27

There was no time for thought. So Peter screamed. As loudly and as maniacally as he could.

He swung his left hand down toward the obscene perforated cylinder. There were two vibrations, shots; a piece of cement exploded. Only yards away a man and a woman cried out hysterically. The woman grabbed her stomach, collapsing on the sidewalk, writhing; the man reeled, holding his face, blood rolling through his fingers. There was chaos. The man in the raincoat pulled the trigger again. Chancellor heard the spit, his hand felt the white heat of the cylinder, and glass shattered behind him. Peter would not let go of the deadly thing; he kicked at the man’s legs, brought his knees up into the man’s groin, and pushed him backward into the street. The traffic was moving; the man crashed into the fender of an onrushing car, the impact hurling him back onto the curb.

Peter’s hand was burned, the skin blistered, but his fingers were still gripped around the cylinder, stuck to it. The gun was his.

With the strength born of panic the man in the raincoat staggered up; a knife was in his hand, the long blade whipping out from its recess. He lunged at Chancellor.

Peter fell against the booth, avoiding the knife. He pulled the cylinder from his left hand; the blistered skin of his palm came partially off with it. He pointed the barrel at the man in the raincoat.

He could not pull the trigger! He could not fire the gun!

The man slashed the knife up in a backhand lunge, the blade meant to sever Chancellor’s throat. Peter lurched away, the blade’s point entering his sweater. He brought his right foot up, catching the man in the chest and hammering him backward. The man fell on his shoulder. For an instant he lay stunned.

Sirens wailed in the distance now. Shrill whistles blew as the police converged. Chancellor followed his physical instincts. Holding the pistol in his hand, he sprang at his stunned attacker and brought the barrel down on the man’s head.

Then he ran through the hysterical crowds to the intersection, out into the street, against the traffic. He kept running.

He turned into a narrow side street; the cacophony of sirens and screams receded behind him. The street was darker than those of the shopping district; it housed small offices in old two- and three-story brick buildings.

Peter fell into the shadows of a doorway. His chest and legs and temples were in pain. His breath was so spent he thought he would vomit; so he went limp and let air fill his lungs.

Somehow he would have to get to the Smithsonian. To Alan Longworth. He did not want to think about it, not for a few minutes. He had to find a moment of quiet, a void where the pounding in his head would cease because there would be no—

Oh, Jesus! At the entrance of the narrow street, in the dim spill of the streetlights, two men were stopping pedestrians, asking questions. They had followed him. His scent was no less than that left by a fugitive tracked down by bloodhounds.

Chancellor crept out of the shadows into other shadows on the sidewalk. He could not run; he would be seen too easily. He spun around behind the iron grillwork of a railing that rose above a stone staircase, and looked back between the fluting. The men were talking to each other now, the man on the right holding a walkie-talkie next to his ear.

There was the sound of a horn. A car was turning into the street, and the two men were in its path. They moved to their left to let the automobile go by; they were blocked from sight. If they were blocked, so was he! But it would only be for seconds—two or three at most.

Chancellor stepped out from behind the grillwork and started running to his right down the sidewalk. If he could pace himself somehow with the approaching car, he could stretch out the time he would be out of sight; three or four more seconds would be enough. He listened for the engine behind him. The maneuver worked! He was at the corner. He ducked behind the edge of the building and pressed his back against the stone. He inched his face forward and looked around into the narrow street. The two men were moving cautiously from doorway to doorway, their caution itself bewildering Peter. Then he understood. In his panic he had forgotten, but the weight in his jacket pocket reminded him: He had the gun. The gun he could not fire.

Strollers looked at him; a couple hurried past; a mother and child crossed to the curb edge of the sidewalk to avoid him. Chancellor raised his eyes to the street sign. New Hampshire Avenue; diagonally across was the intersection of T Street He had been in the shopping district north of Lafayette Square; he had run between fifteen and twenty blocks, perhaps more if he took into account the various cutoffs and alleyways. He had to double back somehow and head southeast toward the Mall.

The two men were no more than fifty yards away. To his right, a half block north of where he was, the traffic light turned green. Chancellor started to run again. He reached the corner, crossed the street, turned left, and stopped. A policeman stood beneath the traffic signal; he was looking at Peter.

It was, thought Chancellor, perhaps the only opportunity he’d have. He could go up to the police officer, identify himself, and say that men were hunting him. The officer could call in and learn of the chaos twenty blocks away, hear for himself how a gun had been fired and shoppers wounded. He could say all this to the officer and plead for assistance.

But even as he considered the idea, he realized that there would be questions, and forms to fill out, and statements to be made. Longworth would wait only so long. And there were men with radios and weapons looking for him; back at the hotel Alison was alone, with only one man to protect her. The madness would not be stopped by going to the police. It would only be prolonged.

The light changed. Peter walked rapidly across the intersection, past the police officer, and into T Street. He stepped into a doorway, into the shadows, and looked back. A block and a half south a black limousine heading north had pulled to a stop at the corner of the narrow street and New Hampshire Avenue. Directly in front of the car was a streetlamp. He could see the two men approaching the car; a rear window slid down.

A taxi headed south on New Hampshire. The light was red; the cab stopped. Chancellor raced to it from the doorway. In the backseat was an elderly, well-dressed man. Peter opened the door.

“Hey!” yelled the driver. “I’ve got a fare!”

Chancellor addressed the passenger. He tried to sound reasonable, a man doing his best to remain calm in a crisis. “Please forgive me, but there’s an emegency. I have to get downtown. My—my wife is very ill. I’ve just heard—”

“Come in, come in,” said the elderly man without hesitation. “I’m only going as far as Dupont Circle. Is that convenient? I can—”

“That’s fine, sir. I’m very grateful.” Peter stepped in as the light changed. He slammed the door; the taxi bolted forward. Whether it was the door slam or the driver’s loud voice, Chancellor would never know, but as they passed the limousine on the other side of New Hampshire, he could see that the two men spotted him. Peter looked out the rear window. The man on the right had his walkie-talkie against his face.

They reached Dupont Circle; the elderly man got out. Chancellor instructed the driver to go south on Connecticut Avenue. The traffic was heavier, guaranteed to become worse as they headed into the center of Washington. It was both an asset and a liability. The congested streets allowed him to look in all directions carefully to see if anyone had picked up his trail. Conversely, the heavy traffic allowed others to find him, to catch up with him on foot if necessary.

They reached K Street; to the right was Seventeenth. Peter tried to visualize a Washington map, the main intersecting thoroughfares south of the Ellipse.

Constitution Avenue! He could have the driver turn left on Constitution and head for the Smithsonian through the Mall’s entrance. Was there an entrance in that stretch of block?

There had to be. In the chapter outline that morning, he had envisioned Alexander Meredith driving—racing—out of the Mall. Had he written that? Or was it only—?

Chancellor saw it through the rear window. A gray car had swung out of the traffic and sped forward in the left-turn lane. It drew parallel to the taxi; suddenly a beam of light shot through the window, crisscrossing with the shafts of headlights behind. Peter edged forward, keeping his face obscured by the car frame, and looked out. Across the short distance a man next to the driver had the window rolled down. His flashlight was aimed at the cab’s identification on the door panel. Chancellor heard him speak.

“There! That’s it!”

It was madness within madness. In his imagination that morning two men had careened through the Washinging streets after Alexander Meredith. An automobile had pulled alongside Meredith’s car; a window had been rolled down, and a voice had exclaimed:

“There!”

The man got out of his car. He jumped across the narrow space between the two vehicles, his hand thrust forward, gripping the handle of the taxi door. The traffic light changed, and Chancellor yelled at the driver.

“Go down Seventeenth! Hurry!”

The cab lurched forward, the driver only vaguely aware there was a problem he wanted none of. Behind them horns blared. Peter looked out the window. The man was still in the street—confused, angry, blocking traffic.

The taxi sped south on Seventeenth Street, past the Executive Office Building to New York Avenue and the Corcoran Gallery. A traffic light was red; the cab stopped. There were lights still on in the gallery; he had read something in the newspaper about a new exhibition from a museum in Brussels.

The traffic light was taking too long! The gray car would be beside them any moment. Peter reached into his pocket for his money clip. There were a number of singles and two ten-dollar bills. He removed them all and leaned forward.

“I want you to do something for me. I have to go inside the Corcoran Gallery, but I want you to wait for me outside the door with your motor running and roof light off. If I’m delayed more than ten minutes, forget it, you’re paid.”

The driver saw the tens and took them. “I thought your wife was sick. Who the hell was that back there? He tried to open the door—”

“It doesn’t matter,” interrupted Chancellor. “The light’s changing; please do as I say.”

“It’s your money. You got ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes,” agreed Peter. He climbed out. Above the short flight of steps the glass doors were closed; beyond them a uniformed guard stood casually beside a small desk. Chancellor walked swiftly up the steps and opened the door. The guard glanced at him but made no move to interfere.

“May I see your invitation, sir?”

“For the exhibition?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m embarrassed, officer,” said Peter quickly, reaching for his wallet. “I’m from The New York Times. I’m supposed to cover the exhibition for next Sunday’s paper. I was in a traffic accident a few minutes ago, and I can’t find …”

He hoped to God he had it in his wallet. A year ago he’d written several pieces for the Times Magazine; the editors had given him a temporary press pass.

He found it between credit cards. He held it out for the guard, his thumb covering the expiration date. His hand trembled; he wondered if the guard noticed.

“Okay, okay,” said the guard. “Take it easy. Just sign the register.”

Chancellor leaned over the desk, picked up the chained ball-point pen and scribbled his name. “Where’s the exhibition?”

“Take one of the elevators on the right to the second floor.”

He walked rapidly to the bank of elevators and pressed the buttons. He looked back at the guard; the man was paying no attention. An elevator door opened, but Peter had no intention of taking it He wanted the sound to cover his steps as he ran to an exit on the other side of the building.

There was another sound. Behind him the glass doors opened. Chancellor saw the figure of the man from the gray car. The decision was made for him. He went swiftly into the empty elevator, his hand pressing the first buttons he could reach on the panel. The door closed; the elevator started up.

He walked out into a milling crowd and the pools of light that shot down from the ceiling. Waiters in red jackets carrying silver trays mingled among the guests. Paintings and sculpture were everywhere, illuminated by spotlights. The guests were the diplomatic corps and those who traveled with that crowd, including members of the Washington press. He recognized several.

Peter stopped a waiter for champagne. He drank it quickly so he could hold the empty glass up, partially concealing his face, and look around.

“You’re Peter Chancellor! I’d know you anywhere!” The greeter was a Brunhilde, her Valkyrie helmet a flowery hat set squarely above her Wagnerian face. “When’s your new novel being published?”

“I’m not working on anything right now.”

“Why are you in Washington?”

Peter looked at the wall. “I’m partial to Flemish art.”

Brunhilde had a small spiral pad in her left hand, a pencil in her right. She wrote as she talked. “Invited by the Belgian Embassy … a connoisseur of Flemish art.”

“I didn’t say that,” protested Chancellor. “I’m not.”

Through the crowd he saw the elevator door slide open. Out walked the man who moments ago had rushed through the glass doors downstairs in the lobby.

Brunhilde was saying something; he had not been listening. “I’d much rather you were having an affair with an embassy wife. Anybody’s wife.”

“Is there a staircase up here?”

“What?”

“A staircase. An exit!” Chancellor took her elbow and maneuvered her ample body between himself and the man’s line of sight.

“I thought I recognized you!” The thin, high-pitched woman’s voice belonged to a blond-haired columnist Peter vaguely recognized. “You’re Paul Chancellor, the writer.”

“Close enough. Do you know where an exit is? I have to get downstairs in a hurry.”

“Use the elevator,” said the columnist. “Look, there’s one now.” She stepped back to gesture.

The movement attracted the man’s attention. He started toward Peter. Chancellor backed away.

The man made his way through the crowd. In the far corner of the room, beyond an hors d’oevres table, a waiter came through a swinging door. Chancellor dropped his glass and grabbed the arms of the two astonished newspaperwomen, propelling them toward the door.

The man was only yards behind them, the swinging door just beyond the table. Peter lurched to the side, still holding on to the columnists. As the man broke free of the crowd, Chancellor spun the women around and pushed them as hard as he could toward the onrushing figure. The man yelled; the obese woman’s pencil pierced his lower lip. Blood trickled from his mouth. Peter swung his hands under the wide table filled with food and two huge punch bowls and heaved it up, sending the mass of silver, glass, liquid, and food crashing to the floor.

Shouts became screams; someone blew a whistle. Chancellor raced through the swinging door into a pantry.

On the left wall he saw a red Exit sign. He grabbed a serving cart, rolling it behind him with such force a wheel came off. Bowls of salad crashed in front of the swinging door. He ran to the exit and body checked it open. He looked behind him; there was chaos at the pantry entrance and no sign of the man chasing him.

The staircase was empty. He took the steps three at a time to the landing and swung himself around by the railing.

His feet slammed to a stop, his left knee smashed into the iron post Below him, in front of the lobby door, stood the man he had last seen on Connecticut Avenue. The man who had jumped out of the car. He was not part of a novel now; he was real. As the gun in his hand was real.

The madness! The insane thought came to Peter that he must have a tape recorder in his handkerchief pocket. Involuntarily, he raised his left arm to press the cloth. To start the recorder. A nonexistent recorder! What was happening to him?

“What do you want with me? Why are you following me?” he whispered, not sure what was fact anymore.

“We just want to talk to you. Make sure you understand—”

“No!” His mind exploded. He sprang from the landing, conscious only of empty space. Somewhere deep in the sound waves of that space he heard the sickening spit of a bullet, but he was not affected; his disbelief was complete.

Suddenly his hands clamped on skin and hair. The thrust of his flying body made contact; he slammed the man’s head into the metal door.

The real man with the real gun collapsed, his hair and face covered with blood. Peter rose and stood for an instant in shock, trying to separate fantasy and reality.

He had to run. There was nothing left but running. He crashed open the door and started across the marble floor. The guard was at the entrance to the street, his hand on his holster, a walkie-talkie next to his ear.

As Peter approached, the guard spoke. “Some trouble up there, huh?”

“Yes. Couple of drunks, I think.”

“Did the two guys find you? They told me you’re with the bureau.”

Peter stopped, gripping the entrance door in his hand. “What?”

“Your backup? The other two guys. They came in right after you. They showed me their IDs. They’re with the FBI, too.”

Chancellor did not wait to hear more. The madness was now complete. The FBI! He ran down the short flight of steps, his eyes blurred, his breath gone.

“You’ve still got time on the meter, mister.”

Not eight feet away from him at the curb was the taxi. He ran to the door and got inside.

“Drive down to Ellipse road! For God’s sake, hurry! Go around to the Smithsonian Park. I’ll tell you where to let me off.”

The cab accelerated. “It’s still your money.”

Peter spun around and looked out the rear window at the Corcoran. A man came running down the steps onto the sidewalk, one hand on his face, the other holding a walkie-talkie. It was the man from the second floor reception, the man whose lip had been pierced by the obese columnist’s pencil. He had seen the taxi. Others would be waiting. Somewhere.

They entered the curve around the Ellipse. To the south was the Washington Monument, floodlights washing the alabaster needle. “Slow down,” instructed Peter, “near the edge of the grass. But don’t stop. I’m going to jump out, but I don’t want …” Peter’s voice faded; he did not know how to say it.

The driver helped him. “But you don’t want whoever might be watching my cab to see you jump, is that it?”

“Yes.”

“You in trouble?”

“Yes.”

“Is it the cops?”

“Jesus, no! It’s … personal”

“You sound okay to me. You were fair with me; I’m fair with you.” The driver slowed down. “About fifty yards ahead, at the farthest point in the curve before it swings straight, jump. Then I’ll go like a bat outta’ hell for a couple of blocks. Nobody’ll see you. Got it?”

“Yes. I’ve got it. Thanks.”

“Now!”

The cab had slowed. Chancellor opened the door and jumped over the edge of the curb, the force of his leap and the curve of the road propelling him onto the grass.

The driver held the horn down in one continuous blast. Other automobiles swung to the right, allowing the taxi to pass. The sound was the sound of emergency; someone was in trouble.

Peter watched the scene from his concealed position in the grass. One automobile did not stop or hesitate or swing to the right as the others did in front of and behind the screaming cab. It was not affected by the sound of panic. Instead, it fell in line with the taxi and raced after it.

It was the black limousine he had seen on New Hampshire Avenue.

Peter lay motionless for a moment. Tires screeched in the distance. From across the Ellipse road, in the direction of Continental Hall, another automobile was careening into the circular drive. Looking for him? He got to his feet and started running over dirt and grass.

He felt concrete beneath him; he was in the street. Buildings were in front of him, cars alongside him, driving slowly. He kept running, knowing that beyond the dark buildings and the scattered trees stood the Smithsonian.

He fell suddenly and rolled over on the pavement. Behind him he heard the unmistakable sounds of racing footsteps. They’d found him!

He scrambled to his feet, lurching forward, the overanxious sprinter jumping the gun. He kept racing where instinct directed him, and suddenly he saw it! Its parapets were silhouetted against the sky! The outlines of the Smithsonian! He ran as fast as he could across an unending lawn, jumping over low, sagging chains that bordered paths, until he stood, breathless, in front of the enormous building.

He was there, but where was Longworth?

For an instant he thought he heard sounds behind him. He turned; there was no one.

Suddenly, two tiny specks of light flashed from somewhere in the darkness, beyond the steps that led to the road in front of the entrance. They came from ground level, to the left of the statue that stood at the top of the steps. They flashed agin, as if aimed at him! He walked rapidly toward the source of the light. Nearer, nearer; thirty feet, twenty feet. He was walking toward a dark corner of the massive museum; there was shrubbery in front of the stone.

“Chancellor! Get down!”

Peter threw himself to the ground. Two flashes came from the darkness: muted pistol shots.

Behind him he heard a body fall. In the dull gray of the night he saw the gun in the slain figure’s hand. It had been aimed at him.

“Drag him back here!” It was a whispered command from the darkness.

All thought dulled, Chancellor did as he was told. He pulled the body over the grass into the shadows, and then he crawled to Alan Longworth.

The man was dying. His back was against the Smithsonian stone. In his right hand was the gun that had saved Peter’s life; his left hand held his stomach. His fingers were covered with blood.

“I haven’t got time to thank you,” said Chancellor, barely able to hear himself. “Maybe I shouldn’t. He was one of your men.”

“I haven’t got any men,” replied the blond-haired killer.

“We’ll talk about that later You’re coming with me. Now.” Angrily, Peter struggled to his feet.

“I’m not going anywhere, Chancellor. If I stay still and keep things in place, I’ve got a few minutes. Not if I move.”

There was that strange, guttural sound in Longworth’s voice again. “Then, I’ll go find someone!” said Peter, his answer now mixed with fear. He could not let Longworth die. Not now. “I’ll get an ambulance!”

“An ambulance won’t help. Take my word for it. But you have to be told. You have to understand.”

“I understand everything. A group of fanatics is trying to tear the FBI apart so that they can take control. And you’re one of them.”

“That’s not true. It goes beyond the bureau. We’re trying to stop them; I’ve tried. And now you’re the only one who can. You’re closest to the core; no one else has your advantage.”

“Why?”

Longworth seemed to ignore the question. He took a deep breath. “The missing files. Hoover’s private dossiers”

“There are no missing files!” broke in Peter, furiously. “There are only men like you and the man you just killed. You made a mistake, Longworth. He was following me, chasing me. He used his identification; he’s FBI! He’s one of you!”

Longworth stared at the body of the man he had killed. “So the maniacs found out about the files. I imagine it was unavoidable. They can be used by the one who has them. They’re the perfect foils; they’ll be blamed for everything.”

Chancellor was not listening. The only thing that mattered was to deliver Longworth to Quinn O’Brien. “I’m not interested in any more of your observations.”

“You say you love that girl,” said Longworth, breathing hard. “If you do, you’ll listen to me.”

“You bastard! You leave her out of this!”

“Her mother, her father.… It’s them. Something happened to the mother.”

Peter knelt closer. “What do you know about her mother?”

“Not enough. But you can learn. Bear with me. To begin with, my name isn’t Longworth.”

Chancellor stared in disbelief, yet he knew he was hearing the truth. Circles within circles. Reality and fantasy, but which was which? The moon came out of the gray night sky. For the first time he was able to see Longworth’s face clearly. The dying man had no eyebrows, no lashes. There was only raw scraped flesh around the sockets and blisters everywhere. He had been beaten, tortured.