The Chancellor Manuscript

by Robert Ludlum

  As O’Brien read, Peter had the distinct impression that something was happening to the FBI man. For a moment the color seemed to drain from his face. At one point he raised his eyes and stared at Peter; the look he conveyed Chancellor knew well, but he did not understand it coming from this stranger. It was a look of fear.

  When he was finished, the agent put the letter face down, reached for a booklet on his desk, opened it to a specific page, and picked up his telephone. He pressed a button and dialed.

  “This is the FBI, one of the night-duty officers, emergency code, seven-five-sparrow. There was a fire at a house on Thirty-fifth Northwest. Near Wisconsin. Do you have anyone on the scene?… Can you patch me through to the officer in charge? Thank you.” O’Brien looked up at Peter. He spoke curtly; it was not a request but an order. “Sit down.”

  Chancellor did so, vaguely realizing that in spite of the agent’s commanding tone, the strange fear he had seen in O’Brien’s eyes was now in his voice.

  “Sergeant, this is the FBI.” The agent shifted the phone to his right hand. Bewildered, Peter saw that the palm of O’Brien’s left hand, the hand that had been holding the telephone, was moist with sweat. “You’ve received my clearance. I want to ask you a couple of questions. Is there any evidence as to how the fire was started, and are there any signs of gunshots? Cartridge shells in front or bullet holes inside?”

  The agent listened, his eyes riveted on the desk, staring at nothing, really, but staring intently. Chancellor watched him, mesmerized. O’Brien’s forehead broke out in small beads of perspiration. Absently, his breath suspended, the FBI man raised his left hand and wiped the sweat away. When finally he spoke, he was barely audible.

  “Thank you, Sergeant. No, it’s not our basket. We don’t know anything, just following up an anonymous lead. It’s got nothing to do with us.”

  O’Brien hung up. He was profoundly disturbed; there was a sudden sadness in his eyes.

  “As near as can be determined,” O’Brien said, “the fire was deliberately set. Remnants of fabric soaked with kerosene were found. There were shells on the lawn, windows shot out; there’s every reason to expect bullets impacted throughout the interior—what’s left of it. Everything will be sent to the laboratories.”

  Peter sat forward. Something was wrong. “Why did you tell the sergeant you didn’t know anything?”

  The agent swallowed. “Because I want to hear what you have to say. You’ve told me it concerns the bureau; some crazy theory about Hoover being murdered. That’s enough for me. I’m a career man. I want to hear it first. I can always pick up the phone and call that precinct back.”

  O’Brien gave his explanation in a flat, quiet voice. It was reasonable, thought Chancellor. Everything he had learned about the bureau pointed to the fact that the bottom line was public relations. Avoid embarrassment at all costs. Protect the Seat of Government. Phyllis Maxwell’s words came back to him.

  The story hasn’t been told. I don’t think it ever will be.… The bureau will protect him.… The heirs apparent won’t let the image be tarnished. They fear infected bloodlines, and they damned well should.

  Yes, reflected Chancellor. O’Brien fitted the mold. His burden was the heaviest because he was the first to hear the extraordinary news. Something was very rotten in the bureau, and this agent would have to carry the message of that rot to his superiors. His dilemma was understandable: Messengers were often held accountable for their reports of catastrophe; the bloodlines could be infected after all. It was no wonder that this career man perspired.

  But nothing in his imagination prepared Peter for what followed.

  “To go back to the beginning,” said Chancellor. “I was on the West Coast four, five months ago, living in Malibu. It was late afternoon; a man was on the beach staring up at my house. I went out and asked him why. He knew me; he said his name was Longworth.”

  O’Brien bolted forward in his chair, his eyes locked with Peter’s. His lips formed the name, but only a shadow of sound emerged. “Longworth!”

  “Yes, Longworth. You know who he is, then.”

  “Go on,” the agent whispered.

  Peter sensed the cause of O’Brien’s shock. Alan Longworth had betrayed Hoover, defected from the bureau. Somehow the word had gotten out. But Hoover was dead, the defector half a world away—the stain removed. Now Senior Agent O’Brien had to bear the news that the vanished Longworth had surfaced. In a strange way Chancellor felt sorry for this middle-aged career man.

  “Longworth said he wanted to talk to me because he’d read my books. He had a story to tell, and he thought I was the one to write it I told him I wasn’t looking for anything. Then he made that extraordinary statement about Hoover’s death, linking it to some private files of Hoover’s that were missing. He told me to check out his name; I have sources to do that, and he knew it. I know it sounds crazy, but I bit God knows I didn’t believe it; Hoover was an old man with a history of heart disease. But the concept fascinated me. And the fact that this Longworth would go to the trouble of—”

  O’Brien got out of his chair. He stood behind the desk looking down at Peter, his eyes burning. “Longworth. The files. Who sent you to me? Who are you? Who the hell am I to you?”

  “What?”

  “You expect me to believe this? You walk off the street in the middle of the night and tell this to me! For Christ’s sake, what do you want from me? What more do you want?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Chancellor, stunned. “I never saw you before in my life.”

  “Salter and Krepps! Go on, say it! Salter and Krepps! They were there, too!”

  “Who are Salter and Krepps? Where were they?”

  O’Brien turned away. He was breathing rapidly. “You know where they were. Unassigned field covers. Longworth in the Hawaiian Islands.”

  “He lives in Maui,” agreed Peter. “They paid him off that way. I don’t know the other two names; he never mentioned them. Were they working with Longworth?”

  O’Brien stood motionless, his body rigid. Slowly he turned back to Chancellor, his eyes narrowed. “Working with Longworth?” he asked, barely above a whisper. “What do you mean, ‘working with Longworth’?”

  “Just that. Longworth was transferred from the bureau. His cover was an assignment with the State Department. But it was never true. It was only an accommodation. I’ve learned that much. What amazes me is that you people even know about Longworth.”

  The senior agent continued to stare in silence. His frightened eyes widened. “You’re clean …”

  “What?”

  “You’re clean. You walk in off the goddamned streets and you’re clean!”

  “What do you mean, I’m clean?”

  “Because you wouldn’t have told me what you just did. You’d be crazy to. A deep-cover accommodation that’s false. With State.… Oh, Christ.” O’Brien was like a man in a trance, aware of his state of suspension but incapable of shaking it. He braced himself against the desk, the fingers of both hands pressed into the wood. He closed his eyes.

  Peter was alarmed. “Maybe you’d better take me to someone else.”

  “No. Wait a minute. Please.”

  “I don’t think so.” Peter got out of the chair. “As you said, this isn’t your ‘basket.’ I want to talk to one of the other night-duty officers.”

  “There aren’t any others.”

  “You said on the phone—”

  “I know what I said! Try to understand. You have to talk to me. You’ve got to tell me everything you know. Every detail!”

  Never, thought Peter. There’d be no mention of Alison; she was not going to be touched. Nor was he yet sure he wanted to talk further with this strangely disturbed man. “I want others to hear what I have to say.”

  O’Brien blinked several times. The trance was broken; he walked swiftly to a shelf on the other side of the room, pulled out a cassette recorder, and returned to the desk. He sat down and opened a bottom
drawer. When his hand emerged, it held a small plastic box in which there was a cassette tape.

  “The seal’s unbroken; the tape is unused. I’ll play it through if you like.” The agent snapped the box open, removed the cassette, and inserted it. “You have my word. Others will hear what you have to say.”

  “A tape won’t do.”

  “You’ve got to trust me,” said O’Brien. “Whatever you think of my behavior these past few minutes, you’ve got to trust me. You can only tell your story on tape. And don’t identify yourself. Describe yourself as a writer, that’s all. Use all the other names involved except those associated with you personally or professionally. If that becomes impossible, if those people are intrinsic to the events, hold up your hand; I’ll stop the tape, and we’ll talk about it. Have you got that?”

  “No.” Chancellor balked. “Now you just wait a minute. This isn’t what I came here for.”

  “You came here to put a stop to it! That’s what you told me. Stop the killing, stop the terror, stop the blackmail. Well, I want the same thing! You’re not the only one who’s been pushed to the fucking wall! Or this Maxwell woman or any of you. Christ, I’ve got a wife and family!”

  Peter recoiled, stung by O’Brien’s words. “What did you say?”

  Self-consciously, the FBI man lowered his voice. “I have a family. It’s not important, forget it.”

  “I think it’s very important,” said Peter. “I don’t think I can ever tell you how important it is to me right now.”

  “Don’t bother,” interrupted O’Brien. He was abruptly the complete professional. “Because I’m doing the telling. Remember what I said: Don’t identify yourself, but use the names of everyone else who approached you or you were sent to—people not known to you previously. Give the other names to me later, but not on the tape. I don’t want you traced. Speak slowly; think about what you’re saying. If you have any doubts, just look at me; I’ll know. I’m going to start now. Give me a moment to identify myself and the circumstances.”

  O’Brien depressed two buttons on the small recorder and spoke in a clipped, hard voice.

  “This tape is being prepared by Senior Agent C. Quinlan O’Brien, Eye-dent clearance seventeen-twelve, on the night of December eighteenth at approximately twenty-three hundred hours. The man you will hear was escorted to the night-duty office. I have removed his name from the security logs and informed the desk agent to report to me any and all inquiries, under the aforementioned seventeen-twelve in-house clearance.” O’Brien paused, picked up a pencil, and scribbled a note to himself on a pad. “I consider the information on this tape to be of the highest priority of classification and for reasons of security can accept no interference. I fully understand the irregularity of the methods I employ and—for personal reasons—fully assume responsibility.”

  The agent stopped the machine and looked at Peter. “Ready? Start last summer. At Malibu and your meeting with Longworth.” He pressed the buttons; the tape rolled.

  Through the mists of disbelief Chancellor began, speaking slowly, trying to follow the instructions of this man he suddenly, strangely knew so well. This man who was somehow a part of his own invention. C. Quinlan O’Brien. Alexander Meredith. Attorney. Attorney. The bureau. The bureau. A wife and family.… A wife and family …

  Frightened men.

  O’Brien was visibly shaken as the story unfolded, both stunned and disturbed by the incidents Peter described. Whenever he mentioned Hoover’s private files, the agent tensed and his hands shook.

  When Peter came to Phyllis’s description of the horrible, flat, high-pitched whisper over the telephone, O’Brien could not conceal his reaction. He gasped, his neck arched back, his eyes closed.

  Peter stopped; the tape continued rolling. There was silence. O’Brien opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling. Slowly he turned to Chancellor.

  “Go on,” he said.

  “There isn’t much more. You read her letter.”

  “Yes. Yes, I read the letter. Describe what happened. The gunshots, the fire. Why you ran away.”

  Peter did. And then it was over. He had said it all Or nearly all. He had not mentioned Alison.

  O’Brien stopped the tape, rewound it for a few seconds, and played the last words back for clarity. Satisfied, he shut off the machine.

  “All right. You’ve put down what you wanted to. Now, tell me the rest.”

  “What?”

  “I asked you to trust me, but you haven’t told it all. You were writing in Pennsylvania; suddenly you came to Washington. Why? According to you, your research was completed. You ran away from a burning house on Thirty-fifth Street nearly five hours ago. You got here two hours ago. Where were you for three hours? With whom? Fill in the gaps, Chancellor. They’re important.”

  “No. That’s not part of our bargain.”

  “What bargain? Protection?” Angrily, O’Brien got to his feet. “You damned fool, how can I offer protection if I don’t know whom to protect? And don’t kid yourself, protection is the bargain. Besides, it would take me—or anyone who really wanted to—roughly an hour to trace every move you made since you left Pennsylvania.”

  The agent’s logic was undeniable. Chancellor had the feeling that he was an ill-equipped amateur facing a hardened professional. “I don’t want her part of this. I want your word on that. She’s been through enough.”

  “So have we all,” replied O’Brien. “Did she receive a telephone call?”

  “No. But you did, didn’t you?”

  “I’m asking the questions.” The agent sat down again. “Tell me about her.”

  Peter told the dark, sad story of Lieutenant General Bruce MacAndrew, his wife, and the daughter who was forced to grow up so early in her life. He described the isolated house on the back-country road in Maryland. And the words sprayed in blood-red paint on a wall: Mac the Knife. Killer of Chasǒng.

  Quinn O’Brien closed his eyes and said softly, “Han Chow.”

  “Is that Korea?”

  “Different war. Same method of extortion: military records that never reached the Pentagon Of if they did, were removed. And now someone else has them.”

  Peter held his breath. “Are you talking about Hoover’s files?”

  O’Brien stared at him without replying. Chancellor felt torn apart; the insanity was complete.

  “They were shredded,” whispered Peter, unsure of his own mind. “They were destroyed! What the hell are you trying to tell me? This is a book! None of it’s real! You have to protect your goddamned bureau! But not this! Not the files!”

  O’Brien stood up, raising the palms of his hands. It was a reassuring gesture, a father calming an hysterical child. “Take it easy. I didn’t say anything about Hoover’s files. You’ve been through a lot tonight, and you’re making assumptions. For a second I did, too. But it’s wrong. Two isolated incidents involving military records hardly constitute a pattern. Those files were destroyed. We know that”

  “What’s Han Chow?”

  “Not pertinent.”

  “A minute ago you thought it was.”

  “A minute ago a lot of thoughts went through my head. But things are clear now. You’re right. Someone’s using you. And me and probably a couple of dozen others to tear the bureau apart. Someone who knows us, knows the working structure. Very possibly it’s one of us. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

  Peter studied the FBI man. Since Hoover’s death there had been rumors, many reported in the newspapers, that factions within the bureau were fighting among themselves. And Quinn’s intelligence and sincerity were convincing.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “You scared hell out of me.”

  “You’ve got every right to be scared. Much more than I do. Nobody’s fired a gun at me.” O’Brien smiled reassuringly. “But that’s all over with. I’ll find men to stay with you around the clock.”

  Chancellor returned the smile weakly. “Whoever they are, I hope they’re the best you’ve got. I don’t mind te
lling you, I’ve never been so frightened in my life.”

  The smile disappeared from O’Brien’s face. “Whoever they are, they won’t be from the bureau.”

  “Oh? Why not?”

  “I don’t know who to trust.”

  “Then, apparently you know there are people you can’t trust. Anyone in particular?”

  “More than one. There’s a pack of extremists here. We know some of them, not all. They’re loosely called the Hoover Group. When Hoover died, they thought they’d take over. They didn’t and they’re angry. Some are as paranoid as Hoover was.”

  Again Chancellor was struck by O’Brien’s words; it was confirmation of Peter’s original thinking. Everything that had happened—from Malibu to Rockville to the old house on Thirty-fifth Street—was the result of violent infighting within the FBI. And Longworth had reappeared.

  “We have a bargain,” he said. “I want protection. For the girl and myself.”

  “You’ll have it.”

  “From where? Who?”

  “You mentioned Judge Sutherland. A couple of years ago he was instrumental in repairing a severed connection between the bureau and the rest of the intelligence community. Hoover had cut off the flow of information to the CIA and the NSC.”

  “I know that,” interrupted Chancellor quietly. “I wrote a book about it.”

  “That was Counterstrike!, wasn’t it? I guess I’d better read it.”

  “I’ll send you a copy. You send protection. I repeat: Who? Where from?”

  “There’s a man named Varak. Sutherland’s man. He owes me.”

  O’Brien collapsed in the chair. His head fell back, his breathing fast and erratic as if he could not let sufficient air into the lungs. He brought his face forward into his hands; he could feel the trembling in his fingers.

  He had not been sure he could carry it off. A number of times during the past two hours he thought he was going to fall apart.

  It was the writer’s panic that had gotten him through the last minutes. The realization that Chancellor had to be controlled; he could not be allowed to learn the truth.