Peter walked into the office, nodding his thanks to the uniformed guard, who closed the door and left. Behind the desk in front of the window a stocky man with reddish brown hair got to his feet and extended his hand. Chancellor approached and took it; the grip was strange. It was cold, physically cold, and abrupt.
“I’m Senior Agent O’Brien, Mr. Chancellor. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that your coming here at this hour is highly irregular.”
“The circumstances are irregular.”
“You sure you don’t want the police? Our jurisdiction is limited.”
“I want you.”
“Whatever it is can’t wait until morning?” asked O’Brien, still standing.
“No.”
“I see. Sit down, please.” The agent gestured to one of the two chairs in front of the desk.
Peter hesitated. “I’d prefer to stand, at least for now. To tell you the truth, I’m very nervous.”
“Suit yourself.” OBrien returned to his chair. “At least take your overcoat off. That is, if you intend to be here long.”
“I may be here for the rest of the night,” said Chancellor, removing his coat and draping it over a chair.
“I wouldn’t count on it,” said O’Brien, watching him.
“I’ll let you decide. Is that fair?”
“I’m an attorney, Mr. Chancellor. Elliptical responses, especially when phrased as questions, are pointless and irritating. They also bore me.”
Peter stopped and looked at the man. “An attorney? I thought you said you were an agent. A senior agent”
“I did. Most of us are lawyers. Or accountants.”
“I forgot.”
“Now I’ve reminded you. But I can’t imagine it’s pertinent.”
“No, it isn’t,” replied Chancellor, forcing his concentration back to the issue. “I’ve got a story to tell you, Mr. O’Brien. When I’m finished, IH go with you to whoever you think should hear it, and repeat it. But I have to start at the beginning; it won’t make sense otherwise. Before I do, I’d like to ask you to make a telephone call.”
“Wait a minute,” interrupted the agent. “You came here voluntarily and refused our suggestion that you return in the morning for a formal appointment. I won’t accept any preconditions, and I won’t make any phone calls.”
“I’ve a good reason for asking you to.”
“If it’s a precondition, I’m not interested. Come back in the morning.”
“I can’t. Among other reasons, there’s a man flying in from Indianapolis who says he’s going to kill me.”
“Go to the police.”
“Is that all you can say? That, and ‘Come back in the morning’?”
The agent leaned back in his chair; his eyes conveyed his growing suspicion. “You wrote a book called Counterstrike!, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but that’s not—”
“I remember now,” interrupted O’Brien. “It came out last year. A lot of people thought it was true; a lot of other people were upset. You said the CIA was operating domestically.”
“I happen to think it’s true.”
“I see,” continued the agent warily. “Last year it was the agency. Is it the FBI this year? You come off the street in the middle of the night trying to provoke us into doing something you can write about?”
Peter gripped the back of the chair. “I won’t deny it started with a book. With the idea of a book. But it’s gone way beyond that. People have been killed. Tonight I was nearly killed; so was the person with me. It’s all connected.”
“I repeat emphatically. Go to the police.”
“I want you to call the police.”
“Why?”
“So you’ll believe me. Because it concerns people here at the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I think you’re the only ones who can stop it.”
O’Brien leaned forward, still wary, but aroused. “Stop what?”
Chancellor hesitated. He had to appear rational to this suspicious man. If the agent thought he was a lunatic—even half a lunatic—he’d throw him to the police. Peter did not reject the police; they were protection and he welcomed them. But the solution did not lie with the police. It lay within the bureau. He spoke as calmly as he could.
“Stop the killing, that’s first, of course. Then stop the terror tactics, the extortion, the blackmail. People are being destroyed.”
“By whom?”
“By others who think they have information that could irreparably damage the FBI.”
O’Brien remained motionless. “What’s the nature of this ‘irreparable damage’?”
“It’s found in the theory that Hoover was assassinated.”
O’Brien stiffened. “I see. And this phone call to the police. What’s that about?”
“An old house on Thirty-fifth Street Northwest, near Wisconsin, behind Dumbarton Oaks. It was burning when I left several hours ago. I set it on fire.”
The agent’s eyes widened, his voice urgent. “That’s quite an admission. As a lawyer I think you should”
“If the police look,” continued Peter, overriding O’Brien’s urgency, “they’ll find shells on the front lawn, bullet holes in the walls and woodwork as well as the furniture, and the upper half of the kitchen door smashed. Also, the telephone wires were cut.”
The FBI man stared at Chancellor. “What the hell are you saying?”
“It was an ambush.”
“Weapons were fired in the middle of a residential neighborhood?”
“The gunshots were muffled by silencers. No one heard anything. There were periods of quiet—probably for passing cars. That’s why I thought of the fire. The flames would be spotted by someone.”
“You left the scene?”
“I ran away. Now I’m sorry I did.”
“Why did you?”
Again Peter hesitated. “I was confused. Frightened.”
“The person with you?”
“That’s part of it, I imagine.” Chancellor paused, seeing the obvious question in the agent’s eyes. For a hundred reasons he could not protect her. As Phyllis herself had put it, whatever her transgressions, they did not warrant the loss of life. “Her name is Phyllis Maxwell.”
“Yes. She ran first. I tried to find her. I couldn’t.”
“You said this all happened several hours ago. Do you know where she is now?”
“Yes. On a plane.” Peter reached into his jacket pocket and took out Phyllis’s letter. Reluctantly, but knowing he had to, he handed it to O’Brien.
As O’Brien read, Peter had the distinct impression that something was happening to the FBI man. For a moment the color seemed to drain from his face. At one point he raised his eyes and stared at Peter; the look he conveyed Chancellor knew well, but he did not understand it coming from this stranger. It was a look of fear.
When he was finished, the agent put the letter face down, reached for a booklet on his desk, opened it to a specific page, and picked up his telephone. He pressed a button and dialed.
“This is the FBI, one of the night-duty officers, emergency code, seven-five-sparrow. There was a fire at a house on Thirty-fifth Northwest. Near Wisconsin. Do you have anyone on the scene?… Can you patch me through to the officer in charge? Thank you.” O’Brien looked up at Peter. He spoke curtly; it was not a request but an order. “Sit down.”
Chancellor did so, vaguely realizing that in spite of the agent’s commanding tone, the strange fear he had seen in O’Brien’s eyes was now in his voice.
“Sergeant, this is the FBI.” The agent shifted the phone to his right hand. Bewildered, Peter saw that the palm of O’Brien’s left hand, the hand that had been holding the telephone, was moist with sweat. “You’ve received my clearance. I want to ask you a couple of questions. Is there any evidence as to how the fire was started, and are there any signs of gunshots? Cartridge shells in front or bullet holes inside?”
The agent listened, his eyes riveted on the desk, staring at nothing, really, but staring intently. Chancellor watched him, mesmerized. O’Brien’s forehead broke out in small beads of perspiration. Absently, his breath suspended, the FBI man raised his left hand and wiped the sweat away. When finally he spoke, he was barely audible.
“Thank you, Sergeant. No, it’s not our basket. We don’t know anything, just following up an anonymous lead. It’s got nothing to do with us.”
O’Brien hung up. He was profoundly disturbed; there was a sudden sadness in his eyes.
“As near as can be determined,” O’Brien said, “the fire was deliberately set. Remnants of fabric soaked with kerosene were found. There were shells on the lawn, windows shot out; there’s every reason to expect bullets impacted throughout the interior—what’s left of it. Everything will be sent to the laboratories.”
Peter sat forward. Something was wrong. “Why did you tell the sergeant you didn’t know anything?”
The agent swallowed. “Because I want to hear what you have to say. You’ve told me it concerns the bureau; some crazy theory about Hoover being murdered. That’s enough for me. I’m a career man. I want to hear it first. I can always pick up the phone and call that precinct back.”
O’Brien gave his explanation in a flat, quiet voice. It was reasonable, thought Chancellor. Everything he had learned about the bureau pointed to the fact that the bottom line was public relations. Avoid embarrassment at all costs. Protect the Seat of Government. Phyllis Maxwell’s words came back to him.
The story hasn’t been told. I don’t think it ever will be.… The bureau will protect him.… The heirs apparent won’t let the image be tarnished. They fear infected bloodlines, and they damned well should.
Yes, reflected Chancellor. O’Brien fitted the mold. His burden was the heaviest because he was the first to hear the extraordinary news. Something was very rotten in the bureau, and this agent would have to carry the message of that rot to his superiors. His dilemma was understandable: Messengers were often held accountable for their reports of catastrophe; the bloodlines could be infected after all. It was no wonder that this career man perspired.
But nothing in his imagination prepared Peter for what followed.
“To go back to the beginning,” said Chancellor. “I was on the West Coast four, five months ago, living in Malibu. It was late afternoon; a man was on the beach staring up at my house. I went out and asked him why. He knew me; he said his name was Longworth.”
O’Brien bolted forward in his chair, his eyes locked with Peter’s. His lips formed the name, but only a shadow of sound emerged. “Longworth!”
“Yes, Longworth. You know who he is, then.”
“Go on,” the agent whispered.
Peter sensed the cause of O’Brien’s shock. Alan Longworth had betrayed Hoover, defected from the bureau. Somehow the word had gotten out. But Hoover was dead, the defector half a world away—the stain removed. Now Senior Agent O’Brien had to bear the news that the vanished Longworth had surfaced. In a strange way Chancellor felt sorry for this middle-aged career man.
“Longworth said he wanted to talk to me because he’d read my books. He had a story to tell, and he thought I was the one to write it I told him I wasn’t looking for anything. Then he made that extraordinary statement about Hoover’s death, linking it to some private files of Hoover’s that were missing. He told me to check out his name; I have sources to do that, and he knew it. I know it sounds crazy, but I bit God knows I didn’t believe it; Hoover was an old man with a history of heart disease. But the concept fascinated me. And the fact that this Longworth would go to the trouble of—”
O’Brien got out of his chair. He stood behind the desk looking down at Peter, his eyes burning. “Longworth. The files. Who sent you to me? Who are you? Who the hell am I to you?”
“What?”
“You expect me to believe this? You walk off the street in the middle of the night and tell this to me! For Christ’s sake, what do you want from me? What more do you want?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Chancellor, stunned. “I never saw you before in my life.”
“Salter and Krepps! Go on, say it! Salter and Krepps! They were there, too!”
“Who are Salter and Krepps? Where were they?”
O’Brien turned away. He was breathing rapidly. “You know where they were. Unassigned field covers. Longworth in the Hawaiian Islands.”
“He lives in Maui,” agreed Peter. “They paid him off that way. I don’t know the other two names; he never mentioned them. Were they working with Longworth?”
O’Brien stood motionless, his body rigid. Slowly he turned back to Chancellor, his eyes narrowed. “Working with Longworth?” he asked, barely above a whisper. “What do you mean, ‘working with Longworth’?”
“Just that. Longworth was transferred from the bureau. His cover was an assignment with the State Department. But it was never true. It was only an accommodation. I’ve learned that much. What amazes me is that you people even know about Longworth.”
The senior agent continued to stare in silence. His frightened eyes widened. “You’re clean …”
“What?”
“You’re clean. You walk in off the goddamned streets and you’re clean!”
“What do you mean, I’m clean?”
“Because you wouldn’t have told me what you just did. You’d be crazy to. A deep-cover accommodation that’s false. With State.… Oh, Christ.” O’Brien was like a man in a trance, aware of his state of suspension but incapable of shaking it. He braced himself against the desk, the fingers of both hands pressed into the wood. He closed his eyes.
Peter was alarmed. “Maybe you’d better take me to someone else.”
“No. Wait a minute. Please.”
“I don’t think so.” Peter got out of the chair. “As you said, this isn’t your ‘basket.’ I want to talk to one of the other night-duty officers.”
“There aren’t any others.”
“You said on the phone—”
“I know what I said! Try to understand. You have to talk to me. You’ve got to tell me everything you know. Every detail!”
Never, thought Peter. There’d be no mention of Alison; she was not going to be touched. Nor was he yet sure he wanted to talk further with this strangely disturbed man. “I want others to hear what I have to say.”
O’Brien blinked several times. The trance was broken; he walked swiftly to a shelf on the other side of the room, pulled out a cassette recorder, and returned to the desk. He sat down and opened a bottom drawer. When his hand emerged, it held a small plastic box in which there was a cassette tape.
“The seal’s unbroken; the tape is unused. I’ll play it through if you like.” The agent snapped the box open, removed the cassette, and inserted it. “You have my word. Others will hear what you have to say.”
“A tape won’t do.”
“You’ve got to trust me,” said O’Brien. “Whatever you think of my behavior these past few minutes, you’ve got to trust me. You can only tell your story on tape. And don’t identify yourself. Describe yourself as a writer, that’s all. Use all the other names involved except those associated with you personally or professionally. If that becomes impossible, if those people are intrinsic to the events, hold up your hand; I’ll stop the tape, and we’ll talk about it. Have you got that?”
“No.” Chancellor balked. “Now you just wait a minute. This isn’t what I came here for.”
“You came here to put a stop to it! That’s what you told me. Stop the killing, stop the terror, stop the blackmail. Well, I want the same thing! You’re not the only one who’s been pushed to the fucking wall! Or this Maxwell woman or any of you. Christ, I’ve got a wife and family!”
Peter recoiled, stung by O’Brien’s words. “What did you say?”
Self-consciously, the FBI man lowered his voice. “I have a family. It’s not important, forget it.”
“I think it’s very important,” said Peter. “I don’t think I can ever tell you how important it is to me right now.”
“Don’t bother,” interrupted O’Brien. He was abruptly the complete professional. “Because I’m doing the telling. Remember what I said: Don’t identify yourself, but use the names of everyone else who approached you or you were sent to—people not known to you previously. Give the other names to me later, but not on the tape. I don’t want you traced. Speak slowly; think about what you’re saying. If you have any doubts, just look at me; I’ll know. I’m going to start now. Give me a moment to identify myself and the circumstances.”
O’Brien depressed two buttons on the small recorder and spoke in a clipped, hard voice.
“This tape is being prepared by Senior Agent C. Quinlan O’Brien, Eye-dent clearance seventeen-twelve, on the night of December eighteenth at approximately twenty-three hundred hours. The man you will hear was escorted to the night-duty office. I have removed his name from the security logs and informed the desk agent to report to me any and all inquiries, under the aforementioned seventeen-twelve in-house clearance.” O’Brien paused, picked up a pencil, and scribbled a note to himself on a pad. “I consider the information on this tape to be of the highest priority of classification and for reasons of security can accept no interference. I fully understand the irregularity of the methods I employ and—for personal reasons—fully assume responsibility.”
The agent stopped the machine and looked at Peter. “Ready? Start last summer. At Malibu and your meeting with Longworth.” He pressed the buttons; the tape rolled.
Through the mists of disbelief Chancellor began, speaking slowly, trying to follow the instructions of this man he suddenly, strangely knew so well. This man who was somehow a part of his own invention. C. Quinlan O’Brien. Alexander Meredith. Attorney. Attorney. The bureau. The bureau. A wife and family.… A wife and family …
Frightened men.
O’Brien was visibly shaken as the story unfolded, both stunned and disturbed by the incidents Peter described. Whenever he mentioned Hoover’s private files, the agent tensed and his hands shook.
When Peter came to Phyllis’s description of the horrible, flat, high-pitched whisper over the telephone, O’Brien could not conceal his reaction. He gasped, his neck arched back, his eyes closed.
Peter stopped; the tape continued rolling. There was silence. O’Brien opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling. Slowly he turned to Chancellor.
“Go on,” he said.
“There isn’t much more. You read her letter.”
“Yes. Yes, I read the letter. Describe what happened. The gunshots, the fire. Why you ran away.”
Peter did. And then it was over. He had said it all Or nearly all. He had not mentioned Alison.
O’Brien stopped the tape, rewound it for a few seconds, and played the last words back for clarity. Satisfied, he shut off the machine.
“All right. You’ve put down what you wanted to. Now, tell me the rest.”
“What?”
“I asked you to trust me, but you haven’t told it all. You were writing in Pennsylvania; suddenly you came to Washington. Why? According to you, your research was completed. You ran away from a burning house on Thirty-fifth Street nearly five hours ago. You got here two hours ago. Where were you for three hours? With whom? Fill in the gaps, Chancellor. They’re important.”
“No. That’s not part of our bargain.”
“What bargain? Protection?” Angrily, O’Brien got to his feet. “You damned fool, how can I offer protection if I don’t know whom to protect? And don’t kid yourself, protection is the bargain. Besides, it would take me—or anyone who really wanted to—roughly an hour to trace every move you made since you left Pennsylvania.”
The agent’s logic was undeniable. Chancellor had the feeling that he was an ill-equipped amateur facing a hardened professional. “I don’t want her part of this. I want your word on that. She’s been through enough.”
“So have we all,” replied O’Brien. “Did she receive a telephone call?”
“No. But you did, didn’t you?”
“I’m asking the questions.” The agent sat down again. “Tell me about her.”
Peter told the dark, sad story of Lieutenant General Bruce MacAndrew, his wife, and the daughter who was forced to grow up so early in her life. He described the isolated house on the back-country road in Maryland. And the words sprayed in blood-red paint on a wall: Mac the Knife. Killer of Chasǒng.
Quinn O’Brien closed his eyes and said softly, “Han Chow.”
“Is that Korea?”
“Different war. Same method of extortion: military records that never reached the Pentagon Of if they did, were removed. And now someone else has them.”
Peter held his breath. “Are you talking about Hoover’s files?”
O’Brien stared at him without replying. Chancellor felt torn apart; the insanity was complete.
“They were shredded,” whispered Peter, unsure of his own mind. “They were destroyed! What the hell are you trying to tell me? This is a book! None of it’s real! You have to protect your goddamned bureau! But not this! Not the files!”
O’Brien stood up, raising the palms of his hands. It was a reassuring gesture, a father calming an hysterical child. “Take it easy. I didn’t say anything about Hoover’s files. You’ve been through a lot tonight, and you’re making assumptions. For a second I did, too. But it’s wrong. Two isolated incidents involving military records hardly constitute a pattern. Those files were destroyed. We know that”
“What’s Han Chow?”
“Not pertinent.”
“A minute ago you thought it was.”
“A minute ago a lot of thoughts went through my head. But things are clear now. You’re right. Someone’s using you. And me and probably a couple of dozen others to tear the bureau apart. Someone who knows us, knows the working structure. Very possibly it’s one of us. It wouldn’t be the first time.”
Peter studied the FBI man. Since Hoover’s death there had been rumors, many reported in the newspapers, that factions within the bureau were fighting among themselves. And Quinn’s intelligence and sincerity were convincing.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “You scared hell out of me.”
“You’ve got every right to be scared. Much more than I do. Nobody’s fired a gun at me.” O’Brien smiled reassuringly. “But that’s all over with. I’ll find men to stay with you around the clock.”
Chancellor returned the smile weakly. “Whoever they are, I hope they’re the best you’ve got. I don’t mind telling you, I’ve never been so frightened in my life.”
The smile disappeared from O’Brien’s face. “Whoever they are, they won’t be from the bureau.”
“Oh? Why not?”
“I don’t know who to trust.”
“Then, apparently you know there are people you can’t trust. Anyone in particular?”
“More than one. There’s a pack of extremists here. We know some of them, not all. They’re loosely called the Hoover Group. When Hoover died, they thought they’d take over. They didn’t and they’re angry. Some are as paranoid as Hoover was.”
Again Chancellor was struck by O’Brien’s words; it was confirmation of Peter’s original thinking. Everything that had happened—from Malibu to Rockville to the old house on Thirty-fifth Street—was the result of violent infighting within the FBI. And Longworth had reappeared.
“We have a bargain,” he said. “I want protection. For the girl and myself.”
“You’ll have it.”
“From where? Who?”
“You mentioned Judge Sutherland. A couple of years ago he was instrumental in repairing a severed connection between the bureau and the rest of the intelligence community. Hoover had cut off the flow of information to the CIA and the NSC.”
“I know that,” interrupted Chancellor quietly. “I wrote a book about it.”
“That was Counterstrike!, wasn’t it? I guess I’d better read it.”
“I’ll send you a copy. You send protection. I repeat: Who? Where from?”
“There’s a man named Varak. Sutherland’s man. He owes me.”
O’Brien collapsed in the chair. His head fell back, his breathing fast and erratic as if he could not let sufficient air into the lungs. He brought his face forward into his hands; he could feel the trembling in his fingers.
He had not been sure he could carry it off. A number of times during the past two hours he thought he was going to fall apart.
It was the writer’s panic that had gotten him through the last minutes. The realization that Chancellor had to be controlled; he could not be allowed to learn the truth.
Hoover’s files were not destroyed, as Quinn knew they had not been. That much seemed certain. And now someone else knew it, too. How many? How many phone calls had been made? How many others had been reached by that terrible high-pitched whisper. A dead general, a murdered congressman, a vanished newspaperwoman—how many more?
Things were not the same as they had been two hours ago. Peter Chancellor’s revelation meant there was work to do quickly, and to his great relief, O’Brien began to think he was again capable of doing it.
He picked up the phone and dialed the National Security Council. But Stefan Varak could not be traced.
Where was Varak? What kind of assignment would cut the NSC agent off from the bureau? Especially from him? Varak and he were friends. Two years ago Quinn had taken an enormous risk for Varak. He had provided him with profile data Hoover had restricted; it could have cost him his career.
Now he needed Varak. Of all the men in the intelligence community Varak was the best. His range of expertise and the sheer numbers and depth of his contacts were extraordinary. He was the man Quinn wanted to hear Chancellor’s tape first. Varak would know what to do.
In the meantime the writer had temporary protection. His name had been removed from the security logs, all inquiries directed to O’Brien. There were a couple of men at CIA Quinn had fed print information to during Hoover’s embargo. When O’Brien told them the subject to be guarded was the author of Counterstrike!, they damned near refused. But, of course, they did not refuse. Reasonable men in the most unreasonable of professions had to help each other. Otherwise unreasonable men would assume control, and that way lay disaster.
Perhaps they had. Perhaps disaster had already come.