The Chancellor Manuscript (35 page)

O’Brien depressed two buttons on the small recorder and spoke in a clipped, hard voice.

“This tape is being prepared by Senior Agent C. Quinlan O’Brien, Eye-dent clearance seventeen-twelve, on the night of December eighteenth at approximately twenty-three hundred hours. The man you will hear was escorted to the night-duty office. I have removed his name from the security logs and informed the desk agent to report to me any and all inquiries, under the aforementioned seventeen-twelve in-house clearance.” O’Brien paused, picked up a pencil, and scribbled a note to himself on a pad. “I consider the information on this tape to be of the highest
priority of classification and for reasons of security can accept no interference. I fully understand the irregularity of the methods I employ and—for personal reasons—fully assume responsibility.”

The agent stopped the machine and looked at Peter. “Ready? Start last summer. At Malibu and your meeting with Longworth.” He pressed the buttons; the tape rolled.

Through the mists of disbelief Chancellor began, speaking slowly, trying to follow the instructions of this man he suddenly, strangely knew so well. This man who was somehow a part of his own invention. C. Quinlan O’Brien.
Alexander Meredith
. Attorney.
Attorney
. The bureau.
The bureau
. A wife and family.
… A wife and family …

Frightened men.

O’Brien was visibly shaken as the story unfolded, both stunned and disturbed by the incidents Peter described. Whenever he mentioned Hoover’s private files, the agent tensed and his hands shook.

When Peter came to Phyllis’s description of the horrible, flat, high-pitched whisper over the telephone, O’Brien could not conceal his reaction. He gasped, his neck arched back, his eyes closed.

Peter stopped; the tape continued rolling. There was silence. O’Brien opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling. Slowly he turned to Chancellor.

“Go on,” he said.

“There isn’t much more. You read her letter.”

“Yes. Yes, I read the letter. Describe what happened. The gunshots, the fire. Why you ran away.”

Peter did. And then it was over. He had said it all Or nearly all. He had not mentioned Alison.

O’Brien stopped the tape, rewound it for a few seconds, and played the last words back for clarity. Satisfied, he shut off the machine.

“All right. You’ve put down what you wanted to. Now, tell me the rest.”

“What?”

“I asked you to trust me, but you haven’t told it all. You were writing in Pennsylvania; suddenly you came to Washington. Why? According to you, your research was completed. You ran away from a burning house on Thirty-fifth Street nearly five hours ago. You got here two hours
ago. Where were you for three hours? With whom? Fill in the gaps, Chancellor. They’re important.”

“No. That’s not part of our bargain.”

“What bargain? Protection?” Angrily, O’Brien got to his feet. “You damned fool, how can I offer protection if I don’t know whom to protect? And don’t kid yourself, protection
is
the bargain. Besides, it would take me—or anyone who really wanted to—roughly an hour to trace every move you made since you left Pennsylvania.”

The agent’s logic was undeniable. Chancellor had the feeling that he was an ill-equipped amateur facing a hardened professional. “I don’t want her part of this. I want your word on that. She’s been through enough.”

“So have we all,” replied O’Brien. “Did she receive a telephone call?”

“No. But you did, didn’t you?”

“I’m asking the questions.” The agent sat down again. “Tell me about her.”

Peter told the dark, sad story of Lieutenant General Bruce MacAndrew, his wife, and the daughter who was forced to grow up so early in her life. He described the isolated house on the back-country road in Maryland. And the words sprayed in blood-red paint on a wall:
Mac the Knife. Killer of Chasǒng
.

Quinn O’Brien closed his eyes and said softly, “Han Chow.”

“Is that Korea?”

“Different war. Same method of extortion: military records that never reached the Pentagon Of if they did, were removed. And now someone else has them.”

Peter held his breath. “Are you talking about Hoover’s files?”

O’Brien stared at him without replying. Chancellor felt torn apart; the insanity was complete.

“They were shredded,” whispered Peter, unsure of his own mind. “They were destroyed! What the hell are you trying to tell me? This is a book! None of it’s real! You have to protect your goddamned bureau! But not
this!
Not the
files!”

O’Brien stood up, raising the palms of his hands. It was a reassuring gesture, a father calming an hysterical child. “Take it easy. I didn’t say anything about Hoover’s files. You’ve been through a lot tonight, and you’re making
assumptions. For a second I did, too. But it’s wrong. Two isolated incidents involving military records hardly constitute a pattern. Those files were destroyed. We know that”

“What’s Han Chow?”

“Not pertinent.”

“A minute ago you thought it was.”

“A minute ago a lot of thoughts went through my head. But things are clear now. You’re right. Someone’s using you. And me and probably a couple of dozen others to tear the bureau apart. Someone who knows us, knows the working structure. Very possibly it’s one of us. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

Peter studied the FBI man. Since Hoover’s death there had been rumors, many reported in the newspapers, that factions within the bureau were fighting among themselves. And Quinn’s intelligence and sincerity were convincing.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “You scared hell out of me.”

“You’ve got every right to be scared. Much more than I do. Nobody’s fired a gun at me.” O’Brien smiled reassuringly. “But that’s all over with. I’ll find men to stay with you around the clock.”

Chancellor returned the smile weakly. “Whoever they are, I hope they’re the best you’ve got. I don’t mind telling you, I’ve never been so frightened in my life.”

The smile disappeared from O’Brien’s face. “Whoever they are, they won’t be from the bureau.”

“Oh? Why not?”

“I don’t know who to trust.”

“Then, apparently you know there are people you can’t trust. Anyone in particular?”

“More than one. There’s a pack of extremists here. We know some of them, not all. They’re loosely called the Hoover Group. When Hoover died, they thought they’d take over. They didn’t and they’re angry. Some are as paranoid as Hoover was.”

Again Chancellor was struck by O’Brien’s words; it was confirmation of Peter’s original thinking. Everything that had happened—from Malibu to Rockville to the old house on Thirty-fifth Street—was the result of violent infighting within the FBI. And Longworth had reappeared.

“We have a bargain,” he said. “I want protection. For the girl and myself.”

“You’ll have it.”

“From where? Who?”

“You mentioned Judge Sutherland. A couple of years ago he was instrumental in repairing a severed connection between the bureau and the rest of the intelligence community. Hoover had cut off the flow of information to the CIA and the NSC.”

“I know that,” interrupted Chancellor quietly. “I wrote a book about it.”

“That was
Counterstrike!
, wasn’t it? I guess I’d better read it.”

“I’ll send you a copy. You send protection. I repeat: Who? Where from?”

“There’s a man named Varak. Sutherland’s man. He owes me.”

O’Brien collapsed in the chair. His head fell back, his breathing fast and erratic as if he could not let sufficient air into the lungs. He brought his face forward into his hands; he could feel the trembling in his fingers.

He had not been sure he could carry it off. A number of times during the past two hours he thought he was going to fall apart.

It was the writer’s panic that had gotten him through the last minutes. The realization that Chancellor had to be controlled; he could not be allowed to learn the truth.

Hoover’s files were not destroyed, as Quinn
knew
they had not been. That much seemed certain. And now someone else knew it, too. How many? How many phone calls had been made? How many others had been reached by that terrible high-pitched whisper. A dead general, a murdered congressman, a vanished newspaperwoman—how many more?

Things were not the same as they had been two hours ago. Peter Chancellor’s revelation meant there was work to do quickly, and to his great relief, O’Brien began to think he was again capable of doing it.

He picked up the phone and dialed the National Security Council. But Stefan Varak could not be traced.

Where was Varak? What kind of assignment would cut the NSC agent off from the bureau? Especially from
him?
Varak and he were friends. Two years ago Quinn had taken an enormous risk for Varak. He had provided him with profile data Hoover had restricted; it could have cost him his career.

Now he needed Varak. Of all the men in the intelligence
community Varak was the best. His range of expertise and the sheer numbers and depth of his contacts were extraordinary. He was the man Quinn wanted to hear Chancellor’s tape first. Varak would know what to do.

In the meantime the writer had temporary protection. His name had been removed from the security logs, all inquiries directed to O’Brien. There were a couple of men at CIA Quinn had fed print information to during Hoover’s embargo. When O’Brien told them the subject to be guarded was the author of
Counterstrike!
, they damned near refused. But, of course, they did not refuse. Reasonable men in the most unreasonable of professions had to help each other. Otherwise unreasonable men would assume control, and that way lay disaster.

Perhaps they had. Perhaps disaster had already come.

The FBI escort made his delivery to the Hay-Adams lobby. Chancellor was the package. He was signed for by a nod and a corresponding “Okay.… Good night,” spoken politely by the man from the Central Intelligence Agency.

In the elevator Peter tried to make conversation with this stranger who had volunteered to protect him. “My name’s Chancellor,” he said foolishly.

“I know,” replied the man. “.I read your book. You did quite a job on us.”

It was not the most reassuring of greetings. “It wasn’t meant that way. I have several friends in the CIA.”

“Want to bet?”

Not reassuring at all. “There’s a man named Bromley flying in from Indianapolis.”

“We know. He’s sixty-five years old and in poor health. He had a weapon on him at the Indie airport. He has a permit, so it’s supposed to be returned to him at the National terminal, but it won’t be. It’ll be lost.”

“He could pick up another.”

“Not likely. O’Brien put a man on him.”

They reached the floor; the elevator door opened. The CIA man blocked Peter’s exit with his arm and walked out first, his right hand in his overcoat pocket. He glanced up and down the corridor, turned, and nodded to Chancellor.

“What about the morning?” asked Peter, coming out of the elevator. “Bromley could walk into any gun store—”

“With an Indianapolis permit? No retailer would sell him a firearm.”

“Some would. There are ways.”

“There are better ways to prevent it.”

They were at the door of the suite. The CIA man removed his right hand from his coat pocket; he held a small automatic. With his left he undid the two middle buttons of his overcoat and shoved the weapon out of sight. Peter knocked.

He could hear Alison’s racing footsteps. She opened the door and moved to embrace him, stopping at the sight of the stranger. “Alison, this is—I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”

“Tonight I don’t have one,” the CIA man said, nodding to Alison. “Good evening, Miss MacAndrew.”

“Hello?” Alison was understandably bewildered. “Please come in.”

“No, thank you.” The agent looked at Chancellor. “I’ll be right out here in the corridor at all times. My relief comes on at eight in the morning, which means I’ll have to wake you up so you know who he is.”

“I’ll be up.”

“Fine. Good night.”

“Wait a minute.…” An idea struck Peter. “If Bromley shows up, and you’re sure he’s not armed, maybe I should talk to him. I don’t know him. I don’t know why he’s after me.”

“That’s up to you. Let’s play it as it comes.” He closed the door.

“You were gone so long!” Alison threw her arms around him, her face next to his. “I nearly went out of my mind!”

He held her gently. “That’s finished with. Nobody’s going out of his mind. Not any more.”

“You told them everything?”

“Yes.” He moved her back so he could look at her face. “Everything. About your father, too. I had to. The
man I talked with knew I was holding back. He made it clear that they could trace every move we made. They wouldn’t have to go very far; just across the river to the Pentagon.”

She nodded and took his arm, leading him away from the door into the sitting room. “How do you feel?”

“Fine. Relieved. How about a drink?”

“My man’s been working. I’ll make them,” she said, heading for the bar stocked by the hotel’s room service. Peter fell into an armchair, his body limp, his feet stretched out. “I’ve been meaning to ask you,” said Alison, pouring whisky and opening the ice bucket “Do you always have a bar set up for you wherever you go? You don’t drink that much.”

“A few months ago I drank that much.” Chancellor laughed; it was good to remember, knowing things had changed, he thought. “To answer your question, it’s an indulgence that came with the first large advance. I remembered all those movies. Writers in hotel rooms always had fancy bars and wore smoking jackets. I don’t have a smoking jacket.”

It was Alison’s turn to laugh. She brought his drink to him and sat in the chair opposite his. “I’ll buy you one for Christmas.”

“Next Christmas,” he said, holding her eyes. “This Christmas give me a plain gold ring. It’ll go on the third finger of my left hand. Just as yours will.”

Alison drank from her glass and glanced away. “I meant what I said a few hours ago. I don’t require any commitments.”

Chancellor looked at her, alarmed. He put his drink down and went to her. He knelt by her side and touched her face. “What am I supposed to say? Thank you, Miss MacAndrew, it’s been a nice interlude’? I won’t say it, and I can’t think it. I don’t think you can, either.”