“Someone did,” said Peter. “Someone very sick.”
She looked at him for several moments, not answering. “You know what you’re saying, don’t you? Whether sick or not, whatever the person knows, or thinks he knows, it’s true.”
“I haven’t thought it out that far. I’m not sure it follows.”
“It has to. My father wouldn’t have turned his back on everything he believed in if it were anything eke.” She shuddered. “What could he have done?”
“It had something to do with your mother.”
“Impossible.”
“Is it? I saw that nightgown the afternoon I was here. She was wearing it then. She’d fallen down. There was broken glass around her.”
“She was always breaking things. She could be very destructive. The gown is a last cruel joke. I suppose it signifies my father’s impotence. That wasn’t a secret.”
“Where was your mother during the Korean War?”
“In Tokyo. We both were.”
“That was in fifty or fifty-oner?”
“Around then, yes. I was very young.”
“About six years old?”
“Yes.”
Peter sipped his Scotch. “Is that when your mother became ill?”
“Yes.”
“Your father said there was an accident. Do you remember what happened?”
“I know what happened. She drowned. I mean, really drowned. They brought her back with electric shock, but the loss of oxygen was too prolonged. It was enough to cause the brain damage.”
“How did it happen?”
“She was caught in the undertow at Funabashi Beach. She was swept out. The lifeguards couldn’t reach her in time.”
They were both silent for a while. Chancellor finished his Scotch, got up from the sofa, and poked the fire. “Shall I fix us something to eat? Then afterward we can—?”
“I’m not going back in there!” she said harshly, staring at the fire, interrupting him. Then she looked up. “Forgive me. You’re the last person I should yell at.”
“I’m the only one here,” he answered. “If you feel like yelling—?”
“I know,” she broke in, “it’s allowed.”
“I think it is.”
“Are there no limits to your tolerance?” She asked the question softly, gentle humor in her eyes. He could feel her warmth. And vulnerability.
“I don’t think I’m particularly tolerant. It’s not a word often associated with me.”
“I may test that judgment.” Alison rose from the sofa and approached him, putting her hands on his shoulders. With the fingers of her right hand she delicately outlined his left cheek, his eyes, and, finally, his lips. “I’m not a writer. I draw pictures; they’re my words. And I’m not capable of drawing what I think, or feel, right now. So I ask your tolerance, Peter. Will you give it to me?”
She leaned into him, her fingers still on his lips, and pressed her mouth against his, removing her fingers only when her lips widened.
He could feel the trembling in her body as she thrust herself against him. Her needs were born of exhaustion and sudden, overwhelming loneliness, thought Peter. She desperately wanted the expression of love, for a love had been taken away. Something—anything, perhaps—had to replace it, if only for a while, for a moment.
Oh, God, he understood! And because he understood he wanted her. It was in a way a confirmation of his own agonies. They had been born of the same exhaustion, the same manner of loneliness and guilt. It suddenly occurred to him that for months he’d had no one to talk to, no one had been permitted near him.
“I don’t want to go upstairs,” she whispered, her breath coming rapidly against his mouth, her fingers digging into his back as she clung to him.
“We won’t,” he answered softly, reaching for the buttons of her blouse.
She turned partially away from him and brought her right hand to her throat. In one gesture she tore her blouse away; with a second she opened his shirt. Their flesh met.
He was aroused in a way he had not been for months. Since Cathy. He led her to the couch and gently unhooked her brassiere. It fell away, revealing her soft, sloping breasts, the nipples taut, awakened. She pulled his head down, and as his mouth roamed over her skin, she reached for the buckle of his belt. They lay down and the comfort was splendid.
Alison fell into a deep sleep, and Peter knew it was pointless to try to get her upstairs into a bed. Instead, he brought down blankets and pillows. The fire had subsided. He lifted Alison’s head, placing the softest pillow beneath her, and draped a blanket over her naked body. She did not move.
He arranged two blankets on the floor in front of the fireplace, only feet from the couch, and lay down. He had understood a number of things during the past few hours, but not the state of his own exhaustion. He was asleep immediately.
He awoke with a start, unsure for a moment where he was, jolted by the sound of a log settling into its cradle of embers. There was dim light coming from the small front windows; it was early morning. He looked over at Alison on the couch. She was still asleep, the deep breathing had not changed. He lifted his wrist to see his watch. It was twenty to six. He had slept nearly seven hours.
He got up, put on his trousers, and wandered into the kitchen. The groceries were still there unopened, and he put them away. Rummaging in the old-fashioned cabinets, he found a coffeepot. It was a percolator, in keeping with the decor; it must have been made forty years ago. There was coffee in the refrigerator, and Peter tried to remember how to manipulate the pot and the grounds. He did the best he could and left the percolator over a small flame on the stove.
He walked back into the living room. Quietly, he put on the rest of his clothes, returned to the hall, and let himself out the front door. Their two suitcases and his briefcase weren’t going to do them any good in the army staff car parked in the small driveway.
It was cold and damp. The Maryland winter could not make up its mind whether to produce snow or stay on the edge of freezing mist. As a result the dampness was penetrating. Peter opened the car door and reached into the back seat for their luggage.
His eyes were abruptly riveted in shock; he was unable to control the gasp that emerged from his throat. The sight was appalling, grotesque.
And it explained the blood on the walls of MacAndrew’s study and on the nightgown.
On his suitcase, which lay flat on the seat above Alison’s on the floor, were the severed hind legs of an animal carcass, its ugly tendons extended beyond its blood-soaked fur. And on the leather, finger-painted in blood, was the word:
Chasǒng
Peter’s shock was replaced by a shudder of fear and revulsion. He backed out of the car, darting his eyes into the thick foliage and toward the road beyond. He walked cautiously around the automobile. He knelt down and picked up a rock, not sure why he did so, yet strangely, only slightly comforted by the primitive weapon.
There was the snap of a branch! A twig had been broken somewhere. There, or there, or—footsteps.
Someone was running. Suddenly running! On gravel.
Peter did not know whether his fear was suspended by the sound or by the fact that the racing footsteps were running away, but he ran as fast as he could after them. Then the footsteps were muted; the racing feet were now on a hard surface, not gravel. The road!
He crashed through the foliage, branches snapping back into his face, roots and trunks impeding his progress. He reached the road; fifty yards away a figure was running in the dim, early light toward an automobile. Vapor mingled with the morning mist; the car’s engine was being gunned. The right door was opened by an unseen hand from inside the car; the figure leaped in, and the automobile sped away into the semidarkness.
Peter stood in the road, perspiration rolling down his forehead. He let the rock drop and wiped his face.
The words came back to him, spoken by an angry woman over candlelight at the Hay-Adams in Washington.
Terror by fiat.
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It was what he was witnessing now. Someone wanted to frighten Alison MacAndrew out of her mind. But why? Her father was dead. What was to be gained by terrifying the daughter?
He decided to keep part of the horror away from Alison. He wanted to keep it from her. Everything had happened too quickly, but he knew a void was being filled for him. Alison had come into his life.
He wondered if it would last. That question was suddenly very important to him. He turned and walked back to the car, removed the blood-soaked animal legs, and threw them into the woods. He took out the two suitcases and his briefcase and carried them back into the house. He was thankful that Alison was still asleep.
He left Alison’s suitcase in the hallway, picked up his own with his briefcase, and carried the two pieces into the kitchen. He remembered from somewhere that cold water removed blood more easily than hot. He turned on the tap, found paper towels, and for fifteen minutes rubbed the stained leather clean. What markings were left he scraped with the blade of a bread knife, roughing the surface until the outline of the letters disappeared.
And then, for reasons he could not explain to himself, he opened the briefcase, removed his notebook, and placed it on the table in the old-fashioned kitchen. The percolator bubbled. He poured a cup of coffee and returned to the table. He opened the notebook and stared at the yellow page half filled with words. It was not merely a compulsion of the morning; it was somehow fitting that he should try to examine his thoughts and put them down through another’s mind. For he had just lived through an experience he had attributed to a character he had created. He had been followed in darkness.
The FBI agents release Meredith. He wanders down the country road in the twilight.
There is a lapse of time.
Meredith has returned home. He tells his wife he was in an accident on Memorial Parkway, the car towed away for repairs. She does not believe him.
“Truth is not spoken here anymore,” she screams. “I can’t stand it any longer! What’s happening to us?”
Alex knows what’s happened to them. Hoover’s strategy of fear is too effective. The tensions have become unbearable; even their very strong marriage is in danger of coming apart. He is beaten. He accepts his wife’s ultimatum: They will leave Washington. He will leave the Justice Department and go back to private practice, a part of him dead. The most professional part. Hoover has won.
Another space. It is past midnight. Alex’s family are in bed. He has remained downstairs in his living room, a single table lamp on, the light dim, shadows everywhere. He has been drinking heavily. Mingled with his fear is the realization that everything he has believed in is meaningless.
In his drunken state he passes a window. Frightened, he parts the drapes and peers outside. He sees an FBI car parked down the block. Men are watching his house.
His mind snaps. The alcohol, the fear, the depression, and the anxiety combine to produce hysteria. He rushes to the front door and goes outside. He does not yell or scream; instead he imposes a grotesque silence on himself, a con-spiratorial silence. In his drunkenness he wants to reach his tormentors and surrender, to throw himself at their mercy, to become one of them. His panic is identical to his psychological collapse in wartime years ago.
He runs down the block. The car is gone; he hears voices in the darkness, but he can see no one. He races around the streets after the unseen voices, a part of him wondering if he’s gone mad, another part desperately wanting only to surrender, to give up to the victors and plead for their forgiveness.
He doesn’t know how long he’s been running, but the night air, the heavy breathing, and the physical strain reduce the effects of the alcohol. He begins to take hold of himself. He starts back toward his house, unsure of the streets. He must have run several miles.
As he walks, he spots the FBI car. It is around a corner, in shadows. There’s no one inside; the men who have followed him, watched him, abused him, are walking too, in the dark, quiet streets.
He hears footsteps in the darkness. Behind him, in front of him, to the right, to the left They fall into the rhythm of his heartbeat, becoming louder, until they’re like kettledrums; menacing, deafening.
He recognizes a street sign; he knows where he is. He begins to run again; the footsteps keep pace, producing the panic once more. He races in the middle of the street, turning corners, running like a maniac.
He sees his house. He is suddenly alarmed further, filled with a new fear that is overpowering. He had left the front door open. And there is a strange automobile parked in front of the curb.
He runs faster toward the strange car, prepared to kill if need be.
But the man inside the automobile arrived only minutes ago. He has been there waiting, thinking that perhaps Alex had taken a dog for a walk, carelessly leaving the door open.
“At five-thirty tomorrow afternoon, go to the Carteret Hotel. Room 1201. Take the elevator to the top floor, then walk down the stairs to the twelfth floor. We’ll have men watching. If you’re followed, we’ll throw them off.”
“What is all this? Who are you?”
“A man wants to meet with you. He’s a senator.”
“Peter, where are you?” It was Alison, her startled voice carried from the living room. The sound brought him back to the other world, the real one.
“In the kitchen,” he called out, his eyes on his suitcase; the leather was still damp, the scraping obvious. “I’ll be right there,” he said.
“Don’t bother,” Alison replied, her relief obvious. “There should be coffee in the ’fridge, and the pot’s in the upper right cabinet.”
“I found them,” he answered, picking up the suitcase, turning it around, and placing it in the corner. “The coffee didn’t turn out so well. I’ll try again.”
He went quickly to the table, brought the pot back to the sink, and began dismantling the antiquated mechanism. He threw the used grounds into an empty grocery bag and turned on the faucet.
Seconds later Alison came through the door, a blanket wrapped around her. Their eyes met, the message—the communication—clear. At the sight of her Peter ached; the ache was pleasant and warm.
“You’ve come into my life,” she said softly. “I wonder if you’ll stay.”
“I wondered the same about you. In my life.”
“We’ll see, won’t we?”
19
Varak came through the door of Bravo’s study without the usual knock.”
“It’s more than one man,” he said. “Or if it’s one man, he’s commanding others. They’ve made their first overt move. Chancellor thinks it’s directed to the girl. It’s not, of course; it’s meant for him.”
“They want to stop him, then.” Bravo did not ask a question.
“And if he won’t be stopped,” added Varak, “throw him off the scent. Decoy him.”
“Please explain.”
“I’ve run the tapes. You can hear them if you like. And see them—both audio and video. They tore apart MacAndrew’s study, searching for something … or giving the illusion of searching. I tend to favor the latter. The decoy was in the name. Chasǒng. They want him to think it’s a key.”
“Chasǒng?” said Bravo, reflecting. “That goes back a long time, if I’m not mistaken. I remember Truman exploding over it. The Battle of Chasǒng, Korea.”
“Yes. Five minutes ago I got a computer readout from G-Two archives. Chasǒng was our worst defeat north of the thirty-eighth parallel. It was an unauthorized attack—?”
“For minor real estate,” interrupted St Claire. “A few meaningless hills. It was the first in a series of debacles that eventually led to MacArthur’s dismissal.”
“The printout doesn’t put it quite that way, of course.”
“Of course. So?”
“MacAndrew was a colonel then. He was one of the commanders.”
Bravo reflected. “Does Chasǒng correspond in time with the missing data in MacAndrew’s service record?”
“Approxi
mately. If it’s the decoy, it would have to. Whoever has Hoover’s files can’t know precisely what MacAndrew told Chancellor. A panicked man under the stress of being discovered will often base his cover in accurate chronology and false information.”
“ ‘While the bank was being robbed ten days ago, I was at the movies.’ ”
“Exactly.”
“Lifted to this level, it becomes quite cerebral, doesn’t it?”
“The chess tournament’s begun. I think you should hear and see the tapes.”
“Very well.”
The two men walked quickly out of Bravo’s study to the brass-grilled elevator at the rear of the front hall. A minute later St. Claire and Varak walked into the small studio in the basement complex. The equipment was set to run.
“We’ll start at the beginning. It’s the videotape.” Varak switched on the video projector. The blank lead-in tape produced a white square on the wall. “The camera was too obvious to place inside the bouse. Incidentally, it’s tripped electronically. Please remember that.”
The image of MacAndrew’s house was thrown on the wall. But the light was not that of early evening, the time when Chancellor and the girl had arrived. Instead, there was bright sunlight.
The agent snapped a switch. The tape stopped; a still picture remained on the wall. “Yes,” said Varak. “The camera was tripped. It’s very sensitive. The timer tells us it was three o’clock in the afternoon. Someone has entered the house, obviously from the rear, out of camera range.” He snapped the switch again; the tape continued. Then it stopped again. The projector shut off automatically. Again, St Claire looked quizzically at Varak.
“They’re in the house now. The trip’s deactivated. We go to audio.” The agent pressed a button on his audio tape machine.
There were the sounds of footsteps, a door being opened, the squeak of a hinge, more footsteps, the opening of a second door. “There are two men,” said Varak. “Or possibly one man and a heavy woman. According to the decibel count, each weighs over a hundred and fifty pounds.” There was an indistinguishable series of rustling sounds and then a strange, eerie bleat. It came again, now more pronounced and, in its way, quite terrible. Varak spoke. “It’s an animal. Sheep family, I think. But perhaps a pig. I’ll refine it later.”