The Chancellor Manuscript (30 page)

“What does that mean?” asked Venice, shifting his large frame in the chair.

“As any military historian will tell you, it was an epithet used to characterize the officers at the Battle of Chasǒng,” said Paris. “It was suicidal madness. Troops revolted up and down the lines; many were shot by their own officers. It was a disastrous strategy, in some ways the political turning point of the war. If MacAndrew was there, it’s quite possible a long-dormant victim may have surfaced. It
could
be his motive for resigning.”

St. Claire watched Paris closely, relieved by the academic’s explanation.

“Could it be related to his death in Hawaii?” asked Christopher, his gnarled hands trembling as he spoke.

“No,” replied Bravo slowly. “MacAndrew was shot by Longworth.”

“You mean Varak?” asked an incredulous Wells.

“No,” said Bravo. “The real Longworth. In Hawaii.”

It was as though a loud whip had been cracked. Eyes were riveted on St. Claire.

“How?
Why?”
Anger was in Venice’s voice. Daniel Sutherland was outraged.

“It was unpredictable and therefore uncontrollable.
As you know, Varak used Longworth’s name with Chancellor. It was a source he could check, a springboard. Chancellor gave the name to MacAndrew, told him that Longworth had access to the files. After his wife died, the general flew halfway across the world to find Longworth. He found him.”

“Then MacAndrew presumed that only Longworth knew what happened at Chasǒng,” said Frederick Wells thoughtfully. “That the information was in Hoover’s files and nowhere else.”

“And
that
leads us nowhere. Except back to the files.” Once again Christopher spoke disagreeably.

“It does help,” added Banner, looking at Bravo. “It confirms what you say. Chasǒng is a diversion.”

“Why?” asked Venice.

Wells turned to the judge. “Because there was no reason for it. Why was it used at all?”

“I agree.” St. Claire leaned forward, his composure regained. The first part of Varak’s trap had produced nothing. It was the moment for the second, the two names. “As I told you the other night, Chancellor is well into his novel. Varak managed to get his hands on the manuscript. There are two rather startling developments. I should say, two people have surfaced, neither of whom were considered previously. We don’t know why. One is a thinly disguised character in the book, the other a man in Chancellor’s notes—a man he is trying to find. The first is the newspaper columnist, Phyllis Maxwell. The second, an accountant named Bromley, Paul Bromley. He used to be with General Services. Do any of you have any particular information on either of these people?”

None did. But the names were planted, the second trap set. If there was substance in Varak’s conclusions, St. Claire wondered which of them would be caught. Banner or Paris? Frederick Wells or Carlos Montelán.

The conversation trailed off. Bravo indicated that Inver Brass’s meeting was over. He pushed back his chair but was stopped by Wells’s voice.

“Is Varak outside in the hallway?”

“Yes, of course,” answered the diplomat. “He’s made arrangements for your departures, as usual.”

“I’d like to ask him a question. I’ll address it first to all of you. There were microphones inside the Rockville house. You describe the sounds of men breaking in and
ransacking MacAndrew’s study but no words to accompany these sounds. Outside, a camera is triggered but shows nothing because the intruders were out of visual range. It’s almost as if they knew about the equipment.”

“What’s your question?” asked Montelán, a sharp edge to his voice. “I’m not sure I like the implication.”

Banner looked at Paris. It was unmistakable, thought St. Claire. Lines were drawn. Lines? Lions, perhaps. The young standing up against the aging and each other, growling for leadership of the pride.

“I find it curious. The files were taken in such a way—at such a time—as to indicate the thieves anticipated Hoover’s death. Months of intensive investigation led nowhere; one of the best intelligence specialists in this country reports that he’s made no progress. Bravo conceives of the idea of using this writer Chancellor to probe. Our intelligence specialist expedites the plan; the writer is programmed and begins his work. As expected, he creates a disturbance. Those who have Hoover’s files are alarmed and make their move against him. A move, I submit, that should have been sufficient for them to be trapped. But we have no one on film, no voices on a tape.”

Montelán leaned forward in his chair. “Are you suggesting—?”

“I’m suggesting,” interrupted Banner, “that although our specialist is known for his thoroughness, there was a conspicuous absence of it yesterday.”

“Too much!” Christopher exploded. His gaunt features were pinched, his bony fingers trembled. “Have you any idea who Varak
is?
What he’s
seen
in his life? What
drives
him?”

“I know he’s filled with hatred,” replied Banner softly. “And that frightens me.”

There was silence at the table. The essential truth of Frederick Wells’s statement had its effect. It was possible that Stefan Varak had operated on a different level from them, motivated by a hatred unknown to anyone in that room.

St. Claire remembered Varak’s words:
I’ll seek out the Nazi in any form he is revived in and go after him. If you think there’s any difference between what those files represent and the objectives of the Third Reich, you’re very much mistaken
.

Once the Nazi was found and destroyed, what better way to control his disciples than to control the files?

Bravo pushed his chair back and rose from the table. He went to a cabinet in the wall, unlocked it, and took out a short-barreled, .38-caliber pistol. He closed the cabinet, returned to his chair, and sat down. The weapon was in his hand, out of sight.

“Will you ask Mr. Varak to come in, please?”

Stefan Varak stood behind the empty Genesis chair studying the members of Inver Brass. St. Claire watched him closely, until Varak’s eyes met his.

“Mr. Varak, we have a question to ask you. We would appreciate a concise answer. Proceed, if you will, Banner.”

Wells did so. “Mr. Varak, through Chancellor you anticipated an event that could have led us to Hoover’s files,” he concluded. “One identification, visually or by a voice print. You set the trap, which presumes you understood its importance. Yet your acknowledged thoroughness, your professionalism, was not in evidence. I ask myself why. It would have been a simple matter to have positioned two, three, six cameras, if necessary. Had you done so, the hunt might have been over now, the files in our possession. Why, Mr. Varak? Or why not?”

The blood rushed to Varak’s blond head; he was flushed with anger. All the signs he had taught Bravo to look for were apparent in the teacher. Did anger, like fear, produce the uncontrollable chemical changes Varak had spoken of? St. Claire moved the pistol on his lap and inserted his finger over the trigger.

And then the moment passed. Varak imposed self-control. “It’s a fair question,” he said calmly. “I’ll answer it as concisely as I can. As you know, I work alone except in rare instances where I employ others who can never trace my identity. A case in point was a taxi driver in New York. He picked up Chancellor and the girl and drove them to the airport; their conversation was taped. The driver reached me in Washington and played it over the telephone. It was the first I heard about their staying in Rockville. I had very little time to get my equipment, drive out to the house, and install it. I was fortunate to mount even one camera with the proper infrared film. That’s my answer.”

Again the silence as the members of Inver Brass
studied Varak. Beneath the table St. Claire removed his finger from the trigger. He had spent a lifetime learning to discern the truth when he heard it. In his judgment he had just heard the truth.

He hoped to God he was right.

Habit caused Peter to wake up at four thirty in the morning. Custom willed him to get out of bed, go to his briefcase on a bedroom chair, and remove his leather notebook.

They were in a suite at the Hay-Adams, and it was Alison’s introduction to his odd hours of work.

She heard him and bolted upright in the bed.

“Is there a fire?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t think you’d hear me.”

“I know I can’t see you. It’s dark out. What happened?”

“Nothing happened. It’s morning. It’s when I like to work. Go back to sleep. I’ll be in the next room.”

Alison fell back into the pillow, shaking her head. Peter smiled and carried his notebook into the sitting room. To the coffee table and the couch.

Three hours later he had finished the eighth chapter. He had not referred to the outline; it was not necessary. He knew the emotions he was defining for Alexander Meredith. He had been gripped with fear; he had panicked. He knew what it was to be the object of a violent chase; he had heard racing footsteps in the darkness.

Alison awoke shortly before eight. He joined her and they made love. Slowly, enfolded in each other, each awakened response more lovely, more exciting than the last, until they were caught in the desperate rhythm of their combined hunger, neither allowing the other to lessen the intensity.

And they fell asleep in each other’s arms, the comfort each sought found in the other.

They awoke at ten thirty, had breakfast in the room, and began thinking about the rest of the day. Peter had
promised her a day of “luxuriating”; he wanted to provide it. She deserved it. As he watched her across the breakfast table, he was struck by something that he should have noticed before. In spite of the strain and the sadness Alison had a quality of quiet humor within her; it was never far away.

Cathy had had that quality.

Peter reached across the table for her hand. She took it smiling, her eyes searching his with kindness.

The telephone rang. It was her father’s lawyer. There were various papers to sign and government forms to be filled out and legal rights to be understood. The general’s will was simple, but the army’s death procedures were not. Would Alison please be at his office at two o’clock? If there were no complications, she’d be finished by five.

Chancellor promised that they would luxuriate tomorrow. Actually they would start at one minute after five.

Because the next day, Peter thought to himself, he would bring up the subject of the Rockville house.

Alison left at one thirty for the lawyer’s office. Chancellor returned to his leather notebook.

Chapter 9—Outline

The hours passed; the words were compulsively there. He had reached the point where the senator explains the conversion of Hoover’s messenger. Chancellor read the words, which he’d use virtually intact in the actual chapter, with satisfaction.

It was not a bad day’s work, thought Peter, looking at his watch. It was nearly four thirty. The late afternoon sun created blocks of shadows on the buildings outside the hotel window. The December wind was harsh; every now and then a leaf spiraled up beyond the glass.

Alison would be back soon. He would take her to a small restaurant he knew in Georgetown, where they would have a quiet dinner and look at each other and touch each other. There would be the laughter in her eyes, and in her voice, and he would be grateful for her nearness. And they would come back to the hotel and make love. So wondrously. With meaning. There had been no meaning in his bed for so long.

Peter got up from the couch and stretched, revolving his neck. It was habit; when the pain came to his temples, it helped to move his head in circles. Yet there was no pain now. In spite of the stress of the past forty-eight hours, there had been only a few brief moments when he’d felt the alarms. Alteon MacAndrew had come into his life. It was really as simple as that.

The telephone rang. He smiled, reacting like an adolescent. It had to be Alison; no one else knew he was there. He picked up the phone, expecting her to tell him
with her own particular brand of laughter that all the cabs in Washington were avoiding her; she was marooned in a concrete zoo and the animals were snarling.

It was a woman’s voice, but it was not Alison’s. Only the hard, strained tones of a frightened human being.

“What in God’s name have you
done?
How could you put me in your book? Who gave you the
right?
”

It was Phyllis Maxwell.

It was the beginning of the madness.

He left a note for Alison, a second message at the desk in case she overlooked the note. He had no time to explain; there was an emergency, and he had to leave for an hour or so. He’d call her at the first opportunity. And he loved her.