The Chancellor Manuscript (16 page)

“I’m trying to make up my mind whether there’s a basis for a book on Hoover’s last year. On his death, frankly.”

The judge’s hand dropped to his lap; he sat completely still, looking at Peter. “I’m not sure I understand. Why come to me?”

It was Peter’s turn to smile. “The kind of novels I write require a certain credibility. They’re fiction, of course, but I try to use as much recognizable fact as I can. Before I start a book, I talk to a great many people; I try to get a feeling for the conflicts.”

“Obviously you’re very successful with the approach. My son approves of your conclusions; he was very firm about that last night.” Sutherland leaned forward, his forearms
on the conference table. The trace of humor returned to his eyes. “And I approve of my son’s judgment. He’s a fine lawyer, albeit a little strident in the courtroom. You
do
respect confidences, don’t you, Mr. Chancellor?”

“Of course.”

“And identities. But of course again. You won’t admit you talked to Alan Longworth.”

“I would never use a person’s name unless he gave me permission.”

“Legally I’d suggest that you not.” Sutherland smiled. “I feel as though I’m part of a creation.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

“Neither would the Bible.” Again, the judge leaned back in his chair. “Very well. It’s past history now. And not particularly extraordinary; it’s done every day in Washington. An inherent part of the checks and balances of our government, I sometimes think.” Sutherland stopped and raised his right palm delicately toward Peter. “Should you use any part of what I tell you, you must do so with discretion remembering that the objective was a decent one.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Last March Alan Longworth was offered early retirement from one branch of the government, and under cover he was shifted to another. The shift took place in such a way as to remove him from the bureau’s scrutiny altogether. The reasons were self-evident. When we learned that Longworth was the coordinator of this negative surveillance—a very apt phrase, by the way—we showed him the dangers of Hoover’s abuses. He cooperated; for two months he pored over hundreds of names, recalling which were included and what the damaging information was. He traveled extensively, alerting those we thought should be warned. Until Hoover’s death Longworth was our deterrent, our defensive weapon, as it were. He was very effective.”

Peter was beginning to understand the strange, blond-haired man in Malibu. There had to be conflicting loyalties in the man; the agent must have been torn with guilt. It explained his odd behavior, the sudden accusations, the abrupt retreats.

“When Hoover died, this man’s job was finished, then?”

“Yes. With Hoover’s sudden, and I must say, unexpected
death there was no further need for such a defensive operation. It ended with his funeral.”

“What happened to him?”

“It’s my understanding that he’s been compensated handsomely. The State Department transferred him to what I believe is referred to as soft duty. He’s living out his tenure in pleasant surroundings with a minimum work load.”

Peter watched Sutherland closely. He had to ask the question; there was no reason not to now. “What would you say if I told you my informant questioned Hoover’s death?”

“Death is death. How can it be questioned?”

“The way he died. By natural causes.”

“Hoover was an old man. A sick man. I’d say Longworth—you won’t use his name, but I will—might be suffering from intense psychological pressures. Remorse, guilt—it wouldn’t be unusual. He had a personal relationship with Hoover. Perhaps he now feels he betrayed him.”

“That’s what I was thinking.”

“Then, what troubles you?”

“Something this man I talked with said. He said Hoover’s private files were never found. They disappeared with Hoover’s death.”

There was a flash of something—Chancellor did not know what; anger, perhaps—in the Negro’s eyes. “They were destroyed. All of Hoover’s personal papers were shredded and burned. We’ve been assured of that.”

“By whom?”

“That information I can’t possibly give you. We are satisfied; that much I can tell you.”

“But what if they weren’t destroyed?”

Daniel Sutherland returned Peter’s gaze. “It would be an extraordinary complication. One I would not care to dwell on,” he said firmly. Then the smile returned. “But it’s hardly a possibility.”

“Why not?”

“Because we’d know about it, wouldn’t we?”

Peter was disturbed. For the first time Sutherland did not sound convincing.

He had to be careful, Peter reminded himself as he walked down the steps of the courthouse. He was not looking for concrete facts, merely credibility. That’s what
he was after. Supportive events ripped out of context and used to bridge the inevitable gap between reality and fantasy.

He could do it now. Daniel Sutherland had given him the answer to the basic enigma: Alan Longworth. The judge had explained the federal agent with perceptive simplicity. It was contained in the single word
remorse
. Longworth had turned against his mentor, the director who had awarded him the most confidential of assignments and written personal commendations on his service record. It was natural for Longworth to feel guilty, to want to strike back at those who had induced his betrayal. What better way than to question that death?

Knowing this freed Peter’s imagination. It removed whatever obligation he might have felt toward Longworth. The concept could be accepted for what it was: a fascinating idea for a book. Nothing more was needed. It was a game, a goddamned game; and the writer in Chancellor was beginning to enjoy it.

He stepped off the curb and hailed a passing cab. “The Hay-Adams Hotel,” he directed.

“I’m sorry, sir, it’s an unlisted number,” said the telephone operator in that peculiar condescension the Bell System reserved for such information.

“I see. Thank you.” Peter hung up and leaned back on the pillows. He was not surprised; he had not been able to find MacAndrew’s name in the Rockville, Maryland, directory. A Washington reporter he knew had told him the retired general lived in a rented house far out in the country, had lived there for several years.

But Chancellor was not a newspaperman’s son for nothing. He sat up and opened the telephone book at his side. He found the name he was looking for and dialed nine and then the number.

“United States Army, Pentagon Operations,” said the male voice on the other end of the line.

“Lieutenant General Bruce MacAndrew, please.” Peter spoke the rank and name in clipped cadence.

“Just one minute, sir,” came the reply, followed seconds later by the obvious. “There’s no listing for General MacAndrew, sir.”

“There was a month ago, soldier,” said Chancellor authoritatively. “Let me have Directory.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Pentagon Directory. Good afternoon.” The voice was female.

“There seems to be a foul-up somewhere. This is Colonel Chancellor. I’ve just returned from Command Saigon and I’m trying to reach General MacAndrew, Light General B. MacAndrew. I have a letter from the general dated twelve August Arlington. Has he been transferred?”

The operator took less than half a minute to find the information. “No, Colonel. Not transferred. Retired.”

Peter allowed himself the proper moment of silence. “I understand; his wounds were extensive. Do I find him at Walter Reed?”

“I have no idea, Colonel.”

“Then, let me have his telephone number and address, please.”

“I’m not sure I can—”

“Young lady,” interrupted Peter. “I’ve just flown ten thousand miles. The general is a close friend; I’m very concerned. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir. There is no address listed. The number on the print sheet is area code …”

Chancellor wrote as the woman spoke. He thanked her, pressed down the telephone button, released it, and dialed.

“General MacAndrew’s residence.” The drawl on the line obviously belonged to a maid.

“May I speak with the general, please?”

“He’s not here. He’s expected back in an hour. May I take your name?”

Peter thought swiftly. There was no point in wasting time. “This is the Pentagon Messenger Service. We have a delivery for the general but the PMS address is unclear. What’s the street number in Rockville?”

“RFD Twenty-three, the Old Mill Pike.”

“Thank you.”

He hung up and once again leaned back on the pillows, recalling Longworth’s statements about MacAndrew. The agent had said the general had thrown away a brilliant career, including perhaps the chairmanship of the Joint Chiefs, for no apparent reason. Longworth had suggested there could be a connection between some missing information
in MacAndrew’s service record and the general’s resignation.

A thought struck him. Why had Longworth even brought up MacAndrew? What was MacAndrew to him?

Chancellor sat up suddenly. Had Longworth, in wanting to strike back at those who had manipulated him, manipulated the general? Had the agent himself used damaging information about MacAndrew?

If so, Longworth was playing a serious game. One that went way beyond the bounds of remorse. It depended on the general; what kind of man was he?

He was of medium height, with broad shoulders and a stocky build; he was dressed in chinos and a white shirt, open at the collar. His face was the face of a professional soldier; the skin was taut, the wrinkles deeply etched, the eyes noncommittal. He stood in the doorway of the old house on the back country road, a middle-aged man somewhat startled by a stranger whose features seemed vaguely familiar.

Peter was used to the reaction. His occasional appearances on television talk shows produced it. People rarely knew who he was but were sure they’d seen him somewhere.

“General MacAndrew?”

“Yes?”

“We haven’t met,” he said, extending his hand. “My name’s Peter Chancellor. I’m a writer. I’d like to talk to you.”

Was it fear he saw in the general’s eyes? “Of course I’ve seen you. On television, your photograph. I read one of your books, I think. Come in, Mr. Chancellor. Forgive my astonishment, but I—well—as you said, we’ve never met.”

Peter stepped into the hallway. “A mutual friend gave me your address. But your telephone’s unlisted.”

“A mutual friend? Who’s that?”

Chancellor watched the general’s eyes. “Longworth. Alan Longworth.”

There was no reaction whatsoever.

“Longworth? I don’t think I know him. But obviously I must. Was he in one of my commands?”

“No, General, I think he’s a blackmailer.”

“I beg your pardon?”

It
was
fear. The eyes darted briefly toward the staircase, then toward Peter.

“May we talk?”

“I think we’d better. It’s either that, or I throw you out on your ass.” MacAndrew turned and gestured through an archway. “In my study,” he said curtly.

The room was small, with dark leather chairs, a solid pine desk, and mementos of the general’s career on the walls. “Sit down,” said MacAndrew, indicating a chair in front of the desk. It was an order. The general remained standing.

“I may have been unfair,” said Peter.

“You were something,” replied MacAndrew. “Now, what’s this all about?”

“Why did you retire?”

“None of your damned business.”

“Maybe you’re right; maybe it’s not mine. But it’s somebody’s besides yours.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I heard of you through a man named Longworth. He suggested that you were forced to resign. That something happened a number of years ago, the information removed from your military record. He implied that this information became part of a collection of missing files. Dossiers that contained suppressed facts that could destroy the subjects in question. He led me to believe that you were threatened with exposure. Told to get out of the Army.”

For a long moment MacAndrew stood silently, frozen into position, his eyes a curious mixture of hatred and fright. When he spoke, his voice was flat. “Did this Longworth say what the information was?”

“He claimed not to know. The only conclusion I can draw is that it was of such a damaging nature that you had to follow instructions. If I may say so, your reaction would seem to bear out that assumption.”

“You prick bastard.” The contempt was absolute. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Peter met his eyes. “Whatever’s troubling you is none of my business, and perhaps I shouldn’t have come here. I was curious; curiosity’s a writer’s disease. But I don’t want to know your problem; believe me, I don’t want
that burden. I only wanted to know why your name was given to me, and now I think I do. You’re a substitute. You make a pretty scary example.”

MacAndrew’s look grew less hostile.

“Substitute for what?”

“For someone under the gun. If those files really were missing, in the hands of a fanatic, and this fanatic wanted to use the information against another person—well, you’re what that other person would be like.”

“I don’t follow you. Why would my name be given to you?”

“Because Longworth wants me to believe something to the degree that I’ll write a book about it.”

“But why me?”

“Because something did happen years ago, and Longworth had access to the information. I know that now. You see, General, I think he used both of us. He gave me your name, and before he gave it to me, he threatened to expose you. He wanted a victim. I think—?”

It was as far as Chancellor got. With the speed born of a hundred combat assaults MacAndrew sprang across the space between them. His hands were curved into claws that dug into the cloth of Peter’s jacket, pressing down, then pulling up, yanking Chancellor to his feet.

“Where is he?”

“Hey! For Christ’s sake—?”

“Longworth! Where is he? Tell me, you prick bastard!”

“You crazy son of a bitch. Let me
go!”
Peter was larger than the soldier but no match for MacAndrew’s strength. “Goddamn it, be careful of my head!”

It was a silly thing to say, but it was all that came to mind. The soldier pinned him against the wall, the hard face with the furious eyes inches from his.