The Chancellor Manuscript

by Robert Ludlum

  “United States Army, Pentagon Operations,” said the male voice on the other end of the line.

  “Lieutenant General Bruce MacAndrew, please.” Peter spoke the rank and name in clipped cadence.

  “Just one minute, sir,” came the reply, followed seconds later by the obvious. “There’s no listing for General MacAndrew, sir.”

  “There was a month ago, soldier,” said Chancellor authoritatively. “Let me have Directory.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Pentagon Directory. Good afternoon.” The voice was female.

  “There seems to be a foul-up somewhere. This is Colonel Chancellor. I’ve just returned from Command Saigon and I’m trying to reach General MacAndrew, Light General B. MacAndrew. I have a letter from the general dated twelve August Arlington. Has he been transferred?”

  The operator took less than half a minute to find the information. “No, Colonel. Not transferred. Retired.”

  Peter allowed himself the proper moment of silence. “I understand; his wounds were extensive. Do I find him at Walter Reed?”

  “I have no idea, Colonel.”

  “Then, let me have his telephone number and address, please.”

  “I’m not sure I can—”

  “Young lady,” interrupted Peter. “I’ve just flown ten thousand miles. The general is a close friend; I’m very concerned. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir. There is no address listed. The number on the print sheet is area code …”

  Chancellor wrote as the woman spoke. He thanked her, pressed down the telephone button, released it, and dialed.

  “General MacAndrew’s residence.” The drawl on the line obviously belonged to a maid.

  “May I speak with the general, please?”

  “He’s not here. He’s expected back in an hour. May I take your name?”

  Peter thought swiftly. There was no point in wasting time. “This is the Pentagon Messenger Service. We have a delivery for the general but the PMS address is unclear. What’s the street number in Rockville?”

  “RFD Twenty-three, the Old Mill Pike.”

  “Thank you.”

  He hung up and once again leaned back on the pillows, recalling Longworth’s statements about MacAndrew. The agent had said the general had thrown away a brilliant career, including perhaps the chairmanship of the Joint Chiefs, for no apparent reason. Longworth had suggested there could be a connection between some missing information in MacAndrew’s service record and the general’s resignation.

  A thought struck him. Why had Longworth even brought up MacAndrew? What was MacAndrew to him?

  Chancellor sat up suddenly. Had Longworth, in wanting to strike back at those who had manipulated him, manipulated the general? Had the agent himself used damaging information about MacAndrew?

  If so, Longworth was playing a serious game. One that went way beyond the bounds of remorse. It depended on the general; what kind of man was he?

  He was of medium height, with broad shoulders and a stocky build; he was dressed in chinos and a white shirt, open at the collar. His face was the face of a professional soldier; the skin was taut, the wrinkles deeply etched, the eyes noncommittal. He stood in the doorway of the old house on the back country road, a middle-aged man somewhat startled by a stranger whose features seemed vaguely familiar.

  Peter was used to the reaction. His occasional appearances on television talk shows produced it. People rarely knew who he was but were sure they’d seen him somewhere.

  “General MacAndrew?”

  “Yes?”

  “We haven’t met,” he said, extending his hand. “My name’s Peter Chancellor. I’m a writer. I’d like to talk to you.”

  Was it fear he saw in the general’s eyes? “Of course I’ve seen you. On television, your photograph. I read one of your books, I think. Come in, Mr. Chancellor. Forgive my astonishment, but I—well—as you said, we’ve never met.”

  Peter stepped into the hallway. “A mutual friend gave me your address. But your telephone’s unlisted.”

  “A mutual friend? Who’s that?”

  Chancellor watched the general’s eyes. “Longworth. Alan Longworth.”

  There was no reaction whatsoever.

  “Longworth? I don’t think I know him. But obviously I must. Was he in one of my commands?”

  “No, General, I think he’s a blackmailer.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  It was fear. The eyes darted briefly toward the staircase, then toward Peter.

  “May we talk?”

  “I think we’d better. It’s either that, or I throw you out on your ass.” MacAndrew turned and gestured through an archway. “In my study,” he said curtly.

  The room was small, with dark leather chairs, a solid pine desk, and mementos of the general’s career on the walls. “Sit down,” said MacAndrew, indicating a chair in front of the desk. It was an order. The general remained standing.

  “I may have been unfair,” said Peter.

  “You were something,” replied MacAndrew. “Now, what’s this all about?”

  “Why did you retire?”

  “None of your damned business.”

  “Maybe you’re right; maybe it’s not mine. But it’s somebody’s besides yours.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I heard of you through a man named Longworth. He suggested that you were forced to resign. That something happened a number of years ago, the information removed from your military record. He implied that this information became part of a collection of missing files. Dossiers that contained suppressed facts that could destroy the subjects in question. He led me to believe that you were threatened with exposure. Told to get out of the Army.”

  For a long moment MacAndrew stood silently, frozen into position, his eyes a curious mixture of hatred and fright. When he spoke, his voice was flat. “Did this Longworth say what the information was?”

  “He claimed not to know. The only conclusion I can draw is that it was of such a damaging nature that you had to follow instructions. If I may say so, your reaction would seem to bear out that assumption.”

  “You prick bastard.” The contempt was absolute. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Peter met his eyes. “Whatever’s troubling you is none of my business, and perhaps I shouldn’t have come here. I was curious; curiosity’s a writer’s disease. But I don’t want to know your problem; believe me, I don’t want that burden. I only wanted to know why your name was given to me, and now I think I do. You’re a substitute. You make a pretty scary example.”

  MacAndrew’s look grew less hostile.

  “Substitute for what?”

  “For someone under the gun. If those files really were missing, in the hands of a fanatic, and this fanatic wanted to use the information against another person—well, you’re what that other person would be like.”

  “I don’t follow you. Why would my name be given to you?”

  “Because Longworth wants me to believe something to the degree that I’ll write a book about it.”

  “But why me?”

  “Because something did happen years ago, and Longworth had access to the information. I know that now. You see, General, I think he used both of us. He gave me your name, and before he gave it to me, he threatened to expose you. He wanted a victim. I think—?”

  It was as far as Chancellor got. With the speed born of a hundred combat assaults MacAndrew sprang across the space between them. His hands were curved into claws that dug into the cloth of Peter’s jacket, pressing down, then pulling up, yanking Chancellor to his feet.

  “Where is he?”

  “Hey! For Christ’s sake—?”

  “Longworth! Where is he? Tell me, you prick bastard!”

  “You crazy son of a bitch. Let me go!” Peter was larger than the soldier but no match for MacAndrew’s strength. “Goddamn it, be careful of my head!”

  It was a silly thing to say, but it was al
l that came to mind. The soldier pinned him against the wall, the hard face with the furious eyes inches from his.

  “I asked you a question. Now, you answer me! Where can I find Longworth?”

  “I don’t know! I met him in California.”

  “Where in California?”

  “He doesn’t live there. He lives in Hawaii. Damn it, let go of me!”

  “When you tell me what I want to know!” MacAndrew pulled Chancellor forward, then slammed him back into the wall. “Is he in Honolulu?”

  “No!” Peter’s head ached beyond endurance, the pain spreading across his right temple, shooting down to the back of his neck. “He’s in Maui. For Christ’s sake, you’ve got to let go of me! You don’t understand—?”

  “The hell I don’t! Thirty-five years down the chute. When I’m needed. Needed. Can you understand that!” It was not a question.

  “Yes.…” Peter grabbed the soldier’s wrists with all the strength he had left. The pain was awful. He spoke slowly. “I asked you to listen to me. I don’t care what happened; it’s not my business. But I do care that Longworth used you to get to me. No book’s worth it. I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry? It’s a little late for that!” The soldier ex-ploded again, smashing Peter back into the wall. “This happened because of a goddamned book?”

  “Please! You can’t—?”

  There was a crash beyond the door. From the living room. It was followed by a terrible moaning—half chant, half mad, a toneless singsong. MacAndrew froze, his eyes on the door. He released Peter, throwing him into the desk as he reached for the doorknob. He pulled the door open and disappeared into the living room.

  Chancellor supported himself on the edge of the desk. The room was spinning. He inhaled deeply, repeatedly, to regain his focus, to lessen the pain in his head.

  He heard it again. The moaning, crazy singsong. It grew louder; he could distinguish the words.

  “… outside is frightful but the fire is so delightful and since we’ve no place to go, … Let it snow! Let it snow! Let it snow! …”

  Peter limped unsteadily to the study door. He looked into the living room—and wished he hadn’t.

  MacAndrew was on the floor, cradling a woman in his arms. She wore a torn, disheveled negligee that barely covered a faded nightgown, itself old and worn. All around were fragments of shattered glass. The tulip stem of a smashed wine goblet rolled silently on a small rug.

  MacAndrew was suddenly aware of his presence. “Now you know what the damaging information is.”

  “… since we’ve no place to go, Let it snow! Let it snow! …”

  Peter did know. It explained the old house way out in the country, the unlisted telephone, and the absence of an address at the Pentagon Directory. General Brace MacAndrew lived in isolation because his wife was mad.

  “I see,” said Chancellor quietly. “But I don’t understand. Is this why?”

  “Yes.” The soldier hesitated, then looked back at his wife, lifting her face to his. “There was an accident; the doctors said she had to be sent away. I wouldn’t do that.”

  Peter understood. High-ranking generals in the Pentagon were not permitted certain tragedies. Other varieties, yes. Death and mutilation on the battlefield, for instance. But not this, not a tormented wife. Wives were to remain deep in the shadows of a soldier’s life, interference denied.

  “… when we finally kiss good night, how I’ll hate going out in the storm …”

  MacAndrew’s wife was staring at Peter. Her eyes grew wide, her thin, pale lips parted, and she screamed. The scream was followed by another. And another. She twisted her neck and arched her back, the screams wilder, uncontrollable.

  MacAndrew held her tightly in his arms and stared up at Chancellor. Peter backed further into the study.

  “No!” roared the general. “Come back out! Go to the light! Get by the light; put your face above the shade. In the light, goddamn you!”

  Simply, blindly, Peter did as he was told. He edged his way toward a lamp on a low table and let the spill wash up into his face.

  “It’s all right, Mal. It’s all right Everything’s all right.” MacAndrew swayed back and forth on the floor, his cheek hard against his wife’s face, calming her. Her screams subsided.

  They were replaced with sobs. Deep and painful.

  “Now, get out of here,” he said to Chancellor.

  11

  Old Mill Pike swung west out of Rockville before turning south into the Maryland highway that led to Washington. The highway was nearly twenty miles from MacAndrew’s house, the old road to it cut out of the countryside, twisting and turning around massive boulders and rock-dotted hills. It was not rich country. But it was remote, isolated.

  How MacAndrew must have searched for such a location! thought Chancellor. The setting sun was directly in front of him now, filling the windshield with blinding light. He pulled down the visor; it didn’t help much. His thoughts returned to the scene he had just left.

  Why had the disturbed woman reacted so hysterically to the sight of him? He had been in shadow when she’d first seen him. She calmed down when he followed MacAndrew’s command to go into the light Could he have resembled someone so completely? Impossible. The windows of the old house were small, and the trees outside were full and tall, blocking the late afternoon sun. The general’s wife could not have seen him that clearly. So perhaps it wasn’t his face. Yet what else could it have been? And what nightmares had he evoked?

  Longworth was despicable, yet he had made his point. What better way than to offer the pathetic figure of MacAndrew as the object of the most ruthless type of extortion? Taking Longworth’s premise that Hoover’s private files survived and could be used viciously, the general was the perfect subject The man in Chancellor was outraged, the writer primed. The concept was valid; there was a novel in the premise. He had a beginning based in recent events, Daniel Sutherland had provided the facts. And an example of what might have been; he himself had observed it.

  He felt his energy flowing. He wanted to write again.

  A silver car pulled alongside; Peter slowed down, allowing it to pass in the blinding yellow sunlight. The driver must know the road, thought Chancellor. Only someone familiar with the curves would pass, especially with the sun filling the windshield.

  The silver car, however, did not pass. It stayed parallel; and if Peter’s eyes were not playing tricks on him, it narrowed the space between them. Chancellor looked across the diminishing gulf. Perhaps the driver was trying to signal him.

  He was not—she was not. The driver was a woman. Her dark hair, crowned by a wide-brimmed hat, fell over her shoulders. She wore sunglasses, and her mouth was a splash of red lipstick emphasizing her pale white skin. An orange scarf billowed out from the top of her jacket. She stared straight ahead as if oblivious to the automobile beside her.

  Peter pressed his horn repeatedly; the cars were inches from each other. The woman did not respond. A sharp downhill curve to the right appeared in the road. If he braked, he knew he would slide into the silver car. He held the wheel firmly to negotiate the turn, his eyes switching back and forth from the road to the automobile perilously close to him. He could see more clearly; the sunlight was blocked by trees.

  It was an S curve; he swung the wheel to the left, his foot cautiously on the brake. The blinding light returned to the windshield; on his right he could barely make out the gully that lay beyond the road’s shoulder. He remembered seeing it when he’d driven out an hour before.

  The impact came! The silver car collided with the side of his. It was trying to force him off the road. The woman was trying to send him into the gully! She was trying to kill him!

  It was Pennsylvania all over again! The silver car was a Mark IV Continental. The same make of car he had driven that terrible night in the storm. With Cathy.

  There was a flat stretch of road at the bottom of the hill. He stabbed the accelerator with his foot; sending his car forward in a burst of speed.


  The Continental kept pace; his rented Chevrolet was no match for it. They reached the foot of the hill, the flat road now the course. Chancellor’s panic prohibited clear thought and he knew it He should simply stop the car … stop the goddamned car … but he could not. He had to get away from the horrible silver apparition.

  His breath came erratically as he held the pedal against the floorboard. He drew slightly ahead of the Continental, but the silver mass of steel surged forward, its gleaming grill pounding the side of his door.

  The dark-haired woman stared straight ahead impassively as if unaware of the terrible game she played.

  “Stop it! What are you doing?” Peter screamed through the open window. She acknowledged nothing.

  But the Mark IV dropped back again. Had his screams gotten through? He gripped the wheel with all his strength; perspiration covered his hands and rolled down his forehead, adding to the blindness of the sunlight.

  He was jolted; his head snapped back, then crashed forward into the windshield. The impact came from behind. Through the rearview mirror he could see the glistening hood of the Continental. It crashed again and again into the trunk of the Chevrolet. He swung to the left side of the road; the Mark IV did the same. The pounding continued. Peter weaved back and forth. If he stopped now, the larger, heavier car would plow into him.

  There was nothing else he could do. He spun the wheel violently to the right; the Chevrolet lurched off the road. A final crash propelled the rented car into a lateral spin; it swerved, the tail swinging to the forward left side, causing it to smash sideways into a barbed-wire fence.

  But he was off the road!

  He slammed his foot back onto the accelerator. He had to get away. The car bolted into the field.

  The sickening thud of a collision came. Peter ducked, hovering over the wheel, his whole body lifted off the seat. The motor raced thunderously, but the Chevrolet had stopped.

  He had crashed into a large rock in the field. Involuntarily, his neck arched back on the seat; blood ran down his nostrils profusely, mingling with the perspiration on his face.

  Through the open window he saw the silver Continental racing away to the west down the flat stretch of road in the sunlight. It was the last thing he saw before his eyes closed.