The Chancellor Manuscript: A Novel

  Peter yanked the man’s head again, twisting away from the chauffeur’s knees. He crashed the skull again into the metal; his hands were slippery, covered with blood. He smashed the chauffeur against the window with such force that the glass shattered.

  “For Christ’s sake!” screamed Brown. “Just hold him!”

  But Chancellor could not control himself. His rage had found an outlet, brutal and satisfying. He was avenging so much!

  He ripped at the chauffeur’s neck, his hand sliding around to the throat. He pushed suddenly upward, catching the man’s chin, sending the head back once more into steel as he brought his own knee up into the dark trousers of the chauffeur’s uniform and slammed his upper leg with surging impact into the man’s groin.

  The chauffeur screamed and began to go limp.

  “Shit!” exploded Brown.

  “What is it?” gasped Chancellor, no breath left in his lungs.

  “The goddamqed needle broke!”

  In his hand the doctor held a hypodermic; he had plunged it into the chauffeur’s shoulder. Suddenly the man fell forward against Peter. Brown stepped back and spoke again.

  “Son of a bitch.… Enough got through.”

  A crowd had gathered on the restaurant porch. Someone had heard the chauffeur’s scream and had gone back for help.

  “Let’s get out of here!” Brown said, grabbing Chancellor’s arm.

  At first Peter did not respond; his mind was filled with mist and light. He could not think.

  Brown seemed to understand. He pulled Chancellor away from the sedan, propelling him to the door of the Triumph. He opened it and shoved Chancellor inside; then he ran around the hood and climbed in behind the wheel.

  They raced out of the parking lot, into the darkness of the highway, and drove in silence for several minutes. Brown reached behind him into the well of the backseat and pulled up his medical bag.

  “There’s a bottle of alcohol and some surgical gauze,” he said. “Clean yourself up.”

  Still dazed, Chancellor did as he was told.

  The major spoke again. “What the hell were you? A Green Beret?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I beg to differ. You were something! I’d never have believed it You just don’t seem the type.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Well, if I ever raise my voice to you, I apologize in advance. I’ll also run like hell. You’re the best street fighter I’ve seen.”

  Peter looked at Brown. “Don’t talk like that,” he said simply.

  They fell quiet again. The major slowed as they approached an intersection, then swung the Triumph to the left, into the road that would take them to Bethesda.

  Chancellor touched the doctor’s arm. “Wait a minute.” The obscure question that had bothered him when Brown walked out of the restaurant had formed in his mind. Why hadn’t the chauffeur gotten into his car?

  Peter’s memory raced back in time nearly two and a half years, when he was researching Counterstrike! To the disaffected men he had spoken with and the technology they had described.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Brown.

  “If we’ve been followed, how come we never realized it? God knows we were watching.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Pull over!” interrupted Chancellor, alarm in his voice. “Do you have a flashlight?”

  “Sure. In the glove compartment.” Brown pulled off the road onto the shoulder.

  Peter took the flashlight, jumped out of the car, and ran back to the trunk, lowering himself to the ground. He switched on the light and crawled under the chassis.

  “I’ve got them!” he yelled. “Get me your tool kit. The lug wrench!”

  Brown got it for him. Chancellor stayed beneath the car, working furiously with the iron instrument Crunching, prying sounds came from the rear axle area, then Peter slid out, holding two small metallic objects in his left hand.

  “Transmitters,” he said. “A primary and a backup! That’s why we never saw anyone. They could stay three to five miles behind and still follow us. Wherever we went, whomever we met, they just waited for the right moment” He paused for a second, his face grim. “But I found them. They’re cut off. Let’s go to Bethesda.”

  “I’ve changed my mind. I think I should go with you,” said Brown as they drove down Ramirez’s tree-lined street.

  “No,” replied Peter. “Let me off at the next corner. I’ll walk back.”

  “Has it occurred to you he might try to kill you? He’s expecting me. I wear the same uniform he does.”

  “That’s why he won’t kill me. I’ll tell him the truth. I’ll make it clear that you’re waiting for me. A fellow officer. If I don’t come out, you’ll go somewhere else, and Chasǒng will blow up in their faces.”

  They approached the corner; Brown slowed the Triumph. “That might work with a rational person. It may not with Ramirez. If Chasǒng’s what we think it is—”

  “Know it way,” broke in Chancellor.

  “All right, say it’s true. He may not want to face the consequences. He’s Army, don’t forget that. He may decide to take you out, then go with you.”

  “Kill himself?” asked Peter incredulously.

  “The incidence of military suicide,” said the doctor, stopping the car, “isn’t discussed much, but it’s sky high. Some say it goes with the terrain. I didn’t ask you before. Do you have a gun?”

  “No. I had one; ran out of bullets. Never tried to get more.”

  Brown reached Into his medical bag, rummaged inside a flap, and pulled out a small revolver. “Here, take this. We’re issued these because we carry drugs. Good luck. I’ll be waiting.”

  Chancellor reached the flagstone path. Ramirez was at the window, staring outside, his face reflecting his astonishment at seeing Peter. Astonishment, but not shock, not panic. He let the curtain fall back and disappeared. Chancellor walked down the path and up the steps; he rang the bell.

  The door opened. The brigadier’s Latin eyes looked harshly at Peter.

  “Good evening, General. Major Brown sends his regrets. The Chasǒng records disturbed him so much he didn’t want to talk to you. But he’s waiting for me down the block.”

  “I thought so,” replied Ramirez noncommittally. “The doctor has a short memory, or he thinks others do. The enlisted man, the medic from Korea MacAndrew made a doctor. The one who had an affair with his daughter.” He looked past Chancellor, raised his hand, and chopped the night air twice.

  It was a signal.

  From behind him in the street, Peter heard an engine start He turned. The headlights of a military police car were switched on. It pulled out swiftly, gathering speed, and raced to the corner, stopping barely in sight, near the spill of a streetlight, the brakes screeching. Two soldiers jumped out and ran toward a third figure. He, in turn, started to run but was not quick enough.

  Chancellor watched as Major Philip Brown was taken, no match for the military police. He was led back to the army car and thrown inside.

  “No one’s waiting for you now,” said Ramirez. Peter turned in fury, his hand going for the gun.

  Then he stopped. Leveled at his chest was a .45 automatic.

  “You can’t do this!”

  “1 think I can,” said Ramirez. “The doctor will be held in isolation, allowed no visitors, no calls, no outside communication whatsoever. That’s standard for officers who violate national-security. Come inside, Mr. Chancellor.”

  39

  They were in Ramirez’s study. The brigadier’s eyes grew wide, his lips parted, and slowly he lowered the gun.

  Look to the fiction, always the fiction, thought Peter. In fiction lies reality, the devices of the imagination more powerful than any weapon.

  “Where is this letter?” asked the general.

  Chancellor had lied to Ramirez, telling him he had written a letter detailing the cover-up and the racial character of Chasǒng. It had been mailed to New York, copies to be sent to m
ajor newspapers, the Senate Armed Services Committee, and the secretary of the Army if the general did not cooperate.

  “Out of my control,” replied Peter. “Out of yours, too. You couldn’t intercept it Unless I show up in New York by noontime tomorrow, it’ll be opened. The story of Chasǒng will be read by a very aggressive editor.”

  “He’d trade your life for it,” said Ramirez cautiously. The threat was hollow; his voice lacked conviction.

  “I don’t think so. He’d weigh the priorities. I think he’d take the risk.”

  “There are other priorities! They go way beyond us!”

  “I’m sure you’ve convinced yourself of that”

  “It’s true! An accident of command, a coincidence that could not occur again in a thousand years must not be given a label it doesn’t deserve!”

  “I see.” Chancellor looked down at the gun. The brigadier hesitated, then placed the weapon on the table beside him. He did not move from the table, however. The gun was within a swift hand’s reach. Peter acknowledged the gesture with a nod. “I see,” he repeated. “That’s the official explanation. An accident. A coincidence. All the troops at Chasǒng just happened to be black. Over six hundred men killed, God knows how many hundreds missing—all black.”

  “That’s the way it was.”

  “That’s the way it wasn’t!” contradicted Chancellor. “There were no segregated battalions then.”

  Ramirez’s expression was contemptuous. “Who told you that?”

  “Truman gave the order in ’48. All branches of the service were integrated.”

  “With all deliberate speed,” said the general in a flat monotone. “The services were no faster than anyone else.”

  “Are you saying you were caught by your own delay? Your resistance to a presidential order resulted in a wholesale slaughter of black troops? Is that it?”

  “Yes.” The brigadier took a step forward. “Resistance to an impossible policy! But Christ, you can see how it would be twisted by the radicals of this country! Beyond the country!”

  “I can understand that.” Peter saw a flicker of hope in Ramirez’s eyes. The soldier had reached out for an elusive lifeline, and for a brief moment he believed he had it in his grasp. Chancellor altered the tone of his voice just enough to take advantage of the brigadier’s false hope. “Let’s leave the casualties for a minute. What about MacAndrew? Where does he fit in with Chasǒng?”

  “You know the answer to that. When you called, I said things I should never have told you.”

  It was all so pat. The lie was deep, thought Peter. There were two fears of exposure, one more terrifying to Ramirez than the other, so the lesser—the transmitting of erroneous intelligence to an enemy—was put forward to avoid the more damaging. What was that other fear?

  “MacAndrew’s wife?”

  The general nodded, guilt accepted in humility. “We did what we believed was right at the time. The objective was to save American lives.”

  “She was used to send back false information,” said Peter.

  “Yes. She was the perfect conduit. The Chinese operated extensively in Japan; some Japanese fanatics helped them. For many it came down to Oriental against white.”

  “I never heard that before.”

  “It was never given much coverage. It was a constant thorn in MacArthur’s side; it was played down.”

  “What kind of information did you feed MacAndrew’s wife?”

  “The usual. Troop movements, supply routes, concentration of ordnance, and tactical options. Mainly troop movements and tactics, of course.”

  “She was the one who relayed the tactical information about Chasǒng?”

  Ramirez paused; his eyes strayed to the floor. There was something artificial in the brigadier’s reaction, something rehearsed. “Yes,” he said reluctantly.

  “But that information wasn’t false. It wasn’t inaccurate. It resulted in a massacre.”

  “No one knows how it happened,” continued Ramirez. “To understand, you must realize how these reverse conduits operate. How compromised people like MacAndrew’s wife are used. They’re not given blanket lies; outright misinformation would be rejected, the conduit suspect. They’re provided with variations of the truth, subtle alterations of the possible. The Sixth Engineer Battalion will enter Combat Sector Baker on three July.’ Only it’s not the Sixth Engineers, it’s the Sixth Tank Artillery, and it reaches Combat Baker on July five, outflanking the positioned enemy. With the Chasǒng operation the variation given MacAndrew’s wife was not, in fact, the variation at all. It was the actual strategy. Somehow the orders were fouled up in G-Two command. She carried back information that resulted in wholesale slaughter.” The soldier leveled his eyes with Peter’s and stood erect “Now you know the truth.”

  “Do I?”

  “You have the word of a general officer.”

  “I wonder if it’s any good.”

  “Don’t press me, Chancellor. I’ve told you more than you have any right to know. To make you see the anguish that would result if the tragedy of Chasǒng were made public. Facts would be misinterpreted, the memory of fine people dragged through filth.”

  “Wait a minute,” interrupted Peter. In his sanctimonious rendering of the obvious, Ramirez had said it. The memory of.… Alison’s memories. Her mother’s parents held prisoners in the Po Hai Gulf; that was the first Chinese connection, but that wasn’t it! It was something Alison said that happened after the night her mother had been carried on the stretcher. Something about her father.… Her father had flown back to Tokyo for the next to last time. That was it: the next to last time! Between his wife’s final collapse and his return to the States, MacAndrew had gone back to Korea! The Battle of Chasǒng took place then. Weeks after Alison’s mother was hospitalized. She couldn’t have relayed information, accurate or otherwise.

  “What’s the matter?” asked the brigadier.

  “You. Goddamn it, you! The dates! It couldn’t have happened! What did you say a few minutes ago? Some battalion or other is expected on the third of July but doesn’t get there until the fifth, and anyway it’s a different battalion. What did you call it? Some bullshit phrase … ‘subtle alteration of the possible.’ Wasn’t that it? Well, General, you just blew it! The massacre at Chasǒng took place weeks after MacAndrew’s wife was hospitalized! She couldn’t have carried that information to anyone! Now, you son of a bitch, you tell me what happened! Because if you don’t, there won’t be any waiting until tomorrow. That letter I sent to New York will be read tonight!”

  Ramirez’s eyes bore into his; his mouth twitched. “No!” he roared. “You won’t! You can’t! I won’t let you!”

  He was reaching for the gun!

  Chancellor rushed forward, throwing himself at the general. His shoulder crashed into Ramirez’s back, propelling the soldier into the wall. Ramirez gripped the gun by its barrel; he swung it up viciously. The handle of the gun caught Chancellor at the temple. Searing shafts of pain caused a thousand white spots to converge in front of him.

  His left hand was dug into Ramirez’s tunic, the fabric clutched against the soldier’s chest. His right hand lashed out in thrust and counterthrust, trying to grab and hold the heavy weapon.

  He felt the handle! He brought his knee up into the general’s stomach, smashing him against the wall. He had the handle of the gun, and he would not let go! Ramirez kept punching hysterically at Peter’s kidney. Chancellor thought he might collapse, so intense was the pain.

  His finger was near the trigger! In the slashing movements of both their arms, Peter felt the rim of the trigger enclosure.

  But he could not let it fire! An explosion would bring neighbors! The police! If that happened, nothing could be learned!

  Chancellor took a half step back, then crashed his left leg up, pulling the soldier’s tunic down with all his strength. His knee smashed into Ramirez’s face, sending his head back. The general expelled a chestful of air; the gun left his hand; his fingers straight
ened in agony. The weapon flew across the room, crashing into the marble pen set on top of the desk. Peter released the tunic. Ramirez collapsed, unconscious, blood pouring out of his nostrils.

  It took Peter a minute to find his thoughts again. He knelt in front of the soldier and waited until his breathing was steadier, until the white spots faded and the pain in his temples began to subside. Then he picked up the gun.

  There was a bottle of Evian water on a silver tray in a bookshelf. He opened the bottle and poured the water into his palm, splashing it over his face. It helped. He was finding his sanity again.

  He poured what was left in the bottle on the soldier’s unconscious face. The water mingled with blood on the floor from the general’s nosebleed, producing a sickening pink.

  Slowly Ramirez regained consciousness. Peter yanked a loose cushion from an easy chair and threw it over to him. The general blotted his face and neck with the pillow and stood up, supporting himself against the wall.

  “Sit down,” ordered Peter, waving the barrel of the gun toward the leather armchair.

  Ramirez sank into the chair. He let his head fall back. “Slut. Whore,” he whispered.

  “That’s progress,” said Chancellor softly. “A few nights ago she was unfortunate,’ ‘unstable.’ ”

  “That’s what she was.”

  “What she was or what you turned her into?”

  “The material has to be there to work with,” replied the general. “She sold out.”

  “She had a mother and father in China.”

  “I have two brothers who emigrated to Cuba. You think the Fidelistas haven’t tried to reach me? Right now they’re rotting in prison. But I won’t be compromised!”