The Chancellor Manuscript (53 page)

“Turn off the light!” yelled Chancellor, crouching.

“As you wish.” The shaft of light disappeared.

Remembering O’Brien’s instructions, Peter ran several yards away from his former position, keeping his eyes on Montelán. The Spaniard made no extraneous moves; he had no weapon. Chancellor stood up, knowing he could be seen in the moonlight.

“I’m over here,” he said.

Montelán turned, adjusting his eyes. “Sorry about the light. I won’t do that again.” He approached Peter. “I had no trouble coming here. Your directions were excellent.”

In the pale yellow light Peter could see Montelán’s face. It was strong, the features Latin, the dark eyes searching. Peter realized there was no fear in the man. In spite of the fact that he had been told to meet a stranger, known to him by name only, on an isolated golf course in the middle of the night—a stranger he had to at least consider
might do him violence—Paris behaved as though their meeting were merely a mutually desirable business conference.

“This is a gun in my hand,” said Chancellor, raising the barrel.

Montelán squinted. “Why?”

“After what you’ve done to me—what Inver Brass has done to me—can you even ask?”

“I don’t know what’s been done to you.”

“You’re lying.”

“Let me put it this way. I know that you were given misinformation on the premise that you might write a novel based on that false information. It was hoped this might alarm certain individuals who are part of a conspiracy and force them to reveal themselves. In all candor I’ve doubted the wisdom of the exercise since I first heard of it”

“That’s all you’ve learned?”

“I gather there’s been some unpleasantness, but we were given assurance that no harm would come to you.”

“Who are the ‘certain individuals’? What’s the ‘conspiracy’?”

Paris paused for a moment as if resolving a conflict within himself. “If no one’s told you, perhaps it’s time someone did. There
is
a conspiracy. A very real and dangerous one. An entire section of J. Edgar Hoover’s private files is missing. They’ve disappeared.”

“How do you know that?”

Again Montelán fell briefly silent, then having made the decision, continued. “I can’t give you specifics, but since you mentioned the name and—more to the point—referred to the others in your telephone call this morning, I must assume you’ve learned more than was intended for you to learn. It doesn’t matter; it’s coming to an end. Inver Brass managed to get hold of the remaining files.”

“How?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“A little of both, perhaps.”

“That’s not good enough!”

“Do you know a man named Varak?” asked Paris softly, as if Chancellor had not shouted.

“Yes.”

“Ask him. He may tell you, he may not”

Peter studied the Spaniard’s face in the moonlight. Montelán was not lying. He did not know of Varak’s death. Chancellor felt a hollowness in his throat; a third contender had been eliminated. Questions remained, but the most vital issue was resolved. Paris did not have the files.

“What did you mean when you said it didn’t matter what I’d learned? That it was ‘coming to an end’?”

“The days of Inver Brass are over.”

“What exactly is Inver Brass?”

“I presumed you knew.”

“Don’t presume anything!”

Again the Spaniard paused before he spoke. “A group of men dedicated to the well-being of this nation.”

“A nucleus,” said Peter.

“I imagine it could be called that,” replied Montelán. “It’s made up of outstanding men, men of extraordinary character and great love for their country.”

“Are you one of them?”

“I was privileged to be asked.”

“This is the group that was formed to warn Hoover’s victims?”

“It has had many functions.”

“How many weeks ago were you asked to join? Or was it months?”

For the first time Paris seemed bewildered. “Weeks? Months? I’ve been a member for four years.”

“Four years?!” There was the dissonant chord again. As far as Peter knew, the group—St. Claire’s nucleus, this Inver Brass—had been formed to combat Hoover’s final and most vicious tactic: the exploitation of fear through his private files. It was a late-in-the-day defense born of necessity. A year, a year and a half, two years at the most, had been the span of its existence. Yet Paris spoke of four years.…

And Jacob Dreyfus had used the phrase “forty years of service”; then he’d followed it with a reference to “countless millions spent.” At the time, during those moments of panic on the beach, Chancellor had thought Dreyfus had somehow been referring to himself. But now
 … forty years … countless millions
.

Frederick Well’s biting words suddenly came back to Peter. The country needs me. I must lead Inver Brass. The others are old, weak! Their time is finished. I’m the one!

Four years … 
forty
years! Countless
millions
.

And finally Peter remembered Dreyfus’s letter to Montelán. The covenant between Christopher and Paris.

We are consumed with memories.…

Memories of what?

“Who are you people?” he asked, staring at Montelán.

“Beyond what I’ve said, I’ll say no more. You were right, Mr. Chancellor. I presumed. In any event, I’m not here to discuss such matters. I came to try to convince you not to interfere any longer. Your inclusion was an error of judgment by a brilliant but frustrated man. There was no great harm as long as you remained in the background, poking among the ruins, but should you surface and be asked questions publicly, that would be disaster.”

“You’re frightened,” said Chancellor, surprised. “You pretend to be very cool, but underneath you’re frightened out of your wits.”

“I most certainly am. For you as well as for all of us.”

“Does ‘us’ mean Inver Brass?”

“And many others. There’s a rift in this country between the people and its leaders. There is corruption at the highest levels of government; it goes beyond mere power politics. The Constitution has been seriously assaulted, our way of life threatened. I’m not being melodramatic; I’m telling you the truth. Perhaps a person not bora here, who has seen it happen before, understands more clearly what these things mean.”

“What’s the answer? Or is there one?”

“There certainly is. The rigid, dispassionate application of the legal process. I repeat, dispassionate. The people must be awakened to the real dangers of abuse. Clearly, reasonably, not propelled by emotional accusations and demands for recrimination. The system will work if it’s given the chance; the process has begun. It’s
no
time for explosive disclosures. It’s a time for intensive examination. And reflection.”

“I see,” said Peter slowly. “And it’s not the time for the exposure of Inver Brass, is it?”

“No,” said Montelán firmly.

“Perhaps it will never be.”

“Perhaps. I told you. Its time has passed.”

“Is that why you have your covenant with Jacob Dreyfus? With Christopher?”

It was as though Paris had been slapped harshly
across the face. “I wondered,” he said softly. “I nearly called him but thought better of it. So you reached him.”

“I reached him.”

“I’m sure he spoke as I have. His devotion to this country is infinite. He understands.”

“I don’t. I don’t understand any of you people.”

“Because your knowledge is limited. And you’ll learn no more from me. I can only beg you again to go away. If you continue, I think you’ll be killed.”

“That’s been suggested. One last question: What happened at Chasǒng?”

“Chasǒng? The Battle of Chasǒng?”

“Yes.”

“A terrible waste. Thousands lost over an inconsequential stretch of barren territory. Megalomania superseded civilian authority. It’s on the record.”

Peter realized he still held the gun in his hand. It was meaningless; he put it back in his pocket.

“Go back to Boston,” he said.

“You’ll consider carefully everything I’ve said?”

“Yes.” But he knew he would have to go on.

For Daniel Sutherland, O’Brien had chosen an inlet east of Deal Island on the Chesapeake. The rendezvous was a commercial marina where fishing boats were moored, primarily oyster craft that would by necessity stay in shore for another week or two. The beds were poor; the ocean was not hospitable at this point in December.

The waves lapped incessantly against the pilings beneath the docks. The creaking of the boats at their moorings kept up a steady, snapping tattoo as the gulls cawed in the sky above in the early light.

Venice. The last of the candidates, thought Peter as he sat on an oily railing of a trawler at the end of the dock. The last, that is, unless Bravo was the one. That Peter would go back to Munro St. Claire seemed certain. The possibility that Sutherland was the betrayer of Inver Brass, the whispering killer who had the files, was remote. But then nothing was as it seemed to be. Anything was conceivable.

Sutherland had told him that the committee formed to combat Hoover’s viciousness had been disbanded. Too, Sutherland had maintained that the files had been destroyed.
As a member of Inver Brass he knew both were lies.

But why would Sutherland want the files? Why would he kill? Why would he belie the law he championed?

Peter could barely distinguish the entrance to the dock, beyond the hoist pulleys and the engine winches. They formed a strange, silhouetted archway, sharp black lines against a background of gray. He looked across the short span of water to his right where he knew O’Brien lay concealed on the deck of a scow. He turned his head to the left, trying to make out the automobile sandwiched between dry-docked oyster boats pulled out of the water for repairs. Alison was in the car. In her hand was a book of matches, a single match torn off, ready to strike. It was to be struck and held in the window, its flame shielded from the front, should there be anyone but the judge in Sutherland’s automobile.

Suddenly, Peter heard the low tones of a powerful engine approaching in the distance. Moments later dual headlight beams shot through the fenced entrance into the shipyard, reflecting off the dry-docked hulls. The automobile continued on, turning right down a wide space between the boats toward the water’s edge.

The headlights were shut off, leaving a lingering residue of light in Chancellor’s eyes. He crouched below the gunwale of the trawler and kept watching the base of the dock. Lapping waves slapped against pilings in erratic rhythms; the creaking of boats continued ceaselessly.

A car door opened and closed, and moments later Sutherland’s immense figure emerged from the darkness and filled a large area under the arch of steel and the taut metal coils of the winches. He walked out on the dock toward Peter, his footsteps heavy and cautious but without hesitation.

He reached the end of the dock and stood motionless, looking across the bay, a giant black man at dawn by the water’s edge. Daniel Sutherland looked as if he were the last man on earth, contemplating the end of the universe. Or waiting for a barge to dock and men to order a huge buck to start unloading.

Peter stood up, pushing himself away from the trawler’s railing, his hand in his pocket, gripping the gun. “Good morning, Judge. Or should I call you Venice?”

Sutherland turned and looked toward the trawler’s slip where Chancellor stood on the narrow walkway. He said nothing.

“I said good morning,” continued Chancellor softly, even courteously, unable to shut out the respect he felt for this man who had achieved so much in a lifetime.

“I heard you,” replied Sutherland in his resonant voice, itself a weapon. “You called me Venice.”

“That’s the name you’re known by. That’s the name Inver Brass gave you.”

“You’re only half right It’s a name I gave myself.”

“When? Forty years ago?”

Sutherland did not at first reply. He seemed to absorb Peter’s statement with equal degrees of ire and astonishment, equally controlled. “When’s not important. Neither’s the name.”

“I think both are. Does Venice mean what I think it means?”

“Yes. The Moor.”

“Othello was a killer.”

“This Moor is not.”

“That’s what I’m here to find out. You lied to me.”

“I misled you for your own good. You should never have been involved at the start.”

“I’m sick of hearing that. Why was I, then?”

“Because other solutions had failed. You seemed worth a try. We faced a national catastrophe.”

“Hoover’s missing files?”

Sutherland paused, his large dark eyes locked with Chancellor’s. “You’ve learned then,” he said. “It’s true. Those files had to be found and destroyed, but all attempts to locate them had failed. Bravo was desperate and sought desperate measures. You were one of them.”

“Then, why did you tell me the files had been destroyed?”

“I was asked to confirm certain aspects of the story given you. However, I didn’t want you to take yourself too seriously. You’re a novelist, not an historian. To allow you greater latitude would have placed you in danger. I couldn’t permit that.”

“Bait me in, but not all the way in, was that it?”

“It will do.”

“No, it won’t. There’s more. You were protecting a
group of men who call themselves Inver Brass. You’re one of them. You told me a few concerned men and women got together to fight Hoover and then disbanded after his death. You lied about that, too. This group goes back forty years.”

“You’ve let your imagination run away with you.” The judge was breathing harder.

“No, I haven’t. I’ve spoken to the others.”

“You’ve
what!
” Gone was the control, the sense of judicial propriety that underscored his every phrase. Sutherland’s head trembled in the early light “What in the name of God have you done?”

“I listened to the words of a dying man. And I think you know who that man was.”

“Oh, God!
Longworth!”
The black giant froze.

“You
knew!”
The shock caused Peter to lose his breath. His muscles tensed, his foot slipped; he steadied himself. It
was
Sutherland. None of the others had made the connection. Sutherland had! He would not have made it,
could
not have made it, without following Varak, without tapping the Hay-Adams’s switchboard!