June, 3, 1968
The dark-haired man stared at the wall in front of him. His chair, like the rest of the furniture, was pleasing to the eye but not made for comfort. The style was Early American, the theme Spartan, as if those about to be granted an audience with the occupant of the inner office should reflect on their awesome opportunity in stern surroundings.
The man was in his late twenties, his face angular, the features sharp, each pronounced and definite as if carved by a craftsman more aware of details than of the whole. It was a face in quiet conflict with itself, striking and yet unsettled. The eyes were engaging, deep set and very light blue, with an open, even questioning quality about them. They seemed at the moment to be the eyes of a blue-eyed animal, swift to level in any direction, steady, apprehensive.
The young man’s name was Peter Chancellor, and the expression on his face was as rigid as his posture in the chair. His eyes were angry.
There was one other person in the outer office: a middle-aged secretary whose thin, colorless lips were set in constant tension, her gray hair stretched and spun into a bun that took on the appearance of a faded flaxen helmet. She was the Praetorian Guard, the attack dog who protected the sanctuary of the man behind the oak door beyond her desk.
Chancellor looked at his watch; the secretary glanced at him disapprovingly. Any indication of impatience was out of place in this office; the audience itself was everything.
It was quarter to six; all the other offices were closed. The small Midwest campus of Park Forest University was preparing for another late-spring evening, the controlled revelry heightened by the proximity of graduation day.
Park Forest strove to remain outside the unrest that had swept across the university campuses. In an ocean of turbulence it was an undisturbed sandbar. Insular, rich, at peace with itself, essentially without disruption. Or brilliance.
It was this fundamental lack of external concerns, so the story went, that brought the man behind the oak door to Park Forest. He sought inaccessibility, if not anonymity, which of course could never be granted. Munro St. Claire had been undersecretary of state for Roosevelt and Truman; ambassador-extraordinary for Eisenhower, Kennedy, and Johnson. He had flown about the globe with an open portfolio, bringing his Presidents’ concerns and his own expertise to the world’s troubled areas. That he had elected to spend a spring semester at Park Forest as visiting professor of government—while organizing the data that would form the basis of his memoirs—was a coup that had stunned the trustees of this wealthy but minor university. They had swallowed their disbelief and guaranteed St. Claire the isolation he could never have found in Cambridge, New Haven, or Berkeley.
So the story went.
And Peter Chancellor thought about the salient points of St. Claire’s story to keep his mind off his own. But not entirely. At the moment, the salient points of his own immediate existence were as discouraging as one could imagine. Twenty-four months lost, thrown away into academic oblivion. Two years of his life!
His doctoral thesis had been rejected by the vote of eight to one by the honors college of Park Forest The one dissenting vote was, naturally, that of his advisor and, as such, without influence on the others. Chancellor had been accused of frivolousness, of wanton disregard of historical fact, of slovenly research, and ultimately of irresponsibly inserting fiction in lieu of provable data. It was not at all ambiguous. Chancellor had failed; there was no appeal, for the failure was absolute.
From an exhilarating high he had sunk into a deep depression. Six weeks ago the Foreign Service Journal of Georgetown University had agreed to publish fourteen excerpts from the thesis. A total of some thirty pages. His advisor had managed it, sending a copy to academic friends in Georgetown, who thought the work was both enlightening and frightening. The Journal was on a par with Foreign Affairs, its readership among the country’s most influential. Something was bound to result; somebody had to offer something.
But the Journal’s editors made one condition: Due to the nature of the thesis, the doctoral acceptance was mandatory before they would publish the manuscript. Without it they would not.
Now, of course, publishing any part was out of the question.
“The Origins of a Global Conflict” was the title. The conflict was World War II, the origins an imaginative interpretation of the men and the forces that collided during the catastrophic years from 1926 to 1939. It did no good to explain to the history committee of the honors college that the thesis was an interpretive analysis, not a legal document. He had committed a cardinal sin: He had attributed invented dialogue to historical figures. Such nonsense was unacceptable to the groves of academe at Park Forest.
But Chancellor knew there was another more serious flaw in the eyes of the committee. He had written his thesis in outrage and emotion, and outrage and emotion had no place in doctoral dissertations.
The premise that financial giants stood passively by while a band of psychopaths shaped post-Weimar Germany was ludicrous. As ludicrous as it was patently false. The multinational corporations could not feed the Nazi wolf pack fast enough; the stronger the pack, the more rapacious the appetites of the marketplace.
The German wolf pack’s objectives and methods were conveniently obscured in the interests of an expanding economy. Obscured, hell! They were tolerated, ultimately accepted, along with the swiftly rising lines on profit-and-loss charts. Diseased Nazi Germany was given an economic clean bill of health by the financiers. And among the colossi of international finance who fed the Wehrmacht eagle were a number of the most honored industrial names in America.
There was the problem. He could not come out and identify those corporations because his proof was not conclusive. The people who had given him the information, and led him to other sources, would not allow their names to be used. They were frightened, tired old men, living on government and company pensions. Whatever had happened in the past was past; they would not risk losing the largess of their benefactors. Should Chancellor make public their private conversations, they would deny them. It was as simple as that.
But it wasn’t as simple as that. It had happened. The story had not been told, and Peter wanted very much to tell it. True, he did not want to destroy old men who had merely carried out policies they had not understood, conceived by others so far up the corporate ladders they’d rarely met them. But to walk away from unrecorded history was wrong.
So Chancellor took the only option open to him: He had changed the names of the corporate giants, but in such a way as to leave no doubt as to their identities. Anyone who read a newspaper would know who they were.
This was his unforgivable error. He had raised provocative questions few wished to recognize as valid. Park Forest University was looked upon favorably when corporations and corporate foundations issued grants; it was not a dangerous campus. Why should that status be threatened—even remotely—by the work of a single doctoral candidate?
Christ! Two years. There were alternatives, of course. He could transfer his credits to another university and resubmit “Origins.” But what then? Was it worth it? To face another form of rejection? One that lay in the shadows of his own doubts? For Peter was honest with himself. He had not written so unique or brilliant a work. He had merely found a period in recent history that infuriated him because of its parallels with the present Nothing had changed; the lies of forty years ago still existed. But he did not want to walk away from it; he would not walk away. He would tell it. Somehow.
However, outrage was not a substitute for qualitative research. Concern for living sources was hardly an alternative for objective investigation. Reluctantly Peter acknowledged the validity of the committee’s position. He was neither academic fish nor fowl; he was part fact, part fantasy.
Two years! Wasted!
The secretary’s telephone hummed, it did not ring. The hum reminded Chancellor of the rumor that special communications had been installed so Washington could reach Munro St. Claire at any time of day or night. These installations, so the story went, were St. Claire’s only departure from his self-imposed inaccessibility.
“Yes, Mr. Ambassador,” said the secretary, “I’ll send him in.… That’s quite all right. If you need me, I can stay.” Apparently she was not needed, and Peter had the impression that she was not happy about it. The Praetorian Guard was being dismissed. “You’re scheduled to be at the dean’s reception at six thirty,” she continued. There was brief silence; then the woman replied. “Yes sir. I’ll telephone your regrets. Good night, Mr. St. Claire.”
She glanced at Chancellor. “You may go in now,” she said, her eyes questioning.
“Thank you.” Peter rose from the uncomfortable straight-backed chair. “I don’t know why I’m here either,” he said.
Inside the oak-paneled office with the cathedral windows, Munro St. Claire got up from behind the antique table that served as his desk. He was an old man, thought Chancellor as he approached the extended right hand held over the table. Much older than he appeared at a distance, walking across the campus with a sure stride. Here in his office his tall slender body and aquiline head with the faded blond hair seemed to struggle to stay erect. Yet erect he stood, as if refusing to give in to infirmities. His eyes were large, but of no discernible color, intense in their steadiness, but not without humor. His thin lips were stretched into a smile beneath his well-groomed white moustache.
“Come in, come in, Mr. Chancellor. It’s a pleasure to see you again.”
“I don’t think we’ve met.”
“Good for you! Don’t let me get away with that.” St. Claire laughed and indicated a chair in front of the table.
“I didn’t mean to contradict you, I just—” Chancellor stopped, realizing that no matter what he said, it would sound foolish. He sat down.
“Why not?” asked St. Claire. “Contradicting me would be minor compared to what you’ve done to a legion of contemporary scholars.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Your dissertation. I read it.”
“I’m flattered.”
“I was most impressed.”
“Thank you, sir. Others weren’t.”
“Yes, I understand that. It was rejected by the honors college, I’m told.”
“Yes.”
“A damned shame. A lot of hard work went into it. And some very original thinking.”
Who are you, Peter Chancellor? Have you any idea what you’ve done? Forgotten men have dredged up memories and whisper in fear. Georgetown is rife with rumor. An explosive document has been received from an obscure university in the Midwest. An insignificant graduate student has suddenly reminded us of that which no one cares to remember. Mr. Chancellor, Inver Brass cannot permit you to go on.
Peter saw that the old man’s eyes were at once encouraging and yet noncommittal. There was nothing to be lost in being direct. “Are you implying that you might—?”
“Oh, no,” interrupted St. Claire sharply, raising the palm of his right hand. “No, indeed. I wouldn’t presume to question such a decision; it’s hardly my place. And I suspect the rejection was based on certain applicable criteria. No, I wouldn’t interfere. But I’d like to ask you several questions, perhaps offer some gratuitous advice.”
Chancellor leaned forward. “What questions?”
St. Claire settled back in his chair. “First, yourself. I’m merely curious. I’ve spoken with your advisor, but that’s secondhand. Your father’s a newspaperman?”
Chancellor smiled. “He’d say was. He retires next January.”
“Your mother’s also a writer, isn’t she?”
“Of sorts. Magazine articles, women’s-page columns. She wrote short stories years ago.”
“So the written word holds no terror for you.”
“What do you mean?”
“A mechanic’s son approaches a malfunctioning carburetor with less trepidation than the offspring of a ballet master. Generally speaking, of course.”
“Generally speaking, I’d agree.”
“Precisely.” St. Claire nodded his head.
“Are you telling me my dissertation’s a malfunctioning carburetor?”
St. Claire laughed. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. You took your master’s degree in journalism, obviously intending to be a newspaperman.”
“Some form of communications, at any rate. I wasn’t sure which.”
“Yet you prevailed upon this university to accept you for a doctorate in history. So you changed your mind.”
“Not really. It was never made up.” Again Peter smiled, now with embarrassment. “My parents claim I’m a professional student. Not that they mind, particularly. A scholarship saw me through the master’s. I served in Vietnam, so the government’s paying my way here. I do some tutoring. To tell you the truth, I’m nearly thirty and I’m not sure what I want to do. But I don’t suppose that’s unique these days.”
“Your graduate work would seem to indicate a preference for the academic life.”
“If it did, it doesn’t anymore.”
St. Claire glanced at him. “Tell me about the dissertation itself. You make startling insinuations, rather frightening judgments. Essentially, you accuse many of the free world’s leaders—and their institutions—of either closing their eyes to the menace of Hitler forty years ago, or worse: directly and indirectly financing the Third Reich.”
“Not for ideological reasons. For economic advantage.”
“Scylla and Charybdis?”
“I’ll accept that. Right now, today, there’s a repetition—?”
“Despite the honors college,” interrupted St. Claire quietly, “you must have done a fair amount of research. How much?”
What started you? That’s what we have to know, be-cause we know you will not let it go. Were you directed by men seeking vengeance after all these years? Or was it—far worse—an accident that primed your outrage? We can control sources; we can countermand them, show them to be false. We cannot control accidents. Or an outrage born of an accident. But you cannot go on, Mr. Chancellor. We must find a way to stop you.
Chancellor paused; the aged diplomat’s question was unexpected. “Research? A lot more than the committee believes and a lot less than certain conclusions warrant. That’s as honest as I can put it.”
“It’s honest. Will you give me specifics? There’s very little documentation of sources.”
Suddenly Peter felt uneasy. What had begun as a discussion was turning into an interrogation. “Why is it important? There’s very little documentation because that’s the way the people I spoke to wanted it.”
“Then honor their wishes, by all means. Don’t use names.” The old man smiled; his charm was extraordinary.
We don’t need names. Names can be uncovered easily, once areas are discerned. But it would be better not to pursue names. Much better. The whispers would start again. There is a better way.
“All right. I interviewed people who were active during the period from ’23 to ’39. They were in government—mainly the State Department—and in industry and banking. Also I spoke with about half a dozen former senior officers attached to the War College and the intelligence community. None, Mr. St. Claire, none would allow me to use his name.”
“They provided you with so much material?”
“A great deal lay in what they would not discuss. And odd phrases, offhand remarks that were often non sequiturs, but just as often applicable. They’re old men now, all—or nearly all—retired. Their minds wandered; so did their memories. They’re kind of a sad collection; they’re—” Chancellor stopped. He was not sure how to continue.
St. Claire did. “By and large, embittered minor executives and bureaucrats living on inadequate pensions. Such conditions breed angry, all too often distorted memories.”
“I don’t think that’s fair. What I learned, what I wrote, is the truth. That’s why anyone who reads the thesis will know which those companies were, how they operated.”
St Claire dismissed the statement as though he had not heard it. “How did you reach these people? What led you to them? How did you get appointments to see them?”
“My father started me off, and from those few came others. Sort of a natural progression; people remembered people.”
“Your father?”
“In the early fifties he was a Washington correspondent for Scripps-Howard—?”
“Yes.” St. Claire interrupted softly. “So, through his efforts, you obtained an initial list.”
“Yes. About a dozen names of men who had dealings in prewar Germany. In government and out. As I said, these led to others. And, of course, I read everything Trevor-Roper and Shirer and the German apologists wrote. That’s all documented.”
“Did your father know what you were after?”
“A doctorate was enough.” Chancellor grinned. “My father went to work with a year and a half of college. Money was tight.”
“Then, shall we say, is he aware of what you found? Or thought you found.”
“Not really. I figured my parents would read the thesis when it was finished. Now, I don’t know if they’ll want to; this is going to be a blow to the home front.” Peter smiled weakly. “The aging, perpetual student comes to nothing.”
“I thought you said professional student,” corrected the diplomat.
“Is there a difference?”
“In approach, I think there is.” St. Claire leaned forward in silence, his large eyes leveled at Peter. “I’d like to take the liberty of summarizing the immediate situation as I see it.”
“Of course.”
“Basically, you have the materials for a perfectly valid theoretical analysis. Interpretations of history, from doctrinaire to revisionist, are neverending topics of debate and examination. Would you agree?”
“Naturally.”
“Yes, of course. You wouldn’t have chosen the subject in the first place if you didn’t.” St. Claire looked out the window as he spoke. “But an unorthodox interpretation of events—especially of a period in such recent history—based solely on the writings of others, would hardly justify the unorthodoxy, would it? I mean, certainly historians would have pounced on the material long before now if they had thought a case could be made. But it couldn’t, really, so you went beyond the accepted sources and interviewed embittered old men and a handful of reluctant former intelligence specialists and came away with specific judgments.”
“Yes, but—?”
“Yes, but,” broke in St. Claire, turning from the window. “By your own telling, these judgments were often based on ‘offhand remarks’ and ‘non sequiturs.’ And your sources refuse to be listed. In your own words your research did not justify numerous conclusions.”
“But they did. The conclusions are justified.”
“They’ll never be accepted. Not by any recognized authority, academic or judicial. And quite rightly so, in my judgment.”
“Then you’re wrong, Mr. St. Claire. Because I’m not wrong. I don’t care how many committees tell me I am. The facts are there, right below the surface, but nobody wants to talk about them. Even now, forty years later. Because it’s happening all over again! A handful of companies are making millions all over the world by fueling military governments, calling them our friends, our ‘first line of defense.’ When their eyes are on profit-and-loss sheets, that’s what they care about.… All right, maybe I can’t come up with documentation, but I’m not going to throw away two years’ work. I’m not going to stop because a committee tells me I’m academically unacceptable. Sorry, but that’s unacceptable.”
And that’s what we had to know. At the last, would you cut your losses and walk away? Others thought you would, but I didn’t. You knew you were right, and that’s too great a temptation in the young. We must now render you impotent.
St. Claire looked down at Peter and held his eyes. “You’re in the wrong arena. You sought acceptance from the wrong people. Seek it elsewhere. Where matters of truth and documentation are not important.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Your dissertation is filled with some rather splendidly imagined fiction. Why not concentrate on that?”
“What?”
“Fiction. Write a novel. No one cares whether a novel is accurate, or has historical authenticity. It’s simply not important.” St. Claire once again leaned forward, his eyes steady on Chancellor. “Write fiction. You may still be ignored, but at least there’s a chance of a hearing. To pursue your present course is futile. You’ll waste another year, or two, or three. Ultimately, for what? So write a novel. Spend your outrage there, then go about your life.”
Peter stared at the diplomat; he was at a loss, uncertain of his thoughts, so he merely repeated the single word. “Fiction?”
“Yes. I think we’re back to that malfunctioning carburetor, although the analogy may be terrible.” St. Claire settled back in his chair. “We agreed that words held no great fear for you; you’ve seen blank pages filled with them most of your life. Now, repair the work you’ve done with other words, a different approach that eliminates the necessity of academic sanction,”
Peter exhaled softly; for several moments he had held his breath, numbed by St. Claire’s analysis. “A novel? It never crossed my mind.…”
“I submit it may have unconsciously,” interjected the diplomat. “You didn’t hesitate to invent actions—and reactions—when it served you. And God knows you have the ingredients of a fascinating story. Farfetched, in my opinion, but not without merit for a Sunday afternoon in a hammock. Fix the carburetor; this is a different engine. One of less substance, perhaps, but conceivably quite enjoyable. And someone may listen to you. They won’t in this arena. Nor, frankly, should they.”
“A novel. I’ll be damned.”
Munro St. Claire smiled. His eyes were still strangely noncommittal.
The afternoon sun disappeared below the horizon; long shadows spread across the lawns. St. Claire stood at the window, gazing out on the quadrangle. There was an arrogance in the serenity of the scene; it was out of place in a world so locked in turbulance.
He could leave Park Forest now. His job was finished, the carefully orchestrated conclusion not perfect but sufficient unto the day.
Sufficient unto the limits of deceit.
He looked at his watch. An hour had passed since the bewildered Chancellor had left the office. The diplomat crossed back to his desk, sat down, and picked up the telephone. He dialed the area code 202 and then seven additional digits. Moments later there were two clicks over the line, followed by a whine. For any but those aware of the codes the sound would have simply signified a malfunctioning instrument.
St. Claire dialed five more digits. A single click was the result, and a voice answered.
“Inver Brass. Tape is rolling.” In the voice was the flat a of Boston, but the rhythm was Middle-European.
“This is Bravo. Patch me through to Genesis.”
“Genesis is in England. It’s past midnight over there.”
“I’m afraid I can’t be concerned with that. Can you patch? Is there a sterile location?”
“If he’s still at the embassy, there is, Bravo. Otherwise it’s the Dorchester. No guarantees there.”
“Try the embassy, please.”
The line went dead as the Inver Brass switchboard linked up communications. Three minutes later another voice was heard; it was clear, with no distortions, as though it were down the street, not 4,000 miles away. The voice was clipped, agitated, but not without respect. Or a degree of fear.
“This is Genesis. I was just leaving. What happened?”
“It’s done.”
“Thank God!”
“The dissertation was rejected. I made it clear to the committee, quite privately of course, that it was radical nonsense. They’d be the laughingstock of the university community. They’re sensitive; they should be. They’re mediocre.”
“I’m pleased.” There was a pause from London. “What was his reaction?”
“What I expected. He’s right and he knows it; therefore he’s frustrated. He had no intention of stopping.”
“Does he now?”
“I believe so. The idea’s firmly planted. If need be, I’ll follow up indirectly, put him in touch with people. But I may not have to. He’s imaginative; more to the point, his outrage is genuine.”
“You’re convinced this is the best way?”
“Certainly. The alternative is for him to pursue the research and dredge up dormant issues. I wouldn’t like that to happen in Cambridge or Berkeley, would you?”
“No. And perhaps no one will be interested in what he writes, much less publish it. I suppose we could bring that about.”
St. Claire’s eyes narrowed briefly. “My advice is not to interfere. We’d frustrate him further, drive him back. Let things happen naturally. If he does turn it into a novel, the best we can hope for is a minor printing of a rather amateurish work. He’ll have said what he had to say, and it will turn out to be inconsequential fiction, with the usual disclaimers as to persons living or dead. Interference might raise questions; that’s not in our interest.”
“You’re right, of course,” said the man in London. “But then you usually are, Bravo.”
“Thank you. And good-bye, Genesis. I’ll be leaving here in a few days.”
“Where are you going?”
“I’m not sure. Perhaps back to Vermont. Perhaps far away. I don’t like what I see on the national landscape.”
“All the more reason to stay in touch,” said the voice in London.
“Perhaps. And then again, I may be too old.”
“You can’t disappear. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes. Good night, Genesis.”
St. Claire replaced the telephone without waiting for a corresponding good-bye from London. He simply did not want to listen further.
He was swept by a sense of revulsion; it was not the first time, nor would it be the last. It was the function of Inver Brass to make decisions others could not make, to protect men and institutions from the moral indictments born of hindsight. What was right forty years ago was anathema today.
Frightened men had whispered to other frightened men that Peter Chancellor had to be stopped. It was wrong for this obscure doctoral candidate to ask questions that had no meaning forty years later. The times were different, the circumstances altogether dissimilar.
Yet there were certain gray areas. Accountability was not a limited doctrine. Ultimately, they were all accountable. Inver Brass was no exception. Therefore, Peter Chancellor had to be given the chance to vent his outrage, and in a way that removed him from consequence. Or catastrophe.
St. Claire rose from the table and surveyed the papers on top of it. He had removed most of his personal effects during the past weeks. There was very little of him in the office now; and that was as it should be.
Tomorrow he would be gone.
He walked to the door. Automatically he reached for the light switch, and then he realized no lights were on. He had been standing, pacing, sitting, and thinking in shadows.
The New York Times Book Review, May 10, 1969, Page 3
Reichstag! is at once startling and perceptive, awkward and incredible. Peter Chancellor’s first novel would have us believe that the early Nazi party was financed by nothing less than a cartel of international bankers and industrialists—American, British and French—apparently with the acknowledged, though unspoken, approval of their respective governments. Chancellor forces us to believe him as we read. His narrative is breathless; his characters leap from the page with a kind of raw power that illuminates their strengths and weaknesses in a manner that might be vitiated by more disciplined writing. Mr. Chancellor tells his tale in outrage, and far too melodramatically, but withal the book is a marvelous “read.” And, finally, you begin to wonder: Could it have happened this way?…
The Washington Post Book World April 22, 1970, Page 3
In Sarajevo! Chancellor does for the guns of August what he did for the Führer’s Blitzkrieg last year.
The forces that collided in the July crisis of 1914, preceded by the June assassination of Ferdinand by the conspirator Gavrilo Princip, are abstracted, rearranged, and put back on a fast track by Mr. Chancellor, so that no one emerges on the side of the angels and all is a triumph of evil. Throughout, the author’s protagonist—in this case a British infiltrator of a Serbo-Croat clandestine organization called, melodramatically, The Unity of Death—peels away the layers of deceit as they’ve been spread by the provocateurs of the Reichstag, the Foreign Office, and the Chamber of Deputies. The puppets are revealed; the strings lead back to the industrial vested interests on all sides.
As with so much else, these rarely discussed coincidences go on and on.
Mr. Chancellor has a conspiracy complex of a high order. He deals with it in a fascinating manner and with a high readability quotient. Sarajevo! should prove to be even more popular than Reichstag!
The Los Angeles Times Daily Review of Books April 4, 1971, Page 20
Counterstrike! is Chancellor’s best work to date, although for reasons that escape this reader, its serpentine plot is based on an extraordinary error of research that one does not expect of this author. It concerns the clandestine operations of the Central Intelligence Agency as they pertain to a spreading reign of terror imposed on a New England university city by a foreign power. Mr. Chancellor should know that all domestic involvements are specifically prohibited to the CIA in its 1947 charter.
This objection aside, Counterstrike! is a sure winner. Chancellor’s previous books have shown that he can spin a yarn with such pace that you can’t turn the pages fast enough, but now he’s added a depth of character not mined previously.
Chancellor’s extensive knowledge of counterespionage is, according to those who are supposed to know, on zero target. The CIA error notwithstanding.
He gets into the minds as well as the methods of all those involved in an absolutely frightening situation drawing an explicit parallel to the racial disturbances that led to a series of murders in Boston several years ago. Chancellor has arrived as a first-rate novelist who takes events, rearranges the facts, and presents startling new conclusions.
The plot is deviously simple: A man is chosen to perform a task for which he would seem to be ill equipped. He is given extensive CIA training, but nowhere in this training is there an attempt to strengthen his basic flaw. Soon we understand: That flaw is meant to bring about his death. Circles within circles of conspiracy. And once again, as with his previous books, we wonder: Is it true? Did this happen? Is this the way it was?…
Autumn. The Bucks County countryside was an ocean of yellow, green, and gold. Chancellor leaned against the hood of a silver Mark IV Continental, his arm casually around a woman’s shoulder. His face was fuller now, the distinct features less in conflict with one another, softened yet still sharp. His eyes were focused on a white house that stood at the foot of a winding drive cut out of the gently sloping fields. The drive was bordered on each side by a high white fence.
The girl with Chancellor, holding the hand draped over her shoulder, was as engrossed by the sight in front of them as he was. She was tall; her brown hair fell softly, framing her delicate but curiously strong face. Her name was Catherine Lowell.
“It’s everything you described,” she said, gripping his hand tightly. “It’s beautiful. Really very beautiful.”
“To coin a phrase,” said Chancellor, glancing down at her, “that’s one hell of a relief.”
She looked up at him. “You bought it, didn’t you? You’re not just ‘interested,’ you bought it!”
Peter nodded. “I had competition. A banker from Philadelphia was ready to put down a binder. I had to decide. If you don’t like it, I’m sure he’ll take it from me.”
“Don’t be silly, it’s absolutely gorgeous!”
“You haven’t seen the inside.”
“I don’t have to.”
“Good. Because I’d rather show it to you on the way back. The owners’ll be out by Thursday. They’d better be. On Friday afternoon I’ve got a large delivery from Washington. It’s coming here.”
“The transcripts?”
“Twelve cases from the Government Printing Office. Morgan had to send down a truck. The whole story of Nuremberg as recorded by the Allied tribunals. Do you want to guess what the title of the book’s going to be?”
Catherine laughed. “I can see Tony Morgan now, pacing around his office like a disjointed cat in gray flannels. Suddenly he pounces on his desk and shouts, frightening everyone within earshot, which is most of the building: ‘I’ve got it! We’ll do something different! We’ll use Nuremberg with an exclamation point!’ ”
Peter joined her laughter. “You’re vilifying my sainted editor.”
“Never. Without him we’d be moving into a five-flight walk-up, not a farm built for a country squire.”
“And the squire’s wife.”
“And the squire’s wife.” Catherine squeezed his arm. “Speaking of trucks, shouldn’t there be moving vans in the driveway?”
Chancellor smiled; it was an embarrassed smile. “Except for odd items, specifically listed, I had to buy it furnished. They’re moving to the Caribbean. You can throw it all out if you like.”
“My, aren’t we grand?”
“Aren’t we rich,” replied Peter, not asking a question. “No comments, please. Come on, let’s go. We’ve got about three hours on the turnpike, another two and a half after that. It’ll be dark soon.”
Catherine turned to him, her face tilted up, their lips nearly touching. “With every mile I’m going to get more and more nervous. I’ll develop twitches and arrive a babbling idiot. I thought the ritual dance of meeting parents went out ten years ago.”
“You didn’t mention it when I met yours.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake! They were so impressed just being in the same room with you, you didn’t have to do anything but sit there and gloat!”
“Which I did not do. I like your parents. I think you’ll like mine.”
“Will they like me? That’s the imponderable.”
“Not for a second,” said Peter, pulling her to him. “They’ll love you. Just as I love you. Oh God, I love you!”
It’s accurate, Genesis. This Peter Chancellor has the GPO reprinting everything relative to Nuremberg. The publisher has arranged transportation to an address in Pennsylvania.
It does not affect us, Banner. Venice and Christopher agree. We will take no action. That is the decision.
It’s a mistake! He’s going back to the German theme.
Long after the errors were made. There’s no association. Years before Nuremberg we saw clearly what we did not see at the beginning. There’s no connection to us. Any of us, including you.
You can’t be sure.
We are sure.
What does Bravo think?
Bravo’s away. He has not been apprised, nor will he be.
For reasons that don’t concern you. They go back several years. Before you were called to Inver Brass.
It’s wrong, Genesis.
And you’re overwrought unnecessarily. You would never have been summoned if your anxieties had merit, Banner. You’re an extraordinary man. We’ve never doubted that.
Nevertheless, it’s dangerous.
The traffic on the Pennsylvania Turnpike seemed to move faster as the sky grew darker. Pockets of fog intruded abruptly, distorting the glare of onrushing headlights. A sudden cloudburst of slashing, diagonal rain splattered against the windshield too rapidly. The wipers were useless against it.
There was a growing mania on the highway, and Chancellor felt it. Vehicles raced by, throwing up sprays of water; drivers seemed to sense several storms converging on western Pennsylvania, and instincts born of experience propelled them home.
The voice on the Continental’s radio was precise, commanding.
The highway department urges all motorists to stay off the roads in the Jamestown-Warren area. If you are currently en route, drive into the nearest service areas. We repeat: Storm warnings out of Lake Erie have now been confirmed. The storms have winds of hurricane force.…
“There’s a turnoff about four miles up,” said Peter, squinting at the windshield. “We’ll take it. There’s a restaurant two or three hundred yards out of the exit.”
“How can you tell?”
“We just passed a Pittsfield sign; it used to be a mark for me. It meant I was an hour from home.”
Chancellor never understood how it happened; it was a question that would burn into his mind for the rest of his life. The steep hill was an opaque blanket of torrential rain, which fell in successive, powerful gusts that literally caused the heavy car to sway on its axis, like a small boat in terrible seas.
And suddenly there were headlights blinding through the rear window, reflecting harshly off the mirror. White spots appeared in front of his eyes, obscuring even the torrents of rain against the glass. He saw only the glaring white light.
Then it was beside him! An enormous trailer truck was overtaking him on the dangerous incline of rushing water! Peter screamed at the driver through the closed window; the man was a maniac. Couldn’t he see what he was doing? Couldn’t he see the Mark IV in the storm? Was he out of his mind?
The unbelievable happened. The huge truck veered toward him! The impact came; the steel chassis of the carriage crashed into the Continental. Metal smashed against metal. The maniac was forcing him off the road! The man was drunk or panicked by the storm! Through the blanket of slashing rain Chancellor could see the outline of the driver high up in the perch of his seat. He was oblivious to the Mark IV! He did not know what he was doing!
A second crunching impact came with such force that Peter’s window shattered. The Mark IV’s wheels locked; the car whipped to the right, toward a vacuum of darkness that lay beyond the ridge of the embankment.
The hood rose up in the rain; then the car lurched over the shoulder of the highway, plunging downward.
Catherine’s screams pierced the sounds of shattering glass and crushing steel as the Continental rolled over and over and over. Metal now screeched against metal as if each strip, each panel were fighting to survive the successive impacts of car against earth.
Peter lunged toward the source of the scream—toward Catherine—but he was locked in place by a shaft of steel. The automobile twisted, rolled, plunged down the embankment.
The screams stopped. Everything stopped.