The Chancellor Manuscript (41 page)

He scrambled to his feet, lurching forward, the overanxious sprinter jumping the gun. He kept racing where instinct directed him, and suddenly he saw it! Its parapets were silhouetted against the sky! The outlines of the Smithsonian! He ran as fast as he could across an unending lawn, jumping over low, sagging chains that bordered paths, until he stood, breathless, in front of the enormous building.

He was there, but where was Longworth?

For an instant he thought he heard sounds behind him. He turned; there was no one.

Suddenly, two tiny specks of light flashed from somewhere in the darkness, beyond the steps that led to the road in front of the entrance. They came from ground level, to the left of the statue that stood at the top of the steps. They flashed agin, as if aimed at him! He walked rapidly toward the source of the light. Nearer, nearer; thirty feet, twenty feet. He was walking toward a dark corner of the massive museum; there was shrubbery in front of the stone.

“Chancellor! Get down!”

Peter threw himself to the ground. Two flashes came from the darkness: muted pistol shots.

Behind him he heard a body fall. In the dull gray of the night he saw the gun in the slain figure’s hand. It had been aimed at him.

“Drag him back here!” It was a whispered command from the darkness.

All thought dulled, Chancellor did as he was told. He pulled the body over the grass into the shadows, and then he crawled to Alan Longworth.

The man was dying. His back was against the Smithsonian stone. In his right hand was the gun that had saved Peter’s life; his left hand held his stomach. His fingers were covered with blood.

“I haven’t got time to thank you,” said Chancellor, barely able to hear himself. “Maybe I shouldn’t. He was one of your men.”

“I haven’t got any men,” replied the blond-haired killer.

“We’ll talk about that later You’re coming with me.
Now
.” Angrily, Peter struggled to his feet.

“I’m not going anywhere, Chancellor. If I stay still and keep things in place, I’ve got a few minutes. Not if I move.”

There was that strange, guttural sound in Longworth’s voice again. “Then, I’ll go find someone!” said Peter, his answer now mixed with fear. He could not let Longworth die. Not
now
. “I’ll get an ambulance!”

“An ambulance won’t help. Take my word for it. But you have to be told. You have to understand.”

“I understand everything. A group of fanatics is trying to tear the FBI apart so that they can take control. And you’re one of them.”

“That’s not true. It goes beyond the bureau. We’re trying to stop them; I’ve tried. And now you’re the only one who can. You’re closest to the core; no one else has your advantage.”

“Why?”

Longworth seemed to ignore the question. He took a deep breath. “The missing files. Hoover’s private dossiers”

“There
are
no missing files!” broke in Peter, furiously. “There are only men like you and the man you just killed. You made a mistake, Longworth. He was following me, chasing me. He used his identification; he’s FBI! He’s one of you!”

Longworth stared at the body of the man he had killed. “So the maniacs found out about the files. I imagine
it was unavoidable. They can be used by the one who has them. They’re the perfect foils; they’ll be blamed for everything.”

Chancellor was not listening. The only thing that mattered was to deliver Longworth to Quinn O’Brien. “I’m not interested in any more of your observations.”

“You say you love that girl,” said Longworth, breathing hard. “If you do, you’ll listen to me.”

“You bastard! You leave her out of this!”

“Her mother, her father.… It’s them. Something happened to the mother.”

Peter knelt closer. “What do you know about her mother?”

“Not enough. But you can learn. Bear with me. To begin with, my name isn’t Longworth.”

Chancellor stared in disbelief, yet he knew he was hearing the truth. Circles within circles. Reality and fantasy, but which was which? The moon came out of the gray night sky. For the first time he was able to see Longworth’s face clearly. The dying man had no eyebrows, no lashes. There was only raw scraped flesh around the sockets and blisters everywhere. He had been beaten, tortured.

“My name is Stefan Varak. I’m a code specialist for the National Security Council, but I also perform certain functions for a group of—”

“Varak
?” It took several seconds for the name to register, but when it did, the shock made Peter grow cold. “You’re the man O’Brien’s looking for!”

“Quinn O’Brien?” asked Varak, wincing in pain. “Yes. He’s the man I talked to, the one I told the story to. He’s been trying to reach you!”

“I was in no position to receive messages. You were lucky. Quinn’s one of the quickest and cleanest men over there. Trust him.” Varak coughed, pain visible in his face. “If the maniacs have surfaced, O’Brien will stop them.”

“What have you got to tell me? What do you know about MacAndrew’s wife?”

Varak held up his bloody hand. “I have to explain. As quickly as possible. You’ve got to understand.… From the beginning you were programed. Part truth, part lie. We had to get you involved, get you started, force the enemy to react, show themselves.” Varak was gripped by a spasm.

Chancellor waited till it passed; then he asked: “Part lie, part truth. Which was which?”

“I told you. The files. They disappeared.”

“There was no assassination, then?”

“Inconceivable.” Varak stared at Peter, his breath coming fast. “The men who fought Hoover were honorable. They protected Hoover’s victims by the law, not outside of it.”

“But the files were taken.”

“Yes. That part’s true. Dossiers with the letters
M
through
Z
. Remember that.” Again a spasm took hold of Varak. Peter held his shoulders; it was all he could think of to do. The shivering ran its course; Varak continued. “And now I must elaborate. I use your words.”

His
words? Varak’s eyes were glazed; the accent was there once more. “My words? What do you mean?”

“In your fourth chapter—”

“My what?”

“Your manuscript.”

“You’ve read it?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“It doesn’t matter. There’s no time.… Your Nucleus. You concentrate on three people. A senator, a newspaperwoman, a cabinet member.…” Varak’s eyes lost control; his voice faded.

“What about them?” pressed Chancellor, not understanding.

“Use the files for good.…” The dying man inhaled suddenly. “You said that.”

Peter remembered. The
files
. In the manuscript he had given the words to the former cabinet officer.
If they can be used the way Hoover uses them, they can be turned around. They can be used for good!
It was the false reasoning that would lead to tragedy.

“What if I did? What are you talking about?”

“It’s what happened.…” Varak’s eyes came briefly into focus, his concentration all-consuming. “One man turned into a killer. A killer who hires killers.”

“What?”

“Five men. One of four … not Bravo. Never Bravo.…”

“What did you say? Who’s Bravo?”

“A splendid temptation. To use the files for good.”

“Splendid?
… There’s nothing splendid. It’s extortion!”

“That’s the tragedy.”

Oh,
Christ!
His words! “What five men? What do you mean?”

“Venice you know.… Bravo, too, but
not
Bravo!
Never
Bravo!” Varak struggled with his bloodied right hand; he inched it away from the wound in his stomach to his jacket pocket. He withdrew a piece of paper, white paper soiled with blood. “One of four men. I thought it was Banner or Paris. Now I’m not sure.” He pushed the paper into Chancellor’s palm. “Code names. Venice, Christopher, Banner, Paris. It’s one of them. Not Bravo.”

“ ‘Venice’ … ‘Bravo’ … who are they?”

“The group. Your Nucleus.” Varak pulled his hand down to his wound. “One of them knows.”

“Knows what?”

“The meaning of
Chasǒng
. The mother.”

“MacAndrew? His
wife?”

“Not him.
Her!
He’s the decoy.”

“Decoy? You’ve got to be clearer.”

“The slaughter. The meaning behind the slaughter of Chasǒng!”

Peter looked at the bloodstained paper in his hand. Names were written on it. “One of these men?” he asked the dying man, unsure what he meant by his own question.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“You and the daughter.
You
! It was to throw you off. To make you think it was the answer. It isn’t.”

“What
answer?”

“Chasǒng. Something
beyond
it.”

“Stop
it! What are you saying?”

“Not Bravo.…” Varak’s eyes swam in their sockets.

“Who
is
Bravo? Is he one of them?”

“No.
Never
Bravo.”

“Varak, what
happened
? Why are you so certain about Chasǒng?”

“There are others who’ll help.…”

“What about
Chasǒng?”

“Thirty-fifth Street. The house. They took me and taped my eyes, my face. I never saw them. They needed a hostage. They know what I’ve done.… I didn’t see them, but I heard them. They spoke a language I didn’t know, which means they knew I didn’t know it. But they used the name
Chasǒng
. Each time … fanatically. It has another meaning. Find what it was behind the killing at Chasǒng. It will lead you to the files.”

Varak fell forward. Chancellor grabbed him, pulling him back. “There’s got to be more!”

“There’s very little.” Varak’s whisper faded. Peter had to put his ear next to the agent’s lips to hear him. “They drove me through a town; they thought I was unconscious. I heard automobiles. I crashed through the door with the tapes on my face. They fired at me but drove away. I had to get you alone. I could not talk on the telephone. I was right. The two false numbers I gave you were called. If I had told you on the phone what I’m telling you now, you’d have been killed. Protect the girl. Find the meaning behind, the slaughter of Chasǒng.”

Chancellor felt panic swell inside him; his head was about to explode. Varak was nearly dead. He’d be gone in moments! In seconds! “You said there were others! Who can I go to? Who’ll
help?”

“O’Brien,” whispered Varak. Then he stared at Peter, a strange smile on his bloodless lips. “Look to your manuscript. There’s a senator. He might have been—Go to him. He’s not afraid.”

Varak’s eyes closed. He was dead.

And Chancellor’s mind was filled with white light and thunder. The detonations shook the earth; there was no sanity left. A senator.… He had crossed a line no one should cross. He let Varak’s head fall back into the stone and slowly got to his feet, backing away, filled with a terror so personal, so absolute, he could not think.

But he could run. And so, blindly, he ran.

He was near water. The reflections of light shimmered on the surface like thousands of miniature candles flickering in an unfelt wind. How long he had been running he
could not tell. As his mind began to clear, he thought for a moment he was back in New York, at dawn, within the sculptured confines of Fort Tryon, where a blond-haired man named Longworth had just saved his life.

But his name was not Longworth. It was Varak, and he was dead.

Peter closed his eyes. The void he had sought for so long swept over him. He slowly lowered himself to the ground; his knees touched the grass, and he trembled.

He heard the sound of an engine approaching. Gravel crunched beneath wheels. He opened his eyes and looked around.

A motor scooter parked, its single headlight angled diagonally down. A police officer got off. He shot the beam of his flashlight over at Peter.

“You all right, mister?”

“Yes. Yes, I’m all right.”

The officer approached. Chancellor rose unsteadily, noting that behind the beam of the light, the man’s hand had unsnapped his pistol holder. “What are you doing down here?”

“I’m—I’m not sure. To tell you the truth, I had a little too much to drink, so I went for a walk. I do that; it’s better than getting into a car.”

“It certainly is,” replied the officer. “You’re not thinking about doing anything foolish though, are you?”

“What? What do you mean?”

“Like taking a swim, not figuring to come out?”

“What?”

The officer was standing in front of him, scrutinizing him carefully. “You’re pretty messed up.”

“I fell. I told you, I had—”

“I know. Booze. Funny, I don’t smell any.”

“Vodka.”

“You depressed? Family problems? In trouble? You want to see a priest or a rabbi? Or a lawyer?”

Peter understood. “I see. You think I want to drown myself.”

“It’s happened. We’ve pulled bodies out of the Basin.”

“We’re at the Tidal Basin?” asked Chancellor.

“Southwest point.” The officer gestured to his right. “That’s Ohio Drive over there. Across the water’s the Jefferson Memorial.”

Peter looked at bis watch, at the radium dial. It was a little after nine thirty. He had lost nearly two hours; he’d drawn a blank for
two hours
. And there were things to do. The first was to mollify a concerned policeman. He struggled for the words.

“Look, I’m fine, officer. I really am. As a matter of fact I’ve got to get to a telephone. Is there a booth around here?”

The officer reached down and snapped his holster shut. “Over on Ohio, about a hundred yards south, maybe less. You can probably get a cab there, too. But if you’re stopped again, watch out. Other cops may be rougher than I am.”

“Thanks for the warning.” Peter smiled. “And thanks for your concern.”

“Part of the job. Take care, now.”

Chancellor nodded and started across the lawn toward Ohio Drive. Someone had tapped into his hotel phone; he could call Alison, but he could not say anything. Instead, he must reach Quinn O’Brien.

“Where the hell
are
you? My orders were for you to stay in that hotel! Goddamn you—”