The Chancellor Manuscript (3 page)

“A novel. I’ll be damned.”

Munro St. Claire smiled. His eyes were still strangely noncommittal.

The afternoon sun disappeared below the horizon; long shadows spread across the lawns. St. Claire stood at the window, gazing out on the quadrangle. There was an arrogance in the serenity of the scene; it was out of place in a world so locked in turbulance.

He could leave Park Forest now. His job was finished, the carefully orchestrated conclusion not perfect but sufficient unto the day.

Sufficient unto the limits of deceit.

He looked at his watch. An hour had passed since the bewildered Chancellor had left the office. The diplomat crossed back to his desk, sat down, and picked up the telephone. He dialed the area code 202 and then seven additional digits. Moments later there were two clicks over the line, followed by a whine. For any but those aware of the codes the sound would have simply signified a malfunctioning instrument.

St. Claire dialed five more digits. A single click was the result, and a voice answered.

“Inver Brass. Tape is rolling.” In the voice was the flat
a
of Boston, but the rhythm was Middle-European.

“This is Bravo. Patch me through to Genesis.”

“Genesis is in England. It’s past midnight over there.”

“I’m afraid I can’t be concerned with that. Can you patch? Is there a sterile location?”

“If he’s still at the embassy, there is, Bravo. Otherwise it’s the Dorchester. No guarantees there.”

“Try the embassy, please.”

The line went dead as the Inver Brass switchboard linked up communications. Three minutes later another voice was heard; it was clear, with no distortions, as though it were down the street, not 4,000 miles away. The voice was clipped, agitated, but not without respect. Or a degree of fear.

“This is Genesis. I was just leaving. What happened?”

“It’s done.”

“Thank God!”

“The dissertation was rejected. I made it clear to the committee, quite privately of course, that it was radical nonsense. They’d be the laughingstock of the university community. They’re sensitive; they should be. They’re mediocre.”

“I’m pleased.” There was a pause from London. “What was his reaction?”

“What I expected. He’s right and he knows it; therefore he’s frustrated. He had no intention of stopping.”

“Does he now?”

“I believe so. The idea’s firmly planted. If need be, I’ll follow up indirectly, put him in touch with people. But I may not have to. He’s imaginative; more to the point, his outrage is genuine.”

“You’re convinced this is the best way?”

“Certainly. The alternative is for him to pursue the research and dredge up dormant issues. I wouldn’t like that to happen in Cambridge or Berkeley, would you?”

“No. And perhaps no one will be interested in what he writes, much less publish it. I suppose we could bring that about.”

St. Claire’s eyes narrowed briefly. “My advice is not to interfere. We’d frustrate him further, drive him back. Let things happen naturally. If he does turn it into a novel, the best we can hope for is a minor printing of a rather amateurish work. He’ll have said what he had to say, and it will turn out to be inconsequential fiction, with the usual disclaimers as to persons living or dead. Interference might raise questions; that’s not in our interest.”

“You’re right, of course,” said the man in London. “But then you usually are, Bravo.”

“Thank you. And good-bye, Genesis. I’ll be leaving here in a few days.”

“Where are you going?”

“I’m not sure. Perhaps back to Vermont. Perhaps far away. I don’t like what I see on the national landscape.”

“All the more reason to stay in touch,” said the voice in London.

“Perhaps. And then again, I may be too old.”

“You can’t disappear. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes. Good night, Genesis.”

St. Claire replaced the telephone without waiting for a corresponding good-bye from London. He simply did not want to listen further.

He was swept by a sense of revulsion; it was not the first time, nor would it be the last. It was the function of Inver Brass to make decisions others could not make, to protect men and institutions from the moral indictments born of hindsight. What was right forty years ago was anathema today.

Frightened men had whispered to other frightened men that Peter Chancellor had to be stopped. It was wrong for this obscure doctoral candidate to ask questions that had no meaning forty years later. The times were different, the circumstances altogether dissimilar.

Yet there were certain gray areas. Accountability was not a limited doctrine. Ultimately, they were all accountable. Inver Brass was no exception. Therefore, Peter Chancellor had to be given the chance to vent his outrage, and in a way that removed him from consequence. Or catastrophe.

St. Claire rose from the table and surveyed the papers on top of it. He had removed most of his personal effects during the past weeks. There was very little of
him
in the office now; and that was as it should be.

Tomorrow he would be gone.

He walked to the door. Automatically he reached for the light switch, and then he realized no lights were on. He had been standing, pacing, sitting, and thinking in shadows.

Autumn. The Bucks County countryside was an ocean of yellow, green, and gold. Chancellor leaned against the hood of a silver Mark IV Continental, his arm casually around a
woman’s shoulder. His face was fuller now, the distinct features less in conflict with one another, softened yet still sharp. His eyes were focused on a white house that stood at the foot of a winding drive cut out of the gently sloping fields. The drive was bordered on each side by a high white fence.

The girl with Chancellor, holding the hand draped over her shoulder, was as engrossed by the sight in front of them as he was. She was tall; her brown hair fell softly, framing her delicate but curiously strong face. Her name was Catherine Lowell.

“It’s everything you described,” she said, gripping his hand tightly. “It’s beautiful. Really very beautiful.”

“To coin a phrase,” said Chancellor, glancing down at her, “that’s one hell of a relief.”

She looked up at him. “You bought it, didn’t you? You’re not just ‘interested,’ you bought it!”

Peter nodded. “I had competition. A banker from Philadelphia was ready to put down a binder. I had to decide. If you don’t like it, I’m sure he’ll take it from me.”

“Don’t be silly, it’s absolutely gorgeous!”

“You haven’t seen the inside.”

“I don’t have to.”

“Good. Because I’d rather show it to you on the way back. The owners’ll be out by Thursday. They’d better be. On Friday afternoon I’ve got a large delivery from Washington. It’s coming here.”

“The transcripts?”

“Twelve cases from the Government Printing Office. Morgan had to send down a truck. The whole story of Nuremberg as recorded by the Allied tribunals. Do you want to guess what the title of the book’s going to be?”

Catherine laughed. “I can see Tony Morgan now, pacing around his office like a disjointed cat in gray flannels. Suddenly he pounces on his desk and shouts, frightening everyone within earshot, which is most of the building: ‘I’ve got it! We’ll do something different! We’ll use
Nuremberg
with an exclamation point!’ ”

Peter joined her laughter. “You’re vilifying my sainted editor.”

“Never. Without him we’d be moving into a five-flight walk-up, not a farm built for a country squire.”

“And the squire’s wife.”

“And the squire’s wife.” Catherine squeezed his arm. “Speaking of trucks, shouldn’t there be moving vans in the driveway?”

Chancellor smiled; it was an embarrassed smile. “Except for odd items, specifically listed, I had to buy it furnished. They’re moving to the Caribbean. You can throw it all out if you like.”

“My, aren’t we grand?”

“Aren’t we rich,” replied Peter, not asking a question. “No comments, please. Come on, let’s go. We’ve got about three hours on the turnpike, another two and a half after that. It’ll be dark soon.”

Catherine turned to him, her face tilted up, their lips nearly touching. “With every mile I’m going to get more and more nervous. I’ll develop twitches and arrive a babbling idiot. I thought the ritual dance of meeting parents went out ten years ago.”

“You didn’t mention it when I met yours.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake! They were so impressed just being in the same room with you, you didn’t have to do anything but sit there and gloat!”

“Which I did not do. I like your parents. I think you’ll like mine.”

“Will they like me? That’s the imponderable.”

“Not for a second,” said Peter, pulling her to him. “They’ll love you. Just as I love you. Oh
God
, I love you!”

It’s accurate, Genesis. This Peter Chancellor has the GPO reprinting everything relative to Nuremberg. The publisher has arranged transportation to an address in Pennsylvania
.

It does not affect us, Banner. Venice and Christopher agree. We will take no action. That is the decision
.

It’s a mistake! He’s going back to the German theme
.

Long after the errors were made. There’s no association. Years before Nuremberg we saw clearly what we did not see at the beginning. There’s no connection to us. Any of us, including you
.

You can’t be sure
.

We are sure
.

What does Bravo think?

Bravo’s away. He has not been apprised, nor will he be
.

Why not?

For reasons that don’t concern you. They go back several years. Before you were called to Inver Brass
.

It’s wrong, Genesis
.

And you’re overwrought unnecessarily. You would never have been summoned if your anxieties had merit, Banner. You’re an extraordinary man. We’ve never doubted that
.

Nevertheless, it’s dangerous
.

The traffic on the Pennsylvania Turnpike seemed to move faster as the sky grew darker. Pockets of fog intruded abruptly, distorting the glare of onrushing headlights. A sudden cloudburst of slashing, diagonal rain splattered against the windshield too rapidly. The wipers were useless against it.

There was a growing mania on the highway, and Chancellor felt it. Vehicles raced by, throwing up sprays of water; drivers seemed to sense several storms converging on western Pennsylvania, and instincts born of experience propelled them home.