28

“My name is Stefan Varak. I’m a code specialist for the National Security Council, but I also perform certain functions for a group of—”

“Varak?” It took several seconds for the name to register, but when it did, the shock made Peter grow cold. “You’re the man O’Brien’s looking for!”

“Quinn O’Brien?” asked Varak, wincing in pain. “Yes. He’s the man I talked to, the one I told the story to. He’s been trying to reach you!”

“I was in no position to receive messages. You were lucky. Quinn’s one of the quickest and cleanest men over there. Trust him.” Varak coughed, pain visible in his face. “If the maniacs have surfaced, O’Brien will stop them.”

“What have you got to tell me? What do you know about MacAndrew’s wife?”

Varak held up his bloody hand. “I have to explain. As quickly as possible. You’ve got to understand.… From the beginning you were programed. Part truth, part lie. We had to get you involved, get you started, force the enemy to react, show themselves.” Varak was gripped by a spasm.

Chancellor waited till it passed; then he asked: “Part lie, part truth. Which was which?”

“I told you. The files. They disappeared.”

“There was no assassination, then?”

“Inconceivable.” Varak stared at Peter, his breath coming fast. “The men who fought Hoover were honorable. They protected Hoover’s victims by the law, not outside of it.”

“But the files were taken.”

“Yes. That part’s true. Dossiers with the letters M through Z. Remember that.” Again a spasm took hold of Varak. Peter held his shoulders; it was all he could think of to do. The shivering ran its course; Varak continued. “And now I must elaborate. I use your words.”

His words? Varak’s eyes were glazed; the accent was there once more. “My words? What do you mean?”

“In your fourth chapter—”

“My what?”

“Your manuscript.”

“You’ve read it?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“It doesn’t matter. There’s no time.… Your Nucleus. You concentrate on three people. A senator, a newspaperwoman, a cabinet member.…” Varak’s eyes lost control; his voice faded.

“What about them?” pressed Chancellor, not understanding.

“Use the files for good.…” The dying man inhaled suddenly. “You said that.”

Peter remembered. The files. In the manuscript he had given the words to the former cabinet officer. If they can be used the way Hoover uses them, they can be turned around. They can be used for good! It was the false reasoning that would lead to tragedy.

“What if I did? What are you talking about?”

“It’s what happened.…” Varak’s eyes came briefly into focus, his concentration all-consuming. “One man turned into a killer. A killer who hires killers.”

“What?”

“Five men. One of four … not Bravo. Never Bravo.…”

“What did you say? Who’s Bravo?”

“A splendid temptation. To use the files for good.”

“Splendid?… There’s nothing splendid. It’s extortion!”

“That’s the tragedy.”

Oh, Christ! His words! “What five men? What do you mean?”

“Venice you know.… Bravo, too, but not Bravo! Never Bravo!” Varak struggled with his bloodied right hand; he inched it away from the wound in his stomach to his jacket pocket. He withdrew a piece of paper, white paper soiled with blood. “One of four men. I thought it was Banner or Paris. Now I’m not sure.” He pushed the paper into Chancellor’s palm. “Code names. Venice, Christopher, Banner, Paris. It’s one of them. Not Bravo.”

“ ‘Venice’ … ‘Bravo’ … who are they?”

“The group. Your Nucleus.” Varak pulled his hand down to his wound. “One of them knows.”

“Knows what?”

“The meaning of Chasǒng. The mother.”

“MacAndrew? His wife?”

“Not him. Her! He’s the decoy.”

“Decoy? You’ve got to be clearer.”

“The slaughter. The meaning behind the slaughter of Chasǒng!”

Peter looked at the bloodstained paper in his hand. Names were written on it. “One of these men?” he asked the dying man, unsure what he meant by his own question.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“You and the daughter. You! It was to throw you off. To make you think it was the answer. It isn’t.”

“What answer?”

“Chasǒng. Something beyond it.”

“Stop it! What are you saying?”

“Not Bravo.…” Varak’s eyes swam in their sockets.

“Who is Bravo? Is he one of them?”

“No. Never Bravo.”

“Varak, what happened? Why are you so certain about Chasǒng?”

“There are others who’ll help.…”

“What about Chasǒng?”

“Thirty-fifth Street. The house. They took me and taped my eyes, my face. I never saw them. They needed a hostage. They know what I’ve done.… I didn’t see them, but I heard them. They spoke a language I didn’t know, which means they knew I didn’t know it. But they used the name Chasǒng. Each time … fanatically. It has another meaning. Find what it was behind the killing at Chasǒng. It will lead you to the files.”

Varak fell forward. Chancellor grabbed him, pulling him back. “There’s got to be more!”

“There’s very little.” Varak’s whisper faded. Peter had to put his ear next to the agent’s lips to hear him. “They drove me through a town; they thought I was unconscious. I heard automobiles. I crashed through the door with the tapes on my face. They fired at me but drove away. I had to get you alone. I could not talk on the telephone. I was right. The two false numbers I gave you were called. If I had told you on the phone what I’m telling you now, you’d have been killed. Protect the girl. Find the meaning behind, the slaughter of Chasǒng.”

Chancellor felt panic swell inside him; his head was about to explode. Varak was nearly dead. He’d be gone in moments! In seconds! “You said there were others! Who can I go to? Who’ll help?”

“O’Brien,” whispered Varak. Then he stared at Peter, a strange smile on his bloodless lips. “Look to your manuscript. There’s a senator. He might have been—Go to him. He’s not afraid.”

Varak’s eyes closed. He was dead.

And Chancellor’s mind was filled with white light and thunder. The detonations shook the earth; there was no sanity left. A senator.… He had crossed a line no one should cross. He let Varak’s head fall back into the stone and slowly got to his feet, backing away, filled with a terror so personal, so absolute, he could not think.

But he could run. And so, blindly, he ran.

He was near water. The reflections of light shimmered on the surface like thousands of miniature candles flickering in an unfelt wind. How long he had been running he could not tell. As his mind began to clear, he thought for a moment he was back in New York, at dawn, within the sculptured confines of Fort Tryon, where a blond-haired man named Longworth had just saved his life.

But his name was not Longworth. It was Varak, and he was dead.

Peter closed his eyes. The void he had sought for so long swept over him. He slowly lowered himself to the ground; his knees touched the grass, and he trembled.

He heard the sound of an engine approaching. Gravel crunched beneath wheels. He opened his eyes and looked around.

A motor scooter parked, its single headlight angled diagonally down. A police officer got off. He shot the beam of his flashlight over at Peter.

“You all right, mister?”

“Yes. Yes, I’m all right.”

The officer approached. Chancellor rose unsteadily, noting that behind the beam of the light, the man’s hand had unsnapped his pistol holder. “What are you doing down here?”

“I’m—I’m not sure. To tell you the truth, I had a little too much to drink, so I went for a walk. I do that; it’s better than getting into a car.”

“It certainly is,” replied the officer. “You’re not thinking about doing anything foolish though, are you?”

“What? What do you mean?”

“Like taking a swim, not figuring to come out?”

“What?”

The officer was standing in front of him, scrutinizing him carefully. “You’re pretty messed up.”

“I fell. I told you, I had—”

“I know. Booze. Funny, I don’t smell any.”

“Vodka.”

“You depressed? Family problems? In trouble? You want to see a priest or a rabbi? Or a lawyer?”

Peter understood. “I see. You think I want to drown myself.”

“It’s happened. We’ve pulled bodies out of the Basin.”

“We’re at the Tidal Basin?” asked Chancellor.

“Southwest point.” The officer gestured to his right. “That’s Ohio Drive over there. Across the water’s the Jefferson Memorial.”

Peter looked at bis watch, at the radium dial. It was a little after nine thirty. He had lost nearly two hours; he’d drawn a blank for two hours. And there were things to do. The first was to mollify a concerned policeman. He struggled for the words.

“Look, I’m fine, officer. I really am. As a matter of fact I’ve got to get to a telephone. Is there a booth around here?”

The officer reached down and snapped his holster shut. “Over on Ohio, about a hundred yards south, maybe less. You can probably get a cab there, too. But if you’re stopped again, watch out. Other cops may be rougher than I am.”

“Thanks for the warning.” Peter smiled. “And thanks for your concern.”

“Part of the job. Take care, now.”

Chancellor nodded and started across the lawn toward Ohio Drive. Someone had tapped into his hotel phone; he could call Alison, but he could not say anything. Instead, he must reach Quinn O’Brien.

“Where the hell are you? My orders were for you to stay in that hotel! Goddamn you—”

“The maniacs tried to kill me,” broke in Chancellor quickly, remembering Varak’s description.

“The maniacs?” It was as if O’Brien had been struck. “Where did you hear that term?”

“That’s what we’re going to talk about. That and other things. I just got out of the Corcoran Gallery.”

“The Corcoran.… You were there?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, my God!” O’Brien sounded frightened.

“I’m down at—”

“Shut up!” yelled the FBI man suddenly. “Don’t say another thing! Wait a minute … stay on the line.” Peter could hear O’Brien’s breathing; the agent was thinking. “Our conversation last night. Think carefully. You told me you placed three phone calls to New York from telephone booths. You used your credit card.”

“But I—”

“I said shut up! Think. They were placed before and after the fire on Thirty-fifth Street.”

“I—”

“Listen to me! There was one call in particular—I think it was after, I’m not sure. Get to the booth you made that call from. Now, do you understand me? Don’t answer right away. Filter it.”

Peter tried to understand what O’Brien was telling him. There had not been three phone calls, there had only been one. He had called Tony Morgan before the insanity on Thirty-fifth Street. He had made no calls after.

Filter it. Eliminate. That was it! The agent referred to that one call, that one booth. “I understand,” he said.

“Good. It was after, wasn’t it? After Thirty-fifth Street.”

“Yes,” said Chancellor, knowing it was a lie.

“Somewhere on Wisconsin, I think.”

“Yes.” Again, the deception.

“Good. Get there. I’ll call every ten minutes. Pick out a phrase I’d remember from our talk and say it when you answer. Have you got that?”

“Yes.”

Peter hung up the phone and went out of the booth. He continued walking south toward the bridge lights extending over the Potomac, looking for a cab. As he walked, he tried to remember the exact location of the phone booth where he had called Morgan. It was near George Washington University.

A cab came. They found the phone booth easily. There were crowds again, and colored lights and Christmas carols coming from unseen speakers. He asked the driver to wait; the only money he had was two fifty-dollar bills from his wallet. He would need to change them, and he would need the taxi.

He knew exactly what he was going to do.

Find the meaning of Chasǒng.

He closed the door of the booth and took the phone out of its cradle, making sure his finger held the lip down. The ring barely started when he released the tab and spoke.

“ ‘I may be here for the rest of the night.… I’ll let you decide.…’ ” It was one of the first things he had said to the agent when they met.

“Good enough,” said O’Brien. “I’m ten blocks away on Twentieth Street. I may have been followed, so we can’t meet. Now, tell me what happened. Where did you hear the term maniacs?”

“Why? Is it special?”

“Don’t joke. You don’t have time.”

“I’m not joking. I’m being careful. If I see anyone paying attention to me, or see a car stop, I’m going to run. I think you’re clean, O’Brien; that’s what I was told. But I want to make sure. Now, you tell me what the term means. Who are the maniacs?”

O’Brien exhaled audibly. “Five or six special agents who worked secretly, closely with Hoover. They were in his confidence. They want the old regime back; they want to control the bureau. I implied as much to you last night Still, I didn’t use the word maniacs.”

“But they’re not part of this, are they? They don’t have the missing files.”

O’Brien fell silent, his shock evident to Peter over the phone. “You know, then?”

“Yes. You said those files were destroyed; that there was no pattern, but you lied. There is a pattern; they weren’t destroyed. Whoever has them thinks I’m close to learning who he is … who they are. It was the whole idea behind everything. I was the snare. It nearly worked, but the man who programed me was killed in his own trap. Now, you tell me what you know, and tell it straight!”

O’Brien replied calmly, his urgency controlled. “I think the maniacs do have those files. They operated with them; they had access. That’s why I couldn’t talk to you from my office; they’ve tapped my line. They had to. Now, for Christ’s sake, tell me what happened.”

“Fair enough. I found your man Varak.”

“What?”

“I knew him as Longworth.”

“Longworth? May first … the security logs! He has the files!” O’Brien involuntarily shouted into the phone.

“That doesn’t make sense!” said Peter, bewildered. “He’s dead. He threw his life away to find those files.” Chancellor told the agent everything that had happened from Varak’s phone call through Varak’s death and the dying man’s conviction that O’Brien would stop the maniacs. But he did not mention Chasǒng. For the time being, that was private.

“Varak gone,” O’Brien said softly. “I can’t believe it He was one of the ones we counted on. There aren’t many left.”

“The guy from CIA—we knew each other. He said a number of you people work together. All over Washington. That you had to.”

“We do. The hell of it is, there’s no one to go to for legal advice. There’s not an A.G. at Justice I’d trust.”

“There may be someone. A senator. Varak told me. But not yet. Not now.… You’re good at giving orders, O’Brien. How are you at taking them?”

“Not good. They have to make sense.”

“Are those files sense enough?”

“A stupid question.”

“Then, do two things for me. Get Alison MacAndrew out of the Hay-Adams, stay with her, and take her someplace where shell be safe. They want me. They’ll use her to get me.”

“All right, I can do that. What’s the other?”

“I need the address of a major named Pablo Ramirez. He’s stationed at the Pentagon.”

“Wait a minute.”

Suddenly Peter was alarmed. Over the telephone he could hear the rustling of paper. Paper! He put his hand up to the cradle of the telephone, about to break the connection and run. “O’Brien! I thought you said you were ten blocks away. In a phone booth!”

“I am. I’m looking in the phone book.”

“Oh, Christ.…” Chancellor swallowed.

“Here it is. Ramirez, P. He lives in Bethesda.” The agent read the address; Peter memorized it “Is that all?”

“No. I’m going to want to see Alison later tonight, or in the morning. How do I find out where you are, where you’ve taken her? Do you have any ideas?”

Silence. Five seconds later O’Brien spoke. “Do you know Quantico?”

“The marine base?”

“Yes, but not the camp. There’s a motel on the bay. It’s called the Pines. I’ll take her there.”

“I’ll rent a car.”

“Don’t do that Rental agencies are too easily covered. There’s a machine that can scan every one in the city. They’d pick you up. That goes for cab companies, too; no one withholds destinations. They’d know where you went.”

“What the hell am I going to do? Walk?”

“There are trains to Quantico every hour or so. That’s your best bet.”

“All right. I’ll see you later.”

“Wait a minute.” O’Brien’s tone was urgent, but again controlled. “You’re holding back again, Chancellor. It’s MacAndrew.”

Peter’s head snapped back; he stared at the crowds through the glass booth. “You’re making assumptions.”

“You’re making a fool of yourself. It doesn’t take any powers of deduction. Ramirez works at the Pentagon; so did MacAndrew.”

“Don’t push it, O’Brien. Please.”

“Why shouldn’t I? You haven’t told me the most important thing Varak said: why he had to see you.”

“I did. He explained his strategy. How I was programed.”

“He wouldn’t waste his time, not when he was dying. He learned something, and he told you what it was.”

Chancellor shook his head; perspiration rolled down his brow. O’Brien could not be told the significance of Chasǒng—until Peter found out what it was. For the deeper he went, the more Peter was convinced that Alison’s survival was at stake.

“Give me till tomorrow morning,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because I love her.”

Paul Bromley stared into the cracked mirror on top of the dresser with knobs missing from the middle drawers. What he saw saddened him: the pallid face of a sick old man. The stubble of his gray beard was obvious; he had not shaved in over forty-eight hours. The wide space between the dirty starched collar and his throat was further evidence of his illness. He had very little time left. But it would be enough. It had to be.

He turned away from the mirror and walked over to the bed. The spread was filthy. His eyes swept over the walls and ceiling. There were cracks everywhere and peeling paint.

They thought they had him trapped, but their arrogance was misplaced. He was owed favors. A lifetime in Washington overseeing vast expenditures left many people in his debt. Everything was a trade-off: You can do this if you give me that. Most of the time it worked very well. By and large, he was proud of his Washington record; he had done many fine things.

He had done several things he was not very proud of, too. One in particular for a scoundrel who had provided him with the data he needed to go after the thieves at Defense. That was the debt he was going to call in. If the man refused, a phone call would be made to the Washington Post. The man would not refuse.

Bromley picked up his jacket from the bed, put it on, and went out the door into the filthy hallway, then down a flight of steps to the lobby. The FBI agent who had been assigned to him stood awkwardly in the corner, a clean-cut manikin amongst the human debris. At least the man did not have to wait in the upstairs hallway. The hotel’s only exit was its front door—testimony to the trust placed in its clientele.

Bromley walked to the pay telephone on the wall, inserted the coin, and dialed.

“Hello?” The voice was nasal and unattractive.

“This is Paul Bromley.”

“Who?”

“Three years ago. Detroit. The project”

There was a pause before the voice replied. “What do you want?”

“What I’m owed. Unless you’d rather I call friends at the Post. They almost got you three years ago. They could do it now. I’ve also prepared a letter. It will be mailed if I don’t return home.”

Again there was a pause. “Spell it out.”

“You send a car for me. I’ll tell you where. And when you do, send one of your thugs with it There’s a federal man here watching me. I want him temporarily sidetracked. It’s the sort of thing you do very well.”

Bromley waited on the sidewalk outside the Hay-Adams. He would wait all night if need be. And when daylight came, he could hide in the church doorway across the avenue. Sooner or later Chancellor would emerge. When he did, Bromley would kill him.

The gun in his pocket had cost him five hundred dollars. He doubted it was worth more than twenty. But he had only asked his Detroit contact for help, not for charity.

Bromley kept raising his eyes to the right front windows on the fifth floor of the hotel. They were Chancellor’s rooms. Expensive rooms. Last night he had asked a then-unsuspecting switchboard operator the number of the suite before he had called the writer. The despicable novelist lived well.

He would not live long.

Bromley heard the sound of a car racing south on Sixteenth Street. It pulled into the hotel driveway. A red-haired man got out, spoke to the doorman, and went inside the lobby.

The accountant recognized the unmarked automobile. He had routinely approved scores of such purchases whenever the rubber stamp was requested. It was the FBI; without doubt, it had come for Chancellor!

Bromley went back across the street and walked up the driveway, staying in the shadows by the wall of the building, to the right of the entrance next to the FBI car. The doorman had walked down the path to whistle for a cab. A couple followed him to the curb, since the driveway was blocked.

Everything was perfect! Chancellor would die!

Moments later a woman came out with the red-haired man. But there was no Chancellor!

He had to be there!

“Are you sure?” the woman asked, concerned.

“He’ll take the train down later tonight,” said the red-haired man. “Or in the morning. Don’t worry.”

A train.

Bromley pulled up the collar of his overcoat and began the long walk to Union Station.