The Chancellor Manuscript (40 page)

A taxi headed south on New Hampshire. The light was red; the cab stopped. Chancellor raced to it from the doorway. In the backseat was an elderly, well-dressed man. Peter opened the door.

“Hey!”
yelled the driver. “I’ve got a fare!”

Chancellor addressed the passenger. He tried to sound reasonable, a man doing his best to remain calm in a crisis. “Please forgive me, but there’s an emegency. I have to get downtown. My—my wife is very ill. I’ve just heard—”

“Come in, come in,” said the elderly man without hesitation. “I’m only going as far as Dupont Circle. Is that convenient? I can—”

“That’s fine, sir. I’m very grateful.” Peter stepped in as the light changed. He slammed the door; the taxi bolted forward. Whether it was the door slam or the driver’s loud voice, Chancellor would never know, but as they passed the limousine on the other side of New Hampshire, he could
see that the two men spotted him. Peter looked out the rear window. The man on the right had his walkie-talkie against his face.

They reached Dupont Circle; the elderly man got out. Chancellor instructed the driver to go south on Connecticut Avenue. The traffic was heavier, guaranteed to become worse as they headed into the center of Washington. It was both an asset and a liability. The congested streets allowed him to look in all directions carefully to see if anyone had picked up his trail. Conversely, the heavy traffic allowed others to find him, to catch up with him on foot if necessary.

They reached K Street; to the right was Seventeenth. Peter tried to visualize a Washington map, the main intersecting thoroughfares south of the Ellipse.

Constitution Avenue! He could have the driver turn left on Constitution and head for the Smithsonian through the Mall’s entrance. Was there an entrance in that stretch of block?

There had to be. In the chapter outline that morning, he had envisioned Alexander Meredith driving—racing—out of the Mall. Had he written that? Or was it only—?

Chancellor saw it through the rear window. A gray car had swung out of the traffic and sped forward in the left-turn lane. It drew parallel to the taxi; suddenly a beam of light shot through the window, crisscrossing with the shafts of headlights behind. Peter edged forward, keeping his face obscured by the car frame, and looked out. Across the short distance a man next to the driver had the window rolled down. His flashlight was aimed at the cab’s identification on the door panel. Chancellor heard him speak.

“There! That’s it!”

It was madness within madness. In his imagination that morning two men had careened through the Washinging streets after Alexander Meredith. An automobile had pulled alongside Meredith’s car; a window had been rolled down, and a voice had exclaimed:

“There!”

The man got out of his car. He jumped across the narrow space between the two vehicles, his hand thrust forward, gripping the handle of the taxi door. The traffic light changed, and Chancellor yelled at the driver.

“Go down Seventeenth! Hurry!”

The cab lurched forward, the driver only vaguely aware there was a problem he wanted none of. Behind them horns blared. Peter looked out the window. The man was still in the street—confused, angry, blocking traffic.

The taxi sped south on Seventeenth Street, past the Executive Office Building to New York Avenue and the Corcoran Gallery. A traffic light was red; the cab stopped. There were lights still on in the gallery; he had read something in the newspaper about a new exhibition from a museum in Brussels.

The traffic light was taking too long! The gray car would be beside them any moment. Peter reached into his pocket for his money clip. There were a number of singles and two ten-dollar bills. He removed them all and leaned forward.

“I want you to do something for me. I have to go inside the Corcoran Gallery, but I want you to wait for me outside the door with your motor running and roof light off. If I’m delayed more than ten minutes, forget it, you’re paid.”

The driver saw the tens and took them. “I thought your wife was sick. Who the hell was that back there? He tried to open the door—”

“It doesn’t matter,” interrupted Chancellor. “The light’s changing; please do as I say.”

“It’s your money. You got ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes,” agreed Peter. He climbed out. Above the short flight of steps the glass doors were closed; beyond them a uniformed guard stood casually beside a small desk. Chancellor walked swiftly up the steps and opened the door. The guard glanced at him but made no move to interfere.

“May I see your invitation, sir?”

“For the exhibition?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m embarrassed, officer,” said Peter quickly, reaching for his wallet. “I’m from
The New York Times
. I’m supposed to cover the exhibition for next Sunday’s paper. I was in a traffic accident a few minutes ago, and I can’t find …”

He hoped to God he had it in his wallet. A year ago he’d written several pieces for the
Times Magazine;
the editors had given him a temporary press pass.

He found it between credit cards. He held it out for the guard, his thumb covering the expiration date. His hand trembled; he wondered if the guard noticed.

“Okay, okay,” said the guard. “Take it easy. Just sign the register.”

Chancellor leaned over the desk, picked up the chained ball-point pen and scribbled his name. “Where’s the exhibition?”

“Take one of the elevators on the right to the second floor.”

He walked rapidly to the bank of elevators and pressed the buttons. He looked back at the guard; the man was paying no attention. An elevator door opened, but Peter had no intention of taking it He wanted the sound to cover his steps as he ran to an exit on the other side of the building.

There was another sound. Behind him the glass doors opened. Chancellor saw the figure of the man from the gray car. The decision was made for him. He went swiftly into the empty elevator, his hand pressing the first buttons he could reach on the panel. The door closed; the elevator started up.

He walked out into a milling crowd and the pools of light that shot down from the ceiling. Waiters in red jackets carrying silver trays mingled among the guests. Paintings and sculpture were everywhere, illuminated by spotlights. The guests were the diplomatic corps and those who traveled with that crowd, including members of the Washington press. He recognized several.

Peter stopped a waiter for champagne. He drank it quickly so he could hold the empty glass up, partially concealing his face, and look around.

“You’re Peter Chancellor! I’d know you anywhere!” The greeter was a Brunhilde, her Valkyrie helmet a flowery hat set squarely above her Wagnerian face. “When’s your new novel being published?”

“I’m not working on anything right now.”

“Why are you in Washington?”

Peter looked at the wall. “I’m partial to Flemish art.”

Brunhilde had a small spiral pad in her left hand, a pencil in her right. She wrote as she talked. “Invited by the Belgian Embassy … a connoisseur of Flemish art.”

“I didn’t say that,” protested Chancellor. “I’m not.”

Through the crowd he saw the elevator door slide
open. Out walked the man who moments ago had rushed through the glass doors downstairs in the lobby.

Brunhilde was saying something; he had not been listening. “I’d much rather you were having an affair with an embassy wife. Anybody’s wife.”

“Is there a staircase up here?”

“What?”

“A
staircase
. An exit!” Chancellor took her elbow and maneuvered her ample body between himself and the man’s line of sight.

“I
thought
I recognized you!” The thin, high-pitched woman’s voice belonged to a blond-haired columnist Peter vaguely recognized. “You’re Paul Chancellor, the writer.”

“Close enough. Do you know where an exit is? I have to get downstairs in a hurry.”

“Use the elevator,” said the columnist. “Look, there’s one now.” She stepped back to gesture.

The movement attracted the man’s attention. He started toward Peter. Chancellor backed away.

The man made his way through the crowd. In the far corner of the room, beyond an hors d’oevres table, a waiter came through a swinging door. Chancellor dropped his glass and grabbed the arms of the two astonished newspaperwomen, propelling them toward the door.

The man was only yards behind them, the swinging door just beyond the table. Peter lurched to the side, still holding on to the columnists. As the man broke free of the crowd, Chancellor spun the women around and pushed them as hard as he could toward the onrushing figure. The man yelled; the obese woman’s pencil pierced his lower lip. Blood trickled from his mouth. Peter swung his hands under the wide table filled with food and two huge punch bowls and heaved it up, sending the mass of silver, glass, liquid, and food crashing to the floor.

Shouts became screams; someone blew a whistle. Chancellor raced through the swinging door into a pantry.

On the left wall he saw a red Exit sign. He grabbed a serving cart, rolling it behind him with such force a wheel came off. Bowls of salad crashed in front of the swinging door. He ran to the exit and body checked it open. He looked behind him; there was chaos at the pantry entrance and no sign of the man chasing him.

The staircase was empty. He took the steps three at
a time to the landing and swung himself around by the railing.

His feet slammed to a stop, his left knee smashed into the iron post Below him, in front of the lobby door, stood the man he had last seen on Connecticut Avenue. The man who had jumped out of the car. He was not part of a novel now; he was real. As the gun in his hand was real.

The madness! The insane thought came to Peter that he must have a tape recorder in his handkerchief pocket. Involuntarily, he raised his left arm to press the cloth. To start the recorder. A nonexistent recorder! What was
happening
to him?

“What do you want with me? Why are you following me?” he whispered, not sure what was fact anymore.

“We just want to talk to you. Make sure you understand—”

“No!” His mind exploded. He sprang from the landing, conscious only of empty space. Somewhere deep in the sound waves of that space he heard the sickening spit of a bullet, but he was not affected; his disbelief was complete.

Suddenly his hands clamped on skin and hair. The thrust of his flying body made contact; he slammed the man’s head into the metal door.

The real man with the real gun collapsed, his hair and face covered with blood. Peter rose and stood for an instant in shock, trying to separate fantasy and reality.

He had to run. There was nothing left but running. He crashed open the door and started across the marble floor. The guard was at the entrance to the street, his hand on his holster, a walkie-talkie next to his ear.

As Peter approached, the guard spoke. “Some trouble up there, huh?”

“Yes. Couple of drunks, I think.”

“Did the two guys find you? They told me you’re with the bureau.”

Peter stopped, gripping the entrance door in his hand.
“What?”

“Your backup? The other two guys. They came in right after you. They showed me their IDs. They’re with the FBI, too.”

Chancellor did not wait to hear more. The madness was now complete. The FBI! He ran down the short flight of steps, his eyes blurred, his breath gone.

“You’ve still got time on the meter, mister.”

Not eight feet away from him at the curb was the taxi. He ran to the door and got inside.

“Drive down to Ellipse road! For God’s sake, hurry! Go around to the Smithsonian Park. I’ll tell you where to let me off.”

The cab accelerated. “It’s still your money.”

Peter spun around and looked out the rear window at the Corcoran. A man came running down the steps onto the sidewalk, one hand on his face, the other holding a walkie-talkie. It was the man from the second floor reception, the man whose lip had been pierced by the obese columnist’s pencil. He had seen the taxi. Others would be waiting. Somewhere.

They entered the curve around the Ellipse. To the south was the Washington Monument, floodlights washing the alabaster needle. “Slow down,” instructed Peter, “near the edge of the grass. But don’t stop. I’m going to jump out, but I don’t want …” Peter’s voice faded; he did not know how to say it.

The driver helped him. “But you don’t want whoever might be watching my cab to see you jump, is that it?”

“Yes.”

“You in trouble?”

“Yes.”

“Is it the cops?”

“Jesus, no! It’s … personal”

“You sound okay to me. You were fair with me; I’m fair with you.” The driver slowed down. “About fifty yards ahead, at the farthest point in the curve before it swings straight, jump. Then I’ll go like a bat outta’ hell for a couple of blocks. Nobody’ll see you. Got it?”

“Yes. I’ve got it. Thanks.”

“Now!”

The cab had slowed. Chancellor opened the door and jumped over the edge of the curb, the force of his leap and the curve of the road propelling him onto the grass.

The driver held the horn down in one continuous blast. Other automobiles swung to the right, allowing the taxi to pass. The sound was the sound of emergency; someone was in trouble.

Peter watched the scene from his concealed position in the grass. One automobile did not stop or hesitate or
swing to the right as the others did in front of and behind the screaming cab. It was not affected by the sound of panic. Instead, it fell in line with the taxi and raced after it.

It was the black limousine he had seen on New Hampshire Avenue.

Peter lay motionless for a moment. Tires screeched in the distance. From across the Ellipse road, in the direction of Continental Hall, another automobile was careening into the circular drive. Looking for him? He got to his feet and started running over dirt and grass.

He felt concrete beneath him; he was in the street. Buildings were in front of him, cars alongside him, driving slowly. He kept running, knowing that beyond the dark buildings and the scattered trees stood the Smithsonian.

He fell suddenly and rolled over on the pavement. Behind him he heard the unmistakable sounds of racing footsteps. They’d found him!