The Chancellor Manuscript (34 page)

“Wait a minute,” interrupted the agent. “You came here voluntarily and refused our suggestion that you return in the morning for a formal appointment. I won’t accept any preconditions, and I won’t make any phone calls.”

“I’ve a good reason for asking you to.”

“If it’s a precondition, I’m not interested. Come back in the morning.”

“I
can’t
. Among other reasons, there’s a man flying in from Indianapolis who says he’s going to kill me.”

“Go to the police.”

“Is that all you can say? That, and ‘Come back in the morning’?”

The agent leaned back in his chair; his eyes conveyed his growing suspicion. “You wrote a book called
Counterstrike!
, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but that’s not—”

“I remember now,” interrupted O’Brien. “It came out last year. A lot of people thought it was true; a lot of other people were upset. You said the CIA was operating domestically.”

“I happen to think it’s true.”

“I see,” continued the agent warily. “Last year it was the agency. Is it the FBI this year? You come off the street in the middle of the night trying to provoke us into doing something you can write about?”

Peter gripped the back of the chair. “I won’t deny it started with a book. With the
idea
of a book. But it’s gone way beyond that. People have been killed. Tonight I was nearly killed; so was the person with me. It’s all connected.”

“I repeat emphatically. Go to the police.”

“I want
you
to call the police.”

“Why?”

“So you’ll believe me. Because it concerns people here at the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I think you’re the only ones who can stop it.”

O’Brien leaned forward, still wary, but aroused. “Stop what?”

Chancellor hesitated. He had to appear rational to this suspicious man. If the agent thought he was a lunatic—even half a lunatic—he’d throw him to the police. Peter did not reject the police; they were protection and he welcomed
them. But the solution did not lie with the police. It lay within the bureau. He spoke as calmly as he could.

“Stop the killing, that’s first, of course. Then stop the terror tactics, the extortion, the blackmail. People are being destroyed.”

“By whom?”

“By others who think they have information that could irreparably damage the FBI.”

O’Brien remained motionless. “What’s the nature of this ‘irreparable damage’?”

“It’s found in the theory that Hoover was assassinated.”

O’Brien stiffened. “I see. And this phone call to the police. What’s that about?”

“An old house on Thirty-fifth Street Northwest, near Wisconsin, behind Dumbarton Oaks. It was burning when I left several hours ago. I set it on fire.”

The agent’s eyes widened, his voice urgent. “That’s quite an admission. As a lawyer I think you should”

“If the police look,” continued Peter, overriding O’Brien’s urgency, “they’ll find shells on the front lawn, bullet holes in the walls and woodwork as well as the furniture, and the upper half of the kitchen door smashed. Also, the telephone wires were cut.”

The FBI man stared at Chancellor. “What the hell are you saying?”

“It was an ambush.”

“Weapons were fired in the middle of a residential neighborhood?”

“The gunshots were muffled by silencers. No one heard anything. There were periods of quiet—probably for passing cars. That’s why I thought of the fire. The flames would be spotted by someone.”

“You left the scene?”

“I ran away. Now I’m sorry I did.”

“Why did you?”

Again Peter hesitated. “I was confused. Frightened.”

“The person with you?”

“That’s part of it, I imagine.” Chancellor paused, seeing the obvious question in the agent’s eyes. For a hundred reasons he could not protect her. As Phyllis herself had put it, whatever her transgressions, they did not warrant the loss of life. “Her name is Phyllis Maxwell.”

“The newspaperwoman?”

“Yes. She ran first. I tried to find her. I couldn’t.”

“You said this all happened several hours ago. Do you know where she is now?”

“Yes. On a plane.” Peter reached into his jacket pocket and took out Phyllis’s letter. Reluctantly, but knowing he had to, he handed it to O’Brien.

As O’Brien read, Peter had the distinct impression that something was happening to the FBI man. For a moment the color seemed to drain from his face. At one point he raised his eyes and stared at Peter; the look he conveyed Chancellor knew well, but he did not understand it coming from this stranger. It was a look of fear.

When he was finished, the agent put the letter face down, reached for a booklet on his desk, opened it to a specific page, and picked up his telephone. He pressed a button and dialed.

“This is the FBI, one of the night-duty officers, emergency code, seven-five-sparrow. There was a fire at a house on Thirty-fifth Northwest. Near Wisconsin. Do you have anyone on the scene?… Can you patch me through to the officer in charge? Thank you.” O’Brien looked up at Peter. He spoke curtly; it was not a request but an order. “Sit down.”

Chancellor did so, vaguely realizing that in spite of the agent’s commanding tone, the strange fear he had seen in O’Brien’s eyes was now in his voice.

“Sergeant, this is the FBI.” The agent shifted the phone to his right hand. Bewildered, Peter saw that the palm of O’Brien’s left hand, the hand that had been holding the telephone, was moist with sweat. “You’ve received my clearance. I want to ask you a couple of questions. Is there any evidence as to how the fire was started, and are there any signs of gunshots? Cartridge shells in front or bullet holes inside?”

The agent listened, his eyes riveted on the desk, staring at nothing, really, but staring intently. Chancellor watched him, mesmerized. O’Brien’s forehead broke out in small beads of perspiration. Absently, his breath suspended, the FBI man raised his left hand and wiped the sweat away. When finally he spoke, he was barely audible.

“Thank you, Sergeant. No, it’s not our basket. We don’t know anything, just following up an anonymous lead. It’s got nothing to do with us.”

O’Brien hung up. He was profoundly disturbed; there was a sudden sadness in his eyes.

“As near as can be determined,” O’Brien said, “the fire was deliberately set. Remnants of fabric soaked with kerosene were found. There were shells on the lawn, windows shot out; there’s every reason to expect bullets impacted throughout the interior—what’s left of it. Everything will be sent to the laboratories.”

Peter sat forward. Something was wrong. “Why did you tell the sergeant you didn’t know anything?”

The agent swallowed. “Because I want to hear what you have to say. You’ve told me it concerns the bureau; some crazy theory about Hoover being murdered. That’s enough for me. I’m a career man. I want to hear it first. I can always pick up the phone and call that precinct back.”

O’Brien gave his explanation in a flat, quiet voice. It was reasonable, thought Chancellor. Everything he had learned about the bureau pointed to the fact that the bottom line was public relations. Avoid embarrassment at all costs. Protect the Seat of Government. Phyllis Maxwell’s words came back to him.

The story hasn’t been told. I don’t think it ever will be.… The bureau will protect him.… The heirs apparent won’t let the image be tarnished. They fear infected bloodlines, and they damned well should.

Yes, reflected Chancellor. O’Brien fitted the mold. His burden was the heaviest because he was the first to hear the extraordinary news. Something was very rotten in the bureau, and this agent would have to carry the message of that rot to his superiors. His dilemma was understandable: Messengers were often held accountable for their reports of catastrophe; the bloodlines could be infected after all. It was no wonder that this career man perspired.

But nothing in his imagination prepared Peter for what followed.

“To go back to the beginning,” said Chancellor. “I was on the West Coast four, five months ago, living in Malibu. It was late afternoon; a man was on the beach staring up at my house. I went out and asked him why. He knew me; he said his name was Longworth.”

O’Brien bolted forward in his chair, his eyes locked with Peter’s. His lips formed the name, but only a shadow of sound emerged. “Longworth!”

“Yes, Longworth. You know who he is, then.”

“Go on,” the agent whispered.

Peter sensed the cause of O’Brien’s shock. Alan Longworth had betrayed Hoover, defected from the bureau. Somehow the word had gotten out. But Hoover was dead, the defector half a world away—the stain removed. Now Senior Agent O’Brien had to bear the news that the vanished Longworth had surfaced. In a strange way Chancellor felt sorry for this middle-aged career man.

“Longworth said he wanted to talk to me because he’d read my books. He had a story to tell, and he thought I was the one to write it I told him I wasn’t looking for anything. Then he made that extraordinary statement about Hoover’s death, linking it to some private files of Hoover’s that were missing. He told me to check out his name; I have sources to do that, and he knew it. I know it sounds crazy, but I bit God knows I didn’t believe it; Hoover was an old man with a history of heart disease. But the concept fascinated me. And the fact that this Longworth would go to the trouble of—”

O’Brien got out of his chair. He stood behind the desk looking down at Peter, his eyes burning. “Longworth. The files. Who sent you to me? Who
are
you? Who the hell am I to
you?”

“What?”

“You expect me to believe this? You walk off the street in the middle of the night and tell this to me! For Christ’s sake, what do you want from me? What more do you want?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Chancellor, stunned. “I never saw you before in my life.”

“Salter and Krepps! Go on, say it!
Salter and Krepps!
They were there, too!”

“Who are Salter and Krepps? Where were they?”

O’Brien turned away. He was breathing rapidly. “You know where they were. Unassigned field covers. Longworth in the Hawaiian Islands.”

“He lives in Maui,” agreed Peter. “They paid him off that way. I don’t know the other two names; he never mentioned them. Were they working with Longworth?”

O’Brien stood motionless, his body rigid. Slowly he turned back to Chancellor, his eyes narrowed. “Working with Longworth?” he asked, barely above a whisper. “What do you mean, ‘working with Longworth’?”

“Just that. Longworth was transferred from the bureau. His cover was an assignment with the State Department. But it was never true. It was only an accommodation. I’ve learned that much. What amazes me is that you people even know about Longworth.”

The senior agent continued to stare in silence. His frightened eyes widened. “You’re clean …”

“What?”

“You’re
clean
. You walk in off the goddamned streets and you’re clean!”

“What do you mean, I’m clean?”

“Because you wouldn’t have told me what you just did. You’d be crazy to. A deep-cover accommodation that’s false. With
State
.… Oh, Christ.” O’Brien was like a man in a trance, aware of his state of suspension but incapable of shaking it. He braced himself against the desk, the fingers of both hands pressed into the wood. He closed his eyes.

Peter was alarmed. “Maybe you’d better take me to someone else.”

“No. Wait a minute. Please.”

“I don’t think so.” Peter got out of the chair. “As you said, this isn’t your ‘basket.’ I want to talk to one of the other night-duty officers.”

“There aren’t any others.”

“You said on the phone—”

“I know what I said! Try to understand. You
have
to talk to me. You’ve got to tell me everything you know. Every detail!”

Never, thought Peter. There’d be no mention of Alison; she was not going to be touched. Nor was he yet sure he wanted to talk further with this strangely disturbed man. “I want others to hear what I have to say.”

O’Brien blinked several times. The trance was broken; he walked swiftly to a shelf on the other side of the room, pulled out a cassette recorder, and returned to the desk. He sat down and opened a bottom drawer. When his hand emerged, it held a small plastic box in which there was a cassette tape.

“The seal’s unbroken; the tape is unused. I’ll play it through if you like.” The agent snapped the box open, removed the cassette, and inserted it. “You have my word. Others will hear what you have to say.”

“A tape won’t do.”

“You’ve got to trust me,” said O’Brien. “Whatever you think of my behavior these past few minutes, you’ve got to trust me. You can only tell your story on tape. And don’t identify yourself. Describe yourself as a writer, that’s all. Use all the other names involved except those associated with you personally or professionally. If that becomes impossible, if those people are intrinsic to the events, hold up your hand; I’ll stop the tape, and we’ll talk about it. Have you got that?”

“No.” Chancellor balked. “Now
you
just wait a minute. This isn’t what I came here for.”

“You came here to put a stop to it! That’s what you told me. Stop the killing, stop the terror, stop the blackmail. Well, I want the same thing! You’re not the only one who’s been pushed to the fucking wall! Or this Maxwell woman or
any
of you. Christ, I’ve got a wife and family!”

Peter recoiled, stung by O’Brien’s words. “What did you say?”

Self-consciously, the FBI man lowered his voice. “I have a family. It’s not important, forget it.”

“I think it’s very important,” said Peter. “I don’t think I can ever tell you how important it is to me right now.”

“Don’t bother,” interrupted O’Brien. He was abruptly the complete professional. “Because I’m doing the telling. Remember what I said: Don’t identify yourself, but use the names of everyone else who approached you or you were sent to—people
not
known to you previously. Give the other names to me later, but not on the tape. I don’t want you traced. Speak slowly; think about what you’re saying. If you have any doubts, just look at me; I’ll know. I’m going to start now. Give me a moment to identify myself and the circumstances.”