The Chancellor Manuscript

by Robert Ludlum

“Surely you know. A horrible, flat, high-pitched whisper over the telephone. It’s frighteningly effective for something so basic. Surely you know.” Phyllis spaced her words out, as if afraid to hear herself say them.

  “I don’t know,” replied Peter, indeed not knowing but beginning to perceive the spreading of a terrible pattern. He struggled to remain calm, to sound reasonable, but he knew his anger showed. “I think this has all gone far enough. Whispers over a telephone. Words painted on walls! Houses broken into. Animals cut up! Enough!” He got up and turned around. “It’s going to stop.” He saw what he was looking for: a large lamp on a table. Deliberately he went to it, put his hand beneath the shade, and pulled the chain. The light went on. “There’s not going to be any more hiding, no more dark rooms. Someone’s trying to drive you crazy, drive Alison crazy, drive me out of my goddamned mind! I’ve had it. I’m not going to let—?”

  It was as far as he got. A pane in one of the front windows exploded. Simultaneously there was a harsh splitting of wood; a bullet imbedded itself somewhere in a molding. Then another pane shattered; glass fragments shot through the air, cracks of plaster sliced the wall like the jagged edges of black lightning.

  Instinctively, Peter lashed out his hand, sending the lamp spiraling off the table onto the floor. It landed on the side of its shade, the bulb still lit, eerily projecting light across the room on the floor.

  “Get down!” screamed Phyllis.

  Chancellor realized as he dove to the floor that there were bullets, but there were no gunshots! And terrifying images came back to him.

  Dawn at the Cloisters! A man killed in front of his eyes; a circle of blood abruptly, without warning, formed on a white forehead. A body in spastic contortion before it fell. There had been no gunshots then! Only sickening spits that had disturbed the stillness and filled it with death.

  Move! For Christ’s sake, move! In his panic he had lunged toward Phyllis, pulling her to the floor with him.

  Another pane of glass exploded, another bullet cracked the plaster. Then another, this one ricocheting off stone somewhere, smashing the glass of a photograph on the wall.

  Move! There is death!

  He had to get the tight. They were targets with it on. He pushed Phyllis away, holding her down, hearing her moans of fear. He darted his eyes to his right, then his left. Stone! There had to be a fireplace! It was directly behind him and he saw what he wanted. A poker leaning against the brick. He lurched for it.

  Glass erupted; twin cracks appeared on the walls, partly obscured by shadows. Phyllis screamed, and for an instant Peter thought she might be heard, but then he remembered the house was on the corner, the nearest house at least a hundred feet away. The night was cold; windows and doors were shut. Her screams would bring no help.

  He crawled toward the lamp, raised the poker, and smashed it down on the shade as if killing a deadly animal.

  There was still the light in the hallway! It took on the intensity of a searchlight, the spill probing corners, washing the room with a brightness he would never have thought possible. He lunged up, racing to the archway, and heaved the poker toward the fixture in the ceiling. It spun through the air like a whirling crossbar and crashed into the teardrops of glass. All went dark.

  He dove back onto the floor and crawled toward Phyllis. “Where’s the phone?” he whispered.

  He could feel her trembling; she could not answer.

  “The phone? Where is it?”

  She understood him. In the dark shadows produced by faraway street lamps he could see her eyes grasping what he said. She was barely audible between her sobs. “Not here. A jack in here, no phone.”

  “What?” What was she trying to tell him? A jack? No telephone?

  One more explosion of glass filled the room, the bullet cracking inches over their heads, snapping into the wall above them. Suddenly from outside there was a loud gunshot in counterpoint to the muted firing, and a guttural shout, muffled quickly. It was followed by the sounds of screeching tires and metal against metal. Another roar of a furious voice. A car door opened and closed.

  “Kitchen,” whispered Phyllis, pointing in the darkness to her right.

  “The telephone’s in the kitchen? Where?”

  “Through there.”

  “Stay down!” Peter crawled like a panicked insect over the floor, through an archway to a doorway. He felt kitchen tiles beneath him. The phone! Where was it? He tried to adjust his eyes to the new darkness.

  He scraped his hands along the walls in panic. Kitchen telephones were usually on the wall, cords spiraling below.… He found it! His hand shot up; he tore the instrument from its cradle and brought it to his ear, his free hand reaching up for the dial. The last circle. 0.

  The phone was dead.

  There was a deafening crash. Glass shattered on the opposite side of the pitch black kitchen. The top of the outside door had been smashed; a brick bounced off the wall. A brick had been thrown through the glass.

  A brick! The fireplace! He’d seen it at the corner of the slate, to the right of the grate. He was sure of it. It was the answer! The only one left.

  He propelled himself on all fours—half crawling, half lunging—back into the darkness of the living room. Phyllis was crouched next to the sofa, frozen in shock.

  There it was! Now, if only the owners of the house had meant it when they’d put it there.

  Some people called it a New England fire lighter; in the Midwest it was known as a Lake Erie starter. A round porous stone at the end of a brass rod soaking in a pot of kerosene. Held under logs, it acted as kindling.

  He reached for the pot and took off the metal lid. There was liquid inside. Kerosene!

  A fusillade of gun spits erupted. Bullets cracked the air, some breaking new glass, others having a clear path through previously shattered windowpanes. The walls and ceiling absorbed them; he could hear the pings as the deadly missiles ricocheted off metallic objects, deflected in their flights.

  Perspiration rolled down Peter’s face. He was sure he had his answer, but he did not know how to construct it. And then the words came back to him, rooted in his own fiction. He had invented the answer before.

  Dobric tore off his shirt and plunged it into the vat of gasoline. The harvest was finished; there were stacks of hay in the field. The nearest would go up in flames, and the wind would carry the fire. Soon the grasslands would be ablaze, and platoons of soldiers would be diverted from their search.…

  Sarajevo! An incident like that had happened after the assassination of the Archduke Ferdinand.

  Peter tore off his jacket and shirt. He lurched over the floor to the table where the lamp had been. He yanked the tablecloth off and returned to the fireplace. He spread his shirt on the floor, placed the tablecloth over it, and poured the kerosene over both, saving only a little. He sprang toward the couch and pulled off a sectional cushion; he poured the remaining kerosene on it.

  There were more sickening spits from outside, more shattering of glass; Chancellor thought he would vomit in fear. The pain in his temples had returned with such force he could barely focus his eyes. He closed them for an instant, wanting to scream but knowing he could not.

  He placed the empty iron pot in the center of the tablecloth and proceeded to wrap the tablecloth and the shirt around it. He tied the sleeves together until the pot was securely bedded inside, one sleeve extended. He reached into his trouser pocket and took out a book of matches.

  He was ready. He crawled toward the windows on the left, to the wall, pulling the pot behind him, pushing the cushion in front. Slowly he rose to his feet, out of sight, one hand clutching the extended sleeve, the soaked cushion on the floor. He manipulated the book of matches awkwardly between both hands, tore off a match, and struck it. He dropped the flame on the saturated fabric; it exploded in a burst of fire.

  In two motions he swung the sleeve behind him, then brought it forward with all his strength, letting go at the last instant. The flaming pot crashed thro
ugh the remaining glass, whirling out over the lawn like the fireball it was. The outside rush of air intensified the flames; dripping liquid caught fire, leaving a wake of jagged, leaping yellow.

  Peter heard footsteps, then incomprehensible shouts. And more footsteps, these coming from the side of the house. Men were trying to put out the fireball. It was the moment for his second weapon. He struck another match, holding the flame in his left hand. With his right he picked up the cushion and brought the lighted match to it.

  Again a burst of fire, singeing the hairs on his arm. He raced to the far right window and propelled the flaming cushion through the glass. It landed where he hoped it would: At the base of the white porch.

  The old wood and the windy kerosene fire were compatible. The porch began to burn.

  Again there were shouts, words screamed in some unknown tongue. What was it? What language? He’d never heard it before.

  A last barrage of muted gunshots was leveled at the windows, fired aimlessly into the house. He heard the racing of a powerful engine. Car doors were opened and closed, tires screeched, spinning on the street. The car sped away.

  Peter ran back to Phyllis. He pulled her to her feet, holding her close, feeling the trembling body in his arms.

  “It’s over. It’s all over. It’s all right. We have to get outside. Through the back door. This place is going to go up like—like a haystack.”

  “Oh, God! Oh, my God …” She buried her face in his naked chest; her tears would not stop.

  “Come on, let’s go! We’ll wait outside for the police. Someone’ll see the fire and call them. Come on!”

  Slowly Phyllis looked up at him, a strange, pathetic panic in her eyes, seen clearly in the reflection of the spreading flames outside the windows. “No,” she said in the harsh whisper she had used before. “No. Not the police!”

  “For Christ’s sake! People tried to kill us! You’d better goddamned well believe we’re going to see the police!”

  She pushed him away. An odd passivity seemed to grip her; she was trying, he thought, to find a moment of sanity. “You have no shirt—”

  “I’ve got a jacket. And a coat. Come on.”

  “Yes, I see.… My purse. Can you get my purse? It’s in the hall.”

  Chancellor looked over at the hallway. Smoke was streaming in through the cracks in the front door; the porch was blazing, but no fire had yet penetrated the house.

  “Sure.” He released her and reached down for his jacket by the fireplace.

  “It’s on the staircase, I think. Or perhaps I left it in the closet. I’m not sure.”

  “It’s okay. I’ll get it. You go on outside. Through the kitchen.”

  Phyllis turned and started out. Peter put on his jacket and went quickly toward the hall, picking his topcoat off the couch on his way.

  It was over. There would be conversations with the police, with the authorities, with anyone who wanted to listen. But tonight was the end of it There would be no book at this cost.

  The purse was not on the stairs. He walked halfway up to the landing; it was nowhere in sight. The smoke was thicker now. He had to hurry; the front door had caught fire. He ran down the steps and turned left at the bottom of the staircase, looking for the closet. It was in the far right corner of the hall. He walked over quickly and opened the door. There were coats, two fedoras, and various scarves on the hooks and hangers, but no purse.

  He had to get out. The smoke was becoming impenetrable. He began to cough, and his eyes were tearing. He raced back through the living room, through the arch to the dining room, into the kitchen, and out the open door.

  In the distance he could hear the wail of sirens.

  “Phyllis?”

  He ran along the side of the house to the front. She was not there. He continued around to the other side, down the driveway to the backyard again.

  “Phyllis! Phyllis!”

  She was nowhere. And then he knew. There was no purse on the staircase or in the closet. She had fled.

  The sirens were louder, no more than a few blocks away. The old house was going quickly. The whole front section was on fire, the flames spreading rapidly inside.

  Peter was not sure why, but he knew he could not talk to the police alone. Not now, not yet.

  He raced away into the night.

  22

  The pain in his temples made him want to drop to the ground and smash his head on the cement curb, but he knew it would not help.

  Instead, he kept walking, his eyes on the traffic heading into downtown Washington. He was looking for a taxi.

  He should have remained at the burning house on Thirty-fifth Street and told the incredible story to the police. And yet a part of him told him that to do so without Phyllis would raise questions to which he was not sure there were answers. Answers that excluded the destruction of Phyllis Maxwell. The shadows of responsibility fell across his thoughts; there were things he did not know, and had to know. He owed her that much. Perhaps no more, but at least that.

  At last there was a cab; the lighted yellow rooftop sign was like a beacon. He stepped off the curb and waived his arms. The taxi slowed down; the driver peered cautiously out the window before he stopped.

  “The Hay-Adams Hotel, please,” said Chancellor.

  “Good lord! What happened?” asked Alison, stunned as she opened the door.

  “There’s a bottle of pills in my suitcase. In the back flap. Get them quickly, please.”

  “Peter, my darling! What is it?” Alison held him as he leaned against the door. “I’ll call a doctor.”

  “No! Do as I say. I know exactly what it is. Just the pills. Quickly.” He could feel himself falling. He grabbed her arms, and with her help he stumbled into the bedroom. He lay back and gestured toward the suitcase, still on the luggage rack in the corner. She raced to it.

  He did what he rarely did: He took two tablets.

  She ran into the bathroom, emerging seconds later with a glass of water. She sat next to him, holding his head as he drank.

  “Please, Peter. A doctor!”

  He shook his head. “No,” he replied weakly, trying to smile a semblance of reassurance. “He couldn’t do anything. It’ll pass in a few minutes.” The darkness was closing in, his eyelids terribly heavy. He could not allow the dark to fall until he had calmed her. And prepared her for what might happen when the darkness was complete. “I may sleep for a while. Not long, it’s never long. I may talk, even yell a little. Don’t worry. It doesn’t mean anything. Just rambling, just nonsense.”

  The dark filled his mind; his personal night had fallen. There was nothingness, and he floated, suspended in calm, gentle breezes.

  He opened his eyes, not knowing how long he had been in bed. Looking down at him was Alison’s lovely face, her eyes made more beautiful by the tears that filled them.

  “Hey,” he said, reaching up to touch her moist cheek. “It’s all right.”

  She took his hand, holding it against her lips. “Her name was Cathy, wasn’t it?”

  He had done what he’d hoped he would not do, said what he had not wanted to say. There was nothing for it. He nodded. “Yes.”

  “She died, didn’t she?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh darling. So much hurt, so much love—”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.”

  “It can’t be very nice for you.”

  She reached down and touched his eyes, and then his cheek and lips. “It was a gift,” she said. “A beautiful gift.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “After you spoke her name, you called for me.”

  He told Alison what had happened at the house on Thirty-fifth Street. He minimized the physical danger, calling the erratic gunfire a strategy of fear, designed to terrify, not to injure or to kill.

  It was clear she did not believe him, but she was a soldier’s daughter. In one form or another she had heard such false reassurances before. She accepted the water
ed-down explanation without comment, letting her eyes convey her disbelief.

  When he finished, he stood by the window looking down at the Christmas decorations on Sixteenth Street; across the street muted church bells played in an agonizing cadence. Christmas was only days away; he had not thought about it. He wasn’t really thinking about it now. His only thoughts were on what he had to do: Go to the Federal Bureau of Investigation, to the source of the madness, and let it put the madness to a stop. But private property had been destroyed, lethal weapons fired. Phyllis Maxwell had to go with him.

  “I’ve got to reach her,” he said softly. “I’ve got to make her understand she has to come with me.”

  “I’ll get the number for you.” Alison took the phone book from the bedside table. Peter continued to stare out the window. “It’s not here. She’s not listed.”

  Chancellor remembered. Alison’s father had not been listed, either. He wondered if he could unearth the number as easily as he had MacAndrew’s. It would be a variation of the same ploy, a newsman’s ruse. An old reporter friend, in town for the night, anxious to make contact.

  But the ploy did not work; the man at the city desk had probably used it too often himself. The paper would not give out Maxwell’s number.

  “Let me try,” said Alison. “There’s a press officer on duty at all times in the Pentagon. Bad news and casualties don’t have business hours. Filtered-down rank still has its privileges. I’ll know somebody, or someone’ll know me.”

  The Pentagon had two numbers for Phyllis Maxwell. One was her private phone, the other the switchboard of the apartment house in which she lived.

  There was no answer on her private line. The apartment switchboard gave out no information on its tenants; it would only take messages. But because the caller was not absolutely sure of the correct address, the operator gave it.

  “I want to go with you,” Alison said.

  “I don’t think you should,” Peter replied. “She mentioned your father, not by name, but she spoke of a burial yesterday at Arlington. She’s frightened out of her mind. All I want to do is convince her to come with me. If she saw you, it might stop her.”