The Chancellor Manuscript

by Robert Ludlum

  “Manfriedie’s,” announced the voice on the line. There was music in the background; it was a restaurant.

  “Peter Chancellor. I was told to call this number.” It was going to be one of the decoys, Peter was sure of it.

  “There was a strange occurrence in Munich in the year 1923. It was a portent of things to come, but no one recognized it. What was it, describe it, name the book of yours in which it appeared.”

  “It took place in the Marienplatz. Thousands of men held a rally. They were dressed in identical uniforms, and each carried a shovel. They called themselves the Army of Shovelers. The Schutzstaffel. It was the beginning of the Nazi. The book was Reichstag!”

  There was a brief silence, then the voice came back again. “Disregard the next telephone number given you. Use the same exchange, but the last four digits are now five, one, seven, seven. Fifty-one, seventy-seven. Have you got that?”

  “Yes. Five, one, seven, seven. Same exchange.”

  The man hung up. Peter dialed the new number.

  “Arts and Industries,” said a woman’s voice.

  “My name is Chancellor. Do you have a question for me?”

  “Yes, I do,” answered the woman pleasantly. “There was an organization in Serbia, established during the second decade of the century and headed by a man—”

  “Let me save you time,” interrupted Peter. “The organization was called the Unity of Death. It was formed in 1911, and its leader was known as Apis. His real name was Dragutin and he was the director of Serbia’s military intelligence. The book was Sarajevo!”

  “Very good, Mr. Chancellor.” The woman sounded as though she were in a classroom, appreciating a well-prepared student. “Now, here’s a new telephone number for you.”

  She gave it to him; he dialed it. Again the exchange was the same.

  “History and Technology, Laboratories Division.” The speaker was male. Peter identified himself and was told to wait a moment. Another voice came on the line, this time a woman’s, the accent foreign.

  “I should like you to tell me what moves a man to separate himself from all he has known and accepted, and to risk becoming a pariah in the eyes of his peers. For to refuse that risk, to continue as he has, is to die within himself.”

  Chancellor stared at the white casing of the telephone. Those were his words, from Counterstrike! One short paragraph among thousands, but for Peter it was the key to the entire book. If Longworth had the capacity to discern that, there was, perhaps, more to the man than he had considered.

  “The knowledge that the administration of justice and fairness no longer mattered to the country’s leaders. The people must be shown this, the leaders confronted.” Chancellor felt foolish; he quoted himself.

  “Thank you, Mr. Chancellor,” said the woman with the accent. “Please analyze your reply and the telephone calls you have just made. The combination will tell you what you want to know.”

  Peter was bewildered. “It tells me nothing! I’ve got to reach Longworth! Now, you tell me where he is!”

  “I don’t know any Mr. Longworth; I’m only reading what was given me over the phone by an old friend.”

  There was a click and then the whine of a dial tone. Peter slammed his hand on the phone. It was crazy! Three unconnected phone calls involving books he’d written over—Unconnected? No, not actually. The exchanges were identical. That meant the locations—Where was the telephone book?

  It was on a chain on the right side of the booth. He found Manfriedie’s Restaurant. The address was on Twelfth Street Northwest. The second call was taken by a woman who said the words Arts and Industries. The third was History and Technology. Where was the connection?

  It was suddenly very obvious. They were buildings in the Smithsonian complex! Manfriedie’s was near the Mall. Near the Smithsonian! Probably the only restaurant in the area.

  But where in the Smithsonian? It was immense.

  Analyze your reply.

  The knowledge that the administration of justice and fairness …

  Administration!

  The administration building at the Smithsonian! One of Washington’s landmarks.

  That was it! Longworth was there!

  Peter let the telephone book swing back into place. He turned and yanked the door open.

  He stopped. In front of him stood the man in the raincoat. In the darkness, illuminated by the flashing colors of the Christmas lights, Chancellor saw the gun in the man’s hand. On its barrel was the perforated tube of a silencer. The weapon was pointed at his stomach.

  27

  There was no time for thought. So Peter screamed. As loudly and as maniacally as he could.

  He swung his left hand down toward the obscene perforated cylinder. There were two vibrations, shots; a piece of cement exploded. Only yards away a man and a woman cried out hysterically. The woman grabbed her stomach, collapsing on the sidewalk, writhing; the man reeled, holding his face, blood rolling through his fingers. There was chaos. The man in the raincoat pulled the trigger again. Chancellor heard the spit, his hand felt the white heat of the cylinder, and glass shattered behind him. Peter would not let go of the deadly thing; he kicked at the man’s legs, brought his knees up into the man’s groin, and pushed him backward into the street. The traffic was moving; the man crashed into the fender of an onrushing car, the impact hurling him back onto the curb.

  Peter’s hand was burned, the skin blistered, but his fingers were still gripped around the cylinder, stuck to it. The gun was his.

  With the strength born of panic the man in the raincoat staggered up; a knife was in his hand, the long blade whipping out from its recess. He lunged at Chancellor.

  Peter fell against the booth, avoiding the knife. He pulled the cylinder from his left hand; the blistered skin of his palm came partially off with it. He pointed the barrel at the man in the raincoat.

  He could not pull the trigger! He could not fire the gun!

  The man slashed the knife up in a backhand lunge, the blade meant to sever Chancellor’s throat. Peter lurched away, the blade’s point entering his sweater. He brought his right foot up, catching the man in the chest and hammering him backward. The man fell on his shoulder. For an instant he lay stunned.

  Sirens wailed in the distance now. Shrill whistles blew as the police converged. Chancellor followed his physical instincts. Holding the pistol in his hand, he sprang at his stunned attacker and brought the barrel down on the man’s head.

  Then he ran through the hysterical crowds to the intersection, out into the street, against the traffic. He kept running.

  He turned into a narrow side street; the cacophony of sirens and screams receded behind him. The street was darker than those of the shopping district; it housed small offices in old two- and three-story brick buildings.

  Peter fell into the shadows of a doorway. His chest and legs and temples were in pain. His breath was so spent he thought he would vomit; so he went limp and let air fill his lungs.

  Somehow he would have to get to the Smithsonian. To Alan Longworth. He did not want to think about it, not for a few minutes. He had to find a moment of quiet, a void where the pounding in his head would cease because there would be no—

  Oh, Jesus! At the entrance of the narrow street, in the dim spill of the streetlights, two men were stopping pedestrians, asking questions. They had followed him. His scent was no less than that left by a fugitive tracked down by bloodhounds.

  Chancellor crept out of the shadows into other shadows on the sidewalk. He could not run; he would be seen too easily. He spun around behind the iron grillwork of a railing that rose above a stone staircase, and looked back between the fluting. The men were talking to each other now, the man on the right holding a walkie-talkie next to his ear.

  There was the sound of a horn. A car was turning into the street, and the two men were in its path. They moved to their left to let the automobile go by; they were blocked from sight. If they were blocked, so was he! But it would only be
for seconds—two or three at most.

  Chancellor stepped out from behind the grillwork and started running to his right down the sidewalk. If he could pace himself somehow with the approaching car, he could stretch out the time he would be out of sight; three or four more seconds would be enough. He listened for the engine behind him. The maneuver worked! He was at the corner. He ducked behind the edge of the building and pressed his back against the stone. He inched his face forward and looked around into the narrow street. The two men were moving cautiously from doorway to doorway, their caution itself bewildering Peter. Then he understood. In his panic he had forgotten, but the weight in his jacket pocket reminded him: He had the gun. The gun he could not fire.

  Strollers looked at him; a couple hurried past; a mother and child crossed to the curb edge of the sidewalk to avoid him. Chancellor raised his eyes to the street sign. New Hampshire Avenue; diagonally across was the intersection of T Street He had been in the shopping district north of Lafayette Square; he had run between fifteen and twenty blocks, perhaps more if he took into account the various cutoffs and alleyways. He had to double back somehow and head southeast toward the Mall.

  The two men were no more than fifty yards away. To his right, a half block north of where he was, the traffic light turned green. Chancellor started to run again. He reached the corner, crossed the street, turned left, and stopped. A policeman stood beneath the traffic signal; he was looking at Peter.

  It was, thought Chancellor, perhaps the only opportunity he’d have. He could go up to the police officer, identify himself, and say that men were hunting him. The officer could call in and learn of the chaos twenty blocks away, hear for himself how a gun had been fired and shoppers wounded. He could say all this to the officer and plead for assistance.

  But even as he considered the idea, he realized that there would be questions, and forms to fill out, and statements to be made. Longworth would wait only so long. And there were men with radios and weapons looking for him; back at the hotel Alison was alone, with only one man to protect her. The madness would not be stopped by going to the police. It would only be prolonged.

  The light changed. Peter walked rapidly across the intersection, past the police officer, and into T Street. He stepped into a doorway, into the shadows, and looked back. A block and a half south a black limousine heading north had pulled to a stop at the corner of the narrow street and New Hampshire Avenue. Directly in front of the car was a streetlamp. He could see the two men approaching the car; a rear window slid down.

  A taxi headed south on New Hampshire. The light was red; the cab stopped. Chancellor raced to it from the doorway. In the backseat was an elderly, well-dressed man. Peter opened the door.

  “Hey!” yelled the driver. “I’ve got a fare!”

  Chancellor addressed the passenger. He tried to sound reasonable, a man doing his best to remain calm in a crisis. “Please forgive me, but there’s an emegency. I have to get downtown. My—my wife is very ill. I’ve just heard—”

  “Come in, come in,” said the elderly man without hesitation. “I’m only going as far as Dupont Circle. Is that convenient? I can—”

  “That’s fine, sir. I’m very grateful.” Peter stepped in as the light changed. He slammed the door; the taxi bolted forward. Whether it was the door slam or the driver’s loud voice, Chancellor would never know, but as they passed the limousine on the other side of New Hampshire, he could see that the two men spotted him. Peter looked out the rear window. The man on the right had his walkie-talkie against his face.

  They reached Dupont Circle; the elderly man got out. Chancellor instructed the driver to go south on Connecticut Avenue. The traffic was heavier, guaranteed to become worse as they headed into the center of Washington. It was both an asset and a liability. The congested streets allowed him to look in all directions carefully to see if anyone had picked up his trail. Conversely, the heavy traffic allowed others to find him, to catch up with him on foot if necessary.

  They reached K Street; to the right was Seventeenth. Peter tried to visualize a Washington map, the main intersecting thoroughfares south of the Ellipse.

  Constitution Avenue! He could have the driver turn left on Constitution and head for the Smithsonian through the Mall’s entrance. Was there an entrance in that stretch of block?

  There had to be. In the chapter outline that morning, he had envisioned Alexander Meredith driving—racing—out of the Mall. Had he written that? Or was it only—?

  Chancellor saw it through the rear window. A gray car had swung out of the traffic and sped forward in the left-turn lane. It drew parallel to the taxi; suddenly a beam of light shot through the window, crisscrossing with the shafts of headlights behind. Peter edged forward, keeping his face obscured by the car frame, and looked out. Across the short distance a man next to the driver had the window rolled down. His flashlight was aimed at the cab’s identification on the door panel. Chancellor heard him speak.

  “There! That’s it!”

  It was madness within madness. In his imagination that morning two men had careened through the Washinging streets after Alexander Meredith. An automobile had pulled alongside Meredith’s car; a window had been rolled down, and a voice had exclaimed:

  “There!”

  The man got out of his car. He jumped across the narrow space between the two vehicles, his hand thrust forward, gripping the handle of the taxi door. The traffic light changed, and Chancellor yelled at the driver.

  “Go down Seventeenth! Hurry!”

  The cab lurched forward, the driver only vaguely aware there was a problem he wanted none of. Behind them horns blared. Peter looked out the window. The man was still in the street—confused, angry, blocking traffic.

  The taxi sped south on Seventeenth Street, past the Executive Office Building to New York Avenue and the Corcoran Gallery. A traffic light was red; the cab stopped. There were lights still on in the gallery; he had read something in the newspaper about a new exhibition from a museum in Brussels.

  The traffic light was taking too long! The gray car would be beside them any moment. Peter reached into his pocket for his money clip. There were a number of singles and two ten-dollar bills. He removed them all and leaned forward.

  “I want you to do something for me. I have to go inside the Corcoran Gallery, but I want you to wait for me outside the door with your motor running and roof light off. If I’m delayed more than ten minutes, forget it, you’re paid.”

  The driver saw the tens and took them. “I thought your wife was sick. Who the hell was that back there? He tried to open the door—”

  “It doesn’t matter,” interrupted Chancellor. “The light’s changing; please do as I say.”

  “It’s your money. You got ten minutes.”

  “Ten minutes,” agreed Peter. He climbed out. Above the short flight of steps the glass doors were closed; beyond them a uniformed guard stood casually beside a small desk. Chancellor walked swiftly up the steps and opened the door. The guard glanced at him but made no move to interfere.

  “May I see your invitation, sir?”

  “For the exhibition?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m embarrassed, officer,” said Peter quickly, reaching for his wallet. “I’m from The New York Times. I’m supposed to cover the exhibition for next Sunday’s paper. I was in a traffic accident a few minutes ago, and I can’t find …”

  He hoped to God he had it in his wallet. A year ago he’d written several pieces for the Times Magazine; the editors had given him a temporary press pass.

  He found it between credit cards. He held it out for the guard, his thumb covering the expiration date. His hand trembled; he wondered if the guard noticed.

  “Okay, okay,” said the guard. “Take it easy. Just sign the register.”

  Chancellor leaned over the desk, picked up the chained ball-point pen and scribbled his name. “Where’s the exhibition?”

  “Take one of the elevators on the right to the second
floor.”

  He walked rapidly to the bank of elevators and pressed the buttons. He looked back at the guard; the man was paying no attention. An elevator door opened, but Peter had no intention of taking it He wanted the sound to cover his steps as he ran to an exit on the other side of the building.

  There was another sound. Behind him the glass doors opened. Chancellor saw the figure of the man from the gray car. The decision was made for him. He went swiftly into the empty elevator, his hand pressing the first buttons he could reach on the panel. The door closed; the elevator started up.

  He walked out into a milling crowd and the pools of light that shot down from the ceiling. Waiters in red jackets carrying silver trays mingled among the guests. Paintings and sculpture were everywhere, illuminated by spotlights. The guests were the diplomatic corps and those who traveled with that crowd, including members of the Washington press. He recognized several.

  Peter stopped a waiter for champagne. He drank it quickly so he could hold the empty glass up, partially concealing his face, and look around.

  “You’re Peter Chancellor! I’d know you anywhere!” The greeter was a Brunhilde, her Valkyrie helmet a flowery hat set squarely above her Wagnerian face. “When’s your new novel being published?”

  “I’m not working on anything right now.”

  “Why are you in Washington?”

  Peter looked at the wall. “I’m partial to Flemish art.”

  Brunhilde had a small spiral pad in her left hand, a pencil in her right. She wrote as she talked. “Invited by the Belgian Embassy … a connoisseur of Flemish art.”

  “I didn’t say that,” protested Chancellor. “I’m not.”

  Through the crowd he saw the elevator door slide open. Out walked the man who moments ago had rushed through the glass doors downstairs in the lobby.

  Brunhilde was saying something; he had not been listening. “I’d much rather you were having an affair with an embassy wife. Anybody’s wife.”

  “Is there a staircase up here?”