The Chancellor Manuscript Read Online Free PDF Page A

from five separate leasing agencies from Arlington to Baltimore.
    Should an observer in that quiet street wish to learn the identities of the single passenger within each vehicle, he would not be able to do so. For none could be traced through the leasing arrangements, and all were unseen by the chauffeurs. A pane of opaque glass separated each driver from his charge, and none was permitted to leave his seat behind the wheel while his passenger entered or left the automobile. These chauffeurs had been selected with care.
    Everything had been timed, orchestrated. Two limousines had been driven to private airfields, where for an hour they had been left locked and unattended in designated areas of the parking lots. At the end of that hour the drivers had returned, knowing their passengers would be there. The other three vehicles had been left in the same manner in three different locations: Washington’s Union Station; the shopping complex in McLean, Virginia; and the country club in Chevy Chase, Maryland—to which the specific passenger did not belong.
    Finally, should any observer in that quiet street in Georgetown try to interfere with the emerging passengers,a blond-haired man stood in the shadows on the balcony above the portico at the top of the marble staircase to prevent him. Around the man’s neck was strapped a transistorized, high-impedence microphone through which he could relay commands to others on the block, using a language that was not English. In his hands was a rifle, a silencer attached to the barrel.
    The fifth passenger got out of the limousine and walked up the marble steps. The automobile drove quietly away; it would not return. The blond-haired man on the balcony spoke softly into the microphone; the door beneath was opened.
    The conference room was on the second floor. The walls were dark wood, the lighting indirect. Placed at the center of the east wall was an antique Franklin stove, and in spite of the fact that it was a balmy spring evening, a fire glowed from within the iron casement.
    In the center of the room was a large circular table. Around it sat six men, their ages ranging from mid-fifties to eighties. Two fell into the first category: a graying, wavy-haired man with Hispanic features; and a man with very pale skin, Nordic face, and dark, straight hair combed smoothly back above his wide forehead. The latter sat to the left of the group’s spokesman, the focal point of the table. The spokesman was in his late seventies; a fringe of hair extended around his balding head, and his features were tired—or ravaged. Across from the spokesman was a slender, aristocratic-looking man with thinning white hair and a perfectly groomed white mustache; he was also in the indeterminate seventies. On his right was a large Negro with an immense head and face that could have been chiseled from Ghanaian mahogany. On his left, the oldest and frailest man in the room; he was a Jew, a yarmulke on his hairless, gaunt skull.
    All their voices were soft, their speech erudite, their eyes steady and penetrating. Each man had a quiet vitality born of extraordinary power.
    And each was known by a single name that had specific significance to all at the table; no other name was ever used among them. In several cases the name had been held by the member for nearly forty years; in other cases it had been passed on, as predecessors died and successors were elected.
    There were never more than six men. The spokesmanwas known as Genesis—he was, in fact, the second man to hold the name. Previously, he had been known as Paris, the identity now held by the Hispanic man with the graying wavy hair.
    Others were known as Christopher, Banner, Venice. And there was Bravo.
    These were the men of Inver Brass.
    In front of each was an identical manila folder, a single page of paper on top. Except for the name in the upper left-hand corner of the page, the remaining typewritten words would have been meaningless to any but these