The Chancellor Manuscript

by Robert Ludlum

  As St. Claire spoke, Peter understood the devastating nature of what was being given him. The ambassador was right on two points. Chancellor knew instinctively that he was hearing the truth, and beyond that certainty, he realized that Hoover’s murder was within reach of being confirmed. St. Claire would not use names—other than Varak’s—but it was reasonable to assume that identities could be uncovered.

  An actress whose husband had been destroyed during the McCarthy madness; two former Marine communications specialists, both experienced in electronics and telephone interceptions, one an expert marksman; an operative from Britain’s MI6, known to have worked closely with the National Security Council during the Berlin crisis; an American surgeon living in Paris, an expatriate socialist whose wife and son had been killed in an accident with an FBI vehicle that had been involved in illegal, unwarranted surveillance. These had been the team. The threads were uncut; they could be followed to their sources. The plan itself was the work of an intelligence genius, even to the subtle inclusion of a White House advisor’s name.

  It accounted for Ramirez’s judgment: There was no autopsy.… Orders from Sixteen hundred.… The White House … killed him. If they didn’t, they think they did. They think someone over there did it. Or had it done.

  What an incredible mind Varak had possessed!

  St. Claire finished, exhausted. “Have I told you the truth? Do you believe me now?”

  “As far as we’ve gone, yes. There’s one step further. If I sense a lie, it’s all a lie. Is that fair?”

  “There are no more lies. Not where you are concerned. It’s fair.”

  “What’s the meaning of Chasǒng?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It’s not significant?”

  “Quite the contrary. Varak called it a ‘decoy.’ He believed it was the key to the identity of the man of Inver Brass who betrayed us.”

  “Explain that.”

  Once again St. Claire breathed deeply, his exhaustion even more apparent “It concerned MacAndrew. Something happened at Chasǒng to discredit his command. Thus the phrase ‘Mac the Knife, killer of Chasǒng.’ There was an enormous loss of life; MacAndrew was held responsible. Once his guilt was established, it was expected to stop there. Varak thought that it shouldn’t. He felt there was something else, something that involved MacAndrew’s wife.”

  “Did you ever learn the composition of the troops at Chasǒng?”

  “The composition?”

  “The racial composition.” Chancellor watched the old man closely.

  “No. I wasn’t aware that there was any such thing as a ‘racial composition.’ ”

  “Suppose I told you that the casualty records of Chas5ng are among the most closely guarded secrets in the Army archives; hundreds were killed and listed as missing. Only thirty-seven survived, six of whom are incapable of communicating. That the thirty-one remaining survivors are in thirty-one separate hospitals across the country. Would all this mean anything to you?”

  “It would be further confirmation of the paranoia that exists in the Pentagon. Not unlike the Hoover regime at the bureau.”

  “That’s all?”

  “We’re speaking of wasted lives. Perhaps paranoia is too vague a term.”

  “I’d say so. Because it wasn’t an unnecessary loss of life due to MacAndrew. It was a trap set by our own Army. It was a conspiracy of command. Those troops—to the last soldier—were black. It was racial murder.”

  St. Claire held his position by the ratling, his expression frozen. Seconds passed; the only sounds were the waves against the rocks and the gusts of wind off the water. The ambassador found his voice.

  “In the name of God, why?”

  Peter stared at the diplomat, feeling both relief and bewilderment. The old man was not lying; his shock was genuine. St. Claire was many things that were unforgivable, but he was not the betrayer of Inver Brass. He did not have the files. Peter returned the gun to his pocket.

  “To cover an intelligence operation that involved MacAndrew’s wife. To stop MacAndrew from asking questions. If it had been unearthed, it would have led to the exposure of dozens of similar operations. Men and women placed on drugs, on hallucinogens. Experiments that would have blown up in the faces of those who conceived them, destroyed their careers, and probably gotten several of them killed by the man they had led into the trap: Mac- Andrew.”

  “And for those reasons they sacrificed— Oh, my God!”

  “That’s what Chasǒng means,” said Peter quietly. “Everything else was Varak’s decoy.”

  St. Claire stepped forward, his legs unsteady, his features contorted. “Do you realize what you’re saying? Inver Brass—Only one member of Inver Brass is—”

  “He’s dead.”

  The breath left St Claire’s lungs. For an instant his whole body was contorted. Chancellor continued softly.

  “Sutherland’s dead. So is Jacob Dreyfus. And you don’t have the files. That leaves two men. Wells and Montelán.”

  The news of Dreyfus’s death was almost more than St. Claire could absorb. His eyes seemed to float in their sockets. He held the railing, gripping it awkwardly in his hands.

  “Gone. They’re gone.” The words were whispered in sorrow.

  Peter approached the old man, feeling compassion and relief. At last there was an ally! A powerful man who could end the nightmare.

  “Mr. Ambassador?”

  At the sound of the title, St. Claire looked up at Peter. There was an unmistakable flash of gratitude in his eyes. “Yes?”

  “I should leave you alone for a while, but I can’t do that. People have traced me. I think they’ve found out what I’ve learned. MacAndrew’s daughter is in hiding; two people are with her, but that’s no guarantee she’s safe. I can’t go to the police, I can’t get protection. I need your help.”

  The diplomat was finding what was left of his strength. “You’ll have it, of course,” he began. “And you’re quite right, there’s no time for remorse. Thoughts can come later. Not now.”

  “What can we do?”

  “Cut out the cancer in the full knowledge that the patient may die. And in this case the patient is dead already. Inver Brass is gone.”

  “May I take you to my friends? To MacAndrew’s daughter?”

  “Yes, of course.” St. Claire pushed away from the railing. “No, it would be a waste of time. The telephone is faster. In spite of what you think, there are people in Washington who can be trusted. The vast majority, in fact You’ll have your protection.” St Claire gestured toward the front entrance; he reached into his pocket for a key.

  They had to step in quickly. The diplomat explained: The alarm system was suspended by a key for ten seconds while they entered, reactivated with the closing of the door.

  Inside, St. Claire went through the arch into the huge sitting room, turning on the lights. He walked to a telephone, picked it up, stopped, and replaced it in its cradle. He turned to Chancellor.

  “The best protection,” he said, “is to stop the attackers. Wells or Montelán, either or both.”

  “My guess would be Wells.”

  “Why? What did he say to you?”

  “That the country needed him.”

  “He’s right His arrogance in no way vitiates his brilliance.”

  “The files panicked him. He said he was part of them.”

  “He was. Is.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Wells is his middle name, his mother’s. The files make that clear. It was legally assumed shortly after his parents were divorced. He was an infant His name at birth was Reisler. It’s in the missing files, M through Z. Does the name mean anything to you?”

  “Yes.” Peter remembered. The name evoked an image of a strutting, vicious figure of thirty-five years ago. “Frederick Reisler. One of the leaders of the German-American Bund. I used him as the basis for a character in Reichstag! He was a stockbroker.”

  “A genius on the Street He funneled m
illions to Hitler. Wells has been running from that stigma all his life. More important, he’s served his country selflessly to make amends. He’s terrified the files will expose a legacy that’s tortured him.”

  “Then, I think it’s him. The heritage fits.”

  “Perhaps, but I doubt it. Unless his cunning is beyond anything I can conceive of, why would he fear exposure if he has the files? What did the hidalgo say?”

  “What?”

  “Montelán. Paris. Far more attractive than Banner, yet infinitely more arrogant Generations of Castilian wealth, immense family influence, stolen and stripped by the Falangists. Carlos has a hatred in him. He despises all sources of absolute control. I sometimes think he searches the world for deposed aristocrats—”

  “What did you just say?” broke in Chancellor. “He despises what?”

  “Absolutists. The fascist mentality in all forms.”

  “No. You said control. Sources of control!”

  “Yes, I did.”

  Ramirez! thought Peter. The source control of Chasǒng. Was that it? Was that the connection? Ramirez. Montelán. Two aristocrats of the same blood. Both filled with hatred. Appealing to—using—the same minorities they held in such contempt?

  “I haven’t got time to explain,” Peter said, suddenly sure. “But it’s Montelán! Can you reach him?”

  “Of course. Each member of Inver Brass can be contacted within minutes. There are codes he can’t ignore.”

  “Montelán might.”

  The ambassador arched his eyebrows. “He won’t know why I’m calling. His own fear of exposure will force him to respond. But, of course, exposure isn’t enough, is it?” St. Claire paused; Chancellor did not interrupt “He must be killed. A final life demanded by Inver Brass. How tragically it’s all turned out.” St. Claire picked up the telephone. Instantly, he stopped, his ashen face now white. “It’s dead.”

  “It can’t be!”

  “It wasn’t a moment ago.”

  Without warning, the shattering sound of a bell filled the cavernous room.

  Chancellor spun toward the archway, his right hand lunging into his pocket, gripping the small automatic, pulling it out.

  A gunshot accompanied the smashing of glass from a window on the porch. Quick, iced pain spread throughout Peter’s arm and shoulder; blood appeared on his jacket He dropped the gun to the floor.

  There was the crash of wood against wood from the hallway. The front door was slammed back into the wall. Two slender men—black men in tight-fitting trousers and dark shirts—raced into the room with catlike speed and crouched, still standing, gripping weapons leveled at Chancellor.

  Behind them an immense figure walked out of the darkness of the hall into the eerie light of the room.

  It was Daniel Sutherland.

  He stood motionless, staring at Peter, his eyes contemptuous. He held out his huge hand and opened his palm. In it was a capsule. He closed his fist and turned his hand downward; his fingers ground against his palm.

  A dark red fluid burst from his fist, covering his skin and dripping to the floor.

  “The theater, Mr. Chancellor. The art of deception.”

  42

  Everything happened in rapid, crisp movements that were marks of professionals. Other blacks entered; the house was surrounded. Munro St Claire was held by the table. Peter was pulled away, a strip of cloth strapped tightly over his shoulder wound. A man was dispatched to the gates to await the local police with the proper explanation of why the alarm went off.

  Daniel Sutherland nodded, turned, and walked back into the darkness of the hallway. Again, without warning, the inconceivable happened. The man holding Bravo released him and stepped away; sounds of explosions filled the room.

  Munro St. Claire was impaled against the wall, riddled by gunfire, his body host to a fusillade of bullets. He slumped to the floor, his wide eyes dead and unbelieving.

  “Oh, my God.…” Chancellor heard the terrified words, unaware that they were his. Aware only of the horror he had witnessed.

  In seconds Sutherland returned from the dark hallway. His eyes were sad, his erect bearing somehow burdened with grief.

  He spoke softly as he looked down at the fallen St Claire. “You would never have understood. Nor would the others. Those files must not be destroyed. They must be used to right a great many wrongs.” The judge raised his eyes and looked at Peter. “We gave Jacob a more proper burial than you accorded him. His death will be announced in time. As will the others.”

  “You’ve killed them all,” whispered Chancellor.

  “Yes,” replied Sutherland. “Banner two nights ago, and Paris last night.”

  “You’ll be caught.”

  “Mrs. Montelán believes her husband has been sent to the Far East by the State Department. We have men at State; the proper documents will be recorded, and Montelán will be reported killed by terrorists. It’s not so unusual these days. Wells had a fatal automobile accident on a wet country road off the highway. You were of considerable help in his case. His car was found in the morning.”

  Sutherland spoke matter-of-factly, as if killing and violence were perfectly natural phenomena, neither unusual nor to be dwelt upon.

  “You have men at the State Department?” said Peter, bewildered. “Then you were able to trace the sterile house in Saint Michaels.”

  “We could and did.”

  “But you didn’t have to. You had O’Brien.”

  “I don’t think you should try to deceive us, Mr. Chancellor. We’re not in the pages of a book. We’re all real here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know precisely what I mean. We never had O’Brien. We had others. Not him.”

  “Not him.…” Chancellor could only repeat Sutherland’s words.

  “A resourceful man, Mr. O’Brien,” continued Sutherland. “A very brave man. He fired into the fuel tanks, setting the boats on fire, then risked his life to lead us away from your car. Courage matching ingenuity, an estimable combination.”

  Peter could not repress the sound of the sharp intake of breath that escaped from his throat. O’Brien had not betrayed them!

  Sutherland was talking, but the words had no meaning. Nothing had meaning any longer.

  “What did you say?” asked Peter, looking around at the scrubbed, clean faces of the blacks. There were five men now, each with a weapon in his hand.

  “I said as gently as possible that your death can’t be avoided.”

  “Why didn’t you kill me before?”

  “In the beginning we tried to. Then I reconsidered. You’d begun your manuscript. We had to prove you were mad. People have read what you’ve written; we have no way of knowing how many. You’ve come remarkably close to the truth. We couldn’t allow that. The country must believe those files were destroyed. You wrote otherwise. Fortunately, your behavior has been questioned, and there are some who think you’ve gone out of your mind. You sustained head injuries in an accident that nearly killed you. You lost a loved one, and your recovery has been abnormally slow. Your paranoid sense of conspiracy is displayed in each of your books, progressively more acute. The final proof of your instability—”

  “Final proof?” interrupted Peter, dazed by Sutherland’s argument.

  “Yes,” continued the judge. “The final proof of your instability would come when you swore I was dead. Needless to say, my reaction would be one of amusement I had met you once, the memory of that meeting dim. It wasn’t particularly memorable. You’d be dismissed as a maniac.”

  “A maniac,” Peter said. “The bureau had ‘maniacs.’ Hoover’s inheritors. They worked with you.”

  “Three did. They didn’t understand it was to be a short-lived association. We had the same objective: Hoover’s files. What they did not know was that we had half of them, the half that weren’t destroyed. We wanted known fanatics who would be caught and killed, the entire files presumably having disappeared with their deaths. Their other function was to
drive you to the precipice. If they killed you, it was on their heads. You were a harmless meddler, but they took you seriously.”

  “You are going to kill me. You wouldn’t tell me these things if you weren’t.” Peter made the observation calmly, almost clinically.

  “I’m not without feeling. I don’t wish to take your life; I derive no pleasure from it. But I have to. The least I can do is try to satisfy your curiosity. And I do have an offer to make.”

  “What offer?”

  “The girl’s life. There’s no reason for Miss MacAndrew to die. Whatever she thinks she knows will have been told her by a writer who recognized his own madness and killed himself. The pathology is classic for creative people. Depression sets in when the lines of reality are blurred.”

  Peter wondered at his own calm. “Thank you. You put me in company I’m not sure I deserve. What’s the exchange? I’ll do anything you say.”

  “Where’s O’Brien?”

  “What?…” Chancellor drew out the word, bewildered.

  “Where’s O’Brien? Did you speak with him while you were with Ramirez? He can’t go to the bureau or the police. We’d know about it if he did. Where is he?”

  Peter watched Sutherland’s eyes closely. Look to the fiction, he thought. Something was better than nothing, no matter how remote the possibilities. And there was a possibility.

  “If I tell you, what guarantees do I have that you’ll let her live?”

  “Ultimately, none. Only my word.”

  “Your word? You’re the one who’s crazy! Accept the word of the man who betrayed his friends, betrayed Inver Brass?”

  “There’s no inconsistency. Inver Brass was formed to give extraordinary aid to the country in times of desperate need—to all the men and women of this country, because this nation was for all its people. What has become apparent is that the country is not for all its people. It never will be. It must be forced to include those it would prefer to overlook. The nation has betrayed me, Mr. Chancellor. And millions like me. That fact does not alter who I am. It may change what I am, but not my values. My word is one of them. You have it.”

  Peter’s mind raced, remembering, selecting. O’Brien had only one place to go after the Chesapeake marina, one place where they had not been followed. The motel in Ocean City. It would be there he would wait—a day at least for Alison and Peter to make contact. Quinn had nowhere else to go.