The gunshot—the explosion—was so shattering it had to have been heard blocks away. Someone would have called the police. He could not be seen leaving the house. He had to get out the back way quickly, into the darkness, into the shadows.
He ran in blind panic through a narrow hallway into a small kitchen. He lurched across the tiled floor to the back door, opened it cautiously, and let himself out, spinning around the door frame, pressing his back against the wall.
The house that faced him was separated from Ramirez’s by a tall hedge; he could see a driveway beyond the garage. Peter leaped off the small back porch onto the lawn and ran toward the hedge, shouldering his way through the thick branches until he was on the other side. He raced down the driveway into the street, turned left and kept running. Brown’s Triumph was in the next block, back on Ramirez’s street. At the corner he turned left again; a siren was whining harshly in the distance, coming closer. He slowed down and tried to walk casually; the police would not overlook a running man after reports of a gunshot.
He reached the Triumph and climbed inside. Through the rear window he could see that a small, excited crowd had gathered on Ramirez’s lawn. The flashing lights of a patrol car accompanied the approaching siren.
He heard the sound of another motor, this from the opposite direction. He turned; it was the military police vehicle. It stopped by the side of the Triumph. Brown got out, taking his keys from one of the soldiers.
They saluted the major; he did not return their salutes. The army car started up.
“Good. You’re back,” said Brown, opening the door.
“We’ve got to get out of here! Right away!”
“What’s the matter? What’s the crowd—?”
“Ramirez is dead.”
Brown said nothing. He climbed behind the wheel and started the Triumph’s engine. They sped off down the block, when suddenly coming toward them was a limousine, its headlights blinding, its outlines those of a giant killer shark slicing through dark waters. Peter could not help himself; he stared into the windows as the automobile raced past.
The driver was intent only on reaching his destination. Through the rear window, Chancellor saw what that destination was: Ramirez’s house.
The driver was black. Peter closed his eyes, trying to think.
“What happened?” asked Brown, turning the Triumph west toward the highway. “Did you kill him?”
“No. I might have, but I didn’t You were right; he shot himself. He couldn’t face Chasǒng. He was responsible for the massacre. It was engineered to keep the wraps on what they’d done to MacAndrew’s wife.”
Brown was silent for a moment When he spoke, it was with loathing as well as disbelief. “Bastards!”
“If the story of MacAndrew’s wife had been broken,” Peter continued, “it would have led to the exposure of dozens of other such operations. Other experiments. They knew what they were doing.”
“Ramirez admitted it?”
Peter looked at Brown. “Let’s say it came out. What’s mind-blowing is the rest I’m not sure I can even say the words. It’s that crazy.”
“Hoover’s files?”
“No. Hoover. He was killed. He was assassinated! It was true all along! It was never a lie!”
“Take it easy. I thought you said Varak told you it was a lie.”
“He was lying! He was protecting—” Peter stopped.
Varak. The specialist. The man of a hundred weapons, a dozen faces … assorted names. Good God! It had been there all the time, and he hadn’t seen it! Longworth. Varak had assumed the name of an agent named Longworth on the night of May first. It wasn’t someone else. Varak masquerading as Longworth had been one of the three men, without accountability, who had entered the bureau the night before Hoover died—which meant they knew that death was certain! They found half the files missing; that part was true. And Varak had given his life to trace them, then protected Bravo, protected with his life the extraordinary diplomat known to the world as Munro St. Claire.
Varak had been Hoover’s assassin! What had Frederick Wells said? Varak was the killer, not Inver Brass … I can and will raise disturbing questions … from the tenth of April through the night of May first … Varak has those files!
Which meant Munro St Claire had the files. Varak himself had been lied to, manipulated!
By his mentor Bravo.
And now the cult of Chasǒng had zeroed in on Ramirez. The cult given influence and power by Munro St. Claire, who had used Varak as he had used everyone else. Including one Peter Chancellor.
It was all coming to an end. The forces were closing in, colliding, as Carlos Montelán had said they would collie. It would be finished this night, one way or the other.
“I’m going to tell you everything I know,” he said. “Drive to Arundel; they can’t follow us. I’ll tell you on the way. I want you to stay with Alison. When we get there, I want to take your car. I want you to wait awhile, then call Munro St Claire in Washington. Tell him I’ll be waiting for him at Genesis’s house on the bay. He’s to come alone. I’ll be watching; he won’t find me if he’s not alone.”