All the same, Chigorin had proven himself a perpetual irritant to the current regime, leading demonstrations against state security and working to build a viable opposition, which had obliged him to take certain precautions. Powell pointed toward the elevators, where a bodyguard had taken up position, while two more stood just out of camera range, all of them tough Turkish types. “Chigorin’s received death threats and harassment at home, so he’s very careful. There’s no way anyone could take him down here and hope to get away with it.”
They reached the rows of attendees pressing against the circle described by the cameras. Chigorin, a microphone clipped to his lapel, was seated across from his interviewer, a slim, dark man with a wide forehead. Behind them, a table was piled high with copies of Chigorin’s latest book, which promised to share the secrets of chess tactics in the boardroom.
As Powell and Wolfe found a vacant place to stand, the interview began. The interviewer introduced himself and his guest, then turned to Chigorin. As they began to discuss the tournament, Powell kept his eye on the crowd. There were perhaps fifty people watching. Near the front of the group stood an attractive young woman in a red dress, her lips parted slightly, her body seeming to vibrate with the thrill of being so close to the great man.
After a few more questions about the tournament, the interviewer shifted gears. “Obviously, you’ve spent most of the past decade focusing on politics. Would you say that chess has influenced your political views?”
“Chess has shaped everything I’ve done,” Chigorin said at once. “If you want a pretentious answer, which I think you do, I refer you to Tolstoy’s conception of the calculus of history, which says that world events are composed of countless tiny factors that the historian must integrate into a coherent whole. This is not so different from what a chess player does.”
“What about Putin?” the interviewer asked. “What is the calculus of his regime?”
Chigorin’s face took on a serious expression, although Powell sensed a certain relish as well. “It doesn’t take a genius to see the disregard for human rights, the growing gap between rich and poor, the oppression of the press. This isn’t a government. It’s a corporation run for the benefit of a handful of former intelligence agents. Nabokov had it right. Russian history can be understood as the continuous evolution of the secret police. This is just the latest incarnation.”
“I see,” the interviewer said, expressing little interest in the turn the conversation had taken. “So do you intend to run for president?”
Chigorin leaned forward in his chair, his powerful shoulders straining against his suit. “I haven’t thought about it. At the moment, the challenge is to build a coalition. The state doesn’t mind the existence of opposition parties as long as they’re too divided to get anything done. This is why I’m working to bring these groups together. It’s the only way to permanently crush the Chekists.”
The interviewer smiled. Powell sensed him mentally reviewing the transcript of the interview, wondering what could be pulled out for fifteen seconds on the evening news. “And how are you finding London?”
As Chigorin replied, shifting easily into a discussion of his favorite local restaurants, Powell saw that the interview was winding down. He spoke quietly into his headpiece. “Looks like he’s going to start the signing soon. I’ll stick with him until he heads for the commentary room.”
Wolfe was still watching the crowd, which had grown restless when the talk turned to politics. “Where do you want me?”
Powell looked across the lobby. “There’s a good observation point near the auditorium doors. Plant yourself there. When Ilya comes out, we’ll need more than one pair of eyes.”
“Got it,” Wolfe said. She touched him lightly on the arm. “You be careful, all right?”
“I will.” Powell turned back to the interview. As the taping ended, Chigorin thanked his interviewer and removed the microphone from his lapel. He set it down on his chair, then headed for the table where his books were displayed. And it was at that moment, unnoticed by anyone, that the woman in the red dress detached herself from the rest of the crowd and began to move in his direction.
20
Inside the auditorium, the invitational tournament had been under way for thirty minutes. Sixteen rows of seats were packed with spectators watching the four games taking place simultaneously on a stage at the front of the room, the action unfolding on the quadrants of an overhead screen. It was so quiet that one could hear nothing but the occasional faint click of cameras.
On the stage itself, which was framed with brown curtains, eight grandmasters were paired off at the tables. They ranged in age from twenty to over fifty, with little in common aside from their neatly pressed shirts and air of intense concentration. After placing each piece, they noted down the move on their score sheets, then tapped the clock. As they played, arbiters flanked them on either side, with photographers moving silently around the stage.
Ilya was seated near the back of the room, one row behind Morley and his bodyguard, who occupied a pair of seats across the aisle. From here, he could see the briefcase on Morley’s lap, beneath the rolled tournament program in the fund manager’s hands. And although he kept his eyes mostly on the games in progress, he continued to consider the briefcase from time to time.
If the situation at the tournament was a game, Ilya thought, it was one he had entered halfway through, without knowing what the earliest moves had been, or even the names of the players. Still, there were certain things that he could determine merely by studying the board. The fact, for instance, that the killer had gone into the houses of the first two victims, when Ilya knew from his own experience that it was always easier to catch one’s target away from home.
He looked over at Morley, who seemed to be watching the games with absorption, although the way his hands clutched the program told a different story. Morley had been more cautious. He had chosen a public place for the meeting, changing the location at the last minute and bringing his own protection. Clearly he suspected that he was taking a risk by coming at all. Yet this transaction, whatever it was, was important enough for him to see it through, rather than calling it off altogether.
Ilya wasn’t sure what was supposed to take place here, but he had a few ideas. The first two deaths had all the marks of an intelligence operation. Either they had been carried out to destroy evidence, or they had been intended to retrieve something. And the more he looked at the case on Morley’s lap, the more he suspected that the second possibility was correct.
Which left him with no choice but to disrupt the exchange. And the best way of doing this was to get the briefcase first.
He thought of the pistol under his jacket. If necessary, he could take the case by force. Perhaps he could even escape with it. But the last thing he wanted was more blood on his hands. And as he looked at it now, something about the briefcase itself seemed strange. It was too obvious, like a prop from a movie, as if—
Before he could finish this thought, he was distracted by a murmur from the crowd. When he looked up at the screen, it took him only a second to see what had happened. A player in the fourth match had blundered in the twelfth move, giving up a knight. Glancing at the stage, Ilya saw that the aging grandmaster, normally so impassive at the table, was clenching his fists in frustration, while a tremor of anticipation went through his younger opponent’s body.
As the reality of the situation became clear, the photographers moved in like sharks, trying to capture the moment without disrupting the game. Ilya watched the stage for another second, then turned back to the audience. Only then did he see that Morley and his bodyguard had risen from their seats.
Ilya felt his pulse accelerate, but he forced himself to remain where he was. He waited as the two men edged into the aisle and headed toward the exit, moving away from the action onstage. Morley was still carrying the briefcase. Ilya w
atched them go, tracking them without moving his head, and was about to follow when his eye was caught by something else.
At the edge of the auditorium, in the far aisle, another man was heading for the doors. He wore a green coat and had a press pass around his neck, along with a shoulder bag. A camera with a telephoto lens was in his hands. And for some reason, even as the drama unfolded on the stage behind him, he was the only photographer in the room not taking pictures.
Ilya looked more closely at the man’s face. A second later, in a rush of understanding, he saw who it was. It was the photographer he had encountered in Golden Square, taking pictures of the king’s statue, or pretending to do so, only a few moments after Morley had left for the day.
Gathering up his bag, Ilya rose slowly from his seat. As he headed for the aisle, his awareness drawn into a tight point, he felt a number of facts fall into place. Two victims had died so far, both skilled craftsmen. But not everything could simply be made. For certain items, you needed something else. You needed access. Which was precisely what a man like Morley could provide.
Then, glancing at the photographer again, he saw that the other man had halted. And that he was looking back at him.
Before Ilya could turn away, he felt their gazes lock. The other man’s eyes were clear and very blue. For a moment, the two men stood across from each other, separated by half the auditorium, but close enough to see everything that counted. They looked at each other, feeling the rest of the world fall away. And each man recognized the other for what he was.
At last the photographer turned and continued toward the exit. Ilya darted a glance toward the doors leading out to the lobby, which swung closed as Morley and his bodyguard left the room.
The photographer headed for the same set of doors. Just before he was about to slip outside, he turned back for one last look at Ilya. Then he disappeared through the doors as well.
As soon as he was gone, Ilya followed, his heart thudding. When he was a few steps from the exit, he undid his jacket, giving him easier access to his gun. Then he pushed the door open and went outside.
At the other end of the room, watching the doors, Asthana spoke into her headpiece: “He’s out. Wolfe, where are you?”
21
Wolfe had taken up position outside the auditorium a few moments earlier. From here, by the doors, she had a good view of the lobby, where the crowd that had gathered around Chigorin was starting to disperse, with handfuls of onlookers clustering around the television screens in the corners.
A second later, she heard a shout from the part of the floor where the interview had taken place. Turning, she saw that a pretty young woman in a red dress had gone up to Chigorin, who was about to begin his book signing. Recognizing the woman from earlier, Wolfe noticed for the first time that she had one hand in her purse. With her other hand, she waved at Chigorin: “Excuse me, sir—”
Chigorin, who had been chatting with the tournament director, turned in her direction. “Yes?”
Before anyone could react, the woman’s hand slid out of her purse and threw something in Chigorin’s face. Wolfe started with surprise. From where she was standing, it looked like a wad of dollar bills, and as it hit Chigorin in the forehead, it burst apart into bits of paper, which fluttered to the ground.
As a gasp went up from the crowd, the woman screamed at Chigorin, her voice loud and hectoring: “Judas! Political prostitute! You’re a tool of the Americans! You should be ashamed to call yourself Russian—”
The room erupted in confusion. Wolfe, still looking across the floor, stood back, her palms outward, as a wave of people, many with cameras, rushed toward the source of the conflict. She spoke into her headpiece, back to the wall: “Stay focused, everyone. Powell, what’s going on?”
Powell was still standing near the bank of television cameras. She heard his voice in her ear: “—just a protester. Looks to me like a member of the Young Guard. I’m going to try and—”
He broke off. Wolfe saw him take an involuntary step forward, shoved from behind as one of Chigorin’s bodyguards rushed the protester, who was still shouting. He seized her by the arm, pulling her back, as another bodyguard led Chigorin away from the melee. The woman’s voice rose above the din: “This man is not Russian! He is an American citizen! He has taken an oath to undermine our country in the name of the State Department—”
Cornwall’s voice crackled over the radio: “What the bloody hell is going on?”
Wolfe saw that Powell had forced his way to the edge of the crowd, dusting himself off. “It’s a protester,” Powell said in her earpiece. “A member of a Putin youth group that has harassed Chigorin in the past. I can see the money that she threw in his face. Thirty-dollar bills.”
A second later, his voice was drowned out as the woman lunged for Chigorin again. Everyone in the crowd seemed to be shouting at once. The television crews scrambled to get footage of the protester, as well as Chigorin, who was being hustled toward the elevators by his bodyguards. Raising his arms, the tournament director assumed a stance at the center of the confusion, his face shining in the camera lights: “Ladies and gentlemen, please—”
Wolfe looked over at Chigorin, who was standing by the elevators, apparently arguing with his security detail over whether or not to leave. She was about to go closer when Asthana’s voice came over the radio: “India is on the move. Wolfe, please tell me you’re watching the doors.”
“I’m here,” Wolfe said, turning in time to see the doors open. She braced herself, taking a step back, then saw that it was only a press photographer in a green jacket, who turned away and headed for the far end of the lobby. Something about him caught her eye, but before she could put this impression into words, the doors opened again, and Ilya appeared.
“He’s out,” Asthana said in her ear. “Wolfe, where are you? You need me to follow?”
“Wait.” Wolfe drew back, keeping out of Ilya’s line of sight, and watched as he took a step forward. He glanced for a moment at the commotion on the other end of the floor, then headed in the opposite direction. As he moved past her, his jacket swung open, and she saw the grip of a pistol.
Wolfe whispered into her headpiece. “I have eyes on him. And he’s got a gun.”
Garber’s voice came over the radio at once: “A gun? You’re sure about that?”
Wolfe’s eyes tracked Ilya across the lobby floor. “Yes. I only saw it for a second. It’s in a shoulder holster. Tokarev, maybe.”
Cornwall cut into the conversation. “All right, that’s enough. Take him down now.”
“Got it,” Powell said. Wolfe turned to find him standing at her side, his face flushed from the recent excitement. Behind them, the noise of the crowd was rising in waves. He gave her a nod. “Let’s go.”
They moved in together. Ilya was twenty paces ahead, walking toward the far end of the lobby, where attendees were watching the commotion from a distance. Wolfe saw a handful of children standing a few steps away, staring at the uproar with wide eyes, and began to pray that nothing would happen here—
Behind her, there was a fresh round of noise. Turning, Wolfe saw that the woman in the red dress had managed to break free from the man who had taken her by the arm. She stumbled forward, eyes on Chigorin, who was still standing at the elevator bay. Then, trying to elude the bodyguard, who was one step behind, she turned and collided with a television camera. It went crashing to the floor, tripod legs extended, lens shattering with a plastic crunch.
Wolfe turned back to Ilya. She saw that he had halted in response to the noise as well. And that he was looking straight at her and Powell.
In his dark eyes, she saw recognition. She flashed back two years to the basement of a club in Brighton Beach, the only time the three of them had ever been in the same room together—
Then time snapped back, and Ilya ran for the door leading to the stair
s. The number of onlookers in the lobby had swelled, so he had to push his way through the crowd to the stairwell, which was twenty yards away.
Wolfe, running with Powell at her side, saw an opening between two groups of attendees. She took it, then found herself stumbling across the big chessboard, scattering the oversized pieces like bowling pins. She nearly tripped over an overturned pawn, but managed to right herself as she shouted into her earpiece: “He’s heading for the stairs. Cut him off, cut him off!”
She and Powell moved separately across the floor. Powell timed it right and managed to squeeze through a gap in the crowd, making it to the elevator bay before Ilya could close the distance.
Ilya saw that the path to the elevators was blocked. Without a pause, he turned and headed in the other direction, where a set of doors led to the hall where the open tournament was in progress. As Wolfe watched, he slammed into the doors and pushed through to the other side. She followed, arms pumping, and plowed through the doors just before they closed. Powell entered a second after she did, puffing from the unaccustomed exertion.
Inside, row after row of chess players were seated in pairs, looking up in surprise as Ilya ran down the hall, threading his way between the long tables. At the other end of the room, there was a door with an exit sign. Ilya would be there in a few seconds. Wolfe yelled into her headpiece: “Armed unit, we need you on the ground! He’s heading for the eastern stairs—”
As a member of the Flying Squad said something unintelligible over the earpiece, she broke off. Garber had appeared at the exit. Wolfe saw the flash of something metal in his hand. For a second, it looked like a gun, and she thought wildly that this couldn’t happen now, not with so many people—
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