then, we’ll get inside the Village offices.”

  “Of course. Go on.”

  “There’s very little left that’s important. He has favorite restaurants where he’s known. He skis, plays tennis—neither of which he may be able to do again. His friends, outside of Morgan and Harris, are generally found among other writers and newspapermen and, oddly enough, several lawyers in New York and Washington. That’s about it.” Varak closed the folder on his right. “Now, I’d like to bring up something.”

  “Yes?”

  “Along the lines we’ve discussed, I think I know how to program Chancellor, but I need a backup. I’ll use the Longworth cover: it’s unbreakable. Longworth is in Hawaii and stays in hiding. We look enough alike—even to the duplication of the scar—and his FBI record can be traced. Still, we should have one more piece of bait Chancellor can’t walk away from.”

  “Please clarify.”

  Varak paused, then said with conviction: “We have a crime but no conspiracy. None we can identify. He’s got to follow his own speculations. We have none to give him. If we had, we wouldn’t be using him in the first place.”

  “What are you proposing?” asked St. Claire, seeing the hesitation in Varak’s eyes.

  “I want to bring in a second member of Inver Brass. In my opinion the only other man with your public stature. You call him Venice. Judge Daniel Sutherland. I want to be able to send Chancellor to him.”

  The diplomat was silent for several moments. “To lend weight to what you tell Chancellor? The irresistible confirmation?”

  “Yes. To substantiate our story of the missing files. That’s all I need. Sutherland’s voice will be the bait Chancellor has to take.”

  “It’s dangerous,” said Bravo quietly. “No member of Inver Brass should ever be overt in any strategy.”

  “Time requires it. I ruled you out because of your previous relationship with Chancellor.”

  “I understand. The coincidence would raise questions. I’ll talk with Venice.… Now, if you please, I want to return to something you said. Chancellor’s psychological condition. If I understood you correctly—?”

  “You did,” interrupted Varak quietly. “Chancellor cannot be allowed to recover. He can’t be permitted to function at his previous rational level. He’s got to draw attention to himself, to his research. If he remains volatile, he becomes a threat. If that threat is dangerous enough, whoever has those files will be compelled to eliminate it. When he does—or they do—we’ll be there.”

  Bravo sat forward, his expression one of sudden concern. “I think that goes beyond the parameters we established.”

  “I wasn’t aware we’d established any.”

  “They were intrinsic. There are limits to our use of Peter Chancellor. They don’t include putting his life in jeopardy.”

  “I submit it’s a logical extension of the strategy. Quite plainly put, the strategy may be useless without that factor. I think we’d willingly exchange Chancellor’s life for those files. Don’t you?”

  St. Claire said nothing.

  7

  Chancellor stood by the doors overlooking the beach and parted the drapes again. The blond-haired man was still there. He’d been there for over an hour, walking back and forth in the hot afternoon sun, his shoes sinking into the warm sand, his shirt open at the collar, his jacket slung over his shoulder.

  He was pacing up and down the short area of the beach fifty yards away, between the redwood porch and the water, every now and then glancing up at Peter’s house. He was medium-sized, perhaps a shade under six feet, and muscular. His shoulders were broad and thick and stretched the cloth of his shirt.

  Chancellor had first seen him around noon. He had stood motionless in the sand, staring up at the redwood porch; staring, Peter was sure, at him.

  The sight of the man was no longer merely disconcerting, it was irritating. The first thought that came to Chancellor was that Aaron Sheffield had decided to put a watchdog on him. A great deal of money was now involved in Counterstrike! A great deal more had been offered under circumstances that raised disturbing questions.

  Peter did not like watchdogs. Not this kind. He pulled back the drapes, slid open the door, and stepped out on the porch. The man stopped his pacing and again stood motionless in the sand.

  They looked at each other and Peter’s doubts vanished. The man was there for him, waiting for him. Peter’s irritation turned into anger. He walked to the steps and down onto the beach. The man remained where he was, making no move toward him.

  Goddamn you, thought Chancellor. There were very few people on this private area of Malibu; but if any were watching, the sight of the limping figure in slacks, naked above the waist, approaching a fully clothed man standing immobile in front of a beach house must have seemed odd. It was odd; the blond-haired stranger had a curious quality about him. He was pleasant-looking, a face clean-cut, even gentle in appearance. Yet there was something menacing about him. As he drew nearer, Chancellor realized what it was: the man’s eyes were aware. They were not the eyes of a subordinate watchdog hired by an anxious studio executive.

  “It’s warm out here,” began Peter bluntly. “I can’t help asking myself why you’re walking around in the heat. Especially since you keep looking up at my house.”

  “At your rented house, Mr. Chancellor.”

  “Then, I think you’d better explain,” replied Peter, “since you know my name and, obviously, the conditions of my lease. It wouldn’t be because those who hired you are paying the rent?”

  “No.”

  “Score one for me. I didn’t think so. Now, you’ve got a choice. Either you satisfy my curiosity, or I call the police.”

  “I want you to do more than that. You have sources in Washington. I want you to call one of them and check out my name in the personnel records of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

  “The what!” Peter was stunned. The man’s words were spoken quietly, yet there was an undercurrent of urgency.

  “I’m retired,” added the man quickly. “I’m not here in any official capacity. But my name’s in the bureau’s personnel records. Check it out.”

  Chancellor stared at the man, apprehensive. “Why would I do that?”

  “I’ve read your books.”

  “That’s you, not me. It’s no reason.”

  “I think it is. It’s why I went to a lot of trouble to find you.” The man hesitated, as if unsure of how to continue.

  “Go on.”

  “In each of your books you show that certain events may not have happened the way people think they did. An event took place less than a year ago that falls into that category.”

  “What was it?”

  “A man died. A very powerful man. They said he died of natural causes. He didn’t. He was assassinated.”

  Peter stared at the stranger. “Go to the police.”

  “I can’t. If you check me out, you’ll understand.”

  “I’m a novelist. I write fiction. Why come to me?”

  “I told you. I’ve read your books. I think that maybe the only way the story can be told is in a book. The kind you write.”

  “Novels.” Peter did not ask a question.

  “Yes.”

  “Fiction.” Again it was a statement.

  “Yes.”

  “But you say it isn’t fiction. It’s fact; you imply it’s fact.”

  “That’s what I believe. I’m not sure I can prove it.”

  “And you can’t go to the police.”

  “No.”

  “Go to a newspaper. Find an investigative reporter. There are dozens of good ones.”

&nbs
p; “No newspaper would handle this. Take my word for it.”

  “Why the hell should I?”

  “You might after you checked me out. My name is Alan Longworth. For twenty years I was a special agent for the FBI. I retired five months ago. My field office was in San Diego … and points north. I live now in Hawaii. On the island of Maui.”

  “Longworth? Alan Longworth? Should the name mean anything to me?”

  “That’s not remotely possible. Check me out. It’s all I ask.”

  “Suppose I do. Then what?”

  “I’ll come by tomorrow morning. If you want to talk further, fine. If not, I’ll leave.” Again the blond-haired man hesitated, the urgency now in his eyes as he spoke softly. “I’ve traveled a long way to find you. I’ve taken risks I shouldn’t have taken. I may have broken an agreement that could cost me my life. So I’ve got one more thing to ask you. I want your word on it.”

  “Or else what?”

  “Don’t check on me. Don’t do anything; forget I came out here, forget we spoke.”

  “But you did come out here. We have spoken. It’s a little late for conditions.”

  Longworth paused. “Haven’t you ever been frightened?” he asked. “No, I don’t imagine you have. Not this way. Strange, but you write about fear; you seem to understand it.”

  “You don’t look like you frighten easily.”

  “I don’t think I do. My record at the bureau might even confirm that.”

  “What’s this condition?”

  “Ask about me. Find out everything you can, say anything you want. But please don’t say we met; don’t repeat what I’ve told you.”

  “That’s crazy. What am I supposed to say?”

  “I’m sure you can think of something. You’re a writer.”

  “That doesn’t necessarily mean I’m a good liar.”

  “You travel a lot. You could say you heard about me in Hawaii. Please.”

  Peter shifted his feet in the hot sand. Common sense told him to walk away from this man; there was something unhealthy about the controlled, intense face and the too-alert eyes. But his instincts would not permit his common sense its right of decision. “Who’s this man who died? The one you say was assassinated.”