The Chancellor Manuscript (15 page)

For four years he had kept his mouth shut. He and a few others who honestly believed they brought a touch of sanity to the upper levels of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. They were also in a position to keep their eyes out for the truly irregular, the conceivably dangerous. And let others know when they
had
to know.

He himself had funneled information to the intelligence community on a fairly regular basis when the director’s fury over real or imagined insults prohibited liaison. He was reminded of the practice as his eyes fell on the small silver shamrock that hung on a chain around his pen set. It was a gift from Stefan Varak over at NSC. He had first met Varak two years before, when Hoover had refused to deliver profile data on Eastern-bloc UN personnel. The National Security Council needed that information. O’Brien had simply walked into Section I, made copies, and given them to Varak during their first dinner together. There’d been a great many dinners since. He had learned a lot from Varak.

Now Hoover was dead, and things were going to change. That’s what everyone said. Quinn would believe it when he saw the directives. Then, perhaps, the decision of four years ago would make sense.

He had never fooled himself or his wife. His appointment to the FBI was a political cosmetic. He had been an assistant prosecutor in Sacramento when he’d been swept into the Vietnam War because of his reserve-officer status. He had not been assigned to legal work; he had been put into G2 for reasons vaguely related to criminal prosecution. A forty-plus lawyer suddenly transformed into an investigator for Army Intelligence. That was in 1964. Finally, unexpected combat in the northern sectors, capture, two years of survival under the most primitive conditions, and escape.

He had escaped in March of 1968 and had made his way through the torrential rains southwest across enemy lines, into UN territory. He had lost fifty pounds; his body was ravaged. And he had returned a hero.

It was a time when heroes were sought. They were needed desperately. Discontent had spread, myths were decaying. The FBI was not exempt, and Quinn’s investigatory talents were noted; Hoover was impressed with heroes. So an offer had been made. And the hero had accepted.

His reasoning had been simple. If he could start
fairly high up the ladder and learn fast and well, there would he other fine opportunities within the Justice Department. Far more than in Sacramento. Now he was a forty-nine-year-old ex-hero who had learned very well indeed and had kept his mouth shut. He had learned
very
well, and that was what bothered him now.

Something was wrong. Something had not happened that should have happened. A vitally important element of Hoover’s dictatorial reign had neither been revealed nor explained.

J. Edgar Hoover had had in his personal possession hundreds—perhaps thousands—of highly inflammatory dossiers. Files that contained devastating information about many of the nation’s most influential and powerful men and women.

Since Hoover’s death, however, nothing had been said about those files. There were neither demands to acknowledge their existence nor outcries for their destruction. It was as if no one wanted to be associated with bringing them to light. The fear of inclusion was too great; if nothing were said, perhaps they would fade into oblivion.

But that was not realistic; those files had to be somewhere. So Quinn had begun asking questions. He had started with the shredding rooms. Nothing had come down from Hoover’s office in months. He had checked the microfilm and microdot laboratories. There had been no reductions of dossiers made within memory. Then he’d scrutinized the entry ledgers—anything related directly to Hoover in the areas of authorized deliveries or pickups. Nothing.

He’d found his first clue in the security logs. It was a late entry, authorized by scrambler, on the night of May 1, the night before Hoover’s death. It had stunned him. Three field agents—Salter, Krepps, and a man named Longworth—had been admitted at eleven fifty-seven, but there had been no departmental clearance. Just authorization by way of the director’s private scrambler. From Hoover’s
home
.

It had not made sense. Quinn had then contacted the senior agent who had admitted the trio, Lester Parke. It hadn’t been easy. Parke had retired a month after Hoover’s death, drawing a minimum pension, but with enough money to buy a fair-sized condominium in Fort
Lauderdale. That hadn’t made a hell of a lot of sense either.

Parke had clarified nothing. The senior agent had told Quinn that he had spoken with Hoover himself that night. Hoover, himself, had given specific and confidential instructions to admit the field agents. Anything else would have to come from them.

So Quinn had tried to find three field agents named Salter, Krepps, and Longworth. But “Salter” and “Krepps” were floating covers, names with biographies used by various agents at various times for clandestine operations. There was
no
record of the names having been assigned during the month of May; or if there was a record, Quinn was not cleared for it.

The information on Longworth had come in a little over an hour ago. It was so startling that Quinn had called his wife, telling her he would not be home for dinner.

Longworth had retired from the bureau two months before Hoover’s death! He was now living in the Hawaiian Islands. Since this was the confirmed information, what was Longworth doing in Washington, at the west entry desk, on the night of May 1?

O’Brien knew he had found serious, unexplained discrepancies in official logs, and, he was convinced they were related to the files no one talked about. Tomorrow morning he would go to the attorney general.

His telephone rang, startling him. He reached for it. “O’Brien,” he said, conveying his surprise; his telephone rarely rang after five in the evening.

“Han Chow!”
The whisper seared over the line. “Remember the dead of Han Chow.”

Carroll Quinlan O’Brien lost his breath. His eyes had gone blind; darkness and white light replaced familiar images. “What? Who’s this?”

“They begged you. Do you remember how they begged you?”

“No!
I don’t know what you’re talking about! Who is this?”

“Of course you know,” continued the cold whisper. “The Cong commander threatened reprisals—executions—if anyone at Han Chow escaped. Very few were capable of trying. They agreed not to for the sake of the others. But not you, Major O’Brien. Not you.”

“That’s a lie! There were no agreements! None!”

“You know perfectly well there were. And you disregarded them. There were nine men in your compound. You were the healthiest. You told them you were going, and they begged you not to. The next morning, when you were gone, they were taken out in the fields and shot.”

Oh, Christ! Oh, Holy Mary, Mother of God! It wasn’t the way it was meant to be! They could hear the artillery through the rain in the distance. They’d never get another chance like that! So close! All he had to do was get through to the guns! To the American guns! Once he got through, he would pinpoint the Han Chow compound on a map, and it could be taken. The men—the dying men—would be freed! But the rain and the sickness and the night played horrible tricks on him. He never found the guns. And the men died.

“Are you remembering?” The whisper was soft now. “Eight men executed so the major could have a parade in Sacramento. Did you know Han Chow was taken less than two weeks later?”

Don’t, O’Brien! Don’t do it! If they’re this close, Charlie will run and leave us! They won’t move us. We’d slow them down! They won’t kill us either! Unless you give them an excuse. Don’t give it to them! Not now! That’s an order, Major!

The words had been spoken in the darkness by a half-starved lieutenant colonel, the only other officer in the hut.

“You don’t understand,” he said into the telephone. “You’ve twisted everything. It’s not the way it was!”

“Yes it is, Major,” countered the whisper slowly. “A paper was found on a dead Viet Cong months later. On it was written the last testimony of a lieutenant colonel who knew what faced the prisoners of Han Chow. Eight men were shot because you disobeyed a direct order of your superior officer.”

“Nothing was ever said.… Why?”

“The parades had taken place. That was enough.”

Quinn O’Brien brought his hand up to his forehead. There was a hollowness in his chest. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because you’ve involved yourself in matters that are no concern of yours. You will pursue them no further.”

The immense figure of Daniel Sutherland stood at the far end of his chambers, in front of the bookshelves. He was in profile, tortoise-shell glasses on his enormous head, a heavy book in his massive black hands. He turned and spoke; his voice deep, resonant, and warmly pleasant.

“Precedents, Mr. Chancellor. The law is all too often governed by precedents, which in themselves are all too often imperfect.” Sutherland smiled, closed the book, and replaced it carefully in the shelf. He walked to Peter, his hand extended. In spite of his age he moved with assurance, with dignity. “My son and granddaughter are avid readers of yours. They were most impressed that you were coming to see me. It’s my loss that I haven’t yet had the opportunity to read your books.”

“I’m the one who’s impressed, sir,” replied Peter, meaning it, his hand enveloped. “Thank you for granting me an appointment. I won’t take up much of your time.”

Sutherland smiled, releasing Peter’s hand, putting him immediately at ease. He indicated one chair among several around a conference table. “Please sit down.”

“Thank you.” Peter waited until the judge had selected his own chair three places away at the end of the table. They both sat.

“Now, what can I do for you?” Sutherland leaned back, the expression on his dark face was kind and not without a tinge of humor. “I admit to being fascinated. You told my secretary it was a personal matter, yet we’ve never met.”

“It’s difficult to know where to begin.”

“At the risk of offending your writer’s sense of cliché, why not at the beginning?”

“That’s just it. I don’t know the beginning. I’m not sure there is one. And if there is, you may feel strongly that I have no right to know about it.”

“Then, I’ll tell you, won’t I?”

Peter nodded. “I met a man. I can’t say who he is or where we met. He mentioned your name with respect to a small group of influential people here in Washington. He said this group had been formed several years ago for the express purpose of monitoring the activities of J. Edgar
Hoover. He said he believed you were the man responsible for this group’s existence. I’d like to ask you if it’s true.”

Sutherland did not move. His large dark eyes, magnified by the lenses of his glasses, were expressionless. “Did this man mention any other names?”

“No, sir. Not related to the group. He said he didn’t know of anyone else.”

“May I ask how my name surfaced?”

“Are you saying it’s true, then?”

“I’d appreciate your answering my question first.”

Peter thought for a moment. As long as he did not name Longworth, he could answer the question. “He saw it on something he called a tracer. Apparently it meant that you were to receive specific information.”

“About what?”

“About him, I imagine. Also about those people known to have been placed under negative surveillance by Hoover.”

The judge breathed deeply. “The man you spoke with is named Longworth. A former field agent, Alan Longworth, currently listed as an employee of the State Department.”

Chancellor tensed the muscles of his stomach in an effort to conceal his astonishment. “I couldn’t comment on that,” he said inadequately.

“You don’t have to,” replied Sutherland. “Did Mr. Longworth also tell you that he was the special agent in charge of this negative surveillance?”

“The man I spoke with made reference to that. But only a reference.”

“Then, let me amplify.” The judge shifted his position in the chair. “To answer your initial question. Yes, there was such a group of concerned individuals, and I stress the tense.
Was
. As to my participation, it was minor and limited to certain legal aspects of the issue.”

“I don’t understand, sir. What issue?”

“Mr. Hoover had a regrettable fecundity when it came to making unsubstantiated charges. Worse, he often cloaked them in innuendo, using provocative generalities against which there was little legal recourse. It was an unforgivable lapse of judgment, considering his position.”

“So this group of concerned men—?”

“And women, Mr. Chancellor,” interrupted Sutherland.

“And women,” continued Peter, “was formed to protect the victims of Hoover’s attacks.”

“Basically, yes. In his later years he could be vicious. He saw enemies everywhere. Good men would be let go, the reasons obscured. Later, often months later, the director’s hand was revealed. We were trying to stem this tide of abuse.”

“Would you tell me who else was in this group?”

“Of course not.” Sutherland removed his glasses and held a stem delicately between the fingers of his hand. “Suffice it to say, they were people capable of raising strong objections, voices that could not be overlooked.”

“This man you spoke of, this retired field agent—?”

“I didn’t say
retired.”
Again Sutherland interrupted. “I said
former.”

Peter hesitated, accepting the rebuke. “You said this former field agent was in charge of surveillance?”

“Certain specific surveillances. Hoover was impressed with Longworth. He placed him in the position of coordinating the data on individuals with proven or potential antipathy to the bureau, or Hoover himself. The list was extensive.”

“But he obviously stopped working for Hoover.” Once more Chancellor paused. He was not sure how to ask the question. “You just said he was now employed by the State Department. If so, he was separated from the bureau under very unusual circumstances.”

Sutherland replaced his glasses, letting his hand drop to his chin. “I know what you’re asking. Tell me, what’s the point of your visit this afternoon?”