The Chancellor Manuscript: A Novel

  Again he was too late. The thunderous explosion filled the room. Blood and tissue slapped against the nearby wall. The smoke from the barrel billowed in an acrid cloud.

  Below him the soldier was dead. Brigadier General Ramirez, source control of Chasáng, had blown off most of his head.

  40

  The gunshot—the explosion—was so shattering it had to have been heard blocks away. Someone would have called the police. He could not be seen leaving the house. He had to get out the back way quickly, into the darkness, into the shadows.

  He ran in blind panic through a narrow hallway into a small kitchen. He lurched across the tiled floor to the back door, opened it cautiously, and let himself out, spinning around the door frame, pressing his back against the wall.

  The house that faced him was separated from Ramirez’s by a tall hedge; he could see a driveway beyond the garage. Peter leaped off the small back porch onto the lawn and ran toward the hedge, shouldering his way through the thick branches until he was on the other side. He raced down the driveway into the street, turned left and kept running. Brown’s Triumph was in the next block, back on Ramirez’s street. At the corner he turned left again; a siren was whining harshly in the distance, coming closer. He slowed down and tried to walk casually; the police would not overlook a running man after reports of a gunshot.

  He reached the Triumph and climbed inside. Through the rear window he could see that a small, excited crowd had gathered on Ramirez’s lawn. The flashing lights of a patrol car accompanied the approaching siren.

  He heard the sound of another motor, this from the opposite direction. He turned; it was the military police vehicle. It stopped by the side of the Triumph. Brown got out, taking his keys from one of the soldiers.

  They saluted the major; he did not return their salutes. The army car started up.

  “Good. You’re back,” said Brown, opening the door.

  “We’ve got to get out of here! Right away!”

  “What’s the matter? What’s the crowd—?”

  “Ramirez is dead.”

  Brown said nothing. He climbed behind the wheel and started the Triumph’s engine. They sped off down the block, when suddenly coming toward them was a limousine, its headlights blinding, its outlines those of a giant killer shark slicing through dark waters. Peter could not help himself; he stared into the windows as the automobile raced past.

  The driver was intent only on reaching his destination. Through the rear window, Chancellor saw what that destination was: Ramirez’s house.

  The driver was black. Peter closed his eyes, trying to think.

  “What happened?” asked Brown, turning the Triumph west toward the highway. “Did you kill him?”

  “No. I might have, but I didn’t You were right; he shot himself. He couldn’t face Chasǒng. He was responsible for the massacre. It was engineered to keep the wraps on what they’d done to MacAndrew’s wife.”

  Brown was silent for a moment When he spoke, it was with loathing as well as disbelief. “Bastards!”

  “If the story of MacAndrew’s wife had been broken,” Peter continued, “it would have led to the exposure of dozens of other such operations. Other experiments. They knew what they were doing.”

  “Ramirez admitted it?”

  Peter looked at Brown. “Let’s say it came out. What’s mind-blowing is the rest I’m not sure I can even say the words. It’s that crazy.”

  “Hoover’s files?”

  “No. Hoover. He was killed. He was assassinated! It was true all along! It was never a lie!”

  “Take it easy. I thought you said Varak told you it was a lie.”

  “He was lying! He was protecting—” Peter stopped.

  Varak. The specialist. The man of a hundred weapons, a dozen faces … assorted names. Good God! It had been there all the time, and he hadn’t seen it! Longworth. Varak had assumed the name of an agent named Longworth on the night of May first. It wasn’t someone else. Varak masquerading as Longworth had been one of the three men, without accountability, who had entered the bureau the night before Hoover died—which meant they knew that death was certain! They found half the files missing; that part was true. And Varak had given his life to trace them, then protected Bravo, protected with his life the extraordinary diplomat known to the world as Munro St. Claire.

  Varak had been Hoover’s assassin! What had Frederick Wells said? Varak was the killer, not Inver Brass … I can and will raise disturbing questions … from the tenth of April through the night of May first … Varak has those files!

  Which meant Munro St Claire had the files. Varak himself had been lied to, manipulated!

  By his mentor Bravo.

  And now the cult of Chasǒng had zeroed in on Ramirez. The cult given influence and power by Munro St. Claire, who had used Varak as he had used everyone else. Including one Peter Chancellor.

  It was all coming to an end. The forces were closing in, colliding, as Carlos Montelán had said they would collie. It would be finished this night, one way or the other.

  “I’m going to tell you everything I know,” he said. “Drive to Arundel; they can’t follow us. I’ll tell you on the way. I want you to stay with Alison. When we get there, I want to take your car. I want you to wait awhile, then call Munro St Claire in Washington. Tell him I’ll be waiting for him at Genesis’s house on the bay. He’s to come alone. I’ll be watching; he won’t find me if he’s not alone.”

  41

  The sound of waves slapping against rocks drifted up from the water’s edge. Peter lay in the wet grass. The air was cold as the ground was cold, the wind from the bay carried in gusts, whistling through the tall trees that bordered the winter lawn. A man who had betrayed him, a man he had believed was his friend, had taught him things in the midst of that betrayal That was why he was where he was, his eyes on the stone gates of the entrance fifty yards away and on the road beyond.

  When making a contact, position was everything. Protect yourself by being able to observe all approaching vehicles; keep rapid, undetectable escape available.

  Friends were enemies, and enemies taught one strategies with which to fight them. It was part of the insanity that was all too real.

  He saw headlights in the distance, about a half mile away. Peter could not be sure, but the lights seemed to sway back and forth. Every now and then they appeared to be stationary, as if the car had stopped, only to start swaying again. Had the circumstances been different, Chancellor thought, he might have been watching a drunken driver trying to find his way home. Was it possible this powerful manipulator of men and governments had been drinking? Ramirez had blown his own head off because he could not face Chasǒng. Were the revelations about Inver Brass more than St Claire wanted to hear in a stable frame of mind?

  The automobile came haltingly through the gates. Peter momentarily suspended his breath, his eyes riveted on the terrible sight It was the silver Mark IV Continental! That St Claire would drive it to their confrontation was confirmation that the man, like the vehicle, was a monster.

  He watched as the silver obscenity rolled around the circular drive to the wide steps of the front entrance; then he focused his eyes back on the road beyond the gateposts. He peered into the darkness, his concentration total. There were no headlights on the road, nor any black shapes against gray darkness that would be a vehicle traveling with its headlights off.

  He remained in the grass for nearly five minutes, alternately watching St Claire. The diplomat had gotten out of the car, climbed the steps, and walked to the end of the porch. He was standing by the railing, staring out at the water.

  Another man, a compassionate man, had stood on a fisherman’s dock staring out at another stretch of water twelve hours before. At dawn. That man was dead, led into a trap by an enemy, cut down by fanatics who obeyed the instructions of a monster.

  Chancellor was satisfied: Munro St Claire had come alone.

  Peter rose from the grass and walked across the lawn toward the Vict
orian porch. St Claire remained at the railing; Chancellor approached him from behind. He reached into his pockets with both hands and pulled out Brown’s automatic in his right, the flashlight in his left. When he was within eight feet, he leveled both up at St Claire and snapped on the light.

  “Keep your right arm above you,” he ordered. “With your left reach into your pocket and throw me the keys to your car.”

  It took the ambassador several seconds to answer. He seemed shaken. The suddenness of Chancellor’s appearance, the blinding beam of light, the curt instructions barked from the darkness momentarily paralyzed him. Peter was grateful for an enemy’s training.

  “I don’t have the keys, young man. They’re in the car.”

  “I don’t believe you,” said Chancellor angrily. “Give me those keys!”

  “I suggest we return to the car, and you can see for yourself. I’ll keep both hands above me if you wish.”

  “I wish.”

  The keys were in the ignition of the Mark IV. Chancellor held the old man against the hood as he checked the diplomat’s pockets and chest St Claire carried no weapon. The realization was bewildering, as bewildering as the keys left in the Mark IV. An automobile was an escape; the leader of Inver Brass would know that.

  The flashlight off, Peter shoved the automatic into St. Claire’s back. They walked up the steps and out to the front of the porch. He spun the old man around against the railing and stood facing him.

  “If I was late, forgive me,” said the ambassador. “I haven’t driven in nearly twelve years. I tried to explain that to your unidentified friend on the telephone, but he wouldn’t listen.”

  St. Claire’s statement made sense. It explained the swaying headlights. It also proved that St. Claire was frightened. He would never have taken such risks at night on the highways and back roads if he had been anything else. “But you came anyway, didn’t you?”

  “You knew I couldn’t refuse. You found my man. You discovered the transmitters. I imagine they could be traced to me.”

  “Could they?”

  “I’m not an expert at such things. Varak was, but I’m not. I’m not even sure how they were obtained.”

  “I can’t accept that The man who runs Inver Brass is much more resourceful.”

  St. Claire drew himself up in the darkness. The sound of the name seemed to pain him. “You’ve been told, then.”

  “Does it surprise you? I told you I knew the identities of Venice, Christopher, Paris, and Banner. And Bravo. Why not Inver Brass?”

  “How much have you learned since?”

  “Enough to frighten me to death. Forty years, countless millions. Unknown men who ran the country.”

  “You’re exaggerating. We came to the aid of the country during periods of crisis. That’s far more accurate.”

  “Who determined what a crisis was? You?”

  “Crises have a way of being apparent”

  “Not always. Not to everybody.”

  “We had access to information not available to ‘everybody.’ ”

  “And you acted on it rather than making the information public.”

  “They were essentially acts of charity. Ultimately for the good of that ‘everybody’ you refer to. We never acted for ourselves.” St Claire’s voice rose, his defense of Inver Brass deeply felt.

  “There are ways to provide charity openly. Why didn’t you use them?”

  “That sort of charity is always temporary. It doesn’t attack root causes.”

  “And root causes can’t be left to the judgments of those elected to understand them, is that it?”

  “You’re oversimplifying our viewpoint, and you know it, Mr. Chancellor.”

  “I know I’d rather take my chances with an imperfect system I can follow than one I can’t see.”

  “That’s sophistry. It’s quite easy for you to argue civics, but while you’re arguing, a thousand pockets of frustration are inexorably spreading. If they touch, there’ll be an eruption of violence beyond your imagination. When that happens, freedom of choice will be eliminated in the cause of adequate diet. It’s as simple as that. Over the years we’ve tried to control that spread. Would you want to stop us?”

  Peter conceded the logic of St. Claire’s reasoning, knowing that this brilliant, devious man, masked in such goodness, was forcing him on the defensive, veering him away from the point of their confrontation. He had to remind himself that St. Claire was a monster; there was blood on his hands.

  “There are other ways,” he said. “Other solutions.”

  “There may be, but I’m not sure we’ll find them in our lifetimes. Certainly not mine. Perhaps in the act of seeking solutions there’s the prevention of violence we hope for.”

  Peter attacked suddenly. “You found one solution that was rooted in violence, though, didn’t you? The bait was the truth, after all.”

  “What?”

  “You killed Hoover! Inver Brass ordered his assassination!”

  At the words St. Claire stiffened; a short stifled cry came from his throat. His confidence vanished. He was suddenly an old man accused of a terrible crime.

  “Where did—?… Who—?” He could not articulate the question.

  “For the moment it doesn’t matter. What matters is that the order was given and carried out You executed a man without a trial, without the judgment of an open court. That’s what’s supposed to separate us from a large part of this world, Mr. Ambassador. From that violence you hate so.”

  “There were reasons!”

  “Because you believed he was a killer? Because you’d heard he had his assassination teams, his ‘dispatch units’?”

  “In large measure, yes!”

  “Not good enough. If you knew it, you should have said it! All of you.”

  “It couldn’t have been done that way! I told you, there were reasons.”

  “Other reasons, you mean?”

  “Yes!”

  “The files?”

  “For God’s sake, yes! The files!”

  “You can’t do it! You have everything you need. Bring him to trial! Let him face the judgment of the courts! Of the country! There are laws!”

  “There are the files.… People would be reached … by others who have to survive.” …

  “Then, you’re no better than he is”

  “You’re better than he was,” said Chancellor quietly. “We believed with all our hearts and souls that we were.” St. Claire was passing through the first shock waves; he was finding part of the control he had lost “I can’t believe this. I misread Varak so completely.”

  “Don’t try that,” replied Peter coldly. “I despise everything he was, but Varak gave his life for you. The truth is you misled him.” “Wrong! Never!”

  “The whole time! Varak was ‘Longworth,’ and ‘Longworth’ got into the bureau the night Hoover was killed. Varak got those files! He gave them to you!”

  “A through L, yes! We’ve never denied it. They were destroyed. Not M through Z! They were missing. They are missing!”

  “No! Varak thought they were missing because that’s what you wanted him to think!”

  “You’re insane!” St. Claire whispered. “There were two other men with Varak that night! One of them—maybe both working together—emptied and switched the folders, or combined them, or just lied. I don’t know how, but that’s where it was done. You knew Varak wouldn’t be compromised about the files, so you went around him.”

  St. Claire shook his head, his expression tortured. “No. You’re wrong. The theory is plausible, even ingenious, I admit that. But it simply is not true!”

  “Those two men disappeared! Their names were covers, their identities impossible to trace!”

  “For a different purpose! Hoover had to be eliminated. The country couldn’t stand even the hint of another assassination. There would have been chaos; it would have fueled the fanatics who want to run this government in violation of every constitutional principle! We couldn’t allo
w any traces. You must believe that!”

  “You’ve lied and lied and lied! There’s no way you can make me believe anything.”

  St. Claire paused, reflective. “Perhaps there is. By explaining why, then going one step further: putting my life and everything I’ve stood for for over fifty years of service in your hands.”

  “The purpose first,” said Peter harshly. “Why was Hoover murdered?”

  “He was the absolute ruler of a government unto itself. There was no clear-cut chain of command. His government was amorphous, without structure; he kept it that way. He had gone way beyond the severest illegalities. No one really knew how far, but there was sufficient evidence pointing to the killings you spoke of; we knew about the blackmail. It reached into the Oval Office. All this might, in itself, have justified the decision, but there was a further consideration that made it irrevocable. An amorphous chain of command was organizing; both within and outside the bureau. Viciously unprincipled men were circling around Hoover, flattering, cajoling, pretending to worship. They had only one objective: his private files. With them they could rule the country. He had to be eliminated before any pacts were made.”

  St. Claire stopped. He was becoming tired; his own doubts showed on his face.

  “I don’t agree with you,” said Peter, “but things are clearer. How are you going to put fifty years of service in my hands?”

  St Claire took a deep breath. “I believe in man’s instinct at certain moments to perceive the truth no matter what I think this is one of those moments. Only two men on the face of the earth knew every step of Hoover’s assassination. The man who created the plan and myself. That man is dead; he died in front of you. I’m left. That plan is your find proof, for no strategy conceived by human beings is perfect; something is always left undone if others know where to look. By telling you I not only place my life in your hands, but far more important, I place the work of a lifetime at your disposal. What you do with it means more to me than whatever time I have left. Will you accept this moment? Will you let me try to convince you?”