The immense figure of Daniel Sutherland stood at the far end of his chambers, in front of the bookshelves. He was in profile, tortoise-shell glasses on his enormous head, a heavy book in his massive black hands. He turned and spoke; his voice deep, resonant, and warmly pleasant.
“Precedents, Mr. Chancellor. The law is all too often governed by precedents, which in themselves are all too often imperfect.” Sutherland smiled, closed the book, and replaced it carefully in the shelf. He walked to Peter, his hand extended. In spite of his age he moved with assurance, with dignity. “My son and granddaughter are avid readers of yours. They were most impressed that you were coming to see me. It’s my loss that I haven’t yet had the opportunity to read your books.”
“I’m the one who’s impressed, sir,” replied Peter, meaning it, his hand enveloped. “Thank you for granting me an appointment. I won’t take up much of your time.”
Sutherland smiled, releasing Peter’s hand, putting him immediately at ease. He indicated one chair among several around a conference table. “Please sit down.”
“Thank you.” Peter waited until the judge had selected his own chair three places away at the end of the table. They both sat.
“Now, what can I do for you?” Sutherland leaned back, the expression on his dark face was kind and not without a tinge of humor. “I admit to being fascinated. You told my secretary it was a personal matter, yet we’ve never met.”
“It’s difficult to know where to begin.”
“At the risk of offending your writer’s sense of cliché, why not at the beginning?”
“That’s just it. I don’t know the beginning. I’m not sure there is one. And if there is, you may feel strongly that I have no right to know about it.”
“Then, I’ll tell you, won’t I?”
Peter nodded. “I met a man. I can’t say who he is or where we met. He mentioned your name with respect to a small group of influential people here in Washington. He said this group had been formed several years ago for the express purpose of monitoring the activities of J. Edgar Hoover. He said he believed you were the man responsible for this group’s existence. I’d like to ask you if it’s true.”
Sutherland did not move. His large dark eyes, magnified by the lenses of his glasses, were expressionless. “Did this man mention any other names?”
“No, sir. Not related to the group. He said he didn’t know of anyone else.”
“May I ask how my name surfaced?”
“Are you saying it’s true, then?”
“I’d appreciate your answering my question first.”
Peter thought for a moment. As long as he did not name Longworth, he could answer the question. “He saw it on something he called a tracer. Apparently it meant that you were to receive specific information.”
“About what?”
“About him, I imagine. Also about those people known to have been placed under negative surveillance by Hoover.”
The judge breathed deeply. “The man you spoke with is named Longworth. A former field agent, Alan Longworth, currently listed as an employee of the State Department.”
Chancellor tensed the muscles of his stomach in an effort to conceal his astonishment. “I couldn’t comment on that,” he said inadequately.
“You don’t have to,” replied Sutherland. “Did Mr. Longworth also tell you that he was the special agent in charge of this negative surveillance?”
“The man I spoke with made reference to that. But only a reference.”
“Then, let me amplify.” The judge shifted his position in the chair. “To answer your initial question. Yes, there was such a group of concerned individuals, and I stress the tense. Was. As to my participation, it was minor and limited to certain legal aspects of the issue.”
“I don’t understand, sir. What issue?”
“Mr. Hoover had a regrettable fecundity when it came to making unsubstantiated charges. Worse, he often cloaked them in innuendo, using provocative generalities against which there was little legal recourse. It was an unforgivable lapse of judgment, considering his position.”
“So this group of concerned men—?”
“And women, Mr. Chancellor,” interrupted Sutherland.
“And women,” continued Peter, “was formed to protect the victims of Hoover’s attacks.”
“Basically, yes. In his later years he could be vicious. He saw enemies everywhere. Good men would be let go, the reasons obscured. Later, often months later, the director’s hand was revealed. We were trying to stem this tide of abuse.”
“Would you tell me who else was in this group?”
“Of course not.” Sutherland removed his glasses and held a stem delicately between the fingers of his hand. “Suffice it to say, they were people capable of raising strong objections, voices that could not be overlooked.”
“This man you spoke of, this retired field agent—?”
“I didn’t say retired.” Again Sutherland interrupted. “I said former.”
Peter hesitated, accepting the rebuke. “You said this former field agent was in charge of surveillance?”
“Certain specific surveillances. Hoover was impressed with Longworth. He placed him in the position of coordinating the data on individuals with proven or potential antipathy to the bureau, or Hoover himself. The list was extensive.”
“But he obviously stopped working for Hoover.” Once more Chancellor paused. He was not sure how to ask the question. “You just said he was now employed by the State Department. If so, he was separated from the bureau under very unusual circumstances.”
Sutherland replaced his glasses, letting his hand drop to his chin. “I know what you’re asking. Tell me, what’s the point of your visit this afternoon?”
“I’m trying to make up my mind whether there’s a basis for a book on Hoover’s last year. On his death, frankly.”
The judge’s hand dropped to his lap; he sat completely still, looking at Peter. “I’m not sure I understand. Why come to me?”
It was Peter’s turn to smile. “The kind of novels I write require a certain credibility. They’re fiction, of course, but I try to use as much recognizable fact as I can. Before I start a book, I talk to a great many people; I try to get a feeling for the conflicts.”
“Obviously you’re very successful with the approach. My son approves of your conclusions; he was very firm about that last night.” Sutherland leaned forward, his forearms on the conference table. The trace of humor returned to his eyes. “And I approve of my son’s judgment. He’s a fine lawyer, albeit a little strident in the courtroom. You do respect confidences, don’t you, Mr. Chancellor?”
“Of course.”
“And identities. But of course again. You won’t admit you talked to Alan Longworth.”
“I would never use a person’s name unless he gave me permission.”
“Legally I’d suggest that you not.” Sutherland smiled. “I feel as though I’m part of a creation.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
“Neither would the Bible.” Again, the judge leaned back in his chair. “Very well. It’s past history now. And not particularly extraordinary; it’s done every day in Washington. An inherent part of the checks and balances of our government, I sometimes think.” Sutherland stopped and raised his right palm delicately toward Peter. “Should you use any part of what I tell you, you must do so with discretion remembering that the objective was a decent one.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Last March Alan Longworth was offered early retirement from one branch of the government, and under cover he was shifted to another. The shift took place in such a way as to remove him from the bureau’s scrutiny altogether. The reasons were self-evident. When we learned that Longworth was the coordinator of this negative surveillance—a very apt phrase, by the way—we showed him the dangers of Hoover’s abuses. He cooperated; for two months he pored over hundreds of names, recalling which were included and what the damaging information was. He traveled extensively, alerting those we thought should be warned. Until Hoover’s death Longworth was our deterrent, our defensive weapon, as it were. He was very effective.”
Peter was beginning to understand the strange, blond-haired man in Malibu. There had to be conflicting loyalties in the man; the agent must have been torn with guilt. It explained his odd behavior, the sudden accusations, the abrupt retreats.
“When Hoover died, this man’s job was finished, then?”
“Yes. With Hoover’s sudden, and I must say, unexpected death there was no further need for such a defensive operation. It ended with his funeral.”
“What happened to him?”
“It’s my understanding that he’s been compensated handsomely. The State Department transferred him to what I believe is referred to as soft duty. He’s living out his tenure in pleasant surroundings with a minimum work load.”
Peter watched Sutherland closely. He had to ask the question; there was no reason not to now. “What would you say if I told you my informant questioned Hoover’s death?”
“Death is death. How can it be questioned?”
“The way he died. By natural causes.”
“Hoover was an old man. A sick man. I’d say Longworth—you won’t use his name, but I will—might be suffering from intense psychological pressures. Remorse, guilt—it wouldn’t be unusual. He had a personal relationship with Hoover. Perhaps he now feels he betrayed him.”
“That’s what I was thinking.”
“Then, what troubles you?”
“Something this man I talked with said. He said Hoover’s private files were never found. They disappeared with Hoover’s death.”
There was a flash of something—Chancellor did not know what; anger, perhaps—in the Negro’s eyes. “They were destroyed. All of Hoover’s personal papers were shredded and burned. We’ve been assured of that.”
“By whom?”
“That information I can’t possibly give you. We are satisfied; that much I can tell you.”
“But what if they weren’t destroyed?”
Daniel Sutherland returned Peter’s gaze. “It would be an extraordinary complication. One I would not care to dwell on,” he said firmly. Then the smile returned. “But it’s hardly a possibility.”
“Why not?”
“Because we’d know about it, wouldn’t we?”
Peter was disturbed. For the first time Sutherland did not sound convincing.
He had to be careful, Peter reminded himself as he walked down the steps of the courthouse. He was not looking for concrete facts, merely credibility. That’s what he was after. Supportive events ripped out of context and used to bridge the inevitable gap between reality and fantasy.
He could do it now. Daniel Sutherland had given him the answer to the basic enigma: Alan Longworth. The judge had explained the federal agent with perceptive simplicity. It was contained in the single word remorse. Longworth had turned against his mentor, the director who had awarded him the most confidential of assignments and written personal commendations on his service record. It was natural for Longworth to feel guilty, to want to strike back at those who had induced his betrayal. What better way than to question that death?
Knowing this freed Peter’s imagination. It removed whatever obligation he might have felt toward Longworth. The concept could be accepted for what it was: a fascinating idea for a book. Nothing more was needed. It was a game, a goddamned game; and the writer in Chancellor was beginning to enjoy it.
He stepped off the curb and hailed a passing cab. “The Hay-Adams Hotel,” he directed.
“I’m sorry, sir, it’s an unlisted number,” said the telephone operator in that peculiar condescension the Bell System reserved for such information.
“I see. Thank you.” Peter hung up and leaned back on the pillows. He was not surprised; he had not been able to find MacAndrew’s name in the Rockville, Maryland, directory. A Washington reporter he knew had told him the retired general lived in a rented house far out in the country, had lived there for several years.
But Chancellor was not a newspaperman’s son for nothing. He sat up and opened the telephone book at his side. He found the name he was looking for and dialed nine and then the number.
“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.”
“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.”
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 all 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.