City of Exiles (9781101607596)

by Nevala-lee, Alec

  Ilya looked around the room. It was a vast beige space with rows of tables set up for casual games. In the lounge area to his right, surrounded by a set of soft brown benches, an oversized chessboard had been laid out on the floor, its pieces the height of small children. In each of the corners stood flat television screens, ready to show live footage of the main tournament, which would take place beyond the closed doors of the auditorium directly ahead.

  At the moment, there were perhaps six dozen people milling around the lobby, a mixture of chess players, schoolchildren, journalists, and staff. Standing near the bookstall at one end of the room were Morley and his bodyguard.

  Keeping them in his peripheral vision, Ilya went up to the information desk, where a woman was seated next to a stack of tournament programs. To either side stood a pair of oversized rooks, which made her look something like a pawn. She glanced up. “Can I help you?”

  “I’d like to buy a ticket for today’s tournament,” Ilya said, placing his bag on the countertop. “Are there still passes available?”

  “Yes, of course.” Plucking a form from the stack to her left, the woman slid it across the counter, along with a pen and a square of cardboard for a visitor’s pass. “Admission is ten pounds.”

  “Fine, thank you.” Opening his wallet, Ilya handed her a bill, then filled out the form. “It’s more crowded than I expected.”

  She slid the visitor’s pass into its transparent sleeve. “Well, it’s the next-to-last day, and Magnus Carlsen always draws a crowd. And Victor Chigorin is scheduled to make an appearance—”

  “Is he? I didn’t know.” Ilya took the pass and slung it around his neck. Picking up one of the programs, he turned away from the desk, looking out across the main floor. “Thank you very much.”

  He headed into the crowd, opening his program but not bothering to look at it yet. Chigorin’s presence was an unexpected element. He did not think that it would affect his plans, but knew it would change the dynamics in the room, so he reminded himself to be aware of it.

  Glancing around the lobby, he saw that Morley and his bodyguard had left the bookstall and were making their way toward the center of the crowd. Ilya noted their position, then began to walk slowly around the periphery of the floor, keeping them always in the corner of one eye.

  Across from the information desk, near the elevator bay, was a South Asian woman talking quietly to a burly man in a nylon parka. As soon as Ilya had passed, she detached herself from her companion and took the elevator to the ground floor.

  Leaving the building, the woman crossed the street, moving against the flow of the crowd. A white panel van was still parked around the corner from the conference center. The woman tapped twice on the van’s rear doors, one of which swung open, and climbed into the darkened interior. “He’s definitely staying,” Asthana said. “So what do we do now?”

  Inside, Powell and Wolfe were seated in the rear compartment, which was cramped and rather cold. Across from them sat a pair of Flying Squad officers from the Met’s armored response unit. Both were in their early thirties, decked out in matching mustaches and polycarbonate armor, the Velcro grabbing at the upholstery whenever they shifted in their seats.

  As Asthana shut the door, Wolfe glanced over at Powell. They had hurried here as soon as surveillance, which had kept a continuous eye on Ilya since they had followed him from the bookstore the night before, confirmed that he was bound for the final stop on the Kensington line. “What do we think he’s doing?”

  “Not playing chess,” Powell said flatly. “He wouldn’t have scoped out the location like this if he didn’t have something in mind. Garber, what can you tell from where you are?”

  The radio in front crackled as Garber responded. “Ilya’s checking out the room. He’s got a program in his hands, but isn’t looking at it. It seems to me that he’s watching the crowd.”

  A second later, Dana Cornwall’s voice came over the radio. Wolfe knew that the deputy director was listening in from her office in Vauxhall. “You think he’s here for a meeting?”

  “It’s possible,” Powell said. “If this is anything like the chess tournaments I’ve seen, there will be plenty of Russians and other expatriates. We need more eyes on the crowd. I want to go inside with Wolfe.”

  “That’s a bad idea,” Asthana said. “Ilya has seen you before. Garber and I can cover him on our own—”

  “But you don’t know him like we do,” Wolfe interjected. “And there are hundreds of people inside. Any one of them could be here for a meeting. Powell has the best chance of recognizing a familiar face. Anyway, Ilya only saw us for a minute, in a group of other officers, over two years ago—”

  Before anyone could respond, Cornwall’s voice came over the radio. “All right. But I want Asthana in there first. Once she’s in place, Garber will consult with security. After they confirm that the coast is clear, Powell and Wolfe can check out the crowd. But make sure you stay well back.”

  One of the two Flying Squad officers spoke up. “What about armed support?”

  “We’ve got bystanders to worry about,” Cornwall said. “I don’t want this turning into a firefight. We’ll keep an eye on our target and see what he has in mind. Until then, nobody moves. Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” Powell said. “Asthana, you head back inside. We’ll await your call.”

  “Got it.” Asthana opened the door and slid out. Watching her go, Wolfe found herself thinking of the name on the bookstore register, the one she had returned to check after tracing Ilya to his room in Golders Green. Where every visitor was supposed to sign his name, he had written Ilya Muromets.

  Wolfe hadn’t recognized the reference, but Powell had. It was the name of a Russian saint, he had told her, who had remained immobile for thirty years before rising to carry out deeds of heroism. “A strange choice for a Russian Jew,” Powell had said. “I’m not sure what he means by it—”

  At the time, Wolfe had been equally mystified, but now she thought she understood. Since his last appearance, Ilya had gone dark for two years, which must have seemed like much longer. Now, after his prolonged exile, he had returned under a new name. And as Wolfe waited in the van for the signal to move, she wondered what he could possibly have in mind.

  18

  At that moment, the woman at the information desk inside the conference center glanced up as a shadow fell across the countertop. Standing before her was a tall, rather handsome man in a long overcoat, the strap of a camera bag crossing his chest. He smiled. “Is this where I pick up a press pass?”

  She looked at the driver’s license he was holding up. Next to his head shot, the name on the card read TREVOR GUINNESS.

  “Right, just a second,” the woman said. She ran her eyes down the names on the press list, which she had printed out and placed next to her computer. The name was there. She crossed it off, then handed him a pass with a gray neckband from the pile at her side. “You’re all set.”

  “Thank you,” the photographer said. Accepting the pass, he slung it around his neck, then headed off into the crowd.

  At the big board that had been set up on one side of the room, several children were playing with the oversized chessmen, wrapping their arms around the pieces to shift them randomly from square to square. The photographer paused here, setting his camera bag on the nearest bench. Opening the bag, he took out his camera and screwed on a telephoto lens. Then he shut the bag, slung it over his shoulder again, and began to look through the viewfinder at the room.

  Karvonen surveyed the crowd. At the moment, he estimated, there were roughly two hundred people, a number that could be expected to double before the end of the day. On the far wall hung eight oversized portraits of the players in the main invitational tournament, the next round of which would be starting in a few minutes. Framing the wall in his viewfinder, he took a photo of it, although he was mo
re interested in the fire doors that stood to one side.

  For the past few days, he had been researching this tournament, wanting to be ready for anything that happened. The London Chess Classic was only in its second year, but it was already the most important annual chess event to be held in the city for decades. It consisted of an invitational match between eight top grandmasters, along with several open and junior events. The tournament took place over the course of seven days, of which this was the next to last.

  On his left, two doors led into a pair of conference spaces, including the commentary room, where a panel of experts would be analyzing a live feed of the invitational. To his right, another set of doors led to a hall where the open tournament was now taking place, with chessboards and clocks set up on rows of long tables. Directly ahead was the auditorium itself, where, according to his watch, the invitational tournament would shortly begin.

  A second later, as he was sweeping the lens across the room, he saw a familiar face. Karvonen lowered the camera. It was Morley. He was standing in a corner of the lobby, looking across the floor. Following the fund manager’s eyes, Karvonen saw another man, his bodyguard, emerging from one of five doors at the opposite end of the room. He tracked the bodyguard through his viewfinder, then took a picture of the two men as they met halfway across the floor, conferred, and finally headed for the doors of the auditorium.

  Once they were out of sight, Karvonen moved quickly across the room, making his way to the row of doors from which the bodyguard had emerged. When he was a few steps from the door he wanted, he paused and looked back. Here and there, scattered throughout the crowd, he saw members of the conference center staff, recognizable at a glance by their matching black shirts. None seemed to be looking in his direction. As soon as he was sure that he was not being watched, he turned the knob of the door, then slipped inside.

  Karvonen closed the door behind him. Switching on the lights, he looked around. He was alone in a small seminar room, one of several that lay at this end of the conference center. An oblong table with eight chairs took up most of the carpeted floor, with a blank whiteboard on the far wall. Ahead of him, on the other side of the table, was a second door with an illuminated exit sign.

  Going over to the table, he took one of the chairs and wedged it beneath the knob of the door through which he had entered. Then he crossed the room and opened the second door. Poking his head out, he saw that it led into a darkened stairwell, and it could only be opened from this side. After a moment’s thought, he unslung his camera bag, set it on the floor, and removed his overcoat. Rolling the coat, he stashed it behind the stairwell door.

  From his camera bag, he removed a roll of gaffer tape. He tore off a piece, then used it to tape down the lock of the door, in case he needed to come back in from the stairwell. Going down one flight of steps, he peered over the edge, noting that the stairs led to an exit on the ground floor. Then he returned to the seminar room, closing the door carefully behind him.

  He went up to the conference table and set his camera bag down. The bag had a false bottom, a flap of stiff nylon fabric that looked identical to the bag’s actual base. Lifting the flap, he extracted something from underneath, then used two strips from the same roll of gaffer tape to secure the object under the table, near the edge, where it could be easily retrieved.

  Last of all, he removed a folded green jacket from the bag’s outside pocket. It was a cheap plastic coat that could be rolled into a ball. He shook it out, put it on, then picked up his camera bag and headed for the door.

  As he removed the chair that he had wedged beneath the knob, he reflected that Morley had been more careful than his first two targets, but not careful enough. Because such men could leverage a portfolio, they believed that they could take risks in other ways. Sooner or later, however, they always discovered that they didn’t understand what risk meant at all.

  After replacing the chair, Karvonen glanced around the room one last time, checking that everything was in place. At last, satisfied, he turned off the lights and went back into the lobby.

  Closing the door behind him, he walked quickly away from the seminar room. As he passed into the crowd again, he became aware of a growing air of excitement, and that a group of attendees had gathered around the elevators, which they were watching with anticipation.

  Standing to one side was a staff member in a black shirt. Karvonen caught his eye. “What’s everyone so excited about?”

  “Victor Chigorin,” the staff member said. “The grandmaster. He’s on his way up.”

  “I see,” Karvonen said. Looking around the lobby one last time, he confirmed that Morley and his bodyguard were nowhere in sight. Then he turned and headed for the auditorium, where he knew they would be waiting.

  19

  When the elevator doors opened, Powell’s first reaction was alarm at how many children were here. Looking around the lobby with Wolfe at his side, he saw a line of grade school students heading for the junior tournament, with a handful of even smaller children romping around the pieces on the big board. He spoke softly. “Christ, look at these kids. We need to be careful here—”

  His second impression, following hard on the first, was that a number of people were watching him. For a moment, he thought that he had been spotted. As always, whenever he was out on surveillance, he felt conspicuous, and almost glanced down to see if his radio harness was showing. A second later, he realized that they weren’t looking in his direction at all, but staring past him toward the elevators, as if waiting impatiently for someone else.

  Wolfe gave him a nudge. “Garber’s here. Come on. Let’s get away from this crowd.”

  Turning, he saw Garber coming their way. They left the elevators and met him halfway across the room, where Garber handed them a couple of visitor’s passes. “Here, put these on.”

  Powell donned his pass, then followed Garber across the crowded floor. Wolfe spoke quietly at his side. “How does it look so far?”

  “A nightmare,” Garber said. “Kids everywhere, and at least two hundred attendees, probably with more to come. Ilya hasn’t moved from the auditorium. Asthana is covering him now.”

  Powell glanced over at Garber as they passed through the lobby. He knew that a concealed Glock was tucked under the officer’s jacket, drawn from the armory that morning. “Any sign of who he’s trying to meet?”

  Garber shook his head. “Nothing. He hasn’t spoken to anyone. It’s possible that he’s waiting for somebody, but—”

  He broke off as a smattering of applause came from the other side of the room. Powell turned to see a powerfully built man in an unbuttoned overcoat emerging from one of the elevators, accompanied by the tournament director and what looked like a contingent of three bodyguards. Powell recognized him at once. It was Victor Chigorin, grandmaster, activist, former world champion, and on the short list of the greatest chess players of all time.

  “Well, great,” Garber said, staring as Chigorin strode purposefully across the room. “As if things weren’t already bollocks enough.”

  Powell only studied the grandmaster in silence. Like computer scientists or mathematicians, who tended to look down on anyone who didn’t know code or number theory, chess enthusiasts often assumed that they were more intelligent than anyone who didn’t play, which meant that Chigorin had ample reason to consider himself the smartest man in the world. He was no longer the young dynamo of his classic period, but with his trimmed gray hair and bristling eyebrows, he was still a striking figure, and he carried himself like a sports star.

  Watching him, Powell couldn’t help but wonder whether they had misread the situation, and whether Chigorin might be in danger. As Garber turned aside to call security, Powell spoke into his headpiece, using the standard radio term for an individual under surveillance. “Mobile one, has India moved?”

  Asthana’s voice came over his earpiece. “N
egative. He hasn’t budged from his seat.”

  “Tell me the second he does.” As he spoke, Powell watched Chigorin cross the room, shaking outstretched hands as the tournament director steered him into the corner, where two chairs had been set before a bank of cameras.

  Garber pocketed his phone. “I’ve checked with security. Chigorin will do an interview and book signing, then head to the commentary room. Personally, I don’t like this. I think we should grab Ilya now.”

  “We can’t go yet,” Wolfe said. “If we take him down now, we won’t learn anything.”

  “But what if he goes after Chigorin?” Garber gestured around the lobby. “Look at the bloody situation. What do you say, boss?”

  Cornwall’s voice came over the radio: “I’m going to let Powell make the call. Do we think that Chigorin is at risk?”

  “I don’t know,” Powell said into his headpiece. “Something about it feels wrong. I’m going for a closer look. Wolfe, come with me.”

  As Garber stayed behind to watch the entrance, Powell and Wolfe headed across the room, moving toward where Chigorin and his interviewer had taken their seats before the cameras. Wolfe turned to Powell. “I’m afraid that I never joined chess club. What’s this guy’s story?”

  Powell continued toward the far end of the lobby, where the crowd was rapidly growing. “He’s one of the greatest players in the world. They used to call him the Turk, after the famous chess automaton, but he hasn’t played competitively in a long time. At the moment, he’s among the most prominent critics of Putin. The rumor is that he’s going to run for president in two years.”

  Wolfe frowned. “So why would Ilya care about him? If he’s a critic of Putin—”

  “I know,” Powell said. “It doesn’t fit his profile. Nothing about this adds up.”

  As they drew closer to the crowd near the grandmaster, Powell reflected that a great deal of Chigorin’s recent career had failed to add up as well. Chigorin had been a tireless opponent of the intelligence services, pressing for official investigations into kidnappings, assassinations, abuses of power. Yet for all his popularity overseas, he was no real match for the forces at home. There was no advantage to being a chess master in a game where your opponent could change the rules at will.