The Chancellor Manuscript (2 page)

However, outrage was not a substitute for qualitative research. Concern for living sources was hardly an alternative for objective investigation. Reluctantly Peter acknowledged the validity of the committee’s position. He was neither academic fish nor fowl; he was part fact, part fantasy.

Two years! Wasted!

The secretary’s telephone hummed, it did not ring. The hum reminded Chancellor of the rumor that special communications had been installed so Washington could
reach Munro St. Claire at any time of day or night. These installations, so the story went, were St. Claire’s only departure from his self-imposed inaccessibility.

“Yes, Mr. Ambassador,” said the secretary, “I’ll send him in.… That’s quite all right. If you need me, I can stay.” Apparently she was not needed, and Peter had the impression that she was not happy about it. The Praetorian Guard was being dismissed. “You’re scheduled to be at the dean’s reception at six thirty,” she continued. There was brief silence; then the woman replied. “Yes sir. I’ll telephone your regrets. Good night, Mr. St. Claire.”

She glanced at Chancellor. “You may go in now,” she said, her eyes questioning.

“Thank you.” Peter rose from the uncomfortable straight-backed chair. “I don’t know why I’m here either,” he said.

Inside the oak-paneled office with the cathedral windows, Munro St. Claire got up from behind the antique table that served as his desk. He was an old man, thought Chancellor as he approached the extended right hand held over the table. Much older than he appeared at a distance, walking across the campus with a sure stride. Here in his office his tall slender body and aquiline head with the faded blond hair seemed to struggle to stay erect. Yet erect he stood, as if refusing to give in to infirmities. His eyes were large, but of no discernible color, intense in their steadiness, but not without humor. His thin lips were stretched into a smile beneath his well-groomed white moustache.

“Come in, come in, Mr. Chancellor. It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

“I don’t think we’ve met.”

“Good for you! Don’t let me get away with that.” St. Claire laughed and indicated a chair in front of the table.

“I didn’t mean to contradict you, I just—” Chancellor stopped, realizing that no matter what he said, it would sound foolish. He sat down.

“Why not?” asked St. Claire. “Contradicting me would be minor compared to what you’ve done to a legion of contemporary scholars.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your dissertation. I read it.”

“I’m flattered.”

“I was most impressed.”

“Thank you, sir. Others weren’t.”

“Yes, I understand that. It was rejected by the honors college, I’m told.”

“Yes.”

“A damned shame. A lot of hard work went into it. And some very original thinking.”

Who are you, Peter Chancellor? Have you any idea what you’ve done? Forgotten men have dredged up memories and whisper in fear. Georgetown is rife with rumor. An explosive document has been received from an obscure university in the Midwest. An insignificant graduate student has suddenly reminded us of that which no one cares to remember. Mr. Chancellor, Inver Brass cannot permit you to go on
.

Peter saw that the old man’s eyes were at once encouraging and yet noncommittal. There was nothing to be lost in being direct. “Are you implying that you might—?”

“Oh, no,” interrupted St. Claire sharply, raising the palm of his right hand. “No, indeed. I wouldn’t presume to question such a decision; it’s hardly my place. And I suspect the rejection was based on certain applicable criteria. No, I wouldn’t interfere. But I’d like to ask you several questions, perhaps offer some gratuitous advice.”

Chancellor leaned forward. “What questions?”

St. Claire settled back in his chair. “First, yourself. I’m merely curious. I’ve spoken with your advisor, but that’s secondhand. Your father’s a newspaperman?”

Chancellor smiled. “He’d say
was
. He retires next January.”

“Your mother’s also a writer, isn’t she?”

“Of sorts. Magazine articles, women’s-page columns. She wrote short stories years ago.”

“So the written word holds no terror for you.”

“What do you mean?”

“A mechanic’s son approaches a malfunctioning carburetor with less trepidation than the offspring of a ballet master. Generally speaking, of course.”

“Generally speaking, I’d agree.”

“Precisely.” St. Claire nodded his head.

“Are you telling me my dissertation’s a malfunctioning carburetor?”

St. Claire laughed. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. You took your master’s degree in journalism, obviously intending to be a newspaperman.”

“Some form of communications, at any rate. I wasn’t sure which.”

“Yet you prevailed upon this university to accept you for a doctorate in history. So you changed your mind.”

“Not really. It was never made up.” Again Peter smiled, now with embarrassment. “My parents claim I’m a professional student. Not that they mind, particularly. A scholarship saw me through the master’s. I served in Vietnam, so the government’s paying my way here. I do some tutoring. To tell you the truth, I’m nearly thirty and I’m not sure what I want to do. But I don’t suppose that’s unique these days.”

“Your graduate work would seem to indicate a preference for the academic life.”

“If it did, it doesn’t anymore.”

St. Claire glanced at him. “Tell me about the dissertation itself. You make startling insinuations, rather frightening judgments. Essentially, you accuse many of the free world’s leaders—and their institutions—of either closing their eyes to the menace of Hitler forty years ago, or worse: directly and indirectly financing the Third Reich.”

“Not for ideological reasons. For economic advantage.”

“Scylla and Charybdis?”

“I’ll accept that. Right now, today, there’s a repetition—?”

“Despite
the honors college,” interrupted St. Claire quietly, “you must have done a fair amount of research. How much?”

What started you? That’s what we have to know, be-cause we know you will not let it go. Were you directed by men seeking vengeance after all these years? Or was it
—
far worse
—
an accident that primed your outrage? We can control sources; we can countermand them, show them to be false. We cannot control accidents. Or an outrage born of an accident. But you cannot go on, Mr. Chancellor. We must find a way to stop you
.

Chancellor paused; the aged diplomat’s question was unexpected. “Research? A lot more than the committee believes and a lot less than certain conclusions warrant. That’s as honest as I can put it.”

“It’s honest. Will you give me specifics? There’s very little documentation of sources.”

Suddenly Peter felt uneasy. What had begun as a discussion
was turning into an interrogation. “Why is it important? There’s very little documentation because that’s the way the people I spoke to wanted it.”

“Then honor their wishes, by all means. Don’t use names.” The old man smiled; his charm was extraordinary.

We don’t need names. Names can be uncovered easily, once areas are discerned. But it would be better not to pursue names. Much better. The whispers would start again. There is a better way
.

“All right. I interviewed people who were active during the period from ’23 to ’39. They were in government—mainly the State Department—and in industry and banking. Also I spoke with about half a dozen former senior officers attached to the War College and the intelligence community. None, Mr. St. Claire,
none
would allow me to use his name.”

“They provided you with so much material?”

“A great deal lay in what they would
not
discuss. And odd phrases, offhand remarks that were often non sequiturs, but just as often applicable. They’re old men now, all—or nearly all—retired. Their minds wandered; so did their memories. They’re kind of a sad collection; they’re—” Chancellor stopped. He was not sure how to continue.

St. Claire did. “By and large, embittered minor executives and bureaucrats living on inadequate pensions. Such conditions breed angry, all too often distorted memories.”

“I don’t think that’s fair. What I learned, what I wrote, is the truth. That’s why anyone who reads the thesis will know which those companies were, how they operated.”

St Claire dismissed the statement as though he had not heard it. “How did you reach these people? What led you to them? How did you get appointments to see them?”

“My father started me off, and from those few came others. Sort of a natural progression; people remembered people.”

“Your father?”

“In the early fifties he was a Washington correspondent for Scripps-Howard—?”

“Yes.” St. Claire interrupted softly. “So, through his efforts, you obtained an initial list.”

“Yes. About a dozen names of men who had dealings in prewar Germany. In government and out. As I said, these led to others. And, of course, I read everything
Trevor-Roper and Shirer and the German apologists wrote.
That’s
all documented.”

“Did your father know what you were after?”

“A doctorate was enough.” Chancellor grinned. “My father went to work with a year and a half of college. Money was tight.”

“Then, shall we say, is he aware of what you found? Or thought you found.”

“Not really. I figured my parents would read the thesis when it was finished. Now, I don’t know if they’ll want to; this is going to be a blow to the home front.” Peter smiled weakly. “The aging, perpetual student comes to nothing.”

“I thought you said
professional
student,” corrected the diplomat.

“Is there a difference?”

“In approach, I think there is.” St. Claire leaned forward in silence, his large eyes leveled at Peter. “I’d like to take the liberty of summarizing the immediate situation as I see it.”

“Of course.”

“Basically, you have the materials for a perfectly valid theoretical analysis. Interpretations of history, from doctrinaire to revisionist, are neverending topics of debate and examination. Would you agree?”

“Naturally.”

“Yes, of course. You wouldn’t have chosen the subject in the first place if you didn’t.” St. Claire looked out the window as he spoke. “But an unorthodox interpretation of events—especially of a period in such recent history—based solely on the writings of others, would hardly justify the unorthodoxy, would it? I mean, certainly historians would have pounced on the material long before now if they had thought a case could be made. But it couldn’t, really, so you went beyond the accepted sources and interviewed embittered old men and a handful of reluctant former intelligence specialists and came away with specific judgments.”

“Yes, but—?”

“Yes,
but
,” broke in St. Claire, turning from the window. “By your own telling, these judgments were often based on ‘offhand remarks’ and ‘non sequiturs.’ And your sources refuse to be listed. In your own words your research did not justify numerous conclusions.”

“But they did. The conclusions
are
justified.”

“They’ll never be accepted. Not by any recognized authority, academic or judicial. And quite rightly so, in my judgment.”

“Then you’re wrong, Mr. St. Claire. Because I’m
not
wrong. I don’t care how many committees tell me I am. The facts are there, right below the surface, but nobody wants to talk about them. Even now, forty years later. Because it’s happening all over again! A handful of companies are making millions all over the world by fueling military governments, calling them our
friends
, our ‘first line of defense.’ When their eyes are on profit-and-loss sheets, that’s what they care about.… All right, maybe I can’t come up with documentation, but I’m not going to throw away two years’ work. I’m not going to stop because a committee tells me I’m academically unacceptable. Sorry, but
that’s
unacceptable.”

And that’s what we had to know. At the last, would you cut your losses and walk away? Others thought you would, but I didn’t. You knew you were right, and that’s too great a temptation in the young. We must now render you impotent
.

St. Claire looked down at Peter and held his eyes. “You’re in the wrong arena. You sought acceptance from the wrong people. Seek it elsewhere. Where matters of truth and documentation are not important.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Your dissertation is filled with some rather splendidly imagined fiction. Why not concentrate on that?”

“What?”

“Fiction. Write a novel. No one cares whether a novel is accurate, or has historical authenticity. It’s simply not important.” St. Claire once again leaned forward, his eyes steady on Chancellor. “Write fiction. You may still be ignored, but at least there’s a chance of a hearing. To pursue your present course is futile. You’ll waste another year, or two, or three. Ultimately, for what? So write a novel. Spend your outrage there, then go about your life.”

Peter stared at the diplomat; he was at a loss, uncertain of his thoughts, so he merely repeated the single word. “Fiction?”

“Yes. I think we’re back to that malfunctioning carburetor, although the analogy may be terrible.” St. Claire settled back in his chair. “We agreed that words held no great fear for you; you’ve seen blank pages filled with them
most of your life. Now, repair the work you’ve done with other words, a different approach that eliminates the necessity of academic sanction,”

Peter exhaled softly; for several moments he had held his breath, numbed by St. Claire’s analysis. “A
novel?
It never crossed my mind.…”

“I submit it may have unconsciously,” interjected the diplomat. “You didn’t hesitate to invent actions—and reactions—when it served you. And God knows you have the ingredients of a fascinating story. Farfetched, in my opinion, but not without merit for a Sunday afternoon in a hammock. Fix the carburetor; this is a different engine. One of less substance, perhaps, but conceivably quite enjoyable. And someone may listen to you. They won’t in this arena. Nor, frankly, should they.”