Read Online The Chancellor Manuscript by Robert Ludlum - Free Book Online
Authors: Robert Ludlum
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to show up in studios and producers’ offices.
Federal Bureau of Investigation
.
Then they went behind closed doors and held private conversations.
Subversive
. It was a word associated with the man she was about to speak to.
She reached for the telephone.
“This is for you, my darling,” she whispered. She was primed; the adrenalin was flowing as it used to flow. Then a calm swept over her. She was confident, a professional again. It would be the performance of her life.
John Edgar Hoover lay in bed, trying to focus on the television set across the room. He kept changing channels on the remote control; none of the pictures was clear. He was further aggravated by a strange hollowness in histhroat. He’d never experienced the feeling before; it was as though a hole had been drilled in his neck, allowing too much air into his upper chest. But there was no pain, just an uncomfortable sensation that was somehow related to the distortion in the sound now coming from the television set.
In and out. Louder, then softer.
And oddly enough, he felt hungry. He had never been hungry at that hour; he had trained himself not to be.
It was all very annoying, the annoyance heightened by the dull ring of his private telephone. No more than ten people in Washington had the number; he was not feeling up to a crisis. He reached for the phone and spoke angrily.
“Yes? What is it?”
“Mr. Hoover. I’m sorry to disturb you, but it’s urgent.”
“Miss Gandy?” What was wrong with his hearing? Gandy’s voice seemed to float, in and out, louder, then softer. “What’s the matter, Miss Gandy?”
“The President phoned from Camp David. He’s en route to the White House and would like you to see Mr. Haldeman tonight.”
“Tonight? Why?”
“He told me to tell you it was a matter of the utmost importance, related to information the CIA has gathered during the past forty-eight hours.”
John Edgar Hoover could not help the scowl that crossed his face. The Central Intelligence Agency was an abomination, a band of sycophants led by the liberal orthodoxy. It was not to be trusted.
Neither was the present occupant of the White House, but if he had data that rightfully belonged to the bureau and it was sufficiently vital to send out a man—
that
man—in the middle of the night to deliver it, there was no point in refusing.
Hoover wished the hollowness in his throat would go away. It was most irritating. And something else bothered him.
“Miss Gandy, the President has this number. Why didn’t he call himself?”
“He understood you were having dinner out He knows you dislike being disturbed in a restaurant. I was to coordinate the meeting.”
Hoover squinted through his glasses at the bedside clock. It was not the middle of the night; it was barely tenfifteen. He should have realized that. He had left Tolson’s at eight, claiming a sudden weariness. The President’s intelligence was not very accurate, either. He was not at a restaurant, he had been with Clyde.
He was so tired he had gone to bed much earlier than usual. “I’ll see Haldeman. Out here.”
“I assumed that, sir. The President suggested that you might wish to dictate several memorandums, instructions to a number of field offices. I volunteered to drive out with Mr. Haldeman. The White House car is picking me up.”
“That’s very thoughtful, Miss Gandy. They must have something interesting.”
“The President wants no one to know that Mr. Haldeman is coming to see you. He said it would be terribly embarrassing.”
“Use the side entrance, Miss Gandy. You have a key. The alarms will be shut off. I’ll notify surveillance.”
“Very well, Mr. Hoover.”
The middle-aged woman replaced the phone in front of the tape machine and sat back in the chair.
She had done it! She had really done it! She’d fallen into the rhythm, every tonal nuance, the imperceptible pauses, the slightly nasal inflections. Perfect!
The remarkable thing was that
Federal Bureau of Investigation
.
Then they went behind closed doors and held private conversations.
Subversive
. It was a word associated with the man she was about to speak to.
She reached for the telephone.
“This is for you, my darling,” she whispered. She was primed; the adrenalin was flowing as it used to flow. Then a calm swept over her. She was confident, a professional again. It would be the performance of her life.
John Edgar Hoover lay in bed, trying to focus on the television set across the room. He kept changing channels on the remote control; none of the pictures was clear. He was further aggravated by a strange hollowness in histhroat. He’d never experienced the feeling before; it was as though a hole had been drilled in his neck, allowing too much air into his upper chest. But there was no pain, just an uncomfortable sensation that was somehow related to the distortion in the sound now coming from the television set.
In and out. Louder, then softer.
And oddly enough, he felt hungry. He had never been hungry at that hour; he had trained himself not to be.
It was all very annoying, the annoyance heightened by the dull ring of his private telephone. No more than ten people in Washington had the number; he was not feeling up to a crisis. He reached for the phone and spoke angrily.
“Yes? What is it?”
“Mr. Hoover. I’m sorry to disturb you, but it’s urgent.”
“Miss Gandy?” What was wrong with his hearing? Gandy’s voice seemed to float, in and out, louder, then softer. “What’s the matter, Miss Gandy?”
“The President phoned from Camp David. He’s en route to the White House and would like you to see Mr. Haldeman tonight.”
“Tonight? Why?”
“He told me to tell you it was a matter of the utmost importance, related to information the CIA has gathered during the past forty-eight hours.”
John Edgar Hoover could not help the scowl that crossed his face. The Central Intelligence Agency was an abomination, a band of sycophants led by the liberal orthodoxy. It was not to be trusted.
Neither was the present occupant of the White House, but if he had data that rightfully belonged to the bureau and it was sufficiently vital to send out a man—
that
man—in the middle of the night to deliver it, there was no point in refusing.
Hoover wished the hollowness in his throat would go away. It was most irritating. And something else bothered him.
“Miss Gandy, the President has this number. Why didn’t he call himself?”
“He understood you were having dinner out He knows you dislike being disturbed in a restaurant. I was to coordinate the meeting.”
Hoover squinted through his glasses at the bedside clock. It was not the middle of the night; it was barely tenfifteen. He should have realized that. He had left Tolson’s at eight, claiming a sudden weariness. The President’s intelligence was not very accurate, either. He was not at a restaurant, he had been with Clyde.
He was so tired he had gone to bed much earlier than usual. “I’ll see Haldeman. Out here.”
“I assumed that, sir. The President suggested that you might wish to dictate several memorandums, instructions to a number of field offices. I volunteered to drive out with Mr. Haldeman. The White House car is picking me up.”
“That’s very thoughtful, Miss Gandy. They must have something interesting.”
“The President wants no one to know that Mr. Haldeman is coming to see you. He said it would be terribly embarrassing.”
“Use the side entrance, Miss Gandy. You have a key. The alarms will be shut off. I’ll notify surveillance.”
“Very well, Mr. Hoover.”
The middle-aged woman replaced the phone in front of the tape machine and sat back in the chair.
She had done it! She had really done it! She’d fallen into the rhythm, every tonal nuance, the imperceptible pauses, the slightly nasal inflections. Perfect!
The remarkable thing was that
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