Bobby Fischer Goes to War

by David Edmonds

  All of this was infuriating the Icelandic government. The prime minister had particularly taken umbrage at Davis’s claim that Iceland would look to the U.S. government for reparations if the match fell through. Johannesson had also resented a demand by Fischer’s representatives that the United States guarantee Fischer’s security. According to Tremblay, “the prime minister remarked acidly that the government of Iceland is quite capable of providing the requisite security.”

  Tremblay was far more anxious about the impact of Fischer’s behavior than he let on to his superiors back in Washington. The Soviets, he thought, were winning the propaganda battle. “Sure they were. Boris was his charming self. The guy’s a real charmer. He’s handsome and sophisticated and well educated: he’s got everything going for him. And here’s this other guy refusing to turn up.”

  Probably sensing trouble, Davis changed tack and asked for a postponement. The excuse? His client was suffering from fatigue. Davis and Cramer promised doctors’ certificates that failed to materialize. The mood in Reykjavik was somber, the organizers living on their nerves, the city still alive with speculation. The correspondent of The New York Times, Harold Schonberg, wrote: “There is something sad about the stage which has been so carefully prepared and conceivably may never be used.”

  Max Euwe, president of FIDE, held back from contacting Fischer directly. For six months, the match had been one long headache; now he was quoted as saying, “Fischer does not speak to me unless, perhaps, it is to order me to get him a taxi. I do not want to meet him.” All the same, without seeing any medical evidence, he allowed Fischer two extra days to arrive, on the grounds that the challenger was ill.

  While all this was going on, the world champion was marginalized. The Soviet team in Reykjavik was informed that the drawing of lots was to be postponed from 2 July to midday on 4 July. Geller phoned Moscow to pass on the news. On behalf of the USSR Chess Federation, Baturinskii sent a furious cable to Schmid. He accused Fischer of “busying himself with blackmail” with the connivance of the FIDE leadership. His failure to appear for the opening, the drawing of lots, and the first game on 2 July was a violation of FIDE rules unprecedented in its history. Fischer deserved disqualification, said Baturinskii. For his part, Euwe had taken “the more than unattractive role of Fischer’s defender.” On his own initiative, he had postponed the match following a “nonexistent request” on the grounds of Fischer’s “imaginary illness.”

  Citing chapter and verse from the Amsterdam agreement, Baturinskii declared that if, beginning at noon on 4 July, measures were not taken to follow FIDE rules and the agreement, the USSR Chess Federation would consider the contest “wrecked” by FIDE and Fischer. The threat was plain: they would declare the match null and void.

  When Geller challenged Euwe over the postponement, the FIDE president used Spassky as his excuse: “I wanted to save the match because Spassky wants to play so much.” Geller recounted this to Ivonin, who dismissed it as an outrageous argument. What they could not have known is that the world champion had indeed tacitly given Thorarinsson and Euwe the go-ahead to try to salvage the competition.

  In the early afternoon of Sunday, 2 July, Spassky had a long conversation with Euwe, who then proposed an evening meal with himself and an American millionaire chess fan, Isaac Turover. Geller and Krogius believed Spassky could return with honor to Moscow, and, sensing the champion’s vacillation, urged him to miss the supper where he might be prevailed upon to give ground. Spassky ignored them: the next day, it was reported he had consented to the delay.

  But then came a second call attempting to save the match, just as it looked as if Fischer was going too far.

  Driving to work in London early on Monday morning, 3 July, Jim Slater was upset by a radio report on the challenger’s nonappearance in Reykjavik.

  Slater was a businessman whose company, Slater Walker Securities, had been formed in 1964 when he was in his mid-thirties. His partner, Peter Walker, had left the business to become a Conservative member of Parliament and a government minister under Edward Heath and (later) Margaret Thatcher. At the time of the Fischer-Spassky match, the company reportedly had a controlling interest in 250 companies around the world. Supremely confident, decisive, ruthless in business, Slater had by then amassed a fortune of, in his own words, “£6 million and rising.” A gambler by nature, he allowed himself one big luxury: to play bridge for thousands of pounds with stronger opponents.

  Slater was a chess fan and supporter of the game, subsidizing the annual Hastings tournament. In the years following Fischer-Spassky, he would, alongside the former British champion and journalist Leonard Barden (who provided the vision and organization), transform the state of British chess by channeling funds into junior competition.

  Now he decided that he could easily afford the money to send Fischer to Reykjavik—or expose the American as a coward. He would double the prize, putting an additional £50,000 ($125,000) into the pot. Arriving at his office that Monday morning, he passed on his offer through Leonard Barden, who then spoke to Paul Marshall, giving the U.S. attorney some background details about this championship angel. Marshall then talked to Fischer. Slater says he also telephoned his friend David Frost, who in turn rang his friend Henry Kissinger. Kissinger then contacted Fischer. What motivated Slater? “As well as providing me with a fascinating spectacle for the next few weeks, I could give chess players throughout the world enormous pleasure.”

  Millionaire businessman James Slater. He put up the money to save the match. JAMES SLATER

  Slater’s offer made headlines in London’s Evening Standard. His house was soon swarming with reporters. When he returned from work, he enlightened his astonished wife: “I had a good idea on the way to the office.” The good idea was couched in challenging terms: “If he isn’t afraid of Spassky, then I have removed the element of money.”

  It is not altogether clear how the British offer finally persuaded Fischer. Paul Marshall certainly had a hand, initially pushing it as the answer to all Fischer’s financial demands. “But he wouldn’t accept it. His experiences with people promising things had taught him not to believe them, particularly with money. And he wanted proof. And he said no.” Marshall tried to change his mind. Phoning Barden, the attorney took his place in the gallery of callers that saved the match. “I said if I were them, I would rephrase the offer. Slater should say he didn’t think his money was at risk, because Fischer was just making excuses. He should say that deep down Fischer was frightened. I said Bobby might be piqued by that challenge—and he was. I knew Bobby was very, very competitive and combative and would not like to be thought of as a chicken.” Slater denies this version of events. He maintains it was always his idea to express his offer as a taunt. He never spoke to Fischer and never received a word of gratitude from him. “Fischer is known to be rude, graceless, possibly insane. I didn’t do it to be thanked. I did it because it would be good for chess.” In the meantime, there were reports that Mrs. Marshall, a professional photographer, informed the press where Fischer was staying, in an attempt to smoke him out of his bunker.

  Kissinger’s intervention, the extra money, the wording of the offer, the media camped outside the house in Cedar Lane, perhaps also information from Reykjavik that disqualification would follow if Fischer failed to arrive by midday on 4 July—one or a combination of these tipped the balance.

  On 3 July, Fischer drove through the pre—Independence Day evening traffic to JFK Airport. At Kennedy, he transferred to an Icelandic Airlines station wagon and was smuggled on board a plane, flight 202A. The flight, scheduled for 7:30 P.M., took off at 10:04 P.M. All the other passengers had been kept waiting, and a few had been bumped off the flight. In Moscow, the Foreign Ministry rang Viktor Ivonin to report that the American challenger was on his way.

  Marshall told the press that the problem had never been the money. It was the principle. His client felt Iceland was not treating this match or his countrymen with the dignity that it, and they, deserved.
His private view was that before Slater’s offer, Fischer “had already in effect defaulted. He was pretty well determined not to go.”

  Marshall chaperoned Fischer on the journey to Iceland, accompanied by his wife, Bette. Fischer had initially prohibited Marshall from bringing her along, claiming she would distract her husband. Marshall circumvented this injunction by booking a seat for her at the other end of the plane. “And a quarter of the way through the flight, I figured Bobby was above jumping, so I asked my wife to come back and he welcomed her very pleasantly, as though the previous conversation hadn’t happened.”

  The Icelandic grandmaster Fridrik Olafsson had the role of Fischer’s official greeter, meeting him at his seat, escorting him to the receiving line, performing introductions, and driving with him to Reykjavik. As a precaution, all journalists and photographers had initially been corraled into the airport building—but a public relations officer at Icelandic Airlines was tempted by the fruit of worldwide publicity and fell. He cut the reporters loose.

  Olafsson’s plan crumbled as Fischer arrived at the top of the gangway in the early hours of 4 July.

  All went well until Bobby came out on the ramp and saw the crowd of journalists and photographers waiting for him below. Seeing this, Bobby dashed down, hardly noticing the dignitaries that had lined up there for him, pushed aside the journalists and photographers, who were in his way, and jumped into the nearest car of the convoy. While this was going on, I had been left standing in the doorway, staring in amazement at the commotion and looking at Bobby dashing down the steps.

  Olafsson was a phlegmatic, dignified man who reserved all his aggression for the chessboard. (One of the world’s leading grandmasters, he had little real competition at home. He was, says Thorarinsson, “a genius who came out of nowhere.”)

  Gradually things calmed down; the members of Bobby’s party got out of the plane and went to their cars. Soon the convoy was on its way to Reykjavik with a police escort at a speed of 150 kilometers an hour—the protocol for a visit by a head of state.

  There was a sting in the tail for the organizers of the match, says Olafsson. “This was Fischer’s first impression of Iceland—and it was that the organizers didn’t keep their word.”

  Thorarinsson was now a man relieved, even if Fischer had ignored him in the chaos of the reception at Keflavik airport. He sought out Spassky, to thank him for his advice to refer upward to a more senior rank. But when they met, Spassky, for once, was angry. He charged Thorarinsson with having broken a promise. Suddenly the truth dawned on the Icelander. “I realized that I had misunderstood the whole thing. The Soviet government felt that Spassky was being humiliated and they had called him back. Spassky had wanted me to involve the higher authorities in Moscow, not Washington.” Now that Fischer was in Reykjavik, Thorarinsson had a new battle on his hands: to keep Spassky there, too.

  Olafsson (right) standing. ASSOCIATED PRESS

  11. WHO’S SORRY NOW?

  This atmosphere of unreality is likely to prevail throughout the match….

  — THEODORE TREMBLAY, CABLE

  From the airport, Fischer was taken straight to the house, placed at his disposal in a quiet road in a half-built suburb called Wodaland. The jackpot prize in a forthcoming state lottery, it had not been lived in. (The winner would later complain that it was not strictly new, as promised in the lottery promotion.) When Fischer showed up, there were still bricks and mounds of earth on the street. From here, it was a two-mile hike to the center of town. Fischer soon abandoned it in favor of the other accommodation reserved for him—a three-room suite at the hotel Loftleidir. While this was one of Iceland’s best hotels, it was functional rather than luxurious, looking like an airport terminal, low-rise, set off from a big thoroughfare, with a façade of precast rectangular windows and paneling.

  Fischer granted the BBC an interview, conducted by a well-known science correspondent, James Burke, and produced by Bob Toner, who has good reason to remember the occasion: “We started recording and Fischer looked very bored and for two reels we got nothing, twenty minutes of nothing, just one-line answers. I thought my career was disappearing down the tubes. But then, in between reels, he asked Burke what kind of events he normally covered. Burke said he had reported on the Apollo launches, and you could see Fischer’s interest light up. And he said, ‘You mean you go to Houston, you go to launch pads?’ ‘Yes,’ said Burke, ‘I know Neil Armstrong very well.’ After that Fischer couldn’t stop talking.”

  Soon after Fischer’s arrival, Paul Marshall held a news conference, adopting an emollient tone. Fischer was sorry to be late and he applauded Spassky for waiting for him. Andrew Davis, Fischer’s other lawyer, was far less loquacious, drawing on his pipe while looking balefully through his bifocals. However, Soviet composure, both in Moscow and in Reykjavik, could no longer be preserved, and the Soviet delegation responded with a news conference of its own. Euwe had not followed FIDE rules. Fischer should have been punished for various violations.

  Yet again, Thorarinsson was off to seek prime ministerial intervention. This time, Johannesson summoned Sergei Astavin, the Soviet ambassador. He praised Spassky’s forbearance and asked Astavin to do what he could to ensure the match took place.

  Theodore Tremblay wired Washington that “the Russians had become increasingly difficult… to the extent that the match again seemed threatened.” Tremblay, like Spassky, thought a direct approach should be made to Moscow and suggested as much to the prime minister. He has a different account of the prime minister’s meeting with the Soviet ambassador. According to Tremblay, Johannesson said the Russians “should quit being so silly.”

  In Moscow, the major concern was still over Spassky’s state of mind, and they wanted a week’s postponement. It was felt that the world champion had been distracted by having to deal with Fischer’s antics and would be too wound up to play properly. It was also felt that Fischer had arrived in good form—though how they could possibly have known that is unclear (after all, unlike Spassky, who had had time to settle in, Fischer was probably jet-lagged).

  Then the temperature rose further. Up to this point, dissatisfaction with FIDE and Fischer had been voiced in Moscow by chess players, journalists, and, most significant, the Sports Committee. But now intervention came from a more elevated political level, the Central Committee of the Communist Party. Aleksandr Yakovlev, then acting head of the Propaganda and Agitation Department, fumed over the “humiliation” of the world champion. He blamed Viktor Ivonin for in effect helping the Americans by not summoning Spassky back. Spassky should leave, he pronounced.

  Whoever did not actively support the Soviet system was against it. Even a senior figure like Ivonin was not immune. He recorded: “Yakovlev accused me personally several times of not creating a situation where Spassky could come home. He said that in a way, given my position, I was helping the Americans.” The functionary went on and on in the same vein. An experienced Party politician, Ivonin responded by consulting a psychiatrist about how Spassky could be persuaded to return even if he was determined to stay. Having received some guidance, he told Yakovlev that he was indeed ready to fly to Reykjavik. “It’s very easy to give advice but not so easy to take responsibility,” remembers Ivonin. “And when I told Yakovlev that I would go, he said, ‘No, no, don’t. We’ll talk about it later.’ And he rang me a bit later with the news that [Party secretary Piotr] Demichev had said, ‘No need to fly. Spassky must not be the first to leave.’ After that, Yakovlev’s energy subsided.”

  The situation was not helped by the far from straightforward communication between Reykjavik and Moscow. The champion’s team used Soviet journalists’ telephones to speak to Sports Committee officials, including the minister, Sergei Pavlov. The TASS correspondent Aleksandr Yermakov overheard Moscow being counseled that Spassky was in a strange frame of mind; care must be taken in dealings with him.

  There are numerous accounts of Pavlov telephoning Spassky and pressuring him to return to the USSR. Some have
him ordering the world champion back and meeting a brave refusal. Such a command seems unlikely. Spassky was world champion and in charge of his own defense, and he still believed he would win. Furthermore, Ivonin has no record of his recall being discussed in the Sports Committee. Yermakov recollects the phone call but says that Spassky phoned Pavlov, not the other way around. He remembers Spassky talking in a quiet and conversational tone, and not for long. Pavlov, he says, was trying to help the world champion deal with the situation, advising him to consider declaring the match void, but finally agreeing that he should stay. On 7 July, Pavlov told Ivonin that his place was by Spassky’s side. Ivonin left for Reykjavik four days later.

  A problem for the far-off Moscow bureaucracy was that events were moving fast. Fischer had already plunged the proceedings into a new controversy, locking himself away from officials and sending his second, Lombardy, to act for him at the drawing of lots to determine who would open with the advantage of the white pieces. This was too much even for Spassky. First the empty chair, now a replacement at this crucial ceremony. He read a short prepared statement in Russian and left the room; suddenly the future of the match was again in doubt. His statement protested against the postponement of the match and accused Fischer of violating the rules and insulting the Soviet people. A just punishment was required. This could only mean forfeiting the first game.