The Chancellor Manuscript: A Novel

  “I’m afraid they do,” said O’Brien. “That’s why they used the ‘Mr. and Mrs.’ ”

  “I don’t care!” Alison was angry. “I want them to know. They think they can threaten whomever they please! They won’t threaten me. I’ve got a great deal to say!”

  “They’ll tell you they do, too,” said Quinn softly, walking to the window overlooking the beach and the ocean. “My guess is they’ll give you a choice—for reasons of national security. Keep silent about everything you’ve seen and heard, or face the disclosure of your mother’s activities twenty-two years ago. Activities recently come to light that cost upwards of a thousand American lives in a single day. Inevitably this will raise questions regarding your father.”

  “Mac the Knife?” said Peter coldly. “Killer of Chasǒng?”

  O’Brien turned from the window. “That’s too ambiguous. Traitor of Chasǒng would be more like it. Whose drug-addict wife whored for an enemy twenty-two years ago and killed American soldiers.”

  “They wouldn’t dare!” cried Alison.

  “It’s pretty farfetched,” added Chancellor. “They’d be in dangerous territory. It could snap back in their faces.”

  “Revelations of this kind,” said O’Brien with a quiet conviction Peter recognized as being intensely personal, “are always the most dramatic. They go on page one. Later, whatever explanations there are don’t seem to be so important. The damage has been done; it’s not easily undone.”

  “I don’t believe that,” countered Alison nervously. “I don’t want to believe it.”

  “Take my word for it. It’s the story of Hoover’s files.”

  “Then, let’s get the files,” said Peter, folding the newspaper. “We’ll start with Jacob Dreyfus.”

  “He’s Christopher, isn’t he?” asked Alison.

  “Yes.”

  “It’s appropriate,” she said, turning her head to look at O’Brien. “I can’t believe there’s no one we can turn to.”

  “There’s a senator,” interrupted Peter. “We can go to him.”

  “But even he’ll want more than the case I built,” said Quinn. “Perhaps not two days ago, but now he will.”

  “What do you mean?” Chancellor was alarmed. The other evening O’Brien had been so sure of himself. The files were missing; Quinn had the evidence. Things were desperate now.

  “I mean we can’t go to him.”

  “Why not?”

  “Saint Michael’s happened. Destruction of government property, violations of security procedures. He’s bound by oath to report it if we make contact. If he doesn’t, it’s obstruction of justice.”

  “Shit! Words.”

  “Law. He may offer to help; if Varak was right, he probably will. But it’ll be after the fact. He’ll insist we surrender ourselves. Legally that’s the only position he can take.”

  “And if we do, that’s where they want us! It’s no good!”

  Alison touched his arm. “Who are they,’ Peter?”

  Chancellor paused. The answer to her question was as appalling as the circumstances in which they found themselves. “Everyone. The man who has the files wants to kill us; we know that now. The people who know the files are missing refuse to acknowledge it and want us quiet. They’re willing to sacrifice us to get that silence. Yet, they want the same thing we do.” Peter walked slowly across the room past O’Brien to the window. He looked out at the ocean. “You know, Bravo said something to me. He said that four and a half years ago he steered me into a world I hadn’t considered. He told me to go back to that world, leave the real one to others. To him and people like him.” He turned from the window. “But they’re not good enough. I don’t know if we are, but I know they’re not.”

  Jacob Dreyfus rose from the breakfast table, not a little annoyed. The butler said the White House was on the line. The damned fool was probably calling to wish him Merry Christmas. Merry Christmas! It would not have occurred to the President to call on the first day of Chanukah. That was on the twenty-fifth day of Kislev, and not exactly a date commemorating the birth of Christ.

  The word was that the man was drinking heavily. It was not surprising. There had been no administration in the history of the republic like this one. The venality was unsurpassed, the lust for power the essential evil. Of course, the man drank heavily. It was his balm of Gilead.

  Jacob considered not taking the call, but respect for the office demanded that he do so.

  “Good morning, Mr. Pres—”

  “I’m not the President,” a voice said. “I’m someone else. Just as you are someone else, Christopher.”

  The blood drained from Jacob’s face. It was suddenly difficult to breathe. His gaunt legs were weak; he thought he might fall to the floor. The secret of a lifetime was known. It was beyond belief. “Who’s this?”

  “A man who’s been working for you. My name is Peter Chancellor, and I’ve done my job too well. I’ve learned things I’m sure you never intended me to learn. And because of that we have to meet. Today. Early this afternoon.”

  “This afternoon?…” Dreyfus felt faint. Peter Chancellor, the writer? How in the name of God could the writer have done this? “I don’t make appointments on such short notice.”

  “You’ll make this one,” said Chancellor.

  The writer was nervous; Jacob could sense it. “I don’t take orders. Nor have I ever heard of a Christopher. You used a clever ruse in reaching me. However, I enjoy your little entertainments. If you’d care to lunch with me one day next week.”

  “This afternoon. No lunch.”

  “You don’t listen—”

  “I don’t have to. It’s possible my ‘little entertainments’ aren’t important anymore. Maybe I’m interested in other things. Perhaps you and I can reach an understanding.”

  “I can’t imagine there being an understanding between us.”

  “There won’t be if you talk to the others. Any of them.”

  “The others?”

  “Banner, Paris, Venice, or Bravo. Don’t talk to them.”

  Jacob’s body trembled. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying they don’t understand you. I think I do. That’s the writer’s job—to try to understand people. That’s why you people used me, isn’t it? I believe I understand you. The other’s can’t”

  “What are you talking about?” Dreyfus could not control his hands.

  “Let’s call it a splendid temptation. Anyone familiar with Chasǒng would grasp the logic. But the others, they’d kill you for it.”

  “Chasǒng? Kill me?” Jacob’s eyes blurred. A terrible error had been made! “Where do you want to meet?”

  “There’s a stretch of beach north of Ocean City in Maryland; any cab driver can find it. So take a cab, and come alone. Get a pencil, Christopher. I’ll give you the directions. Be there by one thirty.”

  Perspiration poured down Peter’s forehead. He leaned against the glass panel of the telephone booth. He had done it; he had actually done it. An idea born of fiction worked in fact!

  The strategy was to present Christopher—as he would present the others—with options. If Christopher had the files, he could draw only one conclusion: He had been found out. If so, he would agree to meet for the sole purpose of killing the man who had unearthed him. It was doubtful in that case he would come alone.

  If Christopher did not have the files, there were two alternatives: Dismiss the caller, refusing to meet. Or agree to meet on the dreadful possibility that one or all of the others had betrayed their cause. In this case he would come alone.

  Only the middle option—dismissal—exonerated the candidate. And Christopher had not chosen it. Peter wondered if any of them would choose it.

  Alison tapped on the door. For a second he simply looked at her through the glass, struck once again by her lovely face, and the intelligent eyes that conveyed love in the midst of anxiety.

  He pulled the door open. “One down.”

  “How did it go?” br />
  “It depends on how you look at it. He’ll be here.”

  The love and the anxiety remained in Alison’s eyes. But now there was an added element.

  35

  Frederick Wells looked up from the Christmas breakfast table, astonished. He was not at all sure he had heard the maid’s words accurately through the shouts of the children.

  “Be quiet!” he ordered; the table was silent, “What did you say?”

  “The White House is on the telephone, sir,” replied the maid.

  The squeals that accompanied the statement served only to remind Wells that he had married too late in life. At least, too late to have young children. If the truth were known, he did not really like children; they were fundamentally uninteresting.

  He rose from the table, his eyes briefly locking with his wife’s. She seemed to be reading his thoughts.

  Why in heaven’s name would the White House be calling? Short of blatantly insulting the President and his corps of incompetents, Frederick Wells had made his position clear. He did not approve of the man in the White House.

  Was it possible the President was using the pretext of Christmas greetings to offer olive branches to his enemies? The man had an embarrassment of embarrassments.

  Wells closed the door of his study and walked to his desk, his eyes falling on the row of Yuan and Ming vases locked behind the glass in the case. They were exquisite; he never tired of looking at them. They reminded him that there was peace and beauty in the midst of ugliness.

  He picked up the phone.

  “Mr. Frederick Wells?”

  Sixty seconds later his personal world had collapsed. The writer had done it! How was immaterial, the fact was everything!

  Inver Brass could protect itself. Instant dissolution, nonexistent records.… If need be, a second justifiable assassination, removing Peter Chancellor from this world.

  But what about him? Banner had all the weapons save one. And that remaining weapon was exposure. Exposure of a name over which he had absolutely no control. To Wells, exposure was tantamount to destruction.

  A lifetime wasted!

  Still he could fight. This time on a country road west of Baltimore. An accommodation had to be reached. For everyone’s good.

  His eyes fell once again on the Chinese vases behind the glass. They did nothing for him.

  Carlos Montelán sat back in the church pew and watched with a certain detached hostility as the priest went through the incantations of the Christmas mass. He would not kneel; there were limits to the hypocrisy he indulged in for his wife and family.

  Boston was not Madrid, but the memories were too sharp still. The Spanish church had been a sworn companion of the political winds, concentrating on its own survival without compassion for its brutalized flocks.

  Montelán felt the vibration an instant before he heard the hum. The worshippers in the immediate vicinity were startled; several turned toward him, their faces angry. The Lord’s house was being intruded upon by an alien caller, but the recipient of the call was a great man, an advisor to Presidents. The Lord’s house was not immune to the emergencies of this man’s world.

  Carlos thrust his hand inside his jacket, shutting off the sound. His wife and children turned; he nodded to them, got out of the pew, and walked up the marble aisle past flickering candles. He went outside, found a telephone booth, and called his service.

  The White House was trying to find him, but he was not to return the call. It had to be made on a special telephone. He was to leave a number where he could be reached.

  The conspiracies of idiotas! thought Montelán. He gave the number of the telephone booth.

  The telephone rang, its strident bell echoing harshly within the booth. Swiftly Carlos removed the instrument and brought it to his face.

  The words had the effect of sharp knives entering his stomach; the pain was ice cold. The writer had found him out! Everything he had done, everything he had agreed to, was exploded in the accusations of Peter Chancellor.

  The agreement, his pact, had been necessary! It was the final preservation of Inver Brass’s integrity! There could be no other way!

  The writer had to be made to understand! Yes, of course, he’d meet with him. A golf course, east of Annapolis, the tenth green? Yes, he’d find it The hour did not matter; he would be there shortly past midnight.

  His hand trembling, Montelán hung up the phone. For several moments he stood in the cold, staring at the instrument. He wondered briefly whether he should pick it up again and call Jacob Dreyfus.

  No, he could not do that. Christopher was a very old man. A coronary was not out of the question.

  Daniel Sutherland drank his sherry and listened to his son, Aaron, hold forth with his two sisters and their husbands. The couples had flown in from Cleveland for Christmas; the children were in the sun-room with their grandmother and Aaron’s wife, wrapping presents. Aaron, as usual, held his audience mesmerized.

  The judge watched his son with profoundly mixed emotions. Love was paramount, of course, but close to it was disapproval. The newspapers called Aaron a firebrand, the brilliant attorney of the legitimate black left. Still, Daniel wished he weren’t so fiery, so sure that only he had the answers to the problems of race.

  There was such hatred in his son’s eyes, and hatred was not the way; there was no essential strength in it. One day his son would learn that. And one day he would also learn that his ill-conceived loathing of all whites was not only fruitless but often misplaced.

  His name said something about that. It had been given him by the dearest friend Daniel had ever had. Jacob Dreyfus.

  His name must be Aaron, Jacob had said. The older brother of Moses, the first priest of the Hebrews. It is a beautiful name, Daniel. And he is a beautiful son.

  The telephone rang.

  Aaron’s wife, Abby, came through the door. As always Daniel looked at her lovingly, and not without a certain awe. Alberta Wright Sutherland was, perhaps, the finest black actress in the country. Tall, erect, with a magnificent presence that could, when necessary, subdue her own husband. Her audience, unfortunately, was limited by her taste. She would not accept roles that exploited either her sex or her race.

  “I’ll try to deliver the line with a straight face, all right?” she said.

  “All right, my dear.”

  “The White House is on the telephone.”

  “It’s bewildering, to say the least,” said Daniel, getting out of the chair. “I’ll take it in the dining room.”

  It was bewildering. His last four appellate decisions had infuriated the administration, its disapproval expressed in print.

  “This is Judge Sutherland.”

  “You’re also Venice,” said the flat, hard voice on the phone.

  The writer had done it! The commitment of a lifetime was suddenly, awesomely, suspended. If it was destroyed, there was nothing, for nothing was worth the loss. The deceivers would inherit the earth.

  Daniel listened carefully, weighing each word the writer spoke, each inflection.

  There might be a way. It was a desperate strategy, one he was not sure he could survive, much less execute. But it had to be attempted.

  Deception.

  “Tomorrow morning, Mr. Chancellor. At sunrise. The inlet east of Deal Island, the trawler moorings. I’ll find it I’ll find you.”

  Sutherland’s eyes were focused absently over the telephone, through the hallway arch into the distant living room. His daughter-in-law came into view. She stood erect and proud.

  She had been a superb Medea, Daniel recalled. He remembered her final words in the last act, a cry to the heavens.

  Here are my babes, bloodied and slain for the love of a god named Jason!

  Sutherland wondered why those words came back to him. Then he knew.

  They had been in the corner of his mind only seconds ago.

  36

  The winter wind came in gusts off the water, bending the wild grass on the dunes. The sun kept b
reaking through the fast-moving clouds above, intensely bright when it did so but carrying no warmth in its rays. It was early afternoon on Christmas day, and it was cold on the beach.

  Chancellor looked down at his footprints. He had been pacing back and forth between the boundaries prescribed by Quinn O’Brien. From within that ten-yard space he had a clean sightline to the clump of foliage above the dunes to the left of the planked path that led from the road. O’Brien was stationed there, concealed from any view but Peter’s.

  According to O’Brien the tactic was basic. He would wait in the cluster of wild bushes as Jacob Dreyfus arrived. He would make sure that Dreyfus dismissed the cab as he’d been instructed to do; in the event Christopher betrayed them—either by not dismissing the cab or by having his own men in nearby vehicles—Quinn would signal Peter, and they would race to a concealed area above an adjacent beach, where Alison waited in the unmarked car.

  This aspect of self-protection Quinn called “up front.” The more immediate and less controllable protection was up to Peter. In his jacket pocket was the short-barreled .38-caliber revolver he had taken from Paul Bromley on the train. The gun that had been meant to kill him. He was to use it if he had to.

  Peter heard a short, piercing whistle: the first signal. The taxi was in sight.

  He could not tell how many minutes passed before the gaunt figure came into view. Each second was interminable; the pounding in his chest unbearable. He watched the small, frail Dreyfus unsteadily inch his way over the planks toward the open beach. He was so much older than Peter had pictured him, older and infinitely more fragile. The wind off the ocean buffeted him; sand whipped against him, causing him to bow and twist his head; his cane kept slipping on the planks.

  He came to the end of the boarded path to the beach and poked his cane into the sand before stepping off. Chancellor could sense the question in the eyes behind the thick glasses. The wracked body did not want to make the rest of the journey; could not the younger man come to him?

  But Quinn had been adamant Position was everything; rapid escape had to be considered. Peter held his place, and Dreyfus painfully continued over the windswept beach.