Chancellor stood by the doors overlooking the beach and parted the drapes again. The blond-haired man was still there. He’d been there for over an hour, walking back and forth in the hot afternoon sun, his shoes sinking into the warm sand, his shirt open at the collar, his jacket slung over his shoulder.
He was pacing up and down the short area of the beach fifty yards away, between the redwood porch and the water, every now and then glancing up at Peter’s house. He was medium-sized, perhaps a shade under six feet, and muscular. His shoulders were broad and thick and stretched the cloth of his shirt.
Chancellor had first seen him around noon. He had stood motionless in the sand, staring up at the redwood porch; staring, Peter was sure, at him.
The sight of the man was no longer merely disconcerting, it was irritating. The first thought that came to Chancellor was that Aaron Sheffield had decided to put a watchdog on him. A great deal of money was now involved in Counterstrike! A great deal more had been offered under circumstances that raised disturbing questions.
Peter did not like watchdogs. Not this kind. He pulled back the drapes, slid open the door, and stepped out on the porch. The man stopped his pacing and again stood motionless in the sand.
They looked at each other and Peter’s doubts vanished. The man was there for him, waiting for him. Peter’s irritation turned into anger. He walked to the steps and down onto the beach. The man remained where he was, making no move toward him.
Goddamn you, thought Chancellor. There were very few people on this private area of Malibu; but if any were watching, the sight of the limping figure in slacks, naked above the waist, approaching a fully clothed man standing immobile in front of a beach house must have seemed odd. It was odd; the blond-haired stranger had a curious quality about him. He was pleasant-looking, a face clean-cut, even gentle in appearance. Yet there was something menacing about him. As he drew nearer, Chancellor realized what it was: the man’s eyes were aware. They were not the eyes of a subordinate watchdog hired by an anxious studio executive.
“It’s warm out here,” began Peter bluntly. “I can’t help asking myself why you’re walking around in the heat. Especially since you keep looking up at my house.”
“At your rented house, Mr. Chancellor.”
“Then, I think you’d better explain,” replied Peter, “since you know my name and, obviously, the conditions of my lease. It wouldn’t be because those who hired you are paying the rent?”
“No.”
“Score one for me. I didn’t think so. Now, you’ve got a choice. Either you satisfy my curiosity, or I call the police.”
“I want you to do more than that. You have sources in Washington. I want you to call one of them and check out my name in the personnel records of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
“The what!” Peter was stunned. The man’s words were spoken quietly, yet there was an undercurrent of urgency.
“I’m retired,” added the man quickly. “I’m not here in any official capacity. But my name’s in the bureau’s personnel records. Check it out.”
Chancellor stared at the man, apprehensive. “Why would I do that?”
“I’ve read your books.”
“That’s you, not me. It’s no reason.”
“I think it is. It’s why I went to a lot of trouble to find you.” The man hesitated, as if unsure of how to continue.
“Go on.”
“In each of your books you show that certain events may not have happened the way people think they did. An event took place less than a year ago that falls into that category.”
“What was it?”
“A man died. A very powerful man. They said he died of natural causes. He didn’t. He was assassinated.”
Peter stared at the stranger. “Go to the police.”
“I can’t. If you check me out, you’ll understand.”
“I’m a novelist. I write fiction. Why come to me?”
“I told you. I’ve read your books. I think that maybe the only way the story can be told is in a book. The kind you write.”
“Novels.” Peter did not ask a question.
“Yes.”
“Fiction.” Again it was a statement.
“Yes.”
“But you say it isn’t fiction. It’s fact; you imply it’s fact.”
“That’s what I believe. I’m not sure I can prove it.”
“And you can’t go to the police.”
“No.”
“Go to a newspaper. Find an investigative reporter. There are dozens of good ones.”
“No newspaper would handle this. Take my word for it.”
“Why the hell should I?”
“You might after you checked me out. My name is Alan Longworth. For twenty years I was a special agent for the FBI. I retired five months ago. My field office was in San Diego … and points north. I live now in Hawaii. On the island of Maui.”
“Longworth? Alan Longworth? Should the name mean anything to me?”
“That’s not remotely possible. Check me out. It’s all I ask.”
“Suppose I do. Then what?”
“I’ll come by tomorrow morning. If you want to talk further, fine. If not, I’ll leave.” Again the blond-haired man hesitated, the urgency now in his eyes as he spoke softly. “I’ve traveled a long way to find you. I’ve taken risks I shouldn’t have taken. I may have broken an agreement that could cost me my life. So I’ve got one more thing to ask you. I want your word on it.”
“Or else what?”
“Don’t check on me. Don’t do anything; forget I came out here, forget we spoke.”
“But you did come out here. We have spoken. It’s a little late for conditions.”
Longworth paused. “Haven’t you ever been frightened?” he asked. “No, I don’t imagine you have. Not this way. Strange, but you write about fear; you seem to understand it.”
“You don’t look like you frighten easily.”
“I don’t think I do. My record at the bureau might even confirm that.”
“What’s this condition?”
“Ask about me. Find out everything you can, say anything you want. But please don’t say we met; don’t repeat what I’ve told you.”
“That’s crazy. What am I supposed to say?”
“I’m sure you can think of something. You’re a writer.”
“That doesn’t necessarily mean I’m a good liar.”
“You travel a lot. You could say you heard about me in Hawaii. Please.”
Peter shifted his feet in the hot sand. Common sense told him to walk away from this man; there was something unhealthy about the controlled, intense face and the too-alert eyes. But his instincts would not permit his common sense its right of decision. “Who’s this man who died? The one you say was assassinated.”
“I won’t tell you that now. I will tomorrow if you want to talk further.”
“Why not now?”
“You’re a well-known writer. I’m sure a lot of people come up and tell you things that sound insane. You probably dismiss them quickly, as you should. I don’t want you to dismiss me. I want you convinced that I have a certain reasonable stature of my own.”
Peter listened. Longworth’s words made sense. During the past three years—since Reichstag!—people had pulled him over into corners at cocktail parties or slid into chairs across from him at restaurants to impart weird information they knew was right up his alley. The world was filled with conspiracies. And would-be conspirators.
“Fair enough,” said Chancellor. “Your name is Alan Longworth. You spent twenty years as a special agent; you retired five months ago, and you live in Hawaii.”
“Maui.”
“That would be listed in your file.”
At the mention of the word file, Longworth drew back. “Yes, it would be. In my file.”
“But then anyone might be able to learn the contents of a specific file. Give me something to identify you.”
“I wondered if you’d ask.”
“In my books I try to be convincing; it’s just step-by-step logic, with no spaces. You want me to be convinced, so fill the space.”
Longworth shifted his jacket from his right shoulder to his left, and with his right hand he undid the buttons of his shirt He pulled his shirt open. Across his chest, descending below the belt, was an ugly, curving scar. “I don’t think any of your blemishes can match this.”
Peter reacted to the words with a brief rush of anger. There was no point pursuing the statement. If Longworth was who he said he was, he had taken the time to gather his facts together. Undoubtedly, they included a great deal about the life of Peter Chancellor.
“What time will you be by in the morning?”
“What time’s convenient?”
“I get up early.”
“I’ll be here early.”
“Eight o’clock.”
“See you at eight.” Longworth turned and began walking down the beach.
Peter stood where he was and watched him, aware that the pain in his leg had disappeared. It had been there all day, but it was gone now. He would call Joshua Harris in New York. It was around four thirty in the East; there was still time. There was a lawyer in Washington, a mutual friend, who could get the information on Alan Longworth. Josh once jokingly said that the attorney should demand royalties for Counterstrike!, so helpful had he been in Chancellor’s research.
As Peter climbed up the porch steps, he found himself hurrying. It was a strangely gratifying sensation, and he could not really account for it.
An event took place less than a year ago.… A man died. A very powerful man. They said he died of natural causes. He didn’t. He was assassinated.…
Peter rushed across the porch toward the glass doors and the telephone inside.
The morning sky was angry. Dark clouds hung over the ocean; the rain would come soon. Chancellor was dressed for it, had been dressed for over an hour; he wore a nylon jacket above his khaki trousers. It was seven forty-five—ten forty-five in New York. Joshua had promised to call by seven thirty—ten thirty back East. What was the delay? Longworth would be there by eight.
Peter poured himself another cup of coffee, his fifth of the morning.
The telephone rang.
“You picked a strange one, Peter,” said Harris in New York.
“Why do you say that?”
“According to our friend in Washington, this Alan Longworth did what no one expected him to do. He retired at the wrong time.”
“Did he have his twenty years?”
“Just barely.”
“That’s enough for a pension, isn’t it?”
“Sure. If you supplement it with another salary. He hasn’t, but that’s not the point.”
“What is?”
“Longworth had an exceptional record. Most important, he was singled out by Hoover himself for high-echelon advancement. Hoover personally attached a handwritten favorable recommendation to his file. You’d think he’d want to stay on.”
“On the other hand, with that kind of record he could probably get a hell of a job on the outside. A lot of FBI men do. Maybe he’s working for someone, and the bureau doesn’t know it.”
“Not likely. They keep extensive files on retired agents. And if he was, why does he live on Maui? There’s not much activity there. At any rate, there’s no listing of a current employer. He doesn’t do anything.”
Peter stared out the window; a light rain began to fall from the dark sky. “Do the other items check out?”
“Yes,” answered Harris. “His field office was San Diego. Apparently, he was Hoover’s personal liaison with La Jolla.”
“La Jolla? What does that mean?”
“It was Hoover’s favorite retreat. Longworth was in charge of all communications.”
“What about the scar?”
“It’s listed under identifying marks, but there’s no explanation, and that’s where we come to the strangest part of his file. His last medical records are missing, the last two annual checkups. It’s very unusual.”
“It’s very incomplete,” mused Peter out loud. “The whole thing.”
“Exactly,” agreed Joshua.
“When did he retire?”
“Last March. On the second.”
Chancellor paused, struck by the date. Over the past several years, dates had come to have special meanings for him. He had trained himself to look for consistencies and inconsistencies where dates were concerned. What was it now? Why did the date bother him?
Through the kitchen windows he saw the figure of Alan Longworth walking across the beach in the rain toward the house. For some reason the sight triggered another image. Of himself. On the sand in bright sunlight. And a newspaper.
May second. J. Edgar Hoover had died on the second of May.
A man died. A very powerful man. They said he died of natural causes. He didn’t. He was assassinated.
“Jesus Christ,” said Peter quietly into the telephone.
They walked along the beach by the water through the drizzle. Longworth would not talk inside the house, nor within any enclosure that might contain electronic surveillance. He was too experienced for that.
“Did you check me out?” asked the blond-haired man.
“You knew I would,” said Peter. “I just got off the phone.”
“Are you satisfied?”
“That you are who you say you are, yes. That you had a good record, your abilities personally recognized by Hoover himself, and that you retired five months ago—yes to all that, too.”
“I didn’t mention any personal endorsements from Hoover.”
“They’re there.”
“Of course they are. I worked directly for him.”
“You were based in San Diego, as you said. You were his liaison to—or with—La Jolla.”
Longworth smiled grimly, with no humor. “I spent more time in Washington than I ever spent in San Diego. Or La Jolla. You won’t find that in my bureau record.”
“Why not?”
“Because the director didn’t want it known.”
“Again, why not?”
“I told you. I worked for him. Personally.”
“In what way?”
“With his files. His private files. I was a messenger. La Jolla meant a lot more than the name of a village on the Pacific coast.”
“That’s too cryptic for me.”
The blond man stopped. “That’s the way it’s going to remain. Anything more you find out will have to come from someone else.”
“Now you’re arrogant. What makes you think I’ll look?”
“Because you can’t understand why I retired. Nobody could; it didn’t make sense. I have a minimum pension with no additional income. Had I remained with the bureau, I might have become an assistant, even an associate, director.”
Longworth started walking again. Peter kept pace, no pain whatsoever in his leg. “All right, why did you retire? Why don’t you have a job?”
“The truth is that I didn’t retire. I was transferred to another government post and given certain guarantees. My employer of record—a record you’ll never find in any file—is the State Department. Foreign Service, Pacific operations. Six thousand miles from Washington. If I had stayed in Washington, I would have been killed.”
“All right, hold it!” Chancellor stopped. “I’ve got a damned good idea what you’re leading up to, and I’m getting sick of the bullshit. You’re implying that J. Edgar Hoover was murdered. He’s the ‘powerful man’ you meant.”
“You pieced it together, then,” said the agent.
“It’s a pretty logical conclusion, and I don’t believe it for a minute. It’s ridiculous.”
“I didn’t say I could prove it.”
“I would hope not. It’s preposterous. He was an old man with a history of heart trouble.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. I never knew anyone who ever saw his medical records. The originals were sent directly to him, and no copies were allowed. He had ways of enforcing those demands. No autopsy was permitted on his body.”
“He was over seventy.” Peter shook his head in disgust. “You’ve got one hell of an imagination.”
“Isn’t that what novels are all about? Don’t you start with a concept? An idea?”
“Granted. But the kind I write have got to be at least credible. There’s got to be some basic reality, or the appearance of it.”
“If by reality you mean facts, there are several.”
“Name them.”
“The first is myself. Last March I was approached by a group of people who wouldn’t be identified but who were influential enough to move the highest, most classified wheels at the State Department and effect a transfer that Hoover would never have permitted. Even I don’t know how they did it. They were concerned with certain information Hoover had compiled. Dossiers on several thousand subjects.”
“These were the same people who gave you the guarantees? For those services rendered you won’t elaborate on?”
“Yes. I think—I can’t be sure—but I think I know the identity of one of them. I’m willing to give it to you.” Longworth stopped; he was, again, as he had been yesterday, uncertain. The urgency returned to his eyes.
“Go ahead,” said Chancellor impatiently.
“I have your word that you’ll never use my name with him?”
“Goddamn it, yes. To be honest with you, I have an idea we’ll say good-bye in a few minutes and I won’t even think of you.”
“Have you ever heard of Daniel Sutherland?”
Peter’s expression conveyed his astonishment. Daniel Sutherland was a giant, both figuratively and literally. A huge black man whose extraordinary accomplishments matched his enormous size. A man who had crawled his way out of the squalor of the Alabama fields a half century ago, and climbed to the highest circles of the nation’s judicial system. He had twice refused presidential appointments to the Supreme Court, preferring the more active bench. “The judge?”
“Yes.”
“Of course. Who hasn’t? Why do you think he was one of the group who made contact with you?”
“I saw his name on a State Department tracer about me. I wasn’t supposed to see it, but I did. Go to him. Ask him if there was a group of men concerned about the last two years of Hoover’s life.”
The request was irresistible. The stories about Sutherland were legend. Peter now took Alan Longworth far more seriously than he had only seconds ago.
“I may do that. What are the other facts?”
“There’s only one that really counts. The rest are minor compared to it. Except perhaps one other man. A general named MacAndrew. General Bruce MacAndrew.”
“Who’s he?”
“Until recently, a man very high at the Pentagon. He had everything going for him; Chairman of the Joint Chiefs was probably his for a nod of the head. Suddenly, without any apparent reason he threw it all away. Uniform, career, Joint Chiefs, everything.”
“Not unlike you in a way,” ventured Chancellor. “On a somewhat grander scale, perhaps.”
“Very unlike me,” replied Longworth. “I have information about MacAndrew. Let’s say it goes back to those services rendered. Something happened to him twenty-one, twenty-two years ago. No one apparently knows what—or if they do, they’re not saying—but it was serious enough to have been removed from his service record. Eight months in 1950 or ’51, that’s all I remember. It could be tied in with that one single overriding fact—your basic fact, Chancellor—and that scares the hell out of me.”
“What is it?”
“Hoover’s private files. MacAndrew could be part of them. Over three thousand dossiers, a cross-section of the country. Government, industry, the universities, the military; from the most powerful to those lower down. You may hear otherwise, but I’m telling you the truth. Those files are missing, Chancellor. Since Hoover’s death they’ve never been found. Someone’s got them, and now that someone’s using them.”
Peter started at Longworth. “Hoover’s files? That’s insane.”
“Think about it. That’s my theory. Whoever has those files killed Hoover to get them. You’ve checked me out; I’ve given you two names to reach. I don’t care what you say to MacAndrew, but you’ve given your word not to mention me to the judge. And I don’t want anything from you. I just want you to think about it, that’s all. Think about the possibilities.”
Without indicating he had finished, without a nod or a gesture, Longworth turned and, as he had the day before, walked away across the beach. Stunned, Peter stood in the light rain and watched as the retired FBI man broke into a run toward the road.