The Chancellor Manuscript

by Robert Ludlum

  Chancellor let the pencil drop. He was suddenly aware of Alison in the doorway. She stood in her blue bathrobe, looking down at him. He was grateful for the warmth in her eyes and the smile on her lips.

  “Do you know I’ve been standing here for nearly three minutes and you didn’t see me.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I was fascinated. You were so far away.”

  “I was in McLean, Virginia.”

  “That’s not so far.”

  “It better be.” Peter got up from the couch and took her in his arms. “You’re adorable and I love you and let’s go to bed.”

  “I just got out of bed. Let me have some coffee; it’ll wake me up.”

  “Why wake up?”

  “So I can enjoy you. Is that too lascivious?” She kissed him.

  “The coffee’s cold,” he said. “I’ll order more.” “That’s okay. I don’t mind.” “I want to mail something anyway.”

  “What?”

  “The work I’ve done during the past couple of days. I should get it up to the typists.”

  “Now?”

  Peter nodded. “I should reread it, have it Xeroxed, send it by messenger. But I don’t want to look at it for a while. I just want to get rid of it. I’ve got some manila envelopes in my briefcase.” He walked to the phone across the room, remembering O’Brien’s instructions. “Operator? This is Mr. Peters in five-eleven. I’d like room service, but I’d also like to mail something special delivery. May I give it to the waiter to bring to the desk?”

  “Certainly, Mr. Peters.” There seemed to be a smile in the operator’s voice.

  They lay naked in each other’s arms, warmed by the moment and the desire each felt growing again.

  The afternoon sun was reflected from unseen windows outside. From somewhere down in the streets the faint strains of a Christmas carol drifted up from a storefront down the block. It occurred to Peter that most of the day was gone.

  The telephone rang. Chancellor reached for it.

  “Mr. Peters?” It was the operator; he recognized the voice.

  “Yes?”

  “Mr. Peters, I know this is very improper. I realize you don’t want it known you’re registered, and I can assure you I didn’t say anything to the contrary—”

  “What is it?” interrupted Peter, his heart racing.

  “There’s a man on the line. He says it’s an emergency and that he has to talk to a Mr. Chancellor. He sounds quite ill, sir.”

  “Who is it?”

  “He says his name is Longworth. Alan Longworth.”

  The pain in Peter’s temples made him shut his eyes.

  26

  “Get out of my life, Longworth! It’s over! I’ve gone to the bureau and told them everything!”

  “You damned fool. You don’t know what you’ve done.”

  It was Longworth’s voice, yet it was more guttural than Peter remembered, more pronounced in its Middle-European accent.

  “I know exactly what I’ve done, and I know what you’re trying to do. You and your friends want control of the FBI. You think it’s yours by some kind of right or inheritance. Well, it isn’t. And now they’ll stop you.”

  “You’re wrong, all wrong. It’s we who want to stop it. Always we.” Longworth coughed; it was a horrible sound. “I can’t talk on the phone. We must meet.”

  Again there was the strange echo of an accent. “Why? So you can set up a firing squad like you did on Thirty-fifth Street?”

  “I was there. I tried to stop it.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Listen to me.” Longworth went into another spasm of coughing. “There were silencers. Everywhere. Weapons with silencers, as there were in Fort Tryon.”

  “I remember. I’ll never forget.”

  “But one shot last night was not fired through a silencer! Can you remember that?”

  Longworth’s words triggered a memory. There had been a shot, a loud explosion in counterpoint to the spits. And one shout of anger. He hadn’t thought of it then; there had been far too much going on. But now it seemed clear. A gunman had forgotten to employ a silencer.

  “Do you remember?” continued Longworth. “You must.”

  “Yes. What’s your point?”

  “It was I!” There was that tone again. And the proper grammar. Most men in panic would say: It was me.

  “You?”

  “Yes. I followed you. I’m always near you. When those men appeared, I wasn’t prepared for what happened. I did what I could. Frankly, I don’t know how you got out alive.…” Longworth coughed again.

  Chancellor had never heard a death rattle, but in his imagination he was hearing one now. And if he was, Longworth was telling the truth. “I have a question,” he said. “Maybe an accusation, I don’t know. You say you’re always near me. I know you ride in a silver Continental, that’ll come later—”

  “Quickly!”

  “If you’re always near me, it means you’ve been waiting for someone to reach me.”

  “Yes.”

  “Who?”

  “Not on the telephone! Especially not now.”

  “I’ve been bait!”

  “You were never to be hurt,” said Longworth.

  “But I was, wasn’t I? I was damned near killed. You say you weren’t prepared. In New York and down here. Why not?”

  Longworth paused. “Because what happened was contrary to everything we knew, everything we projected.”

  “Inconceivable?” asked Peter sarcastically.

  “Yes. That such chances would be taken—There’s no more time. I’m very weak, calls can be traced. You must come to see me for your own safety. For the girl’s safety.”

  “There’s a CIA man in the corridor. He’ll stay here. I’ll come with the police!”

  “You do and they’ll kill you on sight. The girl will be next.”

  Chancellor knew it was true. It was in Longworth’s voice. A dying man’s voice. “What happened? Where are you?”

  “I escaped. Listen to me; do as I tell you. I’ll give you three telephone numbers. Do you have a pencil?”

  Peter turned. “There’s a pencil and paper—” He did not have to finish. Alison got out of bed and brought them rapidly to him. “Go ahead.”

  Longworth gave three telephone numbers, repeating each. “Take coins with you. In precisely thirty minutes call each of these numbers from a telephone booth. From one you’ll recognize something you’ve written. You’ll know where to find me. You’ll understand. There’ll be questions.”

  “Questions? Something I’ve written? I’ve written three books!”

  “It is a short paragraph, but I believe you thought deeply about it when you wrote it. Expect to be followed. Take the man in the corridor with you. You’ve got thirty minutes. Lose those who follow you. The agent in the corridor will know what to do.”

  “No,” said Peter firmly. “He stays here. With Mac- Andrew’s daughter. Unless he’s replaced by another man.”

  “There’s no time!”

  “Then you’ll just have to trust that I know what I’m doing.”

  “You don’t.”

  “We’ll see. I’ll call in thirty minutes.” Chancellor hung up the telephone and stared at it.

  Alison touched his arm. “Who stays with me and where are you going?”

  “The CIA man. I’m going out.”

  “Why.”

  “Because I have to.”

  “That’s no answer. I thought you said it was over!”

  “I was wrong. But it will be soon, I promise you that.” He got out of bed and began dressing.

  “What are you going to do? You can’t just leave without telling me.” Her voice was shrill.

  Chancellor turned, buttoning his shirt. “Longworth’s hurt, I think pretty seriously.”

  “Why do you care? Look what he’s done to you! What he’s done to us.”

  “You don’t understand. It’s the way I want him, the only w
ay I can force him to go with me.” From his suitcase Peter pulled out a dark brown sweater and put it on.

  “Go where?”

  “To O’Brien. I don’t give a damn what Longworth says, I trust him. Quinn won’t tell me everything, but he knows what’s going on. I heard him on that tape. He’s risking his career, maybe his life. This whole goddamned thing started inside the bureau, and that’s where it’s going to end. Longworth’s the key. I’m going to deliver him to O’Brien. Let O’Brien unravel it.”

  Alison put her hands on his arms. Her grip was firm. “Why deliver him? Why not call O’Brien now? Let him find him.”

  “It wouldn’t work; Longworth’s an expert—I’ve seen that. He’ll take precautions. If he even suspected what I intended to do, he’d run.” Chancellor left unspoken the thought that Longworth might die before O’Brien could get the answers, the identities, from him. If that happened, the insanity would continue.

  “Why did he give you three telephone numbers?”

  “He’ll be at one of them. It’s part of the precautions; he’s not taking chances.”

  “When you talked to him, you mentioned your books—”

  “More of the same,” interrupted Peter, going to the closet for his jacket. “He’s going to quote something he says I’ll recognize. It’ll tell me specifically where he is. It’s another reason O’Brien would be useless right now.”

  “Peter!” Alison confronted him, her eyes concerned and angry. “He wanted that man in the hallway to go with you, didn’t he?”

  “It doesn’t make any difference what he wants.” Chancellor walked into the sitting room. He went to the coffee table, tore off several pages of blank paper from his notebook, and picked up a pencil. Alison followed.

  “Take him with you,” she said.

  “No,” he answered simply. “There’s no time.”

  “For what?”

  He turned and faced her. “To talk anymore. I have to go.”

  She would not let him. “You told him you were going to call the police, bring them with you. Why won’t you?”

  It was the question he’d hoped she would not ask. The answer was found in threats of death, threats he knew were based in truth. “For the same reason I can’t call O’Brien. Longworth would run. I have to find him, take him, and deliver him. I can’t let him get away.” He held her by the shoulders. “I’ll be fine. Trust me. I know what I’m doing.”

  He kissed her, went to the foyer without looking back, and stepped outside into the corridor. The agency man snapped his head up, startled.

  “I have to go out,” Peter said.

  “No way,” replied the CIA man. “That’s not part of the rules.”

  “There are no rules. For instance, you and I have an agreement. Two years ago I needed information, and you gave it to me. I swore to you I’d never say where I got it. But I’m changing that. If you don’t help me, I’ll go back inside that room, pick up the phone, call the agency, and reveal every source I had for Counterstrike! Do I make myself clear?”

  “You rotten son of a bitch—”

  “You’d better believe it.” Chancellor did not raise his voice. “Now, there are men watching this hotel who are going to try to follow me. If I can get out without their seeing me, I’ve got a fair chance. I want that chance, and you’re going to tell me how to get it; you’d better be good. If I’m caught, so are you. But you’re not going to leave this hallway. Because if you do, if anything happens to that girl, you’re hung.”

  The agency man said nothing. Instead, he pressed the wall button; the elevator on the right arrived first, but there were passengers in it. He let it go by. The second elevator came from the lobby; it was empty. The CIA man stepped inside, pressed the stop button, and picked up the emergency telephone. When maintenance got on the phone, he identified himself as a building inspector, but he made light of it, joking with the man on the line. He needed help, he said. Would his new friend please send up a repairman right away? He had loused up the panel box and did not have his tools. He hung up and turned to Chancellor.

  “Have you got money?”

  “Some.”

  “Let me have twenty dollars.”

  Peter gave it to him. “What are you going to do?”

  “Get you out of here.”

  In less than a minute the door of the elevator on the left opened, and the repairman came out. He wore overalls and a large tool belt. The agency man greeted him, flashed his CIA identification, and asked him to step into the car. They talked so quietly Chancellor could not hear them, but he could see the agent hand the man the twenty dollars. He came out and motioned Peter inside.

  “Do what he says. He thinks it’s an agency training exercise.”

  Chancellor walked into the elevator. The repairman was taking off his overalls. Peter watched him, astonished. Underneath the work clothes the repairman wore a soiled undershirt and a pair of white shorts with blue and red polka dots, not unlike a Wonder bread wrapper.

  “I can’t give you the tool belt, you understand. That’s personal property.”

  “I understand,” said Chancellor. He put on the overalls and the repairman’s cap.

  They took the elevator directly to the basement. The repairman led Chancellor around a corner and up a short flight of cement steps into a locker room.

  Two hotel employees were dressed and ready to leave. The repairman talked quietly with them.

  “Come on, mister,” said the man on the right. “You’ve practically got a union card.”

  “What do you know?” said his companion. “The super spies play games.”

  The basement door opened into an alley, which in turn led to the street. The alley was narrow and lined with garbage cans. Peter could see the figure of a man in a raincoat at the street entrance, silhouetted against the dull yellowish twilight beyond. The streets would be dark soon. He would use the darkness and the crowds, thought Chancellor. But first he had to get past the man in the raincoat. The man wasn’t there by coincidence.

  He walked between the two hotel employees, and nodded at the figure ahead; the two men understood. They entered the game, enjoying it. Each began talking at once, directing their conversation at Peter as they walked past the man in the entrance.

  “You!” said the man in the raincoat.

  Chancellor froze. A hand was clamped on his shoulder. He shrugged it off angrily. The man spun Peter around, ripping the repairman’s cap off his head.

  Chancellor rushed at the man, body checking him back into the alleyway. The two hotel employees looked at each other, suddenly concerned.

  “You guys play rough,” said the man on the left.

  “I don’t think they’re playing,” said his companion, moving away.

  Peter heard no more. He ran, dodging the pedestrians on the sidewalk. He reached the corner; the light was red and traffic filled the street. He turned to his right, aware of a racing figure behind him, and started running again down the block. He dashed into the street, glancing off the fender of a car, and reached the other side. There was a crowd in front of a store window; beyond the glass a marionette show depicted Santa Claus and his elves. Chancellor forced his way between bodies like a man possessed. He looked back over the heads of the crowd.

  The man in the raincoat was on the other side of the street, but he was making no move to cross over. Instead, he held a rectangular case against his face, angled from cheek to mouth. He was talking into a radio.

  Peter edged his way along the side of the building, away from the crowd. Before he realized it, he was in front of another window, this one a jeweler’s. Suddenly the glass splintered; it was like no other sound he had ever heard.

  An alarm went off, filling the air with a deafening bell. People turned to stare at him. Petrified, he looked at the window. Only inches from him was a small circle in the glass. A bullet hole! An unseen hand was firing at him!

  The crowds on the sidewalk began yelling. He raced to the corner; a man ran after h
im.

  “Stop! I’m a police officer!”

  Peter lunged into the crowd; if the policeman had his pistol leveled, he dared not fire it. He tugged and pulled and crashed his way to the curb, where he started racing along the edge of the street. The intersection was jammed, the rush-hour traffic at a standstill.

  There was an empty taxi up the block, halfway toward the next corner. Chancellor ran toward it, hoping no one would reach it first. It was more than a means of travel, it was sanctuary.

  “I’m off duty, buddy. No more fares.”

  “Your light’s on!”

  “A mistake. Now it’s off.” The driver looked at him, shaking his head in disgust.

  Peter was suddenly aware that the repairman’s overalls had split; he looked disheveled, maybe worse. Without thinking, he began taking them off in the middle of the street.

  “A pret-ty girl … is like … a mel-odie.…”

  A drunk on the curb was watching him, clapping in the rhythm of the strip. The traffic moved; the taxi drove forward. Chancellor stepped out of the overalls and hurled them at the drunk on the curb.

  The cars in the street jerked to a stop. Peter leaped between bumpers and trunks and ran into the crowds. He looked at his watch. It was twenty-seven minutes since he had talked to Longworth. He had to get to a telephone. In the next block, diagonally across the street, he could see the reflection of colored lights off the glass of a booth. It was no longer twilight, it was evening. Above, the Washington sky was dark.

  He threaded his way through the traffic in the street. The booth was occupied. A teen-aged girl in dungarees and a red flannel shirt was talking animatedly. Peter looked at his watch; twenty-nine minutes had passed. Longworth had said to call in precisely thirty minutes. How crucial was it? Would a minute or two make any difference?

  Chancellor knocked on the glass. The girl shot him a hostile glance. He pushed the door and shouted. “I’m a police officer! I need that phone!” It was the only thing that came to mind.

  It was enough. The girl dropped the phone. “Sure.” She started to slide out; then she thrust her head down toward the dangling instrument. “I’ll call ya’, Jennie!” She ran out into the crowds.

  Peter replaced the phone, took out the paper with the numbers written on it, inserted a coin, and dialed.