The Chancellor Manuscript (44 page)

Peter walked to the center of a deserted car and slid into the seat by the window, noting his reflection in the spotted glass. Although the image was dark and filmy, there was no mistaking the haggard, drawn expression on his face. From somewhere outside on the platform a mechanical voice blared through a loudspeaker. Chancellor closed his eyes and sank into weariness as the wheels gathered speed, the rhythm quickly hypnotic.

He heard muted footsteps behind him in the aisle, heard them over the sounds of rolling metal against metal. He presumed it was the conductor, so he kept his eyes shut, expecting to be asked for his ticket.

No request came. The footsteps had stopped. Peter opened his eyes and turned in the seat.

It all happened so fast. The sick, pale, maniacal face behind him, the muffled report, the explosion of fabric beside him.

The seat had been blown apart! The man not three feet away had tried to kill him! Chancellor spun out of the seat, his body arcing in the air, his hands lunging downward for the bony white fingers that held the weapon. The old man tried to get up, tried to force the barrel of the gun into Peter’s stomach. Chancellor crashed the thin wrist against the metal arm of the seat; the weapon fell into the aisle, and Peter spun again, throwing himself between the seats, covering the gun, reaching under his body until it was in his grasp. He lurched to his feet; the old man started to run toward the end of the car. Chancellor sprang after him, grabbing him with one hand. He forced him to stop, pressing him against the rim of an aisle seat.

“Bromley!”

“Child killer!”

“You’re a goddamned lunatic!” Peter turned, pinning
Bromley fiercely against the seat in the deserted car. Where was the conductor? The conductor could stop the train and summon the police! Then Chancellor balked; did he want the police?

“How could he have done it?” The old man was whimpering, the words spoken bitterly between his tears. “How could he have told you?”

“What are you talking about!?”

“Only one man knew. St. Claire … Munro St. Claire. I thought he had such greatness, such honor.” Bromley broke down and wept uncontrollably.

Peter released him, unable to control his own shock.
Munro St. Claire
. A name out of the past, but always a part of the present The man responsible for all that had happened since the days of rejection and indecision at Park Forest.

All?

Oh, my God.…

Venice you know
.…
Bravo, too but not Bravo! Never Bravo!
Stefan Varak.

Such greatness, such honor
. Paul Bromley.

The fifth man. Bravo.

Munro St. Claire
.

Clouds swirled in Chancellor’s mind; the pain returned to his temples. He watched, helpless, unable to move, unable to stop him, as the old man rushed to the metal door between the cars and pulled it back. And then there was the crash of another door and a terrible rush of wind above the amplified sounds of the wheels hammering against the tracks below.

There was a scream of anguish, or of courage—whatever, it was of death. Bromley had hurled himself into the night.

And there was no peace for Peter Chancellor.

Munro St. Claire.

Bravo.

The Quantico cab turned off the bay highway and drove through the stone gateposts of the Pines Motel and Restaurant It was isolated from any other structure in that section of the bay area. There were no buildings on either side—only tall brick walls—and the motel itself appeared to be directly on the water.

Peter got out and paid the driver in the bright light of the motel’s entrance. There were floodlights everywhere. The cab sped away; Chancellor turned and started toward the large colonial doors.

“Stop where you are! Don’t move your hands!”

Chancellor froze; the biting commands had come from the darkness beyond the floodlights, to the left of the entranceway.

“What do you want?”

“Turn this way,” ordered the man in shadows. “Slowly! It
is
you. I wasn’t sure.”

“Who are you?”

“Not one of the maniacs. Go on inside and ask for Mr. Morgan.”

“Morgan?”

“Mr. Anthony Morgan. You’ll be taken to the room.”

The insanity again.
Anthony Morgan!
Numbly, he followed the incomprehensible instructions and walked into the lobby. He approached the front desk; a tall, muscular clerk sprang to attention behind the counter. Bewildered, Chancellor asked for Mr. Anthony Morgan.

The clerk nodded. There was more than intelligence behind the man’s clear eyes; there was conspiracy. He tapped a bell on the counter. Seconds later a uniformed bellhop arrived; he, too, was tall and powerfully built.

“Take this gentleman to room seven, please.”

Peter followed the uniformed man down a carpeted hallway. A window at the far end of the corridor overlooked the waters of the bay. Chancellor thought he saw iron grillwork beyond the glass. They reached a door with the number seven on it; the bellhop rapped lightly.

“Yes?” said the voice behind the door.

“Needle one,” said the tall bellhop softly.

“Tour,” replied the voice behind the door.

“Eleven.”

“Thirteen.”

“Ten.”

“Terminate,” said the unseen man. A bolt slid back; the door opened. O’Brien was silhouetted in the dim light of a comfortable sitting room. He nodded to the bellhop and motioned Chancellor inside. Peter saw him put a pistol back in its holster.

“Where is she?” Peter asked instantly.

“Shhh.” The FBI man closed the door, a finger against his lips. “She dozed off about twenty minutes ago. She hasn’t been able to sleep; she’s worried sick.”

“Where is she?”

“In the bedroom. Don’t worry, there’s a set of electronically tripped windows on the water side, with grill-work and bulletproof glass. No one can touch her. Let her be; we’ll talk.”

“I want to see her!”

O’Brien nodded. “Sure. Go ahead. Just be quiet.”

Chancellor opened the door a crack. A lamp was on. Alison lay on the bed, a blanket draped over her. Her head was angled back; her strong, lovely face caught the light. She was breathing deeply. She’d been asleep for twenty minutes. He would let her rest only a little while longer. What he had to do would be best done when Alison was close to exhaustion.

He closed the door. “There’s a breakfast alcove back here,” O’Brien said.

The sitting room was larger than Peter realized. At the east end, beyond a slatted room divider, was a round table by a window overlooking the water. Peter could now clearly see the grillwork behind the glass. The area contained a small kitchenette. There was coffee on the stove; O’Brien took two cups from a shelf and poured.

Peter sat down. “Not exactly a regular motel, is it?”

O’Brien smiled. “It’s a good restaurant, though. Very popular with the social set.”

“A proprietary? CIA?”

“Yes to the first. No to the second. It belongs to Naval Intelligence.”

“Those men outside. The clerk, the bellboy. Who are they?”

“Varak told you. There aren’t many of us, but we know who we are. We help each other.” O’Brien drank
from his cup. “Sorry to throw you with Morgan’s name. I had a reason.” “What was it?”

“You and the girl will be out of here in the morning, but Morgan will still be registered. If anyone picks up your trail and it leads them here, the name Morgan in the registry will mean something. They’ll come to room seven. We’ll know who they are.”

“I thought you knew who the maniacs were.” Peter drank his coffee, watching O’Brien carefully.

“Only some of them,” replied the agent. “You ready to talk?”

“In a minute.” The pain in his head was subsiding, but it was not gone. He needed a few moments; he wanted to think clearly. “Thanks for taking care of her.”

“You’re welcome. I have a niece about her age—my brother’s daughter. They’re very much alike. Strong, good faces. Not just pretty, you know?”

“I know.” The pain was nearly gone. “What were all those numbers about at the door?”

The FBI man smiled. “Corny but effective. Not much different from what you read in spy novels: progressions and timing, mainly. That’s what you writers don’t seem to know about.”

“What are they?”

“A basic code with a number. As the respondent I add a number, and the contact is trained to associate that number with another figure—plus or minus. He has to reply pretty damned quickly.”

“What happens if he doesn’t?”

“You saw my gun out. I’ve never used it that way, but I wouldn’t have hesitated. I would have shot him through the door.”

Chancellor put the coffee cup down on the table. “We’ll talk now.”

“Good. What happened?”

“Bromley followed me on the train. He tried to kill me. I was lucky, but he wasn’t. He ran from me and threw himself off the train.”

“Bromley? It’s impossible!”

Peter reached into his pocket and pulled out the revolver he had recovered on the train. “This was fired through a seat in the middle of the third or fourth car on the two o’clock train from Washington. I didn’t fire it.”

O’Brien got out of the chair and walked to a telephone in the alcove. He spoke as he dialed. “The man we placed with Bromley was on official assignment. We can check him out right away.” The agent became the executive. “Security. Surveillance, D.C. area, Duty Officer O’Brien … Yes, Chet, it’s me. Thanks. Clear me, please.… This is O’Brien. There’s a special agent covering a subject named Bromley. The Olympic Hotel, downtown area. Raise him, please. Right away.” O’Brien held his hand over the mouthpiece and turned to Chancellor. “Did you go back to the hotel? Did you tell anybody—Ramirez,
anyone
—that you were taking the train?”

“No.”

“Taxi drivers?”

“I’ve taken one cab since nine thirty. He drove me to Bethesda and waited for me. He didn’t know I would be going back to Union Station.”

“Jesus, it doesn’t—Yes, yes, what is it? You can’t?” The agent’s eyes squinted as he spoke into the phone. “There’s no response at all? Send a backup squad down to the Olympic immediately. Get clearance from the D.C. police, and let them help. That man may be in trouble. I’ll check with you later.” O’Brien hung up; he was bewildered and showed it.

“What do you think happened?” asked Peter.

“I don’t know. Only two people knew. The girl and myself.” The agent stared at Chancellor.

“Now
wait
a minute. If you’re—”

“I’m not,” broke in O’Brien. “She’s been with me every moment. She hasn’t used the telephone; she’d have had to go through the switchboard here.”

“What about the men outside? The ones who are so good with progressions.”

“No way. I waited until the last train before I told anyone you might show up. And even then I never mentioned your means of travel. Don’t mistake me, I’d trust them with our lives. It was just easier, less responsibility spread around.” The agent walked slowly back to the table; then he suddenly brought his hand to his forehead. “Mother of Christ, it could have been me! Outside the Hay-Adams, when we were getting into the car. She was upset; I told her then. He could have been waiting in the drive by the wall. In the shadows.”

“What are you talking about?”

O’Brien sat down in weary disgust. “Bromley knew where you were; he could have been waiting for you outside the hotel, hoping to get you in close range. If he was, he could have overheard me. I think I have to apologize for nearly getting you killed.”

“That’s an apology I find hard to accept.”

“I don’t blame you. What about this Ramirez? Why did you go see him?”

The transition from Bromley to Ramirez was too rapid for Peter. It took him several moments to clear the image of the sick old man from his mind. But he had made his decision. He would tell the FBI man everything. He reached into his pocket and withdrew the bloodstained scrap of paper with the names written on it.

“Varak was right. He said the key was Chasǒng?”

“That’s what you held back on the phone, wasn’t it?” O’Brien asked. “Because of MacAndrew and his daughter. Ramirez was at Chasǒng?”

Chancellor nodded. “I’m sure of it. They’re all hiding something. I think it’s a massive cover-up. Even after twenty-two years they’re frightened out of their minds. But that’s only the beginning. Whatever’s behind Chasǒng will lead to one of these four men.” Chancellor handed O’Brien the scrap of paper. “Whoever he is, he has Hoover’s private files.”

The agent read the names; the blood drained from his face. “My God! Have you any idea who these people are?”

“Of course. There’s a fifth man, but Varak didn’t want him identified. He thought a great deal of him and didn’t want him hurt. Varak was convinced the fifth man was used, that he was not involved.”

“I wonder who he is.”

“I know who he is.”

“You’re full of surprises.”

“I found out through Bromley, but he didn’t know he told me. You see, I knew the man. Years ago. He resolved a personal quandry I was in. I owe him a great deal. If you insist, I’ll give you his name, but I’d rather see him first myself.”

O’Brien considered. “All right. Fair enough. But only if you’ll let me have a support option.”

“Speak English.”

“Write out the name and give it to an attorney who will hand it over to me after a reasonably short period of time”

“Why?”

“In case this fifth man kills you.”

Chancellor studied the agent’s eyes. O’Brien meant precisely what he said. “Fair enough.”

“Let’s talk about Ramirez. Tell me everything he said; describe every reaction you recall. What was his relationship to MacAndrew? To Chasǒng? How did you know it? What took you to him in the first place?”

“Something I saw at Arlington Cemetery and something Varak said. I put the two together; call it an educated guess … or perhaps it fit something I might have written. I don’t know. I just didn’t think I could be too far wrong. I wasn’t.”

It took Chancellor less than ten minutes to tell it all. During his narrative Peter could see Quinn O’Brien making mental notes, just as he had done the night before in Washington. “Let’s leave Ramirez on a burner and go back to Varak for a minute. He built his connection between Chasong and one of those four men on the list because specific information was leaked that couldn’t have come from any other source but one of them. Is that right?”