The Chancellor Manuscript

by Robert Ludlum

  “No! Yes. You don’t understand. Let it alone!”

  “I want the truth!”

  Ramirez was momentarily silent. “They’re both dead.”

  “Ramirez!”

  “They had her on drugs. She was totally dependent; she couldn’t go two days without a needle. We found out. We helped her. We did our best for her. Things were going badly. It made sense … to do what we did. Everyone agreed!”

  Peter’s eyes narrowed. The dissonant chord was there again, louder and more jarring than before. “You helped her because it made sense? Things were going badly, so it made some sort of goddamned sense?”

  “Everyone agreed.” The soldier’s voice was nearly inaudible.

  “Oh, my God! You didn’t help her, you maintained her! You kept her on drugs so you could transmit the information you wanted to get through.”

  “Things were going badly. The Yalu was—”

  “Wait a minute! Are you telling me MacAndrew was a part of this? He let his wife be used this way?”

  “MacAndrew never knew.”

  Chancellor felt sick. “Yet in spite of everything you did to her, Chasǒng still happened,” he said. “And all these years MacAndrew thought his wife was responsible. Drugged, tortured, nearly beaten to death, made a traitor by an enemy that held her parents captive. You bastards!”

  Ramirez screamed into the telephone. “He was a bastard, too! Don’t you ever forget it! He was a killer!”

  32

  He was a bastard, too! Don’t you ever forget it! He was a killer! He was a bastard, too! … a killer! The drunken words rang in Chancellor’s ears. He watched the swiftly passing countryside, Alison in the back seat of the government car with him, and tried to understand.

  He was a bastard, too! It did not make sense. MacAndrew and his wife were victims. They had been manipulated by both antagonists—the woman destroyed, the general living out his life with a terrible fear of exposure.

  He was a bastard, too! … a killer! If Ramirez meant that MacAndrew had become irrational, a commander who did not care about the cost of destroying an enemy that had destroyed his wife, bastard was hardly the right term. Mac the Knife had hurled hundreds, perhaps thousands, to their death in a futile attempt at vengeance. Reason had deserted him; vengeance was everything.

  If these were the things that caused Ramirez to judge MacAndrew a bastard, so be it. But what bothered Peter, and it bothered him deeply, was the unclear picture of this new MacAndrew, this bastard, this killer. It conflicted with the man Chancellor had met, the soldier who truly hated war because he knew it so well. Or had Alison’s father merely lapsed momentarily—a matter of months in a lifetime—into a madness of his own.

  So now the secret of Chasǒng was known. But where did it lead them? How could MacAndrew’s betrayed, manipulated wife lead to one of the four men on Varak’s list? Varak was convinced that whatever was behind Chasǒng would take them directly to the man who had Hoover’s files. But how?

  Perhaps Varak was wrong. The secret was known, and it led nowhere.

  The government car reached an intersection. A lone gas station stood on the right; a single automobile was parked by a pump. The driver beside O’Brien turned the wheel, and they drove up to it. He nodded to O’Brien and got out of the car; the FBI man slid over behind the wheel. The driver walked to the parked automobile. He greeted the man inside and climbed in the front seat.

  “They’ll stay with us until we reach Saint Michael’s,” said Quinn from behind the wheel.

  A minute later they were on the road again, the car behind them following at a discreet distance.

  “Where’s Saint Michael’s?” asked Alison.

  “South of Annapolis, on the Chesapeake. We can use a house there. It’s sterile. Do you want to talk now? The radio’s off; there are no tapes. We’re alone.”

  Peter knew what Quinn meant. “Was a tape made of what was said between Ramirez and me?”

  “No. Only a shorthand transcript. One copy; it’s in my pocket.”

  “I haven’t had time to explain everything to Alison, but she knows some of it.” He turned to her. “Your mother was strung out on narcotics—probably heroin—by the Chinese. She became dependent; that was the ‘slipping away’ you described. She was used to gather bits and pieces of information. Troop movements, combat strength, supply routes—a hundred things she might overhear from the officers she met at night Besides the drugs, her mother and father were being held in a Chinese prison. The combination was overpowering.”

  “How horrible.…” Alison looked out the window.

  “I doubt that she was the only one,” said Peter. “I’m sure there were others.”

  “I know damned well there were,” added O’Brien.

  “I’m afraid that doesn’t help,” Alison said. “Did my father know? It must have killed him—”

  “Your father knew only what the Army wanted him to know. It was only part of the truth, the Chinese part. He was never told the rest of it.”

  Alison turned from the window. “What rest of it?”

  Peter took her hand. “There was another connection. The Army’s. She was manipulated to transmit selected, misleading intelligence back to the Chinese.”

  Alison stiffened, her eyes boring in on his. “How?”

  “There are a number of ways to do it. Keep her spaced out on narcotics or administer chemicals that heighten the withdrawal pains. Probably that was it; the agony would drive her right back to her original connection. With the information the Army wanted carried.”

  Alison pulled her hand away in anger. She closed her eyes, breathing deeply, in an agony of her own. Chancellor did not touch her; the moment was hers alone.

  She turned back to Peter. “Make them pay,” she said.

  “We know what Chasǒng means now,” said Quinn O’Brien from the front seat. “But where does it take us?”

  “To one of four men, Varak believed.” Chancellor saw O’Brien’s head jerk up, his eyes looking at Peter in the rearview mirror. “I’ve told her there are four men,” he explained. “I haven’t used names.”

  “Why not?” asked Alison.

  “For your own protection, Miss MacAndrew,” answered the FBI man. “I’m working on those. I’m not sure what to look for.”

  “Something to do with China,” Peter said. “Anything Chinese.”

  “You mentioned that you wanted to reach a fifth man. How soon?”

  “Before the day’s over.”

  Quinn was silent behind the wheel. Several moments went by before he spoke.

  “You agreed to leave the name with a lawyer.”

  “I don’t need a lawyer. I’ll leave it with Morgan in New York. Get me to a phone. There should be one on a road around here somewhere.”

  O’Brien frowned. “You’re not experienced making these kind of contacts. I don’t want you taking unnecessary risks. You don’t know what you’re doing.”

  “You’d be surprised how many secret meetings I’ve invented. You just get me an unmarked car and give me a few hours. And don’t go back on your word. I’ll know if you have me followed. Believe that.”

  “I’m forced to. Mother of God. A writer.”

  “Goddamn it, where are you?” Tony shouted the question, his next words only slightly less strident. “The hotel said you’d checked out, and the night manager told me you were on your way to the Shenandoah Valley! And your doctor phoned, asking me if I expected you in New York. Would you please explain—?”

  “There isn’t time. Except that he wasn’t the hotel’s night manager, he was an FBI man. And I doubt my doctor called you. It was someone else looking for me.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Trying to find the man who has Hoover’s files.”

  “Stop that! We had this out a couple of months ago. You’re crossing the line again; you’re not someone in one of your goddamned books!”

  “But the files are missing. They’ve been missing from the beginning;
that’s what it’s all about. I’ll come back to New York, I promise, but first I want you to call someone for me. I want you to tell him to meet me in a car at the precise location and time I give you. He’s in Washington and probably very difficult to get through to. But you’ll be able to do it if you say your name is Varak. Stefan Varak. Write that down; you mustn’t use your own name.”

  “And I suppose,” said Morgan sarcastically, “that I should place the call from a pay phone.”

  “Exactly. On the street, not in the building.”

  “Come on. This is—”

  “The man you’re calling it Munro St. Claire.”

  The name had its effect; Morgan was stunned. “You’re not joking, are you.” It was not a question.

  “I’m not joking. When you get St. Claire on the line, tell him you’re a contact from me. Tell him Varak is dead. He may know it by now, but he may not. Have you got a pencil?”

  “Yes.”

  “Write this down. St. Claire uses the name Bravo.…”

  Peter waited in the unmarked car on the back road that led to the edge of the Chesapeake; it was a dead end that stopped at the water. The banks were marshland, the wild reeds tall and swaying in the December winds. It was shortly past two in the afternoon; the sky was overcast, the air cold, and the dampness penetrating.

  Alison and O’Brien were several miles north in the sterile house in Saint Michael’s. The FBI man had agreed to give him three hours—until five o’clock—before he telephoned Morgan for Bravo’s identity. If Chancellor had not returned by then, Quinn made it clear that Peter was to be presumed dead and appropriate measures would be taken.

  Chancellor remembered Varak’s words. There was a senator. A man who was not afraid, who among all men in Washington could be sought out for help. For Peter it had been another part of the madness. He had invented a senator for his Nucleus. The parallel was once again too close; the fictional character had its basis in a living man.

  He gave the senator’s name to Quinn in case he did not return.

  In the distance a black limousine had rounded a bend in the road and was approaching slowly. He opened the door of the car and got out. The limousine came to a stop twenty feet away. The chauffeur’s window was lowered.

  “Mr. Peter Chancellor?” asked the man.

  “Yes,” answered Peter, alarmed. There was no one in the rear seat of the car. “Where’s Ambassador St. Claire?”

  “If you’ll get in, sir, I’ll take you to him.”

  “That wasn’t part of my instructions!”

  “It has to be this way.”

  “No, it doesn’t!”

  “The ambassador told me to tell you it was for your own protection. He asked me to remind you of a conversation four and a half years ago. He did not mislead you then.”

  Peter’s breathing stopped for a moment. Munro St. Claire had not misled him four and a half years before. He had given him his life. Chancellor nodded and got into the limousine.

  The enormous Victorian house stood on the waterfront. A long dock protruded into the bay at the center point of the large front lawn. The house itself was four stories high. On the first level was a wide screened-in porch that ran along the side of the building that faced the Chesapeake.

  The chauffeur preceded Chancellor up the steps to the entrance. He unlocked the door and motioned Peter inside.

  “Turn to the right, through the archway, and into the sitting room. The ambassador is waiting for you.”

  Chancellor stepped into the hall; he was alone. He walked through an archway into a high-ceilinged room and adjusted his eyes. At the far end a lone figure stood in front of a pair of glass French doors overlooking the porch and the waters of the Chesapeake. His back was to Chancellor; he was looking out at the everchanging surface of the bay.

  “Welcome,” said Munro St. Claire, turning to face Peter. “This house belonged to a man named Genesis. He was Bravo’s friend.”

  “I’ve heard of Banner and Paris, Venice and Christopher. And, of course, Bravo. I haven’t heard of Genesis.”

  St. Claire had obviously been testing. He controlled his astonishment, but it was there. “There would be no reason for you to. He’s dead. I find it incredible that Varak gave you my name.”

  “He didn’t As a matter of fact, he refused to. A man named Bromley did, but he didn’t know he did. His code name at the Bureau was Viper. The B becomes V and thus one of the missing files. Part truth, part lie. That’s how I was programed.”

  St. Claire narrowed his eyes as he moved away from the glass doors toward Chancellor. “Tart truth, part lie’; Varak said that?”

  “Yes. He died in front of me. But not before he told me everything.”

  “Everything?”

  “From the beginning. From Malibu to Washington. How I was provoked into getting involved; how I was the snare for provoking others into showing themselves. He didn’t say so directly, but it really didn’t matter whether I lived or died, did it? How could you do it?”

  “Sit down.”

  “I’d prefer standing.”

  “Very well. Are we two gladiators circling each other?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “If so, you’ve lost the battle. My chauffeur is watching us from the porch.”

  Chancellor turned toward the windows. The chauffeur stood motionless, a gun in his hand. “You think I’ve come to kill you?” Peter asked.

  “I don’t know what to think. I only know that nothing can stand in the way of retrieving those files. I’d willingly give my life if that could be accomplished.”

  “Letters M through Z. The man who has them whispers over the telephone, threatens his victims. And he’s one of four men: Banner, Paris, Venice, or Christopher. Or perhaps he’s Bravo; that’s possible. I guess. He’s reached Phyllis Maxwell, Paul Bromley, and Lieutenant General Bruce MacAndrew. The generad was about to expose a twenty-two-year-old cover-up that he couldn’t live with anymore when he was forced out. How many others this man has reached, no one knows. But if he’s not found, if the files aren’t found—and destroyed—he’ll control the pressure points of the government.”

  Peter made the statements flatly, but they had their effect. “You know things that could cost you your life,” said St. Claire.

  “Since I’ve nearly lost it several times, thanks to you, that doesn’t surprise me. It just frightens me. I want it to stop.”

  “I wish I could stop it. I wish to God it was over and the files brought back. I wish with all my heart that I was convinced it would end that way.”

  “There’s a way to bring it about. To insure it, as a matter of fact.”

  “How?”

  “Make public the names of your group. Acknowledge Hoover’s missing files. Force the issue.”

  “You’re out of your mind.”

  “Why?”

  “The issue is far more complex than you seem to understand.” St. Claire moved to an armchair. He placed his hands on the rim of the back, his long fingers extended delicately over the fabric. His hands trembled. “You say Bromley gave you my name,” he said. “How?”

  “He tracked me down on a train and tried to kill me. He had been told that my manuscript was finished, that it included information about his family. I gather that information could only have come from you. He used your name; suddenly everything was clear. From the beginning, the very beginning. All the way back to Park Forest. I owed you a debt, and you took your payment The debt’s canceled.”

  St. Claire looked up. “Your debt to me? It was never owed. But I submit you have a debt to your country.”

  “I’ll accept that. I just want to know how I’m paying.” Peter raised his voice. “Make public the names of your group! Tell the country—since debts are owed—that Hoover’s private files are missing!”

  “Please!” St. Claire held up one hand. “Try to understand. We came together under extraordinary circumstances—”

  “To stop a maniac,” interrupted Chancellor.
>
  Bravo nodded. “To try to stop a maniac. In doing so, we exceeded the limits of authority in a number of areas. We bent the machinery of government because we thought it was justified. We could be ruined, everything we stand for destroyed; we understood that. Our only motive was fairness, our only protection anonymity.”

  “Change the rules! One of you already has!”

  “Then, he must be found. But the others can’t be made to pay!”

  “I’m not getting through to you. The debt’s canceled, Mr. St. Claire. You’ve used me. I’ve been manipulated, kept off balance until I was damned near out of my mind. For what? So you, the Pentagon, the Federal Bureau of Investigation—for all I know, the White House, the Justice Department, the Congress … half the goddamned government—can go on lying? Telling people those files were destroyed when they weren’t? I’m not asking; I’m demanding! Either you go public, or I will!”

  St. Claire could control his trembling but not conceal it. The long, thin fingers were pressed into the chair. “Tell me about Varak,” he said softly. “I’m entitled to that; he was a friend.”

  Chancellor told him, omitting Varak’s conclusion that Chasǒng was the key. Alison was too intrinsic to that key; he did not trust St. Claire with her name.

  “He died,” said Peter, “convinced it wasn’t you, but one of the other four. ‘Never Bravo.’ He said that over and over.”

  “And what about you? Are you convinced?”

  “Not yet, but you can convince me. Go public.”

  “I see.” St. Claire turned from the chair and looked out at the waters of the Chesapeake. “Varak told you you were programed with part truth, part lie. Did he explain that?”

  “Of course. The missing files were the truth; the assassination was the lie. I never believed it anyway. It was only a concept for a book.… We’ve talked long enough. I want your answer. Will you go public with the story, or Will I?”

  St. Claire turned around slowly. Gone was the anxiety of seconds ago; it was replaced by a gaze so cold Peter was frightened. “Don’t threaten me. You’re in no position to do that.”