The Chancellor Manuscript

by Robert Ludlum

  “What?”

  “A staircase. An exit!” Chancellor took her elbow and maneuvered her ample body between himself and the man’s line of sight.

  “I thought I recognized you!” The thin, high-pitched woman’s voice belonged to a blond-haired columnist Peter vaguely recognized. “You’re Paul Chancellor, the writer.”

  “Close enough. Do you know where an exit is? I have to get downstairs in a hurry.”

  “Use the elevator,” said the columnist. “Look, there’s one now.” She stepped back to gesture.

  The movement attracted the man’s attention. He started toward Peter. Chancellor backed away.

  The man made his way through the crowd. In the far corner of the room, beyond an hors d’oevres table, a waiter came through a swinging door. Chancellor dropped his glass and grabbed the arms of the two astonished newspaperwomen, propelling them toward the door.

  The man was only yards behind them, the swinging door just beyond the table. Peter lurched to the side, still holding on to the columnists. As the man broke free of the crowd, Chancellor spun the women around and pushed them as hard as he could toward the onrushing figure. The man yelled; the obese woman’s pencil pierced his lower lip. Blood trickled from his mouth. Peter swung his hands under the wide table filled with food and two huge punch bowls and heaved it up, sending the mass of silver, glass, liquid, and food crashing to the floor.

  Shouts became screams; someone blew a whistle. Chancellor raced through the swinging door into a pantry.

  On the left wall he saw a red Exit sign. He grabbed a serving cart, rolling it behind him with such force a wheel came off. Bowls of salad crashed in front of the swinging door. He ran to the exit and body checked it open. He looked behind him; there was chaos at the pantry entrance and no sign of the man chasing him.

  The staircase was empty. He took the steps three at a time to the landing and swung himself around by the railing.

  His feet slammed to a stop, his left knee smashed into the iron post Below him, in front of the lobby door, stood the man he had last seen on Connecticut Avenue. The man who had jumped out of the car. He was not part of a novel now; he was real. As the gun in his hand was real.

  The madness! The insane thought came to Peter that he must have a tape recorder in his handkerchief pocket. Involuntarily, he raised his left arm to press the cloth. To start the recorder. A nonexistent recorder! What was happening to him?

  “What do you want with me? Why are you following me?” he whispered, not sure what was fact anymore.

  “We just want to talk to you. Make sure you understand—”

  “No!” His mind exploded. He sprang from the landing, conscious only of empty space. Somewhere deep in the sound waves of that space he heard the sickening spit of a bullet, but he was not affected; his disbelief was complete.

  Suddenly his hands clamped on skin and hair. The thrust of his flying body made contact; he slammed the man’s head into the metal door.

  The real man with the real gun collapsed, his hair and face covered with blood. Peter rose and stood for an instant in shock, trying to separate fantasy and reality.

  He had to run. There was nothing left but running. He crashed open the door and started across the marble floor. The guard was at the entrance to the street, his hand on his holster, a walkie-talkie next to his ear.

  As Peter approached, the guard spoke. “Some trouble up there, huh?”

  “Yes. Couple of drunks, I think.”

  “Did the two guys find you? They told me you’re with the bureau.”

  Peter stopped, gripping the entrance door in his hand. “What?”

  “Your backup? The other two guys. They came in right after you. They showed me their IDs. They’re with the FBI, too.”

  Chancellor did not wait to hear more. The madness was now complete. The FBI! He ran down the short flight of steps, his eyes blurred, his breath gone.

  “You’ve still got time on the meter, mister.”

  Not eight feet away from him at the curb was the taxi. He ran to the door and got inside.

  “Drive down to Ellipse road! For God’s sake, hurry! Go around to the Smithsonian Park. I’ll tell you where to let me off.”

  The cab accelerated. “It’s still your money.”

  Peter spun around and looked out the rear window at the Corcoran. A man came running down the steps onto the sidewalk, one hand on his face, the other holding a walkie-talkie. It was the man from the second floor reception, the man whose lip had been pierced by the obese columnist’s pencil. He had seen the taxi. Others would be waiting. Somewhere.

  They entered the curve around the Ellipse. To the south was the Washington Monument, floodlights washing the alabaster needle. “Slow down,” instructed Peter, “near the edge of the grass. But don’t stop. I’m going to jump out, but I don’t want …” Peter’s voice faded; he did not know how to say it.

  The driver helped him. “But you don’t want whoever might be watching my cab to see you jump, is that it?”

  “Yes.”

  “You in trouble?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it the cops?”

  “Jesus, no! It’s … personal”

  “You sound okay to me. You were fair with me; I’m fair with you.” The driver slowed down. “About fifty yards ahead, at the farthest point in the curve before it swings straight, jump. Then I’ll go like a bat outta’ hell for a couple of blocks. Nobody’ll see you. Got it?”

  “Yes. I’ve got it. Thanks.”

  “Now!”

  The cab had slowed. Chancellor opened the door and jumped over the edge of the curb, the force of his leap and the curve of the road propelling him onto the grass.

  The driver held the horn down in one continuous blast. Other automobiles swung to the right, allowing the taxi to pass. The sound was the sound of emergency; someone was in trouble.

  Peter watched the scene from his concealed position in the grass. One automobile did not stop or hesitate or swing to the right as the others did in front of and behind the screaming cab. It was not affected by the sound of panic. Instead, it fell in line with the taxi and raced after it.

  It was the black limousine he had seen on New Hampshire Avenue.

  Peter lay motionless for a moment. Tires screeched in the distance. From across the Ellipse road, in the direction of Continental Hall, another automobile was careening into the circular drive. Looking for him? He got to his feet and started running over dirt and grass.

  He felt concrete beneath him; he was in the street. Buildings were in front of him, cars alongside him, driving slowly. He kept running, knowing that beyond the dark buildings and the scattered trees stood the Smithsonian.

  He fell suddenly and rolled over on the pavement. Behind him he heard the unmistakable sounds of racing footsteps. They’d found him!

  He scrambled to his feet, lurching forward, the overanxious sprinter jumping the gun. He kept racing where instinct directed him, and suddenly he saw it! Its parapets were silhouetted against the sky! The outlines of the Smithsonian! He ran as fast as he could across an unending lawn, jumping over low, sagging chains that bordered paths, until he stood, breathless, in front of the enormous building.

  He was there, but where was Longworth?

  For an instant he thought he heard sounds behind him. He turned; there was no one.

  Suddenly, two tiny specks of light flashed from somewhere in the darkness, beyond the steps that led to the road in front of the entrance. They came from ground level, to the left of the statue that stood at the top of the steps. They flashed agin, as if aimed at him! He walked rapidly toward the source of the light. Nearer, nearer; thirty feet, twenty feet. He was walking toward a dark corner of the massive museum; there was shrubbery in front of the stone.

  “Chancellor! Get down!”

  Peter threw himself to the ground. Two flashes came from the darkness: muted pistol shots.

  Behind him he heard a body fall. In the dull gray of the night he saw the
gun in the slain figure’s hand. It had been aimed at him.

  “Drag him back here!” It was a whispered command from the darkness.

  All thought dulled, Chancellor did as he was told. He pulled the body over the grass into the shadows, and then he crawled to Alan Longworth.

  The man was dying. His back was against the Smithsonian stone. In his right hand was the gun that had saved Peter’s life; his left hand held his stomach. His fingers were covered with blood.

  “I haven’t got time to thank you,” said Chancellor, barely able to hear himself. “Maybe I shouldn’t. He was one of your men.”

  “I haven’t got any men,” replied the blond-haired killer.

  “We’ll talk about that later You’re coming with me. Now.” Angrily, Peter struggled to his feet.

  “I’m not going anywhere, Chancellor. If I stay still and keep things in place, I’ve got a few minutes. Not if I move.”

  There was that strange, guttural sound in Longworth’s voice again. “Then, I’ll go find someone!” said Peter, his answer now mixed with fear. He could not let Longworth die. Not now. “I’ll get an ambulance!”

  “An ambulance won’t help. Take my word for it. But you have to be told. You have to understand.”

  “I understand everything. A group of fanatics is trying to tear the FBI apart so that they can take control. And you’re one of them.”

  “That’s not true. It goes beyond the bureau. We’re trying to stop them; I’ve tried. And now you’re the only one who can. You’re closest to the core; no one else has your advantage.”

  “Why?”

  Longworth seemed to ignore the question. He took a deep breath. “The missing files. Hoover’s private dossiers”

  “There are no missing files!” broke in Peter, furiously. “There are only men like you and the man you just killed. You made a mistake, Longworth. He was following me, chasing me. He used his identification; he’s FBI! He’s one of you!”

  Longworth stared at the body of the man he had killed. “So the maniacs found out about the files. I imagine it was unavoidable. They can be used by the one who has them. They’re the perfect foils; they’ll be blamed for everything.”

  Chancellor was not listening. The only thing that mattered was to deliver Longworth to Quinn O’Brien. “I’m not interested in any more of your observations.”

  “You say you love that girl,” said Longworth, breathing hard. “If you do, you’ll listen to me.”

  “You bastard! You leave her out of this!”

  “Her mother, her father.… It’s them. Something happened to the mother.”

  Peter knelt closer. “What do you know about her mother?”

  “Not enough. But you can learn. Bear with me. To begin with, my name isn’t Longworth.”

  Chancellor stared in disbelief, yet he knew he was hearing the truth. Circles within circles. Reality and fantasy, but which was which? The moon came out of the gray night sky. For the first time he was able to see Longworth’s face clearly. The dying man had no eyebrows, no lashes. There was only raw scraped flesh around the sockets and blisters everywhere. He had been beaten, tortured.

  28

  “My name is Stefan Varak. I’m a code specialist for the National Security Council, but I also perform certain functions for a group of—”

  “Varak?” It took several seconds for the name to register, but when it did, the shock made Peter grow cold. “You’re the man O’Brien’s looking for!”

  “Quinn O’Brien?” asked Varak, wincing in pain. “Yes. He’s the man I talked to, the one I told the story to. He’s been trying to reach you!”

  “I was in no position to receive messages. You were lucky. Quinn’s one of the quickest and cleanest men over there. Trust him.” Varak coughed, pain visible in his face. “If the maniacs have surfaced, O’Brien will stop them.”

  “What have you got to tell me? What do you know about MacAndrew’s wife?”

  Varak held up his bloody hand. “I have to explain. As quickly as possible. You’ve got to understand.… From the beginning you were programed. Part truth, part lie. We had to get you involved, get you started, force the enemy to react, show themselves.” Varak was gripped by a spasm.

  Chancellor waited till it passed; then he asked: “Part lie, part truth. Which was which?”

  “I told you. The files. They disappeared.”

  “There was no assassination, then?”

  “Inconceivable.” Varak stared at Peter, his breath coming fast. “The men who fought Hoover were honorable. They protected Hoover’s victims by the law, not outside of it.”

  “But the files were taken.”

  “Yes. That part’s true. Dossiers with the letters M through Z. Remember that.” Again a spasm took hold of Varak. Peter held his shoulders; it was all he could think of to do. The shivering ran its course; Varak continued. “And now I must elaborate. I use your words.”

  His words? Varak’s eyes were glazed; the accent was there once more. “My words? What do you mean?”

  “In your fourth chapter—”

  “My what?”

  “Your manuscript.”

  “You’ve read it?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “It doesn’t matter. There’s no time.… Your Nucleus. You concentrate on three people. A senator, a newspaperwoman, a cabinet member.…” Varak’s eyes lost control; his voice faded.

  “What about them?” pressed Chancellor, not understanding.

  “Use the files for good.…” The dying man inhaled suddenly. “You said that.”

  Peter remembered. The files. In the manuscript he had given the words to the former cabinet officer. If they can be used the way Hoover uses them, they can be turned around. They can be used for good! It was the false reasoning that would lead to tragedy.

  “What if I did? What are you talking about?”

  “It’s what happened.…” Varak’s eyes came briefly into focus, his concentration all-consuming. “One man turned into a killer. A killer who hires killers.”

  “What?”

  “Five men. One of four … not Bravo. Never Bravo.…”

  “What did you say? Who’s Bravo?”

  “A splendid temptation. To use the files for good.”

  “Splendid?… There’s nothing splendid. It’s extortion!”

  “That’s the tragedy.”

  Oh, Christ! His words! “What five men? What do you mean?”

  “Venice you know.… Bravo, too, but not Bravo! Never Bravo!” Varak struggled with his bloodied right hand; he inched it away from the wound in his stomach to his jacket pocket. He withdrew a piece of paper, white paper soiled with blood. “One of four men. I thought it was Banner or Paris. Now I’m not sure.” He pushed the paper into Chancellor’s palm. “Code names. Venice, Christopher, Banner, Paris. It’s one of them. Not Bravo.”

  “ ‘Venice’ … ‘Bravo’ … who are they?”

  “The group. Your Nucleus.” Varak pulled his hand down to his wound. “One of them knows.”

  “Knows what?”

  “The meaning of Chasǒng. The mother.”

  “MacAndrew? His wife?”

  “Not him. Her! He’s the decoy.”

  “Decoy? You’ve got to be clearer.”

  “The slaughter. The meaning behind the slaughter of Chasǒng!”

  Peter looked at the bloodstained paper in his hand. Names were written on it. “One of these men?” he asked the dying man, unsure what he meant by his own question.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “You and the daughter. You! It was to throw you off. To make you think it was the answer. It isn’t.”

  “What answer?”

  “Chasǒng. Something beyond it.”

  “Stop it! What are you saying?”

  “Not Bravo.…” Varak’s eyes swam in their sockets.

  “Who is Bravo? Is he one of them?”

  “No. Never Bravo.”

  “Varak, what
happened? Why are you so certain about Chasǒng?”

  “There are others who’ll help.…”

  “What about Chasǒng?”

  “Thirty-fifth Street. The house. They took me and taped my eyes, my face. I never saw them. They needed a hostage. They know what I’ve done.… I didn’t see them, but I heard them. They spoke a language I didn’t know, which means they knew I didn’t know it. But they used the name Chasǒng. Each time … fanatically. It has another meaning. Find what it was behind the killing at Chasǒng. It will lead you to the files.”

  Varak fell forward. Chancellor grabbed him, pulling him back. “There’s got to be more!”

  “There’s very little.” Varak’s whisper faded. Peter had to put his ear next to the agent’s lips to hear him. “They drove me through a town; they thought I was unconscious. I heard automobiles. I crashed through the door with the tapes on my face. They fired at me but drove away. I had to get you alone. I could not talk on the telephone. I was right. The two false numbers I gave you were called. If I had told you on the phone what I’m telling you now, you’d have been killed. Protect the girl. Find the meaning behind, the slaughter of Chasǒng.”

  Chancellor felt panic swell inside him; his head was about to explode. Varak was nearly dead. He’d be gone in moments! In seconds! “You said there were others! Who can I go to? Who’ll help?”

  “O’Brien,” whispered Varak. Then he stared at Peter, a strange smile on his bloodless lips. “Look to your manuscript. There’s a senator. He might have been—Go to him. He’s not afraid.”

  Varak’s eyes closed. He was dead.

  And Chancellor’s mind was filled with white light and thunder. The detonations shook the earth; there was no sanity left. A senator.… He had crossed a line no one should cross. He let Varak’s head fall back into the stone and slowly got to his feet, backing away, filled with a terror so personal, so absolute, he could not think.

  But he could run. And so, blindly, he ran.

  He was near water. The reflections of light shimmered on the surface like thousands of miniature candles flickering in an unfelt wind. How long he had been running he could not tell. As his mind began to clear, he thought for a moment he was back in New York, at dawn, within the sculptured confines of Fort Tryon, where a blond-haired man named Longworth had just saved his life.