The Chancellor Manuscript

by Robert Ludlum

  The next minutes were taken up with harsh, swift sounds. Paper cut, leather and fabric sliced, drawers opened. Finally there was the smashing of glass, interspersed with the strident squeals of the unknown animal, squeals that suddenly erupted into a screech.

  “The animal is being killed.” Varak spoke simply.

  “Good God!” said St Claire.

  Then from the speakers came a human voice. Two words.

  Let’s go.

  The tape stopped. Varak turned off the machine. “We’ll pick up approximately three hours later. With the arrival of Chancellor and MacAndrew’s daughter. There’s a twenty-second video still of the house; that’s the intruders leaving—again out of range, so we have no picture of them.” The agent paused as if unsure of how to explain something. “I’ve edited out a particular section, and with your permission I’ll destroy it. It’s irrelevant. It merely establishes the fact that Chancellor and the girl have formed a relationship. Temporary, probably.”

  “I understand and I thank you,” said Bravo.

  The house once again appeared briefly on the wall. It was night now. A car was seen driving up to the stone path leading to the front door. Alison emerged and stood for a moment looking at the house. She proceeded up the path. Chancellor came into view carrying grocery bags. They paused on the small porch, talked briefly, and then the girl opened her purse and searched for a key. Taking it out, she opened the door.

  The two seemed startled at something. A further discussion ensued, more animated than before, and then they went inside. With the closing of the door the videotape stopped. Without speaking, Varak reached over and pressed the audio button.

  Come on, we’ll put the bags in the kitchen. The girl. Footsteps, the rustling of paper, the metallic squeak of a hinge, and then a prolonged silence followed. The woman finally spoke again.

  My father reconstructed wherever possible the types of surroundings she associated with her childhood.

  Chancellor: It’s an extraordinary love story.

  It was an extraordinary sacrifice. The girl.

  You resented her, didn’t you. Chancellor.

  Yes, I did. He was an exceptional man..…

  Suddenly Varak reached over and snapped the switch. “That’s the key. The mother. I’d stake everything I know on it Chasǒng’s a decoy. For the next half hour, listen very, very carefully. The writer in Chancellor honed in on her instinctively, but she dissuaded him. Not intentionally, because I don’t think she knows.”

  “I shall listen most carefully, Mr. Varak.”

  They both did. Several times Bravo was forced to dart his eyes away, at nothing, in response to the unexpected: at the girl’s scream from inside her father’s study, at the sobs and the tears that followed, at Chancellor’s compassion and sharp interrogation. The writer’s imagination would not be stopped. His original premise was right, St. Claire reflected. In less than nine weeks Chancellor had made extraordinary progress. Neither he nor Varak knew how or why, but the murder of Walter Rawlins was related to the files somehow, and now there was this maverick general, his outspoken daughter, and a decoy called Chasǒng. Above all, the overt move had been made. Men had come out of the dark, the sounds of their actions recorded.

  St. Claire did not know where Chancellor was taking them. Only that Hoover’s files were closer.

  The images appeared once again on the wall: Chancellor coming out of the house, opening the car door, and recoiling. Then cautiously walking around the car, picking up a rock, running into the foliage, returning, throwing two indistinguishable objects out of the car, removing the suitcases, and going back into the house.

  Sound then: running water and scraping.

  “An hour ago I stopped the tape and studied the picture. He’s removing the name Chasǒng from the suitcase,” Varak explained. “He doesn’t want the girl to see it.”

  Silence ensued. The microphones picked up the scratching of a pencil against paper. Varak jumped the tape to the sound of recorded voices.

  Peter, where are you?

  In the kitchen.…

  A discussion about making coffee, rapid footsteps, obscure movement.

  You’ve come into my life. I wonder if you’ll stay. Spoken softly by Alison MacAndrew.

  I wondered the same about you. In my life.

  We’ll see, won’t we?

  It was over. Varak turned off the machine and stood up. Bravo remained in the chair, his aristocratic fingers joined together under his chin.

  “That scratching we heard,” he said. “Can we presume he was writing?”

  “I think so. It fits his habits.”

  “Remarkable, isn’t it? In the midst of it all, he turned to his novel.”

  “Unusual, perhaps. I don’t know how remarkable. If we’re doing things right, his novel is becoming very real to him.”

  Bravo disengaged his fingers and placed his hands on the arms of the chair. “Which brings us to that novel and your interpretation of it. As inconceivable as I find it, do you still believe our quarry is a member of Inver Brass?”

  “First, let me ask a question. When I asked you to call a meeting the night before last, did you give the members the information I thought advisable? That Chancellor had met the girl?”

  “I would have told you if I hadn’t.”

  “I knew you disapproved.”

  “My disapproval was based on my conviction. That same conviction led me to follow your instructions, if only to prove you wrong.” Bravo’s speech was clipped, bordering on the disagreeable. “Now, what’s your answer? Are you still convinced a member of Inver Brass has those files?”

  “I’ll know within a day or two.”

  “Which is no answer.”

  “It’s the best I can do. Frankly I think I’m right; everything points to it.”

  St. Claire sat up. “Because I told them about Chancellor and the girl and gave them MacAndrew’s name?”

  “Not just the name,” replied Varak. “The fact that eight months is missing from his service record.”

  “Inconclusive! Whoever has Hoover’s files knows it.”

  “Precisely. That decoy—the diversionary Chasǒng—occurred during those eight months. I think we can assume that whatever happened at Chasǒng, whatever military decisions MacAndrew made or refused to make, could not have been sufficiently damaging to cause him to resign. If they had, there were enough men at the Pentagon who would have forced him out long ago.”

  “A disagreeable incident, perhaps,” Bravo agreed, “but not a disastrous one. A part of the file, but not the vital part.”

  “A cover for it,” agreed Varak. “Something else happened, possibly related, possibly not. Assuming there’s a primary connection—which we must assume—it’s that something else that can lead us to whoever has Hoover’s files.”

  “Then, what you’re telling me is”—St. Claire’s eyes strayed—“that given the twenty-four-hour period between Inver Brass’s meeting and Chancellor’s arrival at MacAndrew’s house, the decoy was culled from the files. The other night was the first Inver Brass had heard of Chancellor, to say nothing of MacAndrew.”

  “The first Inver Brass—as a group—had heard of Chancellor. But not whoever has the files. He knew because Chancellor made contact with two of the victims. MacAndrew and Rawlins. I don’t think there’s any question that they were victims.”

  “All right, I’ll accept that.” Bravo got out of the chair. “So then, it boils down to one specific piece of information: Peter Chancellor had made contact with the general’s daughter. They were on their way to the Rock-ville house. And rather than have the encounter lead to a blank wall, the Chasǒng ruse is planted. To send Chancellor off in another direction.”

  “That’s it,” said Varak firmly. “Otherwise, why use Chasǒng at all?”

  “Still,” said St. Claire, “why does it have to be a member of Inver Brass?”

  “Because no one eke knew that Chancellor had made contact with the girl. I can assure yo
u of that. Except for our taps his phones are sterile; there is no surveillance on him but our own. Yet, within twelve hours of Inver Brass’s meeting MacAndrew’s house is broken into and an elaborate deception is mounted for Chancellor. Those twelve hours were enough to examine MacAndrew’s dossier and come up with the Chasǒng decoy.”

  St. Claire nodded sadly. “You’re very convincing.”

  “The facts are convincing. I wish they weren’t”

  “God knows, so do I. A member of Inver Brass! The most honored men in the nation. You speak of probability. That’s one I would have considered nonexistent.”

  “Chancellor didn’t. For him it was defined at the outset. You said it yourself when we began: He’s not restricted by fact or conditioning. Incidentally, he calls his Inver Brass the Nucleus.”

  St. Claire stared at the wall where minutes before the images had been projected. “The reality and the fantasy. It’s extraordinary.” He let the words trail off.

  “It’s what we wanted,” said Varak. “What we hoped for.”

  “Yes, of course. You’ll know for certain within a day or two, you say?”

  “I’ll guarantee it if you’ll call another meeting. After MacAndrew’s funeral. I want two more names fed to Inver Brass.”

  “Oh? Who?”

  “The first is a newspaper columnist, Phyllis Maxwell. She’s—?”

  “I know who she is. Why?”

  “I’m not sure—she hasn’t surfaced before. But Chancellor’s met her, and he’s written a character into his novel that bears a striking resemblance to her.”

  “I see. Who’s the other?”

  Varak hesitated. It was obvious he expected resistance. “Paul Bromley. The man from General Services Administration.”

  “No!” The diplomat reacted emphatically. “I won’t permit it. Bromley has my word! For one thing, it doesn’t make sense. Bromley begins with B. We’re after names from M to Z!”

  “Remember, Bromley’s code name is Viper,” replied Varak. “It’s been in continuous use at the Pentagon, G-Two, and the bureau for over twenty months. He’s been out of sight since August; he’s virtually disappeared. He’s dangerous to a lot of people in Washington, but no one’s heard from him. Viper’s the forgotten man, and thus he’s ideal for our purposes.”

  Bravo paced slowly. “The man’s suffered so much. You’re asking a lot.”

  “Minor compared to our objective. From what I know about Bromley, I believe he’d be the first to agree.”

  St. Claire closed his eyes, thinking of the anguish Bromley had lived through. The aging, irascible accountant who had had the courage to take on the Pentagon by himself. His reward was an addicted daughter, who, missing for three years, had returned as an unbalanced killer; and now that his world was stable again, the nightmare promised to return. He was to be used as bait.

  But in his field, in the dark corners of his exotic profession, Stefan Varak was brilliant. And he was right.

  “Go to work,” St. Claire said. “I’ll convene Inver Brass tonight.”

  The drum rolls were soft. Muted intrusions of thunder carried on the December wind. The grave was in the north section of Arlington Cemetery. The honor guard stood on the west flank. The rigid phalanx carried the Army’s unspoken command: The coffin will be taken this far, and no further. It will then be lowered beneath the earth. We are here in military splendor to demand respect. It shall be rendered. But silently. There will be no signs of private grief, for these are not seemly. This is Army ground. We are men. Dead men.

  It was frightening, thought Chancellor, standing several feet behind Alison, who was seated in a single, plain black chair at the foot of the cordoned-off area. One did not touch, one did not relate. To anything except the ritual.

  We are put to rest by the numbers. Count off!

  Around the square gravesite, beyond the chains, stood the senior officers of the Pentagon. A dozen or so had come up to Alison, speaking softly, holding her hands. She was the Greek chorus that told Peter who the players were in relation to her father. And he kept his eyes alert. It was entirely possible that someone at that gravesite held the secret of Chasǒng. He could only study the faces and allow his imagination free rein.

  There was one man, roughly the same age as MacAndrew, who caught Peter’s attention. He was a major, and he was dark-complexioned. Mediterranean heritage, Chancellor thought. He stood silently throughout the brief service, talking to no one. When the coffin was carried from the hearse across the lawn to the grave, the man’s eyes remained front; he did not acknowledge the presence of the deceased.

  It was only during the chaplain’s eulogy that the major showed any sign of emotion. It was brief—barely a flash—in his eyes, at the corners of his mouth. The expression was one of hatred.

  Peter kept looking at him. For a moment the major seemed aware that he was being watched, and for an instant he locked eyes with Chancellor. The hatred flashed again and disappeared. He looked away.

  When the service was over and the flag given to the daughter of the buried soldier, the officers came up one by one to say the expected words.

  But the dark-complexioned major turned and walked away without saying anything. Peter watched him. He reached the slope of a small hill beyond the serrated ranks of graves and stopped. Slowly he turned and looked back, an isolated figure standing above the headstones.

  Chancellor had the instinctive feeling that the major wanted a last look at MacAndrew’s grave, as though to convince himself that the object of his loathing was really dead. It was a bleakly curious moment.

  “I could feel your eyes behind me,” said Alison as they settled back in the limousine that would take them out of Arlington Cemetery into Washington. “I glanced at you once. You were studying the crowd. And I know you heard every word said to me. Did you find anyone—or anything—interesting?”

  “Yes,” replied Peter. “A major. An Italian-looking fellow, or Spanish. He didn’t come up to you. He was the only one of the officers who didn’t.”

  Alison looked out the window at the passing rows of graves. She kept her voice low so as not to he heard by the army chauffeur and the escort. “Yes, I saw him.”

  “Then, you had to see the way he acted. It was strange.”

  “It was normal. For him. He wears his resentments like decorations. They’re part of his decorations.”

  “Who is he?”

  “His name is Pablo Ramirez. He’s from San Juan, one of the first appointments to West Point from the territory. I guess you’d call him the token Hispanic, before anyone knew what the term meant.”

  “Did he know your father?”

  “Yes. They served together. Ramirez was two years behind him at the Point.”

  Peter touched her arm. “Did they serve together in Korea?”

  “You mean Chasǒng?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t know. Korea, yes. Also in North Africa in World War Two, and several years ago in Vietnam. But I don’t know about Chasǒng.”

  “I’d like to find out. Why did he resent your father?”

  “I’m not sure he did. Any more than he resented anyone else. I said resentments. Plural.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s still a major. Most of his contemporaries are light colonels, full birds, or brigadiers.”

  “Is his resentment justified? Did he get passed over because he’s Puerto Rican?”

  “Oh, I suppose, partially. It’s a pretty closed society in those regions. And I’ve heard the jokes: ‘Be careful if you take Ramirez to a fleet cocktail party. They’ll put a jacket on him.’ In the navy the P.R.’s are houseboys. That sort of thing.”

  “That sort of thing justifies a lot of resentment.”

  “I’m sure it does, but it’s not the whole picture. Ramirez was given a great many opportunities—more than most—perhaps because he was a member of a minority. He hasn’t done much with them.”

  Peter glanced out the window, vaguely troubled. The look
he had seen in Ramirez’s eyes was specific hatred, directed at specific objects. MacAndrew’s coffin. MacAndrew’s grave. MacAndrew.

  “What did your father think of him?” he asked.

  “About what I just told you. He was a lightweight, hotheaded and too emotional. Not at all reliable. Dad refused to second two field promotions for him. Beyond that, he didn’t say much.”

  “What did he mean, ‘not at all reliable’?”

  Alison frowned. “I’d have to think. It was in the areas of recap and recon, I believe.”

  “That’s nice. I haven’t the vaguest idea what you’re talking about.”

  She laughed. “Sorry. They’re written reports to field headquarters. Combat summaries and reconnaissance.”

  “That doesn’t help much, but I think I know what you mean. Your father was saying that Ramirez was a liar. Either emotionally or by design.”

  “I guess so. He’s not important, Peter.” Alison placed her hand on his. “It’s over. Finished, past, over. Thank you, thank you more than I can ever say.”

  “We’re not ‘over,’ ” he said.

  She held his eyes. “I hope not.” Then she smiled. “A hotel’s a beautiful idea. We’ll luxuriate for a whole day and not think about anything. I’m sick of thinking. Then tomorrow I’ll go see the lawyer and take care of things. I don’t want you to feel you have to stay. I’ll be back in New York in a few days.”

  Chancellor was startled; he wondered if she’d forgotten. So abruptly, so completely. He held her hand, not wanting her to pull away. “But there’s the house in Maryland. Men broke in and—?”

  “Oh, God! Let it go! He’s dead. They made their point, whatever it was.”

  “We’ll talk about it later,” he said.

  “All right.”

  Peter understood. Alison had faced the agony of her father’s death and the further anguish of examining that death. At the burial she had confronted the men who had tried to destroy him. The service at Arlington was a symbol for her: The Gordian knot had been severed; she was free to find her own world. And now he was asking her to go back.