The Chancellor Manuscript (42 page)

“The maniacs tried to kill me,” broke in Chancellor quickly, remembering Varak’s description.

“The
maniacs?”
It was as if O’Brien had been struck. “Where did you hear that term?”

“That’s what we’re going to talk about. That and other things. I just got out of the Corcoran Gallery.”

“The
Corcoran.… You
were there?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, my God!” O’Brien sounded frightened.

“I’m down at—”

“Shut
up!”
yelled the FBI man suddenly. “Don’t say another thing! Wait a minute … stay on the line.” Peter could hear O’Brien’s breathing; the agent was thinking. “Our conversation last night. Think carefully. You told me you placed three phone calls to New York from telephone booths. You used your credit card.”

“But I—”

“I said shut up! Think. They were placed before and after the fire on Thirty-fifth Street.”

“I—”

“Listen to me! There was one call in particular—I
think it was after, I’m not sure. Get to the booth you made that call from. Now, do you understand me? Don’t answer right away. Filter it.”

Peter tried to understand what O’Brien was telling him. There had not been three phone calls, there had only been one. He had called Tony Morgan before the insanity on Thirty-fifth Street. He had made no calls after.

Filter it. Eliminate. That was it! The agent referred to that one call, that one booth. “I understand,” he said.

“Good. It was after, wasn’t it? After Thirty-fifth Street.”

“Yes,” said Chancellor, knowing it was a lie.

“Somewhere on Wisconsin, I think.”

“Yes.” Again, the deception.

“Good. Get there. I’ll call every ten minutes. Pick out a phrase I’d remember from our talk and say it when you answer. Have you got that?”

“Yes.”

Peter hung up the phone and went out of the booth. He continued walking south toward the bridge lights extending over the Potomac, looking for a cab. As he walked, he tried to remember the exact location of the phone booth where he had called Morgan. It was near George Washington University.

A cab came. They found the phone booth easily. There were crowds again, and colored lights and Christmas carols coming from unseen speakers. He asked the driver to wait; the only money he had was two fifty-dollar bills from his wallet. He would need to change them, and he would need the taxi.

He knew exactly what he was going to do.

Find the meaning of Chasǒng.

He closed the door of the booth and took the phone out of its cradle, making sure his finger held the lip down. The ring barely started when he released the tab and spoke.

“ ‘I may be here for the rest of the night.… I’ll let you decide.…’ ” It was one of the first things he had said to the agent when they met.

“Good enough,” said O’Brien. “I’m ten blocks away on Twentieth Street. I may have been followed, so we can’t meet. Now, tell me what happened. Where did you hear the term
maniacs?”

“Why? Is it special?”

“Don’t joke. You don’t have time.”

“I’m not joking. I’m being careful. If I see anyone paying attention to me, or see a car stop, I’m going to run. I think you’re clean, O’Brien; that’s what I was told. But I want to make sure. Now, you tell
me
what the term means. Who are the maniacs?”

O’Brien exhaled audibly. “Five or six special agents who worked secretly, closely with Hoover. They were in his confidence. They want the old regime back; they want to control the bureau. I implied as much to you last night Still, I didn’t use the word
maniacs.”

“But they’re not part of this, are they? They don’t have the missing files.”

O’Brien fell silent, his shock evident to Peter over the phone. “You know, then?”

“Yes. You said those files were destroyed; that there was no pattern, but you lied. There is a pattern; they
weren’t
destroyed. Whoever has them thinks I’m close to learning who he is … who they are. It was the whole idea behind everything. I was the snare. It nearly worked, but the man who programed me was killed in his own trap. Now, you tell me what you know, and tell it straight!”

O’Brien replied calmly, his urgency controlled. “I think the maniacs
do
have those files. They operated with them; they had access. That’s why I couldn’t talk to you from my office; they’ve tapped my line. They had to. Now, for Christ’s sake, tell me what happened.”

“Fair enough. I found your man Varak.”

“What?”

“I knew him as Longworth.”

“Longworth
? May first … the security logs! He has the
files!
” O’Brien involuntarily shouted into the phone.

“That doesn’t make
sense!”
said Peter, bewildered. “He’s dead. He threw his life away to find those files.” Chancellor told the agent everything that had happened from Varak’s phone call through Varak’s death and the dying man’s conviction that O’Brien would stop the maniacs. But he did not mention Chasǒng. For the time being, that was private.

“Varak gone,” O’Brien said softly. “I can’t believe it He was one of the ones we counted on. There aren’t many left.”

“The guy from CIA—we knew each other. He said a number of you people work together. All over Washington. That you had to.”

“We do. The hell of it is, there’s no one to go to for legal advice. There’s not an A.G. at Justice I’d trust.”

“There may be someone. A senator. Varak told me. But not yet. Not now.… You’re good at giving orders, O’Brien. How are you at taking them?”

“Not good. They have to make sense.”

“Are those files sense enough?”

“A stupid question.”

“Then, do two things for me. Get Alison MacAndrew out of the Hay-Adams, stay with her, and take her someplace where shell be safe. They want me. They’ll use her to get me.”

“All right, I can do that. What’s the other?”

“I need the address of a major named Pablo Ramirez. He’s stationed at the Pentagon.”

“Wait a minute.”

Suddenly Peter was alarmed. Over the telephone he could hear the rustling of paper.
Paper!
He put his hand up to the cradle of the telephone, about to break the connection and run. “O’Brien! I thought you said you were ten blocks away. In a phone booth!”

“I am. I’m looking in the phone book.”

“Oh,
Christ
.…” Chancellor swallowed.

“Here it is. Ramirez, P. He lives in Bethesda.” The agent read the address; Peter memorized it “Is that all?”

“No. I’m going to want to see Alison later tonight, or in the morning. How do I find out where you are, where you’ve taken her? Do you have any ideas?”

Silence. Five seconds later O’Brien spoke. “Do you know Quantico?”

“The marine base?”

“Yes, but not the camp. There’s a motel on the bay. It’s called the Pines. I’ll take her there.”

“I’ll rent a car.”

“Don’t do that Rental agencies are too easily covered. There’s a machine that can scan every one in the city. They’d pick you up. That goes for cab companies, too; no one withholds destinations. They’d know where you went.”

“What the hell am I going to do? Walk?”

“There are trains to Quantico every hour or so. That’s your best bet.”

“All right. I’ll see you later.”

“Wait a minute.” O’Brien’s tone was urgent, but again
controlled. “You’re holding back again, Chancellor. It’s MacAndrew.”

Peter’s head snapped back; he stared at the crowds through the glass booth. “You’re making assumptions.”

“You’re making a fool of yourself. It doesn’t take any powers of deduction. Ramirez works at the Pentagon; so did MacAndrew.”

“Don’t push it, O’Brien.
Please.”

“Why shouldn’t I? You haven’t told me the most important thing Varak said: why he had to see you.”

“I
did
. He explained his strategy. How I was programed.”

“He wouldn’t waste his time, not when he was dying. He learned something, and he told you what it was.”

Chancellor shook his head; perspiration rolled down his brow. O’Brien could not be told the significance of Chasǒng—until Peter found out what it was. For the deeper he went, the more Peter was convinced that Alison’s survival was at stake.

“Give me till tomorrow morning,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because I love her.”

Paul Bromley stared into the cracked mirror on top of the dresser with knobs missing from the middle drawers. What he saw saddened him: the pallid face of a sick old man. The stubble of his gray beard was obvious; he had not shaved in over forty-eight hours. The wide space between the dirty starched collar and his throat was further evidence of his illness. He had very little time left. But it would be enough. It had to be.

He turned away from the mirror and walked over to the bed. The spread was filthy. His eyes swept over the walls and ceiling. There were cracks everywhere and peeling paint.

They thought they had him trapped, but their arrogance was misplaced. He was owed favors. A lifetime in Washington overseeing vast expenditures left many people in his debt. Everything was a trade-off: You can do this if you give me that. Most of the time it worked very well. By and large, he was proud of his Washington record; he had done many fine things.

He had done several things he was not very proud of, too. One in particular for a scoundrel who had provided
him with the data he needed to go after the thieves at Defense. That was the debt he was going to call in. If the man refused, a phone call would be made to the
Washington Post
. The man would not refuse.

Bromley picked up his jacket from the bed, put it on, and went out the door into the filthy hallway, then down a flight of steps to the lobby. The FBI agent who had been assigned to him stood awkwardly in the corner, a clean-cut manikin amongst the human debris. At least the man did not have to wait in the upstairs hallway. The hotel’s only exit was its front door—testimony to the trust placed in its clientele.

Bromley walked to the pay telephone on the wall, inserted the coin, and dialed.

“Hello?” The voice was nasal and unattractive.

“This is Paul Bromley.”

“Who?”

“Three years ago. Detroit. The project”

There was a pause before the voice replied. “What do you want?”

“What I’m owed. Unless you’d rather I call friends at the
Post
. They almost got you three years ago. They could do it now. I’ve also prepared a letter. It will be mailed if I don’t return home.”

Again there was a pause. “Spell it out.”

“You send a car for me. I’ll tell you where. And when you do, send one of your thugs with it There’s a federal man here watching me. I want him temporarily sidetracked. It’s the sort of thing you do very well.”

Bromley waited on the sidewalk outside the Hay-Adams. He would wait all night if need be. And when daylight came, he could hide in the church doorway across the avenue. Sooner or later Chancellor would emerge. When he did, Bromley would kill him.

The gun in his pocket had cost him five hundred dollars. He doubted it was worth more than twenty. But he had only asked his Detroit contact for help, not for charity.

Bromley kept raising his eyes to the right front windows on the fifth floor of the hotel. They were Chancellor’s rooms. Expensive rooms. Last night he had asked a then-unsuspecting switchboard operator the number of the suite
before he had called the writer. The despicable novelist lived well.

He would not live long.

Bromley heard the sound of a car racing south on Sixteenth Street. It pulled into the hotel driveway. A red-haired man got out, spoke to the doorman, and went inside the lobby.

The accountant recognized the unmarked automobile. He had routinely approved scores of such purchases whenever the rubber stamp was requested. It was the FBI; without doubt, it had come for Chancellor!

Bromley went back across the street and walked up the driveway, staying in the shadows by the wall of the building, to the right of the entrance next to the FBI car. The doorman had walked down the path to whistle for a cab. A couple followed him to the curb, since the driveway was blocked.

Everything was perfect! Chancellor would die!

Moments later a woman came out with the red-haired man. But there was no Chancellor!

He had to be there!

“Are you sure?” the woman asked, concerned.

“He’ll take the train down later tonight,” said the red-haired man. “Or in the morning. Don’t worry.”

A train.

Bromley pulled up the collar of his overcoat and began the long walk to Union Station.

In a taxi headed for Ramirez’s house, Peter took out the page of bloodstained paper with the dead Varak’s handwriting on it. Once again he was awed by the names. Awed and frightened, for they were extraordinary men—each renowned, each brilliant, each immensely powerful. And one of them had Hoover’s files.

For God’s sake, why? Peter looked at each name; each evoked an image.

The lean, sharp-featured Frederick Wells—code name: Banner. University president, dispenser of millions through the huge Roxton Foundation, one of the brightest architects of the Kennedy years. A man who was known never to compromise on principle, even when his stand incurred the wrath of all Washington.

Daniel Sutherland—Venice—perhaps the most honored black in the country. Honored not only for his accomplishments, but for the wisdom of his judicial decisions. Peter had felt the judge’s compassion in his brief half-hour conversation with him months ago. It was in his eyes.

Jacob Dreyfus—Christopher. Dreyfus’s face was less clear than the others in Peter’s mind. The banker shunned public attention, but he could never be ignored by the financial community, which meant the financial press. His influence often formed the basis of national monetary policy; the Federal Reserve rarely made decisions without consulting him. His charity was known throughout the world, his generosity limitless.

Carlos Montelán—Paris—was the tutor of presidents, a force at the Department of State, an academic giant whose analyses of global politics were discriminating and audacious. Montelán was a naturalized American; his family was Spanish, intellectual Castilians who had fought a compromising church and Franco alike. He was an archenemy of oppression in any form.