The Chancellor Manuscript

by Robert Ludlum

  “You can’t be sure. You don’t know what precautions I’ve taken.”

  “Do you think you’re a character in one of your novels? Don’t be foohsh.” Bravo glanced at the window. The chauffeur was watching them closely, the gun held steady in his hand. “You’re not important, and neither am I.”

  Chancellor felt on the edge of panic. “There’s a man in New York who knows I’ve come to see you. If anything happened to me, he’d identify you. As a matter of fact you spoke with him.”

  “I listened to him,” replied St. Claire. “I didn’t agree to anything. You drove your car to a dead-end road on the banks of the Chesapeake. I am listed in the State Department logs as being in conference at this moment with an undersecretary who will swear I was there. But an alibi isn’t necessary. We could kill you anytime. Tonight, tomorrow, next week, next month. But no one wants to do that. It was never part of the plan.… Four and a half years ago I steered you into the world of fiction. Go back to that world; leave this one to others.”

  Peter was stunned. Their roles had reversed. St. Claire’s fears had evaporated, as though the news an outraged young man had brought him were no longer vital. It didn’t make sense. What caused the change? His eyes strayed to the window. The chauffeur seemed to sense the tension inside; he had moved closer to the glass. St Claire saw Peter’s concern and smiled.

  “I said you could go back. That man’s there only for my protection. I didn’t know the state of your mind.”

  “You still don’t How can you be sure that I won’t leave here and tell the story?”

  “Because we both know that isn’t the right way. Too many people could lose their lives; neither of us wants that to happen.”

  “I should tell you I know who Banner, Paris, Venice, and Christopher are! Varak wrote out their names for me!”

  “I presumed he had. And you must do what you have to.”

  “Goddamn it, I will tell the story! The killing’s going to stop! The lying’s going to stop!”

  “In my judgment” said St Claire icily, “if you do, Alison MacAndrew will be dead before the day is over.”

  Peter tensed, then took a step toward Bravo.

  There was a crash of glass as a single window pane was smashed; the chauffeur’s gun protruded through the open space.

  “Go home, Mr. Chancellor. Do what you have to do.”

  Peter turned and ran out of the room.

  Munro St. Claire opened the glass doors and stepped out onto the porch. The air was cold, the winds off the bay growing stronger. The sky was dark now. Soon it would rain.

  It was remarkable, St. Claire reflected. Even in death Varak orchestrated events. He understood that only one option remained: Peter Chancellor had to take Varak’s place. The writer was now the provocateur. He had no choice but to go after Banner, Paris, Venice, and Christopher.

  Chancellor said he had been manipulated. What he did not know was that the manipulation had not stopped. It was a question now of watching the novelist very closely, keeping track of his every move, until he led them to the one who had the files.

  There would be a final tragedy, and like the assassination of John Edgar Hoover, it could not be avoided. Two men would die. The betrayer of Inver Brass and, unquestionably, Peter Chancellor.

  At the last Stefan Varak had been a professional. With Chancellor’s death all avenues would be closed. And Inver Brass disbanded, forever unknown.

  33

  “You still won’t tell me who he is?” asked O’Brien, across from Peter at the kitchen table. Each had a half empty glass of whisky in front of him.

  “No. Varak was right He doesn’t have the files.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Because he would never have let me come back alive.”

  “Okay, then. I won’t probe. I think you’re crazy, but I won’t probe.”

  Chancellor smiled. “It wouldn’t do you any good. What have you found out about our four candidates? Is there a China connection? Anything remotely possible?”

  “Yes. Two possibilities. Two mostly negative. One of the possibilities is pretty dramatic. I’d say a probable.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Jacob Dreyfus. Christopher.”

  “How?”

  “Money. He arranged heavy financial backing for several multinationals operating out of Taiwan.”

  “Openly?”

  “Yes. His public posture was to help create a viable Formosan economy. There was a lot of resistance; most of the banks thought Taiwan would fall, but Dreyfus was a tiger. Apparently he got assurance from Eisenhower and Kennedy. He rallied the institutions and single-handedly brought in new industry.”

  Peter’s doubts were aroused; it was too obvious. A man like Dreyfus would not be obvious. “There was nothing secret? No undercover deals or anything?”

  “Not that we can find. Why are they necessary? Money means involvement. That’s what we’re looking for.”

  “If money’s the bottom line, we are. I’m not convinced it is. Who’s the other possibility?”

  “Frederick Wells—Banner.”

  “What’s his relationship to the Nationalists?”

  “To China, not necessarily the Chinese government He’s a Sinophile. His hobby is early Oriental history. He has one of the most extensive Chinese art collections in the world. They’re lent to museums all the time.”

  “An art collection? What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “I don’t know. We’re looking for a connection. It’s a connection.”

  Chancellor frowned. Actually Wells might be a more logical contender than Dreyfus, he considered. A man steeped in the culture of a nation was more apt to be caught up in the mystique of that culture than someone who dealt merely in money. Was it possible that beneath Frederick Well’s pragmatism there was an Oriental mystic in conflict with the Western shell? Or was it preposterous?

  Anything was possible. Nothing could be overlooked.

  “You said the other two were mostly negative. What did you mean?”

  “Neither could be construed as having any tangible Chinese sympathies per se. Still, Sutherland—Venice—ruled against the government in a suit brought by three New York journalists who’d been refused passports to the mainland by the State Department. Essentially he contended that as long as Peking was willing to let them in, it was an abridgment of the First Amendment to prohibit them.”

  “That sounds logical.”

  “It was. There was no appeal.”

  “What about Montelán?”

  “Paris has been an active anti-Nationalist for a long time. He tagged Chiang Kai-shek as a corrupt warlord years ago. He was outspoken in his support for Red China’s admission to the UN.”

  “So were a lot of people.”

  “That’s what I mean by mostly negative. Both Venice and Paris took positions that might have been unpopular, but they weren’t very unusual.”

  “Unless there were other reasons for those positions.”

  “Unless anything. I’m going by probabilities at this point. I think we should concentrate on Dreyfus and Wells.”

  “They can be first, but I’m going to reach all four. Confront each one.” Peter finished his whisky.

  O’Brien leaned back in his chair. “Would you mind repeating that?”

  Peter got out of the chair and carried his glass to the counter, where there was a bottle of Scotch. They’d had one drink; Chancellor hesitated, then poured a second. “How many men can you count on? Like those at the motel in Quantico and the ones who followed us here.”

  “I asked you to repeat what you just said.”

  “Don’t fight me,” said Peter. “Help me, but don’t fight me. I’m the connecting link between all four men. Each knows how I’ve been manipulated. One knows—or will think he knows—that I’ve zeroed in on him.”

  “And then?”

  Chancellor poured his drink. “He’ll try to kill me.”

  “That crossed my min
d,” said O’Brien. “You think I’m going to be responsible? Forget it.”

  “You can’t stop me. You can only help me.”

  “The hell I can’t stop you! I can formalize a dozen charges against you that will put you in isolation!”

  “Then what? You can’t confront them.”

  “Why not?”

  Chancellor walked back to the table and sat down. “Because you’ve been reached. Han Chow, remember?”

  O’Brien remained motionless, returning Peter’s stare. “What do you know about Han Chow?”

  “Nothing, Quinn. And I don’t want to know. But I can guess. The first night we talked, when I mentioned Longworth’s name, when I told you what happened to Phyllis Maxwell … when I said the word Chasǒng. Your face, your eyes; you were frightened. You said the name Han Chow as if it was killing you. You looked at me the way you’re looking now; you started to accuse me of things I couldn’t understand. You may not want to believe this, but I invented you before I met you.”

  “What kind of crap is that?” O’Brien asked, his voice strained.

  Peter drank self-consciously. He took his eyes away from Quinn’s and looked at the glass. “You were my cleansing process. My good guy who has to face his vulnerabilities and surmount them.”

  “I don’t understand you.”

  “Every story about corruption has to have a foil. The person on the side of the angels. I think the difference between a fair novel and a cartoon is that no one in a novel begins as a hero. If he becomes one, it’s only because he forces himself to overcome his own fear. I’m not good enough to write a tragedy, so you can’t call that fear a tragic flaw. But you can call it a weakness. Han Chow was your weakness, wasn’t it? You’re part of the files.”

  Quinn swallowed involuntarily, his eyes still on Chancellor. “Do you want to hear about it?”

  “No. I mean that. But I do want to know why you were reached. It had to be before I came to see you.”

  O’Brien’s words were clipped, as if he were afraid of them. “The night before Hoover died, the names of three men were recorded in the security logs at the bureau. Longworth, Krepps, and Salter.”

  “Longworth was Varak!” interrupted Peter harshly.

  “Or was he?” replied Quinn. “You told me Varak died trying to get the files back. A man doesn’t kill himself trying to find what he’s already got. It was someone else.”

  “Go on.”

  “There was no way the real Longworth could have been there. Krepps and Salter were unassigned covers. I couldn’t establish any identities. Three unknown men, in other words, were cleared for admittance into Hoover’s office that night. I began asking questions. I got a phone call—”

  “A high-pitched whisper?” asked Peter.

  “A whisper. Very courteous, very precise. I was told to stop. Han Chow was the lever.”

  Chancellor leaned forward. Two nights ago O’Brien had been the interrogator; now it was his turn. The amateur was leading the professional. Because the professional was frightened.

  “What’s an unassigned cover?”

  “An identity prepared in advance for emergencies. Biographical data. Parents, schools, friends, occupation, service records—that sort of thing.”

  “In ten minutes a man has a personal history.”

  “Let’s say a couple of hours. He’s got to memorize a number of things.”

  “What led you to the security logs in the first place?”

  “The files,” said O’Brien. “A few of us wondered what had happened to them; we talked about it. Quietly, just among ourselves.”

  “But why the security logs?”

  “I’m not sure. Process of elimination, I guess. I checked the shredding rooms, the furnaces, computerized inputs—there were no loads to speak of. I even made inquiries about the cartons of personal effects taken from Flags.”

  “Flags?”

  “Hoover’s office. He didn’t like the name. It was never used in his presence.”

  “Were there a lot of cartons?”

  “Nowhere near enough to contain the files. To me that meant they’d been removed. And that scared the hell out of me. Remember, I’d seen them in use.”

  “Alexander Meredith.… I’ve been here before.”

  “Who’s this Meredith?”

  “Someone you should meet. Only he doesn’t exist.”

  “Your book?”

  “Yes. Go on.”

  “Since physical removal was a possibility, I began researching the logs. Everyone knew Hoover was dying; there’d even been a code name for his death: ‘open territory.’ The meaning, I think, is clear. After the director, who?”

  “Or what?”

  “Right. I pored over the records, going back several months before he died, concentrating on the night entries because dollies filled with cartons from Flags would be a little awkward to remove during the day. There was nothing out of order—everything and everyone checked out—until I noticed the logs for the night of May first. That’s where I found the three names. Two of them were meaningless, without identities.” Quinn paused and sipped his whisky.

  “What was your theory then? When you realized there were no identities.”

  “Then, and in part now.” O’Brien lit a cigarette. “I think Hoover died a day before they said he did.” The agent inhaled deeply.

  “That’s quite a statement.”

  “It’s logical.”

  “How?”

  “The unassigned covers. Whoever appropriated them had to be familiar with clandestine operations, had to be able to come up with authentic IDs. The agent at the desk that night, a man named Parke, won’t discuss what happened. He claims only that the three men were cleared personally on Hoover’s scrambler. That checks out; it was used. But I don’t think he talked with Hoover. He talked with someone else at Hoover’s house. It was enough for him. That phone was sacred.”

  “So he talked with someone at Hoover’s house. So what?”

  “Someone whose authority he wouldn’t question. Someone who found Hoover dead and wanted those files removed before it was known that Hoover had died and everything was shut up tight I think the files were taken the night of May first.”

  “Any ideas?”

  “Up until two hours ago, yes. I thought it was Hoover’s second-in-command, Tolson, and the maniacs. But thanks to you, that’s no longer realistic.”

  “Thanks to me?”

  “Yes. You damned near killed a man at the Corcoran Gallery. He was found in a stairwell—one of the maniacs. He was confronted in the hospital and given a choice: Name the others in a deposition and resign, or face prosecution, loss of pension, and one hell of a long jail sentence. He chose the first, naturally. Two hours ago I got word from one of our people. All the maniacs have resigned. They wouldn’t do that if they had the files.”

  Chancellor watched O’Brien closely. “Which leads us back to our four candidates. Banner, Paris, Venice, and Christopher.”

  “And Bravo,” added O’Brien. “I want you to use him. Follow your own advice: Make him force the issue. If he’s the man you think he is—or Varak thought he was—he won’t refuse. Go back to him.”

  Chancellor shook his head slowly. “You’re missing the point. He’s tired; he can’t do it anymore. Varak knew that. It’s why he came to me. It’s you and me, O’Brien. Don’t look for anyone else.”

  “Then, we’ll force the issue! We’ll name them!”

  “Why? Whatever we said would be denied. I’d be dismissed as a hack writer promoting a book, and far worse, you have to live with Han Chow.” Peter pushed his drink away. “And it wouldn’t stop there. Bravo was very clear about that. Sooner or later there’d be a couple of accidents. We have to face that. We’re expendable.”

  “Goddamn it, they can’t deny the missing files!”

  Chancellor watched the angry, frustrated agent. Alex Meredith lived in Quinn O’Brien. Peter decided to tell him.

  “I’m afraid they might deny
it very successfully. Because only half the files are missing. Letters M through Z. The rest were recovered.”

  O’Brien was stunned. “Recovered? By whom?”

  “Varak didn’t know.”

  Quinn crushed out his cigarette. “Or wouldn’t say!”

  “Peter! Quinn!”

  It was Alison shouting from the living room. O’Brien reached the door first. All was dark. Alison stood by the window, her hand on the drapes.

  “What is it?” asked Chancellor, going to her. “What’s wrong?”

  “Up the road,” she answered flatly. “The rise between the gates. I saw someone, I know I did. He stood there, just watching the house. Then he moved back.”

  Quinn walked rapidly to a panel in the wall partially concealed by the drapes. There were two rows of convex white disks barely distinguishable in the shadows. They looked like two columns of blankly staring eyes. “None of the photoelectric cells was tripped,” he said as if he were discussing a sameness in the weather.

  Peter wondered what precisely made a “sterile” house, outside of the radio sets, the heavy glass, and the grillwork everywhere. “Are there electronic beams all around the place? I assume that’s what those lights are.”

  “Yes. All around, infrared and crisscrossed. And there are auxiliary generators underground if the electricity goes off; they’re tested every week.”

  “This place is like the motel in Quantico, then?”

  “Same architect designed it, same construction firm built it. Everything is steel, even the doors.”

  “The front door’s wood,” interrupted Chancellor.

  “Paneling,” replied Quinn calmly.

  “Could it have been a neighbor out for a walk?” asked Alison.

  “Possible, but not likely. The houses here are on three-acre lots. The homes on both sides are owned by State personnel, diplomatic level, very high up. They’ve been alerted to stay away.”

  “Just like that?”

  “It’s nothing unusual. This place is used to house defectors during periods of debriefing.”

  “There he is!” Alison held the drape back.

  Silhouetted in the distance, between the stone gateposts, was the figure of a man in an overcoat. He was on the rise in the road, outlined against the night sky. “He’s just standing there,” said Peter.