The bald man and one of his friends led the way northward out of Clarendon in a white F-150, with Bourne’s Jeep keeping pace behind it. The other two men brought up the rear in an olive green Ford Explorer. The parade on the highway lasted for about two miles, and then Jason saw the F-150 turn onto an unmarked dirt road that led upward into the trees. He followed, noticing that the third vehicle stayed behind, blocking access to the road. They climbed in sharp switchbacks, following the slope of a wooded hill rising above the valley. In the glow of his headlights, he spotted security cameras mounted in the trees.
As they reached the summit of the hill, the road opened into a wide clearing. In the middle of a lush lawn, landscaped with fruit trees and flower gardens, was a sprawling log home with several steep gables. The front porch was illuminated by lights, and Bourne saw an old man standing at the top of the steps, awaiting their arrival. He recognized him from the photo they’d seen. It was Peter Chancellor.
The F-150 pulled to a stop in front of the porch, and Bourne parked the Jeep behind it. The man in camouflage got out, and Chancellor came down the steps and greeted him by shaking his hand. Bourne and Abbey got out, too.
“Thank you, Timothy,” the writer told the man. “I appreciate the help from you and your friends, as always. I think you can go now. We’ll be fine here.”
“Yes, sir.” The man nodded at Bourne. “I’m sure that one’s armed.”
Chancellor smiled. “I’d expect nothing less.”
The bald man nodded, shot a wary look at Bourne, then got into the F-150 and drove off down the hillside, leaving Bourne and Abbey alone with Chancellor. The writer approached Abbey first.
“Ms. Laurent, I’m so pleased to meet you. I’ve followed what they’ve done to you online this week. How terrible.”
“It’s all a lie,” she told him.
“Well, of course it is.” He turned to Bourne. “And I assume you are the one they call Cain?”
Jason had to suppress the look of surprise on his face. He hadn’t expected this man to know who he was, but there was no point in pretending that Chancellor was wrong. “That’s an identity I’ve used, yes.”
A little smile broke across the writer’s face. “I have good sources, you see. That’s one advantage of being around as long as I have. Plus, as Abbey correctly surmised, I became familiar with the two of you when I did my research for Serpent! Well, please, won’t you come inside? We have a lot to talk about.”
The interior of the log home was expensively decorated, but in an antique style that matched their country surroundings, lush with aged wood and leather. There was nothing modern about it—except for the discreet high-tech security devices in every room—and there was also nothing modern about the man who lived here. Peter Chancellor was as tall as Bourne, and dressed in dark khakis, with a thick yellow wool sweater over his torso that looked hand-knitted. His hair was wavy and gray, but still full. He was an old man, at least eighty, and he walked with a slight limp, but otherwise, his entire attitude was alert and full of energy. His face was sharply angled, which Bourne remembered from the photograph, and Abbey had been right about the power of his eyes. They were light blue, friendly when they looked at the two of them, but also constantly moving and missing nothing. Even in the secure surroundings of his home, Chancellor seemed to be always on alert.
He led them to a large high-ceilinged library at the back of the house. The ceiling and frame, like the house’s exterior, were constructed of logs hewn from light oak. One wall was made up entirely of windows that obviously looked out across the hills of the national forest during the daylight hours. Another wall included an enormous fieldstone fireplace. Around the fireplace, and taking up the other walls, were built-in bookshelves lined with hundreds of hardcover volumes. Bourne noticed that all the books appeared to be written by Chancellor, some in English, but many others in translated editions reflecting dozens of foreign languages. The titles all had the same unusual style, a single word followed by an exclamation point.
Reichstag!
Sarajevo!
Counterstrike!
Genesis!
Serpent!
And many more. It was a library dedicated to nearly five decades of novel-writing.
“This is amazing,” Abbey said.
“Vain is probably a better word,” Chancellor replied with a smirk. “Or so my wife tells me. But when you get nearer to the end of your life, you like to be reminded of the things you’ve done. All around you, these books are my legacy. Other people can find other meanings for themselves.”
“Well, the entire house is beautiful,” Abbey went on.
“And secure,” Bourne added pointedly.
Chancellor shot him a stare that was equal parts pride and self-awareness. “Alison does the decorating, so if it’s beautiful, that’s her work. The security is my doing. As is the remote location and the ‘friends’ you met in town. The people of Clarendon look out for me and my wife. They’re very protective of us. I suppose you think I’m paranoid, that I confuse my fiction with real life.”
“I don’t think that at all,” Bourne replied.
“Well, good. Believe me, my life has been threatened more than once. My books have dealt with sensitive issues, outrageous conspiracies. Things that powerful people would prefer to keep concealed. I wrap them up as novels, but more often than not, the truth is even worse.”
“All right, Peter, get off your soapbox,” said a teasing voice from the doorway.
A woman joined them, carrying a wooden tray that had the makings of an elegant tea service. She was as old as Chancellor, but regardless of age, Jason could see that she was an elegant, beautiful woman. Her hair was colored light brown and fell easily about her shoulders. Her face had a delicate, china-like bone structure, her makeup carefully applied. Her motions were precise, as if every step, every turn, every expression, had to be thought out in advance. Looking at Bourne and Abbey, her smile was polite, but still maintained a distance that seemed almost aloof. But that reticence disappeared when she looked at Chancellor. It was clear that they were deeply in love.
“This is my wife, Alison,” Chancellor introduced her. “We met when I was working on Genesis! I can’t believe that was nearly fifty years ago.”
“That was your Hoover book, wasn’t it?” Abbey asked.
“Yes, exactly.”
“I have to tell you, it didn’t read like fiction. I was convinced that was how it happened. That Hoover was murdered.”
Chancellor and Alison shared a look between them, and both just smiled.
“Tea?” Alison asked.
They all took seats in comfortable chairs near the fireplace, and for a few minutes, the four of them talked about books, authors, and writing. The tea was hot and sweetened with honey and lemon. A Doberman joined them and curled up near Chancellor’s feet—a friendly dog, but Bourne had no doubt that it would defend its owners to the death if called upon. Chancellor and Alison shared stories about life in Pennsylvania, as well as their travels, which had taken them around the world for research on his novels.
Bourne found Chancellor himself to be an interesting enigma. The old man still showed flashes of a young man railing against the system, exposing violence and corruption. He paged through a couple of the man’s novels that lay on an end table near him, and even just a glimpse of Chancellor’s prose showed the raw dramatic power of an author wielding his pen like a sword. But then the man would look at his wife, and his face would soften, and he’d be reminded of his age.
An hour later, when the tea was done, Alison announced that she was heading to bed. She got up and offered Bourne and Abbey both a delicate handshake, and then she kissed the top of her husband’s head. She left them alone, and Chancellor’s eyes followed her until she was gone.
“Does she know?” Bourne asked.
The writer’s eyes shifted to Jason. “Know what?”
“That you still take risks. Like you did in DC.”
Chancellor gave them a weary, secret smile. “I pretend to be careful, and she pretends to believe me. I could retire, but then what would I do? Writing is in my blood. But all the security here? I do that for her. I don’t care what happens to me, but Alison saw too much violence growing up. When I married her, I swore to keep her safe.”
Abbey leaned forward, her hands on her knees. “It was you, wasn’t it? You came to DC to meet the woman named Deborah Mueller. The woman who was murdered in West Potomac Park. You were there that night.”
Chancellor frowned. “Yes. I was. Although I admit, I’m curious how you found me.”
“You were seen near her body. And then you came back a couple of days later, and a witness spotted you again. That’s how we tracked you. Someone remembered you and your car.”
“The Silver Mark IV,” he reflected. “I suppose it’s a pretty obvious vehicle. I’ve had a new engine put inside it more than once. More vanity, I guess. Alison says it’s foolish. I almost died in a car like that a long time ago, but I keep it as a reminder of the past. Of a time when I was an angry young man. Anyway, yes, I went there to meet Deborah Mueller. That’s not her name, of course. That’s just an identity they created for her.”
Then Chancellor eyed Bourne with a glimmer in his pale blue eyes. “You know a little bit about that sort of thing yourself, don’t you?”
Again Bourne felt unnerved by how much the writer knew about him. “I do.”
“So who was she?” Abbey asked. “If she wasn’t Deborah Mueller, who was she really?”
“I only knew her as Louisa,” Chancellor replied. “Beyond that, I don’t know her full name.”
“And why the meeting? Was it your idea? Or hers?”
Chancellor pushed himself out of the chair and clicked on the gas fireplace, which came to life in flames. His reflective face was in shadows. “If I tell you, what do you plan to do with the information?”
“Find the people who killed her,” Bourne replied.
“And then will you kill them?” Chancellor asked.
Jason didn’t answer, but the look on the writer’s face said he already knew the truth.
“I’m not saying I have a problem with that, but I do have one condition for our conversation,” he went on.
“What is it?” Abbey asked.
Chancellor returned to the chair and sat down again. “Very simply, Ms. Laurent, the condition is you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“When you’re done with whatever you’re doing here, I want you to come back and tell me everything. Hold nothing back. The truth, the secrets. And then I’d like you and me to work together and write it all down as a novel. Because like I told you, fiction is my reality. The rest of the world can decide for themselves what to believe.”
“Why do you need me?” Abbey asked. “You’ve written dozens of novels.”
“Because I’m old.” Chancellor smiled, and his eyes drifted to the many books on the bookshelves. “And because I’m dying. Cancer. Please, please, no sympathy, it is what it is. I’ve led an amazing life, and I’ve had the love of an amazing woman. I’m a lucky man. But death has a way of focusing your thoughts on what you leave behind. I’d like my work to continue. I know a lot about you, Abbey Laurent. I researched you extensively when I was writing Serpent! Back then, I remember thinking you were the kind of writer who could do what I do. Write books that let you channel your outrage, fight back against the system.”
Jason watched Abbey’s face fill with surprise. She hadn’t expected this at all. Even so, he also realized that her mind was working furiously. Yes, she was flattered, but this was something more than that. He saw a hunger there. A sense of purpose and possibility. When he’d left her in Quebec City, she’d been unsure of her future, and now her future was up in the air again. She’d been flying in circles, looking for a place to land. But Peter Chancellor had just offered her an opportunity that clicked in both her heart and head.
She glanced at Jason, as if needing his approval, which she didn’t. But he nodded anyway.
“All right,” Abbey said. “All right, I agree. It would be an honor to work with you.”
“Excellent.”
“But now back to the reason we’re here,” Bourne interrupted them. He stared at Chancellor until the writer turned his attention back to him. “Deborah Mueller. Louisa. Tell us what happened in DC.”
“I will, but first you need a little history lesson.” Chancellor eased back in his chair and steepled his fingers together. “Fifty years ago, I discovered the existence of a group of men who called themselves Inver Brass. They were powerful, accomplished people. Academics. Judges. Bankers. Philanthropists. The group went back for decades, men—nearly all men—who wielded incredible amounts of money to solve critical problems around the world when they felt that political leaders had failed to do so. They stepped in behind the scenes, shaping policy, influencing decisions, stemming the sources of violence and unrest wherever they could. Their tactics were often ruthless. People were killed. Ultimately, they became the very evil they were trying to destroy, so they had to be destroyed themselves.”
Abbey shook her head. “I don’t understand. You said this was fifty years ago. What does this have to do with a murder in Washington? Why does it matter now?”
“It matters,” Chancellor told them, “because Inver Brass is back.”