The Chancellor Manuscript (12 page)

“There’s very little left that’s important. He has favorite restaurants where he’s known. He skis, plays tennis—neither of which he may be able to do again. His friends, outside of Morgan and Harris, are generally found among other writers and newspapermen and, oddly enough, several lawyers in New York and Washington. That’s about it.” Varak closed the folder on his right. “Now, I’d like to bring up something.”

“Yes?”

“Along the lines we’ve discussed, I think I know how to program Chancellor, but I need a backup. I’ll use the Longworth cover: it’s unbreakable. Longworth is in Hawaii and stays in hiding. We look enough alike—even to the duplication of the scar—and his FBI record can be traced. Still, we should have one more piece of bait Chancellor can’t walk away from.”

“Please clarify.”

Varak paused, then said with conviction: “We have a crime but no conspiracy. None we can identify. He’s got to follow his own speculations. We have none to give him. If we had, we wouldn’t be using him in the first place.”

“What are you proposing?” asked St. Claire, seeing the hesitation in Varak’s eyes.

“I want to bring in a second member of Inver Brass.
In my opinion the only other man with your public stature. You call him Venice. Judge Daniel Sutherland. I want to be able to send Chancellor to him.”

The diplomat was silent for several moments. “To lend weight to what you tell Chancellor? The irresistible confirmation?”

“Yes. To substantiate our story of the missing files. That’s all I need. Sutherland’s voice will be the bait Chancellor
has
to take.”

“It’s dangerous,” said Bravo quietly. “No member of Inver Brass should ever be overt in any strategy.”

“Time requires it. I ruled you out because of your previous relationship with Chancellor.”

“I understand. The coincidence would raise questions. I’ll talk with Venice.… Now, if you please, I want to return to something you said. Chancellor’s psychological condition. If I understood you correctly—?”

“You did,” interrupted Varak quietly. “Chancellor cannot be allowed to recover. He can’t be permitted to function at his previous rational level. He’s got to draw attention to himself, to his research. If he remains volatile, he becomes a threat. If that threat is dangerous enough, whoever has those files will be compelled to eliminate it. When he does—or they do—we’ll be there.”

Bravo sat forward, his expression one of sudden concern. “I think that goes beyond the parameters we established.”

“I wasn’t aware we’d established any.”

“They were intrinsic. There are limits to our use of Peter Chancellor. They don’t include putting his life in jeopardy.”

“I submit it’s a logical extension of the strategy. Quite plainly put, the strategy may be useless without that factor. I think we’d willingly exchange Chancellor’s life for those files. Don’t you?”

St. Claire said nothing.

Chancellor stood by the doors overlooking the beach and parted the drapes again. The blond-haired man was still there. He’d been there for over an hour, walking back and forth in the hot afternoon sun, his shoes sinking into the warm sand, his shirt open at the collar, his jacket slung over his shoulder.

He was pacing up and down the short area of the beach fifty yards away, between the redwood porch and the water, every now and then glancing up at Peter’s house. He was medium-sized, perhaps a shade under six feet, and muscular. His shoulders were broad and thick and stretched the cloth of his shirt.

Chancellor had first seen him around noon. He had stood motionless in the sand, staring up at the redwood porch; staring, Peter was sure, at him.

The sight of the man was no longer merely disconcerting, it was irritating. The first thought that came to Chancellor was that Aaron Sheffield had decided to put a watchdog on him. A great deal of money was now involved in
Counterstrike!
A great deal more had been offered under circumstances that raised disturbing questions.

Peter did not like watchdogs. Not this kind. He pulled back the drapes, slid open the door, and stepped out on the porch. The man stopped his pacing and again stood motionless in the sand.

They looked at each other and Peter’s doubts vanished. The man was there for him, waiting for him. Peter’s irritation turned into anger. He walked to the steps and down onto the beach. The man remained where he was, making no move toward him.

Goddamn you
, thought Chancellor. There were very few people on this private area of Malibu; but if any were watching, the sight of the limping figure in slacks, naked above the waist, approaching a fully clothed man standing immobile in front of a beach house must have seemed odd. It
was
odd; the blond-haired stranger had a curious quality about him. He was pleasant-looking, a face clean-cut, even gentle in appearance. Yet there was something menacing about him. As he drew nearer, Chancellor realized what
it was: the man’s eyes were aware. They were not the eyes of a subordinate watchdog hired by an anxious studio executive.

“It’s warm out here,” began Peter bluntly. “I can’t help asking myself why you’re walking around in the heat. Especially since you keep looking up at my house.”

“At your rented house, Mr. Chancellor.”

“Then, I think you’d better explain,” replied Peter, “since you know my name and, obviously, the conditions of my lease. It wouldn’t be because those who hired you are paying the rent?”

“No.”

“Score one for me. I didn’t think so. Now, you’ve got a choice. Either you satisfy my curiosity, or I call the police.”

“I want you to do more than that. You have sources in Washington. I want you to call one of them and check out my name in the personnel records of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

“The
what
!” Peter was stunned. The man’s words were spoken quietly, yet there was an undercurrent of urgency.

“I’m retired,” added the man quickly. “I’m not here in any official capacity. But my name’s in the bureau’s personnel records. Check it out.”

Chancellor stared at the man, apprehensive. “Why would I do that?”

“I’ve read your books.”

“That’s you, not me. It’s no reason.”

“I think it is. It’s why I went to a lot of trouble to find you.” The man hesitated, as if unsure of how to continue.

“Go on.”

“In each of your books you show that certain events may not have happened the way people think they did. An event took place less than a year ago that falls into that category.”

“What was it?”

“A man died. A very powerful man. They said he died of natural causes. He didn’t. He was assassinated.”

Peter stared at the stranger. “Go to the police.”

“I can’t. If you check me out, you’ll understand.”

“I’m a novelist. I write fiction. Why come to me?”

“I told you. I’ve read your books. I think that maybe the only way the story can be told is in a book. The kind you write.”

“Novels.” Peter did not ask a question.

“Yes.”

“Fiction.” Again it was a statement.

“Yes.”

“But you say it isn’t fiction. It’s fact; you imply it’s fact.”

“That’s what I believe. I’m not sure I can prove it.”

“And you can’t go to the police.”

“No.”

“Go to a newspaper. Find an investigative reporter. There are dozens of good ones.”

“No newspaper would handle this. Take my word for it.”

“Why the hell should I?”

“You might after you checked me out. My name is Alan Longworth. For twenty years I was a special agent for the FBI. I retired five months ago. My field office was in San Diego … and points north. I live now in Hawaii. On the island of Maui.”

“Longworth? Alan Longworth? Should the name mean anything to me?”

“That’s not remotely possible. Check me out. It’s all I ask.”

“Suppose I do. Then what?”

“I’ll come by tomorrow morning. If you want to talk further, fine. If not, I’ll leave.” Again the blond-haired man hesitated, the urgency now in his eyes as he spoke softly. “I’ve traveled a long way to find you. I’ve taken risks I shouldn’t have taken. I may have broken an agreement that could cost me my life. So I’ve got one more thing to ask you. I want your word on it.”

“Or else what?”

“Don’t check on me. Don’t do anything; forget I came out here, forget we spoke.”

“But you did come out here. We have spoken. It’s a little late for conditions.”

Longworth paused. “Haven’t you ever been frightened?” he asked. “No, I don’t imagine you have. Not this way. Strange, but you write about fear; you seem to understand it.”

“You don’t look like you frighten easily.”

“I don’t think I do. My record at the bureau might even confirm that.”

“What’s this condition?”

“Ask about me. Find out everything you can, say anything you want. But please don’t say we met; don’t repeat what I’ve told you.”

“That’s crazy. What am I supposed to say?”

“I’m sure you can think of something. You’re a writer.”

“That doesn’t necessarily mean I’m a good liar.”

“You travel a lot. You could say you heard about me in Hawaii.
Please.”

Peter shifted his feet in the hot sand. Common sense told him to walk away from this man; there was something unhealthy about the controlled, intense face and the too-alert eyes. But his instincts would not permit his common sense its right of decision. “Who’s this man who died? The one you say was assassinated.”

“I won’t tell you that now. I will tomorrow if you want to talk further.”

“Why not now?”

“You’re a well-known writer. I’m sure a lot of people come up and tell you things that sound insane. You probably dismiss them quickly, as you should. I don’t want you to dismiss me. I want you convinced that I have a certain reasonable stature of my own.”

Peter listened. Longworth’s words made sense. During the past three years—since
Reichstag!
—people had pulled him over into corners at cocktail parties or slid into chairs across from him at restaurants to impart weird information they
knew
was right up his
alley
. The world was filled with conspiracies. And would-be conspirators.

“Fair enough,” said Chancellor. “Your name is Alan Longworth. You spent twenty years as a special agent; you retired five months ago, and you live in Hawaii.”

“Maui.”

“That would be listed in your file.”

At the mention of the word
file
, Longworth drew back. “Yes, it would be. In my file.”

“But then anyone might be able to learn the contents of a specific file. Give me something to identify you.”

“I wondered if you’d ask.”

“In my books I try to be convincing; it’s just step-by-step logic, with no spaces. You want me to be convinced, so fill the space.”

Longworth shifted his jacket from his right shoulder to his left, and with his right hand he undid the buttons of his shirt He pulled his shirt open. Across his chest, descending below the belt, was an ugly, curving scar. “I don’t think any of your blemishes can match this.”

Peter reacted to the words with a brief rush of anger. There was no point pursuing the statement. If Longworth was who he said he was, he had taken the time to gather his facts together. Undoubtedly, they included a great deal about the life of Peter Chancellor.

“What time will you be by in the morning?”

“What time’s convenient?”

“I get up early.”

“I’ll be here early.”

“Eight o’clock.”

“See you at eight.” Longworth turned and began walking down the beach.

Peter stood where he was and watched him, aware that the pain in his leg had disappeared. It had been there all day, but it was gone now. He would call Joshua Harris in New York. It was around four thirty in the East; there was still time. There was a lawyer in Washington, a mutual friend, who could get the information on Alan Longworth. Josh once jokingly said that the attorney should demand royalties for
Counterstrike!
, so helpful had he been in Chancellor’s research.

As Peter climbed up the porch steps, he found himself hurrying. It was a strangely gratifying sensation, and he could not really account for it.

An event took place less than a year ago
.…
A man died. A very powerful man. They said he died of natural causes. He didn’t. He was assassinated
.…

Peter rushed across the porch toward the glass doors and the telephone inside.

The morning sky was angry. Dark clouds hung over the ocean; the rain would come soon. Chancellor was dressed for it, had been dressed for over an hour; he wore a nylon jacket above his khaki trousers. It was seven forty-five—ten forty-five in New York. Joshua had promised to
call by seven thirty—ten thirty back East. What was the delay? Longworth would be there by eight.

Peter poured himself another cup of coffee, his fifth of the morning.

The telephone rang.

“You picked a strange one, Peter,” said Harris in New York.

“Why do you say that?”

“According to our friend in Washington, this Alan Longworth did what no one expected him to do. He retired at the wrong time.”

“Did he have his twenty years?”

“Just barely.”

“That’s enough for a pension, isn’t it?”

“Sure. If you supplement it with another salary. He hasn’t, but that’s not the point.”

“What is?”

“Longworth had an exceptional record. Most important, he was singled out by Hoover himself for high-echelon advancement. Hoover personally attached a handwritten favorable recommendation to his file. You’d think he’d want to stay on.”

“On the other hand, with that kind of record he could probably get a hell of a job on the outside. A lot of FBI men do. Maybe he’s working for someone, and the bureau doesn’t know it.”

“Not likely. They keep extensive files on retired agents. And if he was, why does he live on Maui? There’s not much activity there. At any rate, there’s no listing of a current employer. He doesn’t do anything.”

Peter stared out the window; a light rain began to fall from the dark sky. “Do the other items check out?”