The winter wind came in gusts off the water, bending the wild grass on the dunes. The sun kept breaking through the fast-moving clouds above, intensely bright when it did so but carrying no warmth in its rays. It was early afternoon on Christmas day, and it was cold on the beach.
Chancellor looked down at his footprints. He had been pacing back and forth between the boundaries prescribed by Quinn O’Brien. From within that ten-yard space he had a clean sightline to the clump of foliage above the dunes to the left of the planked path that led from the road. O’Brien was stationed there, concealed from any view but Peter’s.
According to O’Brien the tactic was basic. He would wait in the cluster of wild bushes as Jacob Dreyfus arrived. He would make sure that Dreyfus dismissed the cab as he’d been instructed to do; in the event Christopher betrayed them—either by not dismissing the cab or by having his own men in nearby vehicles—Quinn would signal Peter, and they would race to a concealed area above an adjacent beach, where Alison waited in the unmarked car.
This aspect of self-protection Quinn called “up front.” The more immediate and less controllable protection was up to Peter. In his jacket pocket was the short-barreled .38-caliber revolver he had taken from Paul Bromley on the train. The gun that had been meant to kill him. He was to use it if he had to.
Peter heard a short, piercing whistle: the first signal. The taxi was in sight.
He could not tell how many minutes passed before the gaunt figure came into view. Each second was interminable; the pounding in his chest unbearable. He watched the small, frail Dreyfus unsteadily inch his way over the planks toward the open beach. He was so much older than Peter had pictured him, older and infinitely more fragile. The wind off the ocean buffeted him; sand whipped against him, causing him to bow and twist his head; his cane kept slipping on the planks.
He came to the end of the boarded path to the beach and poked his cane into the sand before stepping off. Chancellor could sense the question in the eyes behind the thick glasses. The wracked body did not want to make the rest of the journey; could not the younger man come to him?
But Quinn had been adamant Position was everything; rapid escape had to be considered. Peter held his place, and Dreyfus painfully continued over the windswept beach.
Dreyfus fell. Chancellor started across the sand but was stopped by the waving arms of O’Brien beyond. The FBI agent was firm, his message clear.
Dreyfus was within thirty feet, his face seen clearly now. Somehow the banker understood; his expression turned to one of determination. Using his cane, he struggled to his feet Unsteadily, blinking against the wind and the sand, he walked up to Chancellor; no hand was offered.
“We meet,” said Dreyfus simply. “I have things to say to you, and you have things to say to me. Which of us shall begin?”
“Did you follow my instructions?” asked Peter, as he had been instructed to ask.
“Of course I did. We have information to exchange; we both want to know what the other knows. Why add complications? You’re wanted, you know.”
“Yes. For the wrong reasons.”
“The people hunting you don’t think so. However, that’s irrelevant If you’re not guilty, your innocence can be established.”
“The only thing I’m guilty of is being a goddamned fool! Besides, we’re not here to discuss me.”
“We’re here to discuss certain events that affect both of us.” Dreyfus brought his hand up to shield his face from a sudden guest of wind. “We must reach an understanding.”
“I don’t have to reach anything with you! I’ve been manipulated, lied to, shot at. Four men were killed—four that I know about. Three I watched die. God knows how many people have been driven out of their minds by a whisper over the telephone! You know who they are. I know several.” Peter looked away briefly at the water, then turned back to Dreyfus. “I’ve written it all down. It’s not what you expected me to write, but I wrote it Now, you either reach an understanding with me, or I let the world know who you really are.”
Dreyfus stared at him in silence for several moments, the sound of the wind the only intrusion between them. His eyes were devoid of fear. “And who do you think I am? What do you think I am?”
“You’re Jacob Dreyfus, known as Christopher.”
“I concede that. I don’t know how you unearthed it, but it’s a name I carry with pride.”
“Maybe you deserved it until you turned on them.”
“Turned on whom?”
“The others. Banner, Paris, Venice, Bravo. You betrayed them.”
“Betrayed them? Betrayed Paris? Venice? You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Chasǒng! Chasǒng’s in Hoover’s files, and you’ve got them!”
Jacob Dreyfus stood motionless, his skull-like face a mirror of shock. “Almighty God, you believe that?”
“You’ve worked with the State Department!”
“On many occasions.”
“You could easily trace a sterile location if you knew where to look!”
“Perhaps. If I knew what it was.”
“You knew Varak was dead!”
“Varak dead? That can’t be!”
“You’re lying!”
“You’re a madman. And dangerous. Whatever you’ve written down must be destroyed. You don’t know what you’ve done. Over forty years of service to the country, countless millions spent. You must understand. I must make you understand!”
The unbelievable was happening! Dreyfus reached into his overcoat, his bony hand trembling. Peter knew he was reaching for a gun.
“Don’t do that! For Christ’s sake, don’t!”
“I have no choice.”
Behind Dreyfus, on the mountain of sand in the cluster of wild bushes, Chancellor could see the figure of O’Brien suddenly stand up. He was seeing what Peter saw: The old man was going to take out a gun. He had come alone, but he had come armed. At the last he was prepared to kill.
Chancellor gripped the weapon in his own pocket, his finger on the trigger. He could not squeeze it! He could not pull the trigger!
A shot was heard above the wind. Dreyfus’s head snapped back, his throat a mass of blood and shattered bone. His body arched, then fell on its side in the sand. Beyond, O’Brien lowered the gun and raced over the dunes.
Christopher was dead, killed on a deserted stretch of windswept beach.
And then Peter saw what was in his hand. It was a folded page of paper. Not a gun. A letter. He knelt down, overwhelmed by a sense of revulsion, and removed the paper. He stood up, his breathing erratic, the pain in his temple robbing him of thought O’Brien was beside him; the FBI man took the paper and unfolded it. Chancellor stared at it, and together they read it. It was a Xeroxed copy of a handwritten letter. The addressee was a single name: Paris.
I.B. must be dissolved. Venice and Bravo agree with this conclusion. I can see it in their eyes, although we have not discussed it among ourselves. We are consumed with memories. But we are old and have very little time left What concerns me deeply is that the end may come for one or all of us without the proper means for dissolution. Or worse, that our faculties will desert us, and our old tongues will rattle. This can never be allowed. Therefore, I beg you, should age destroy reason, do for one or ail of us what we cannot do for ourselves. Under separate cover the tablets have been sent to you by messenger. Place them in old men’s mouths and pray for us.
If this is impossible for you, show this letter to Varak. He will understand and carry out what must be done.
Lastly, to Banner, whose weakness is his commitment to his own extraordinary capabilities. He will be tempted to carry on I.B. This also cannot be allowed. Our time is past. If he insists, Varak again will know what to do.
The above is our covenant.
Christopher
“He said he didn’t know what a sterile location was,” said Peter weakly.
“He didn’t know Varak was dead,” added O’Brien softly, rereading the letter. “He wasn’t the one.”
Chancellor turned away and wandered aimlesssly toward the water. He fell to his knees in the lapping waves and vomited.
They buried the body of Jacob Dreyfus in the sand beneath the dunes. The question of responsibility was not considered; time was needed. Desperately. Responsibility would come later.
Frederick Wells would not be met on an expanse of abandoned beach. Instead, the man known as Banner was to walk into a field south of a stretch of road off Route 40 west of Baltimore. O’Brien had used the location for an informer drop less than six months before. He knew it well.
It was a curving section of the highway removed from all-night diners and filling stations; it was bordered by fields that looked like marshland in the darkness.
Peter waited in the field several hundred feet beyond the embankment where Wells was to park his car. He looked up at headlights racing down the highway, flickering and magnified in the rain that drenched the field and sent chills throughout his body. O’Brien had concealed himself halfway down the embankment, his weapon drawn, waiting. Again, Chancellor had his instructions: At the first sign of the unexpected he was to immobilize Frederick Wells with his gun. Fire it, if need be.
For added precaution O’Brien had a flashlight. Should Wells bring others with him, Quinn would switch on the light, covering the lens with his fingers, and wave it in circles. It was the signal for Peter to run across the field and up to the road, where Alison waited in the car.
There were two blasts of an impatient horn from the road. An automobile slowed down and pulled over on the shoulder; the car behind swung around it, accelerating in anger.
The automobile stopped by the embankment, and a lone figure climbed out. It was Frederick Wells; he walked to the railing overlooking the field and peered through the rain.
The beam of light shot down briefly from the far end of the embankment. It was O’Brien’s first signal. Wells was alone; there were no overt signs of a weapon. Peter did not move; it was up to Banner to come to him.
Wells climbed over the railing and made his way down the incline. Chancellor crouched in the wet grass and withdrew the .38.
“Take your hands out of your pockets!” he shouted as he’d been instructed to shout. “Walk forward slowly with your hands at your sides.”
Wells stopped and stood motionless in the rain, then did as he was told. His bare hands held out at his sides, he walked into the darkness of the field. When he was within five feet, Peter rose from the ground.
“Stop right here!”
Wells gasped, his eyes wide. “Chancellor?” He took several deep breaths, blinking as the rain pounded down on his face, saying nothing until his breathing was steady—an Oriental exercise to suspend thought, to restore calm.
“Listen to me, Chancellor,” Wells said at last “You’re beyond your depth. You’ve made friends with the wrong people. I can only appeal to whatever feeling you have for this country to give me their names. I know one, of course. Give me the rest”
Peter was stunned. Wells had taken the initiative. “What are you talking about?”
“The files! Files M through Z! They have them, and they’re using you. I don’t know what they’ve promised you—what he’s promised you. If it’s your life, I’ll guarantee it far better than he could. The girl’s, too.”
Chancellor stared at the shadowed, wet face of Frederick Wells. “You think somebody sent me. You think I’m a messenger. I never mentioned the files to you over the phone.”
“Did you think you had to? For God’s sake, stop it! Destroying Inver Brass is no answer! Don’t let them do it!”
“Inver Brass?” Peter’s mind raced back to the handwritten letter in a dead man’s hand, the covenant between Christopher and Paris. I.B. must be dissolved.… I.B.… Inver Brass.
“You can’t become a part of it, Chancellor! Don’t you see what he’s done? He programed you too well; you learned much too quickly. You were closing in on him! He can’t kill you now; he knows we’d know he did it So he tells you things, reveals Inver Brass, feeds you lies so you’ll set us against one another!”
“The man who has the files. Varak!”
“Oh, Christ.…” Peter’s stomach knotted.
It was not Frederick Wells.
“I have the answer.” Wells was speaking in his sharp, nasal voice; Peter barely listened, so futile did everything suddenly seem. “It will extricate you and get the files back. They must be taken! You tell Varak there’s no way he can connect Inver Brass with the events of last May. There are no records, no transactions that can be traced. Varak was the killer, not Inver Brass. He did his job too well; there are no links. But I can and will raise disturbing questions about his every move from the tenth of April through the night of May first. I’ll do it in a way that will leave no doubt; he’ll be exposed. And we remain unknown. Carry that message back.”
It was all too much for Peter. Truths, half-truths, and lies piled on abstractions; dates woven into a fabric of accusations. “You think Varak betrayed the others?”
“I know it! It’s why you must work with me. The country needs me now. Varak has those files!”
The rain came down in torrents. “Get out of here,” Peter said.
“Not until I have your word.”
“Get out of here!”
“You don’t understand!” Wells could not tolerate the dismissal. His arrogance gave way to desperation. “The country needs me! I must lead Inver Brass. The others are old, weak! Their time is finished. I’m the one! I must have those files. I’m in them!”
Chancellor raised the revolver. “Get out of here before I kill you.”
“You want that excuse, don’t you? That’s what you really want!” Banner’s words were rushed, his voice again strident, now panicked. “Varak told you it was me, didn’t he? I had nothing to do with it! It was him! I asked him to intercede with Bravo, that’s all I asked him to do! He was closest to St. Claire; everyone knew that. He was sworn to protect us all, each one of us.… You were going back to Nuremberg! We couldn’t allow you to do that! Varak understood!”
“Nuremberg.…” Peter felt the rain on his skin. It had been raining the night his silver Continental was hit, the night Cathy had died. There was a highway in the distance now, as there was then; and an embankment. And the rain.
“But good God! I never wanted him to kill you! Or the girl! That was his decision; he was never afraid to act.”
Varak. Longworth. The horrible mask of a face behind the wheel. A driver at night oblivious to the storm, staring straight ahead as he killed.
Varak, the professional, who used vehicles as weapons.
The pain in his temple was unendurable. Peter raised the gun, pointing it at Banner’s head. He squeezed the trigger.
Banner’s life was saved by the inexperience of an amateur. The safety catch prevented the hammer from exploding the shell.
Frederick Wells ran through the rain toward the road.
East of Annapolis, several miles beyond the Severn River, were the rolling hills of the Chanticlaire. It was a patrician golf club formed in the thirties by the proper aristocrats, thus given to exclusivity, and by extension, it was a gathering place for executives of the Central Intelligence Agency, an organization prone to the old school tie.
It was also used as an information drop between agents of the FBI and the CIA during those times when J. Edgar Hoover stopped the flow of data from the former to the latter. O’Brien knew it well; it was to be the meeting ground for Carlos Montelán. Paris was to be there no sooner than midnight, no later than twelve thirty. On the tenth tee; the instructions were clear.
Quinn took the wheel; he knew the back roads from Route 40 to the Chanticlaire. Alison and Peter sat in the back. Chancellor did his best to dry off, his mind still numbed by the shock of Banner’s revelation.
“He killed her,” said Peter, drained, absently watching the headlights in the diminishing rain. “Varak killed Cathy. What kind of man was he?”
Alison gripped his hand. O’Brien spoke from behind the wheel.
“I can’t answer that But I don’t think he thought in terms of life and death. In certain situations he thought only of eliminating problems.”
“He wasn’t human.”
“Which is the coldest thing I’ve ever heard.”
O’Brien found an out-of-the-way country inn. They went inside for warmth and coffee.
“Inver Brass,” said Quinn at the table in the dimly lit dining room. “What is it?”
“Frederick Wells assumed I knew,” replied Peter. “Just as he assumed Varak had sent me to him.”
“You’re sure he wasn’t feeding you false information? Trying to throw you off?”
“I’m sure. His panic was genuine. He’s in the files. Whatever’s there could ruin him.”
“Inver Brass,” repeated O’Brien quietly. “The inver is Scottish, the brass could be anything. What does the combination mean?”
“I think you’re overcomplicating things,” said Peter. “It’s the name they’ve given their nucleus.”
“Their what?”
“Sorry. My ‘Nucleus.’ ”
“Your book?” asked Alison.
“Yes.”
“I’d better read that damned manuscript,” said O’Brien.
“Is there any way,” asked Chancellor, “that we can trace Varak’s movements from April tenth through May second of this year?”
“Not now there isn’t,” O’Brien answered.
“We know Hoover died May second,” continued Peter. “So the implication—”
“The implication won’t stand scrutiny,” interrupted Quinn. “Hoover died of heart failure. That’s been established.”
“By whom?”
“Medical records. They were fragmentary but complete enough.”
“So we’re back at the beginning,” concluded Peter wearily.
“No, we’re not,” said Quinn, looking at his watch. “We’ve eliminated two candidates. It’s time for the third.”
It was the most secure contact location the FBI man had engineered, and for that reason he was particularly cautious. They arrived at the Chanticlaire an hour before Montelán was due to appear; the agent explored the area thoroughly. When he had finished, he told Peter to walk out to the tenth tee while Alison remained in the car at the far end of the drive near the gates and he concealed himself in the grass off the fairway.
The ground was wet, but the rain had stopped. The moon struggled to penetrate the passing clouds, its light progressively getting brighter. Chancellor waited in the shadows of an overhanging tree.
He heard the sound of a car driving through the open gate and looked at the radium dial of his wristwatch. It was five minutes past midnight; Montelán was anxious. Yet no more filled with anxiety than he was, reflected Peter. He felt the handle of the gun in his jacket pocket.
In less than a minute he saw the figure of Carlos Montelán walking rapidly around the corner of the clubhouse. The Spaniard was walking too fast, Peter thought. A frightened man was a cautious man; the figure coming toward him was not cautious.
“Mr. Chancellor?” Paris began calling fifty yards from the tee. He stopped and put his left hand into his overcoat pocket Peter took out his .38 and leveled it in front of him, watching in silence.
Montelán pulled his hand from his pocket. Chancellor lowered the gun. Paris held a flashlight; he turned it on, shooting the beam in several directions. The shaft of light hit Peter.
“Turn off the light!” yelled Chancellor, crouching.
“As you wish.” The shaft of light disappeared.
Remembering O’Brien’s instructions, Peter ran several yards away from his former position, keeping his eyes on Montelán. The Spaniard made no extraneous moves; he had no weapon. Chancellor stood up, knowing he could be seen in the moonlight.
“I’m over here,” he said.
Montelán turned, adjusting his eyes. “Sorry about the light. I won’t do that again.” He approached Peter. “I had no trouble coming here. Your directions were excellent.”
In the pale yellow light Peter could see Montelán’s face. It was strong, the features Latin, the dark eyes searching. Peter realized there was no fear in the man. In spite of the fact that he had been told to meet a stranger, known to him by name only, on an isolated golf course in the middle of the night—a stranger he had to at least consider might do him violence—Paris behaved as though their meeting were merely a mutually desirable business conference.
“This is a gun in my hand,” said Chancellor, raising the barrel.
Montelán squinted. “Why?”
“After what you’ve done to me—what Inver Brass has done to me—can you even ask?”
“I don’t know what’s been done to you.”
“You’re lying.”
“Let me put it this way. I know that you were given misinformation on the premise that you might write a novel based on that false information. It was hoped this might alarm certain individuals who are part of a conspiracy and force them to reveal themselves. In all candor I’ve doubted the wisdom of the exercise since I first heard of it”
“That’s all you’ve learned?”
“I gather there’s been some unpleasantness, but we were given assurance that no harm would come to you.”
“Who are the ‘certain individuals’? What’s the ‘conspiracy’?”
Paris paused for a moment as if resolving a conflict within himself. “If no one’s told you, perhaps it’s time someone did. There is a conspiracy. A very real and dangerous one. An entire section of J. Edgar Hoover’s private files is missing. They’ve disappeared.”
“How do you know that?”
Again Montelán fell briefly silent, then having made the decision, continued. “I can’t give you specifics, but since you mentioned the name and—more to the point—referred to the others in your telephone call this morning, I must assume you’ve learned more than was intended for you to learn. It doesn’t matter; it’s coming to an end. Inver Brass managed to get hold of the remaining files.”
“How?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“A little of both, perhaps.”
“That’s not good enough!”
“Do you know a man named Varak?” asked Paris softly, as if Chancellor had not shouted.
“Yes.”
“Ask him. He may tell you, he may not”
Peter studied the Spaniard’s face in the moonlight. Montelán was not lying. He did not know of Varak’s death. Chancellor felt a hollowness in his throat; a third contender had been eliminated. Questions remained, but the most vital issue was resolved. Paris did not have the files.
“What did you mean when you said it didn’t matter what I’d learned? That it was ‘coming to an end’?”
“The days of Inver Brass are over.”
“What exactly is Inver Brass?”
“I presumed you knew.”
“Don’t presume anything!”
Again the Spaniard paused before he spoke. “A group of men dedicated to the well-being of this nation.”
“A nucleus,” said Peter.
“I imagine it could be called that,” replied Montelán. “It’s made up of outstanding men, men of extraordinary character and great love for their country.”
“Are you one of them?”
“I was privileged to be asked.”
“This is the group that was formed to warn Hoover’s victims?”
“It has had many functions.”
“How many weeks ago were you asked to join? Or was it months?”
For the first time Paris seemed bewildered. “Weeks? Months? I’ve been a member for four years.”
“Four years?!” There was the dissonant chord again. As far as Peter knew, the group—St. Claire’s nucleus, this Inver Brass—had been formed to combat Hoover’s final and most vicious tactic: the exploitation of fear through his private files. It was a late-in-the-day defense born of necessity. A year, a year and a half, two years at the most, had been the span of its existence. Yet Paris spoke of four years.…
And Jacob Dreyfus had used the phrase “forty years of service”; then he’d followed it with a reference to “countless millions spent.” At the time, during those moments of panic on the beach, Chancellor had thought Dreyfus had somehow been referring to himself. But now … forty years … countless millions.
Frederick Well’s biting words suddenly came back to Peter. The country needs me. I must lead Inver Brass. The others are old, weak! Their time is finished. I’m the one!
Four years … forty years! Countless millions.
And finally Peter remembered Dreyfus’s letter to Montelán. The covenant between Christopher and Paris.
We are consumed with memories.…
Memories of what?
“Who are you people?” he asked, staring at Montelán.
“Beyond what I’ve said, I’ll say no more. You were right, Mr. Chancellor. I presumed. In any event, I’m not here to discuss such matters. I came to try to convince you not to interfere any longer. Your inclusion was an error of judgment by a brilliant but frustrated man. There was no great harm as long as you remained in the background, poking among the ruins, but should you surface and be asked questions publicly, that would be disaster.”
“You’re frightened,” said Chancellor, surprised. “You pretend to be very cool, but underneath you’re frightened out of your wits.”
“I most certainly am. For you as well as for all of us.”
“Does ‘us’ mean Inver Brass?”
“And many others. There’s a rift in this country between the people and its leaders. There is corruption at the highest levels of government; it goes beyond mere power politics. The Constitution has been seriously assaulted, our way of life threatened. I’m not being melodramatic; I’m telling you the truth. Perhaps a person not bora here, who has seen it happen before, understands more clearly what these things mean.”
“What’s the answer? Or is there one?”
“There certainly is. The rigid, dispassionate application of the legal process. I repeat, dispassionate. The people must be awakened to the real dangers of abuse. Clearly, reasonably, not propelled by emotional accusations and demands for recrimination. The system will work if it’s given the chance; the process has begun. It’s no time for explosive disclosures. It’s a time for intensive examination. And reflection.”
“I see,” said Peter slowly. “And it’s not the time for the exposure of Inver Brass, is it?”
“No,” said Montelán firmly.
“Perhaps it will never be.”
“Perhaps. I told you. Its time has passed.”
“Is that why you have your covenant with Jacob Dreyfus? With Christopher?”
It was as though Paris had been slapped harshly across the face. “I wondered,” he said softly. “I nearly called him but thought better of it. So you reached him.”
“I reached him.”
“I’m sure he spoke as I have. His devotion to this country is infinite. He understands.”
“I don’t. I don’t understand any of you people.”
“Because your knowledge is limited. And you’ll learn no more from me. I can only beg you again to go away. If you continue, I think you’ll be killed.”
“That’s been suggested. One last question: What happened at Chasǒng?”
“Chasǒng? The Battle of Chasǒng?”
“Yes.”
“A terrible waste. Thousands lost over an inconsequential stretch of barren territory. Megalomania superseded civilian authority. It’s on the record.”
Peter realized he still held the gun in his hand. It was meaningless; he put it back in his pocket.
“Go back to Boston,” he said.
“You’ll consider carefully everything I’ve said?”
“Yes.” But he knew he would have to go on.
For Daniel Sutherland, O’Brien had chosen an inlet east of Deal Island on the Chesapeake. The rendezvous was a commercial marina where fishing boats were moored, primarily oyster craft that would by necessity stay in shore for another week or two. The beds were poor; the ocean was not hospitable at this point in December.
The waves lapped incessantly against the pilings beneath the docks. The creaking of the boats at their moorings kept up a steady, snapping tattoo as the gulls cawed in the sky above in the early light.
Venice. The last of the candidates, thought Peter as he sat on an oily railing of a trawler at the end of the dock. The last, that is, unless Bravo was the one. That Peter would go back to Munro St. Claire seemed certain. The possibility that Sutherland was the betrayer of Inver Brass, the whispering killer who had the files, was remote. But then nothing was as it seemed to be. Anything was conceivable.
Sutherland had told him that the committee formed to combat Hoover’s viciousness had been disbanded. Too, Sutherland had maintained that the files had been destroyed. As a member of Inver Brass he knew both were lies.
But why would Sutherland want the files? Why would he kill? Why would he belie the law he championed?
Peter could barely distinguish the entrance to the dock, beyond the hoist pulleys and the engine winches. They formed a strange, silhouetted archway, sharp black lines against a background of gray. He looked across the short span of water to his right where he knew O’Brien lay concealed on the deck of a scow. He turned his head to the left, trying to make out the automobile sandwiched between dry-docked oyster boats pulled out of the water for repairs. Alison was in the car. In her hand was a book of matches, a single match torn off, ready to strike. It was to be struck and held in the window, its flame shielded from the front, should there be anyone but the judge in Sutherland’s automobile.
Suddenly, Peter heard the low tones of a powerful engine approaching in the distance. Moments later dual headlight beams shot through the fenced entrance into the shipyard, reflecting off the dry-docked hulls. The automobile continued on, turning right down a wide space between the boats toward the water’s edge.
The headlights were shut off, leaving a lingering residue of light in Chancellor’s eyes. He crouched below the gunwale of the trawler and kept watching the base of the dock. Lapping waves slapped against pilings in erratic rhythms; the creaking of boats continued ceaselessly.
A car door opened and closed, and moments later Sutherland’s immense figure emerged from the darkness and filled a large area under the arch of steel and the taut metal coils of the winches. He walked out on the dock toward Peter, his footsteps heavy and cautious but without hesitation.
He reached the end of the dock and stood motionless, looking across the bay, a giant black man at dawn by the water’s edge. Daniel Sutherland looked as if he were the last man on earth, contemplating the end of the universe. Or waiting for a barge to dock and men to order a huge buck to start unloading.
Peter stood up, pushing himself away from the trawler’s railing, his hand in his pocket, gripping the gun. “Good morning, Judge. Or should I call you Venice?”
Sutherland turned and looked toward the trawler’s slip where Chancellor stood on the narrow walkway. He said nothing.
“I said good morning,” continued Chancellor softly, even courteously, unable to shut out the respect he felt for this man who had achieved so much in a lifetime.
“I heard you,” replied Sutherland in his resonant voice, itself a weapon. “You called me Venice.”
“That’s the name you’re known by. That’s the name Inver Brass gave you.”
“You’re only half right It’s a name I gave myself.”
“When? Forty years ago?”
Sutherland did not at first reply. He seemed to absorb Peter’s statement with equal degrees of ire and astonishment, equally controlled. “When’s not important. Neither’s the name.”
“I think both are. Does Venice mean what I think it means?”
“Yes. The Moor.”
“Othello was a killer.”
“This Moor is not.”
“That’s what I’m here to find out. You lied to me.”
“I misled you for your own good. You should never have been involved at the start.”
“I’m sick of hearing that. Why was I, then?”
“Because other solutions had failed. You seemed worth a try. We faced a national catastrophe.”
“Hoover’s missing files?”
Sutherland paused, his large dark eyes locked with Chancellor’s. “You’ve learned then,” he said. “It’s true. Those files had to be found and destroyed, but all attempts to locate them had failed. Bravo was desperate and sought desperate measures. You were one of them.”
“Then, why did you tell me the files had been destroyed?”
“I was asked to confirm certain aspects of the story given you. However, I didn’t want you to take yourself too seriously. You’re a novelist, not an historian. To allow you greater latitude would have placed you in danger. I couldn’t permit that.”
“Bait me in, but not all the way in, was that it?”
“It will do.”
“No, it won’t. There’s more. You were protecting a group of men who call themselves Inver Brass. You’re one of them. You told me a few concerned men and women got together to fight Hoover and then disbanded after his death. You lied about that, too. This group goes back forty years.”
“You’ve let your imagination run away with you.” The judge was breathing harder.
“No, I haven’t. I’ve spoken to the others.”
“You’ve what!” Gone was the control, the sense of judicial propriety that underscored his every phrase. Sutherland’s head trembled in the early light “What in the name of God have you done?”
“I listened to the words of a dying man. And I think you know who that man was.”
“Oh, God! Longworth!” The black giant froze.
“You knew!” The shock caused Peter to lose his breath. His muscles tensed, his foot slipped; he steadied himself. It was Sutherland. None of the others had made the connection. Sutherland had! He would not have made it, could not have made it, without following Varak, without tapping the Hay-Adams’s switchboard!
“I know it now,” said the judge in a flat, ominous monotone. “You found him in Hawaii, you brought him back and broke him. You may have touched off a chain of events that could drive the fanatics over the edge! Send them screaming into the streets with their charges of conspiracy and worse! What Longworth did was necessary. It was right!”
“What the hell are you talking about? Longworth was Varak, and you damned well know it! He found me! He saved my life, and I watched him die.”
Sutherland seemed to lose his equilibrium. His breathing stopped, his immense body wavered as if he might fall. He spoke softly, in deep pain. “So Varak was the one. I had considered it but didn’t want to believe it He worked with others; I thought it was one of them. Not Varak. The wounds of his childhood never healed; he couldn’t resist the temptation. He had to have all the weapons.”
“Are you telling me he took the files? It won’t wash. He didn’t have them.”
“He delivered them to someone else.”
“He what?” Chancellor took a step forward, stunned by Sutherland’s words.
“His hatred ran too deep. His sense of justice was twisted; all he wanted was revenge. The files could give him that.”
“Whatever you’re saying, it’s wrong! Varak gave his life to find those files! You’re lying! He told me the truth! He said it was one of four men!”
“It is.…” Sutherland looked away across the water. The awful silence was broken by the sounds of the boat basin. “Almighty God,” he said, turning back to Peter. “If he had only come to me. I might have convinced him there was a better way. If he’d only come to me—”
“Why should he? You weren’t above suspicion. I’ve spoken to the others; you’re still not. You’re one of the four!”
“You arrogant young fool!” thundered Daniel Sutherland, his voice echoing throughout the bay. Then he spoke quietly, with enormous intensity. “You say I lie. You say you’ve spoken to the others. Well, let me tell you, you’ve been lied to far more expeditiously by someone else.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that I know who has those files! I’ve known for weeks! It is, indeed, one of four men, but it’s not !. This discovery was not so difficult What will be difficult is getting them back! Convincing a man who’s gone mad to seek help. You and Varak may have made that impossible!”
Peter stared at the black giant “You’ve never said anything to anyone—”
“I couldn’t!” interrupted the judge. “The situation had to be contained; the risks were too great He hires killers. He has a thousand hostages in those files.” Sutherland took a step toward Chancellor. “Did you tell anyone you were coming here? Did you watch to see if you were followed?”
Chancellor shook his head. “I travel with my own protection. No one followed me.”
“You travel with what?”
“I’m not alone,” said Peter quietly.
“Others are with you?”
“It’s all right,” said Chancellor, frightened by the old man’s sudden dread. “He’s with us.”
“O’Brien?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, my God!”
There was a sudden loud splash of water. It could not be mistaken for an anxious fish. There was a human being beneath the dock. In darkness. Peter ran to the edge.
Two rapid explosions of gunfire came from behind him. From the direction of Quinn’s boat! Chancellor dove to the wood, flattening himself against the planks. The whole area erupted; shots came from the surface of the water, from the railings of other boats. Spits cracked in the air: bullets fired from weapons equipped with silencers. Peter rolled to his left, instinctively seeking the cover of adjacent pilings. Wood splintered in front of his face; he covered his eyes, opening them in time to see a flash of gunfire from an opposing dock. He brought his own gun up and pulled the trigger in panic.
There was a scream, followed by the sounds of a falling body, crashing into unseen objects and rolling over the dock into water.
Chancellor heard a grunt to his left. He turned. A man in a black wet suit was climbing over the edge of the pier. Peter aimed and fired; the man-monster arched his back, then fell forward in a last attempt to reach out at him.
Alison! He had to get to her! He lunged backward and came in startled contact with human flesh. It was Sutherland’s body! The face was covered with blood, the overcoat stained throughout the upper section; splotches of deep red were everywhere.
The black giant was dead.
“Chancellor!” O’Brien was yelling at him, his voice penetrating the explosions and the spits of gunfire. For what purpose? To kill him? Who was O’Brien? What was O’Brien?
He would not answer; he would not become a target Survival forced him to move. He lurched over the slain Daniel Sutherland toward the mass of steel machinery at the foot of the dock. He scrambled on all fours, diving, twisting, zigzagging as fast as he could over the filthy planks.
There was the ping of a ricocheting bullet. He had been seen! He had no choice; he rose partially off the ground, his legs aching in fear, and sped toward the black iron objects. He was in front of them; he plunged between the arch of cascading coils, twisting to his right behind a shield of steel.
“Chancellor! Chancellor!” Still O’Brien’s shouts punctuated the gunfire. Still Peter would not heed him. For there was only one explanation. The man he had pitied, admired, given his life to, had led him into the trap!
There was a sudden fusillade, followed by an explosion. Flames leaped up from the stern of a trawler two docks away. Then a second detonation; another boat erupted in fire. There were shouts, orders; men ran over the docks and jumped from railings into the water. The gunfire seemed to diminish in the confusion. Then there was a single loud report, and a third boat burst into flames. Another shot followed; a man screamed. He screamed words.
The words were unintelligible. All but one: Chasǒng.
Chasǒng!
A man was hit, his last words a roar of defiance before death; no other motive could cause the fanatic sound. It was the language Varak had not understood! Chancellor now heard it for himself; it was like no other he had ever heard.
The noise abated. Two men in wet suits climbed over the end of the short pier where Daniel Sutherland lay dead. Across the water on the opposing dock three shots came in rapid succession; a ricocheting bullet glanced harshly off a gearbox above Peter and imbedded itself in the wood beside him. A figure raced toward the shore, jumping between the boats, over railings, onto decks, around wheelhouses. More shots; Chancellor ducked beneath the shield of steel. The figure of the racing man reached the muddy shore and dove beyond a beached rowboat. He stayed there only seconds, then rose and ran into the darkness.
It was O’Brien! Peter watched in disbelief as he disappeared into the woods that bordered the boat basin.
The gunfire stopped. From the water beyond the docks came the sound of a motor launch. Chancellor could not wait any longer. He crawled out of his sanctuary, got to his feet, and raced between the boats toward the automobile.
Alison lay prostrate on the ground next to the car. Her eyes were glazed, her body trembled. Peter sank down beside her and held her in his arms.
“I never thought I’d see you alive!” she whispered, her fingers digging into him, her moist cheek against his.
“Come on. Quickly!” He pulled her to her feet. He yanked the car door open and pushed Alison inside.
There was a commotion on the dock. The motor launch he had heard in the distance had pulled alongside. There was an argument; men turned, several started toward the shore.
It was the moment to move. In seconds it would be too late. He looked through the windshield and turned the ignition key. The motor groaned but did not start.
The morning dampness! The car had not run in hours!
He heard shouts from the base of the dock. Alison heard them, too; she grabbed for his gun from the seat where he had dropped it. Automatically, with the swiftness born of experience, she cracked out the magazine.
“You’ve only got two shells left! Do you have others?”
“Bullets? No!” Peter turned the key again, pressing the accelerator.
The figure of a man in a wet suit loomed between the hulls of the beached trawlers. He started toward them.
“Watch your eyes!” shouted Alison.
She fired the weapon, the explosion thunderous inside the car. The side window blew open. The motor started.
Chancellor yanked the gearshift into drive and plunged his foot on the accelerator. The car lurched forward wildly. He swung the wheel to his right; the car skidded sideways, throwing up sprays of mud and dust. He straightened the wheel out and sped toward the exit turn.
They could hear shots behind them; the back window exploded.
Chancellor pushed Alison to the floor of the car as he whipped the steering wheel to the left. She would not stay down but lunged up, firing the second and last bullet. Briefly the gunshots behind them stopped.
Then they resumed, the bullets wild, without effect. Peter reached the entrance of the boat basin and raced down the road cut out of the forest toward the highway.
They were alone. An hour before there had been three fugitives; now there were two.
They had given their trust to Quinn O’Brien; he had betrayed them.
Whom would they turn to now?
They had only each other. Houses and office buildings were watched. Friends, acquaintances, placed under surveillance. Telephones were tapped, their car known. The highways and back roads would soon be patrolled.
Peter began to feel a remarkable change within himself. He wondered for a moment whether it was real or merely another aspect of his imagination; whatever, he decided he was grateful for it.
The fear—the sense of utter helplessness—was replaced by anger.
He gripped the wheel and drove on, the scream of death he had heard only minutes before echoing in his ears.
Chasǒng!
After everything was said, it was still the key.