The Chancellor Manuscript Page 8

  Varak leaned forward in the couch. “Does the current husband know?”

  “In substance, yes; perhaps not every detail. Of course, he’s not the only issue. They’d have to move, start over again. But it would be futile. They’d be found.”

  “Naturally,” agreed Varak. “Did Bromley describe the voice on the telephone?”

  “Yes. It was a whisper—?”

  “For effect,” interjected Varak quietly. “It never fails.”

  “Or for disguise. He couldn’t tell whether it was a man’s voice or a woman’s.”

  “I see. Was there anything unusual in the speech pattern?”

  “No. Bromley looked for that. He’s an accountant; the unusual attracts him. He said the oddest thing was the mechanical quality.”

  “Could the voice have been recorded? A tape?”

  “No. It responded to his statements. They could not have been anticipated.”

  Varak sat back. “Why did he come to you?”

  Bravo paused. When he spoke, there was a sadness in his voice, as if for some abstract reason he were holding himself responsible. “After Bromley’s C-forty testimony, I wanted to meet him. This middle-level bureaucrat who was willing to take on the Pentagon. I asked him to dinner.”

  “Here?”

  “No, of course not. We met at a country inn in Maryland.” Bravo stopped.

  “You still haven’t told me why he got in touch with you.”

  “Because I told him to. I never thought for a minute he’d get away with interfering with the Pentagon. I told him to contact me if there were reprisals.”

  “Why are you convinced whoever called Bromley has the Hoover files? His daughter’s problems are a matter of court record.”

  “Something the voice said. He told Bromley that he had all the ‘raw meat’ there was to have on him and his family. Do you know the significance of ‘raw meat’?”

  “Yes,” replied Varak, his contempt apparent. “It was one of Hoover’s favorite expressions. Still, there’s an inconsistency. Bromley’s name begins with B.”

  “Bromley explained that, although of course I didn’t tell him about the files. At both the Pentagon and the bureau he had a code name: Viper.”

  “As though he were an enemy agent.”

  “Exactly.”

  “What about MacAndrew? Do we have anything?”

  “I think so. We’ve been interested in him for a number of years. He was one of the few soldiers who believed utterly in the civilian control of the military. Frankly, one day he might have been a candidate for Inver Brass. We studied him; it was before you arrived. There was a lapse in his service record. The symbols indicated that the period in question—eight months in 1950—had been removed to G-Two, PSA.”

  “Psychiatric Systems Analyses,” said Varak. “On his level that’s usually reserved for defectors.”

  “Yes. We were stunned, naturally. We traced the G-Two abstract and found that it, too, had been removed. All that remained was the phrase ‘Courier Delivered, FBI DS.’ Domestic Security. I’m sure you can guess the rest.”

  “Yes,” said Varak. “You got his FBI file, and there was nothing there. You cross-checked with Domestic Security. Still nothing. ‘Raw meat.’ ”

  “Precisely. Every paper, every insert, every addendum related to Security crossed Hoover’s desk. And as we know, ‘Security’ took on the widest possible range. Sexual activities, drinking habits, marriage and family confidences, the most personal details of the subjects’ lives—none were too remote or insignificant. Hoover pored over those dossiers like Croesus with his gold. Three Presidents wanted to replace him. None did.”

  Varak leaned forward. “The question is, what was in MacAndrew’s service record? There’s nothing to prevent us from asking him now.”

  “Us?”

  “It can be arranged.”

  “Through an intermediary?”

  “Yes. A blind. There’ll be no connection.”

  “I’m sure of that,” said Bravo. “But then what? Assuming you find some character flaw, sexual or otherwise, what have you got? MacAndrew wouldn’t still have his maximum clearance if it were a permanent condition.”

  “It’s more information. Somewhere the data will pinpoint the weakness in the chain. It’ll break.”

  “That’s what you’ve been counting on, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. It’ll happen. Whoever stole the files has a first-rate mind, but it will happen.”

  Both men fell silent, Varak waiting for approval, Bravo deep in thought.

  “That chain won’t be broken easily,” St. Claire said. “You’re the best there is, and you’re no closer now than you were three months ago. You say a ‘first-rate mind,’ but we don’t know that. We don’t know if we’re dealing with a mind or minds. One man or many.”

  “If it’s one,” agreed Varak, “we’re not even sure it’s a man.”

  “But whoever it is, the first moves have been made.”

  “Then, let me put someone on MacAndrew.”

  “Wait …” Bravo clasped his hands beneath his chin. “An intermediary? A blind?”

  “Yes. Untraceable.”

  “Bear with me for a moment. I haven’t really thought it out; you can help. Basically, it’s your strategy.”

  Varak glanced at St. Claire. The diplomat continued. “Am I correct in assuming that a blind, as you use the term with respect to interrogation or surveillance, is someone who finds out what you have to know without your being involved?”

  “That’s right. The blind has his or her own reasons for wanting the same information. The trick is to get it from him without his knowing what you’re doing.”

  “The blind, then, is chosen with extreme care.” It was a statement.

  “More often than not, it’s a question of finding someone with the same interests,” answered Varak. “It can be difficult.”

  “But we could enlist the aid of an investigatory agency. I mean, it’s within our capability to alert the authorities—or even a newspaper—to the possibility that Hoover’s files survived his death.”

  “Certainly. The result would be to drive whoever has them further underground.”

  Bravo rose from the chair and paced aimlessly. “There’s been almost no mention of those files in the newspapers. It’s odd, because their existence was known. It’s as though no one wants to talk about them.”

  “Out of print, out of mind, out of danger,” said Varak.

  “Yes, exactly. All Washington. Even the media. No one knows whether he’s part of the files or not. So there’s silence. And when men are silent, the triumph of evil follows. Burke was right about that. We can see it happening.”

  “On the other hand,” countered the intelligence man, “breaking the silence isn’t always the answer.”

  “That depends on who breaks it.” Bravo stopped his pacing. “Tell me, under the harshest, most professional microscope could any of those involved in Hoover’s death be unearthed?”

  “None,” was the firm reply.

  “Where are they? I mean, specifically.”

  “Both telephone men are in Australia, the Kimberly bush; they’ll never come back. They face indictments for homicide in the Marine Corps. The man who used the cover of ‘Salter’ is in Tel Aviv; nothing takes precedence over the Holy Land or the holy war. We feed him data on the Palestinian terrorists. He lives only for his cause, and we make it practical. The actress is in Majorca; she settled a debt and wants nothing more than what she’s got. The Englishman who handled the car and the Phase One relay is back with MI-Six. He made money from the Russians as a double courier in East Berlin; he knows I have the facts that could lead to his execution. You know about the doctor in Paris, the least of our concerns. Each had a motive, none can be traced. They’re thousands of miles away.”

  St. Claire stared at Varak. “You left out someone. What about the man in the alarm room? The one who used the cover of ‘Krepps’?”

  Varak returned Bravo’s
look. “I killed him. The decision was mine, and I’d make it again.”

  St. Claire nodded. “Then, what you’re saying is that all personnel, all the facts, are submerged beyond discovery. Hoover’s death could never be attributed to anything but natural causes.”

  “Precisely. Natural causes.”

  “So, if we used a blind, there would be no chance of that man discovering the truth. Hoover’s assassination is beyond reach.”

  “Beyond reach.”

  Bravo began to pace again. “I’ve never asked you why there was no autopsy.”

  “Orders from the White House. Relayed very quietly, I understand.”

  “The White House?”

  “They had a reason. I gave it to them.”

  St. Claire did not probe; he knew Varak had studied the White House structure and could surmise his strategy, which would be totally professional. “Beyond reach,” repeated Bravo. “That’s vitally important.”

  “To whom?”

  “To a blind not restricted by fact. To a man interested only in a concept. A theory that did not have to be proven at every turn. Such a man could raise alarms, quite possibly provoke whoever had the files into revealing themselves.”

  “I don’t follow you. Without traceable facts there’s no motive for a blind. What could he hope to learn? What could we learn?”

  “Perhaps a great deal. The key word is fact” St. Claire stared at the wall above Varak. It was strange, he reflected. He had not thought of Peter Chancellor in a long time. When he had thought of him—when he’d seen his name in a newspaper or a book supplement—it had always been with a bemused memory of a bewildered graduate student grappling for words six years ago. Chancellor had found the words since. A great many of them.

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand you,” said Varak.

  Bravo lowered his gaze. “Have you ever heard of a writer named Peter Chancellor?”

  “Counterstrike!” said Varak. “I read it. It frightened a lot of people over at Langley.”

  “Still, it was fiction.”

  “It was too close. This Chancellor used a lot of wrong terms and incorrect procedures but on the bottom line, he described what happened.”

  “Because he wasn’t restricted by fact. Chancellor approaches a concept, finds a basic situation, and extracts selected facts and rearranges them to suit the reality as he perceives it. He is not bound by cause and effect; he creates it. You say he frightened a lot of people over in Langley. I believe that; he has a wide readership. And he researches in depth. Suppose it was known that he was researching a book on Hoover, on his last days.”

  “On the files,” added Varak, sitting forward. “Use Chancellor as the blind. Tell him the files disappeared. When he starts probing, he’ll set off alarms, and we’ll be there.”

  “Go to New York, Mr. Varak. Find out everything you can about him. The people around him, his life-style, his methods of work. Everything current. Chancellor has a conspiracy complex. We’re going to program him with a conspiracy he’ll find irresistible.”

  6

  “Mr. Peter Chancellor?” asked the operator.

  Peter lifted his hand above the covers and tried to focus on his wristwatch. It was nearly ten o’clock; the morning breezes were billowing the drapes through the open doors of the porch.

  “Yes?”

  “Long distance from New York. Mr. Anthony Morgan calling. One moment, please.”

  “Sure.” There was a click and a hum on the line. It stopped.

  “Hi, Mr. Chancellor?”

  Peter would know that voice anywhere. It belonged to his editor’s secretary. If she ever had a discouraging day, no one ever knew about it. “Hello, Radie? How are you?” Chancellor hoped she was better than he was.

  “Fine. How’s California these days?”

  “Bright, humid, shiny, green. Take your choice.”

  The girl laughed. It was a pleasant laugh.

  “We didn’t wake you, did we? You’re always up so early.”

  “No, Radie, I was in the surf,” lied Chancellor for no reason.

  “Hold on. Here’s Mr. Morgan.” There were two clicks.

  “Hello, Peter?”

  “How are you, Tony?”

  “Christ, forget about me, how are you? Marie said you called last night. Sorry I wasn’t home.”

  Chancellor remembered. “I apologize. I was drunk.”

  “She didn’t mention that, but she said you were mad as hell.”

  “I was. I am. I was also drunk. Apologize to Marie for me.”

  “No need to. What you told her made her angry, too. I was greeted at the door with a lecture about protecting my authors. Now, what’s this about Counterstrike!?”

  Peter adjusted his head on the pillow and cleared his throat. He tried to rid his voice of bitterness. “At four thirty yesterday afternoon a studio messenger brought me the completed first draft of the screenplay. I didn’t know we’d started.”

  “And?”

  “It’s been turned around. It’s the opposite of what I wrote.”

  Morgan paused, then replied gently. “Wounded ego, Peter?”

  “Good God, no. You know better than that. I didn’t say it was badly written; a lot of it’s pretty damned good. It’s effective. I’d feel better if it wasn’t. But it’s a lie.”

  “Josh told me they were changing the agency’s name—?”

  “They’ve changed everything!” interrupted Chancellor, his eyes blinking in pain with the rush of blood to his head. “The government people are all on the side of the angels. They don’t have an impure thought in their heads! The manipulators are … ‘them.’ Weird exponents of violence and revolution and—so help me God—with ‘faintly European accents.’ Whatever the book said has been turned inside out. Why the hell did they buy it in the first place?”

  “What does Josh say?”

  “As I remember, and I do vaguely, I reached him around midnight my time. I guess it was about three this morning in New York.”

  “Stay around the house. I’ll speak to Josh. One of us’ll get back to you.”

  “All right.” Peter was about to offer a last apology to Morgan’s wife when he realized the editor was not finished. It was one of those silences between them that meant there was more to say.

  “Peter?”

  “Yes?”

  “Suppose Josh can work things out. I mean with your studio contract.”

  “There’s nothing to work out,” interrupted Chancellor again. “They don’t need me; they don’t want me.”

  “They may want your name. They’re paying for it.”

  “They can’t have it. Not the way they’re doing the film. I’m telling you, it’s the opposite of what I said.”

  “Is it that important to you?”

  “As literature—hell, no. As my own personal statement—hell, yes. Nobody else seems to be making it.”

  “I just wondered. I thought you might be ready to start the Nuremberg book.”

  Peter stared at the ceiling. “Not yet, Tony. Soon, not yet. I’ll talk to you later.”

  He hung up the phone, the apology gone from his mind. He was thinking about Morgan’s question and his own answer.

  If only the pain would disappear. And the numbness. Both had lessened, but they were still there, and when he felt either or both, the memories returned. The shattering glass, the blinding light, the crunching metal. The screams. And his hatred of a man high up in a truck who had disappeared in the storm. Leaving one dead, one almost dead.

  Chancellor swung his legs over the edge of the bed onto the floor. He stood up naked and looked around for his bathing suit. He was late for his morning swim; the dawn had turned into day. He felt guilty somehow, as if he had broken an important ritual. Worse, he understood that the ritual took the place of work.

  He saw his bathing suit draped over a chair and started toward it. The telephone rang again. He reversed direction and answered it.

  “It’s Joshua, Peter. I
’ve just spent an hour talking with Aaron Sheffield.”

  “He’s a winner. Incidentally, sorry about last night.”

  “This morning,” corrected the agent, not unkindly. “Don’t worry about it. You were overwrought.”

  “I was drunk.”

  “That, too. Let’s get to Sheffield.”

  “I suppose we have to. I gather you got the drift of what I told you last night.”

  “I’m sure most of Malibu Beach could repeat the better phrases word for word.”

  “What’s his position? I won’t budge.”

  “Legally that doesn’t make any difference to him. You have no case. You have no script approval.”

  “I understand that. But I can talk. I can give interviews. I can demand that my name be removed. I might even try to get the courts to change the title. I’ll bet a case can be made for that.”

  “It’s unlikely.”

  “Josh, they’ve changed the whole meaning!”

  “The courts might see the money you’ve been paid and not be impressed.”

  Chancellor blinked again and rubbed his eyes. He exhaled wearily. “I think you’re saying they wouldn’t be impressed. Period. I’m not Solzhenitsyn with the Siberian camps or Dickens on the death of children in the sweatshops. All right, what can I do?”

  “Do you want it put plainly?”

  “When you begin like that, the news isn’t good.”

  “Some good can come out of it.”

  “Now I know it’s terrible. Go ahead.”

  “Sheffield wants to avoid discord; so does the studio. They don’t want you giving those interviews or going on talk shows. They know you can do that, and they don’t want the embarrassment.”

  “I see. We reach the heart of the matter: gross receipts at the box office. Their essential pride, their manhood.”

  Harris was silent for a moment. When he continued, it was in a soft voice. “Peter, that kind of controversy wouldn’t affect gross receipts one iota of a percentage point. If anything, it would hype them.”

  “Then, why are they concerned?”

  “They really want to avoid embarrassment.”