by Molly Joseph
Please, God, don’t let this happen. Protect her from this.
Chapter Twelve: The Match
“I guess the main answer to that question is that I want to win.” —Grace Ann Frasier
Grace pressed closer against Sam. His hand touched hers, fleeting contact. “Breathe, baby,” he whispered. “Deep breaths.”
She closed her eyes and rested her other hand against her blue cashmere sweater, and the silver dog tag beneath it. Krishna sat on her other side, in the front row, and Renzo beside him. After Fredrik’s defection, there was no need to keep their identities secret, and she drew comfort from having them near. She could pick out all the State Department agents in the audience too, by their earpieces and sober suits.
The opening ceremonies were wrapping up. The president of FIDE had given his speech, duly translated into Arabic, a sprawling speech about the honored history of chess, its millions of enthusiasts, and the “special importance” of this match. The older man’s pinched, tanned face suggested a frisson of distaste. This “special” match had turned into a media circus for FIDE. These events were usually quiet, esoteric displays of intellectual sportsmanship, not socio-cultural wars.
It wasn’t her fault. Grace knew it wasn’t her fault, but she somehow felt responsible for the chaos outside, the hundreds of people lining up with their signs in English, or Arabic. Some were merely chess enthusiasts or curious tourists. But many were anti-American or anti-Arab, come to express their dislike for the other side. Many were anti-woman, or pro-woman. When the air conditioner quieted, you could hear them, the noise of a restless, milling crowd. There were another eight hundred people inside the ball room, eight hundred chairs lined up in rows around a central table on a dais. The table was surrounded by four high Plexiglas panels, to offer security and stifle the noise.
Sam had flipped over that arrangement. He’d wanted the table at the head of the room, with an accessible door nearby leading to a secure area. He’d argued with the FIDE director last night, and with the hotel director in Arabic, to no avail. She loved that he took his job so seriously, even if he wasn’t able to get it changed.
So, Grace would have to play in the box. The cage. She’d described the Plexiglas enclosure to Zeke this morning as the “World Chess Championship Death Match Cage.” He’d laughed, and coughed. He was losing his voice from a cold, so he couldn’t talk very much, but he said all the important things. Good luck, Gracie. I love you. I’m so proud.
She was going to make him proud. Courage is Grace under pressure. She was going to vanquish her enemies, and let her victory cry echo off all that Plexiglas so it sounded like the roar of two thousand lions. Or five thousand. Or a million.
“Please help me in welcoming this year’s World Chess Challenger, Miss Grace Ann Frasier.”
“That’s you,” said Sam. He hooked his pinky through hers for a quick second. “For luck.”
“For luck,” she whispered.
Grace went to stand beside Monsieur Albourg of the World Chess Federation as Renzo and Krishna beamed at her from the first row.
Saad Al Raji was introduced next. Like many in the audience, he wore a traditional white thawb and red-patterned headdress. She could see Fredrik’s blond head in her peripheral vision, among her opponent’s sea of white-robed supporters. Al Raji turned to her and offered his hand. That was one of the things Sam had taught her. In the Middle East, it was a man who offered his hand first. She shook it and looked him in the eyes.
His gaze was dark, inscrutable. She knew he was in his fifties, from reading about him online, but you couldn’t tell his age from his face. He was slight in stature, not much taller than her. He gave her a polite smile. It surprised her for some reason. She’d expected someone more evil, more antagonistic. Cameras flashed as the photographers jockeyed for position in the aisle.
“Look this way,” someone said in English.
The two of them looked up, Al Raji still clasping her hand. Mr. Albourg stood behind them, completing the official picture. Grace realized too late that she’d forgotten to smile. She pushed her glasses up and made her way with Al Raji to the Plexiglas cage, which was actually a very generous space, with more than enough room for the two of them, and Mr. Albourg, and the two arbiters who would keep time and rule on any discrepancies in the match.
More introductions were made, more rhetoric, good sportsmanship, rules of the match, best of twelve games, etc, etc. Grace didn’t catch where the arbiters were from, but one spoke Arabic and one spoke English. She glanced out through the walls at Sam. She wouldn’t be able to see him during the match unless she turned her head, which was probably a good thing. It was time to concentrate, to sink down into the music of the game. She stared at her chess pieces as Mr. Albourg completed his opening remarks. She was ready to play. She’d drawn black, but she didn’t mind going second. She would learn a lot about Al Raji’s intentions by his first choice of move.
Finally, after weeks of frenzied preparation, the timer was set and the first game was underway. Al Raji moved cautiously, King’s Pawn opening. He was telling her he knew she was an unpredictable opponent, by playing the most predictable opening in chess. She moved her knight to f6, a chess equivalent of “Fuck you.” He glanced up at her, with something not quite a smile. No, she wouldn’t make this organized and predictable. That wasn’t her game.
In the next few moves, he developed his minor pieces. Expecting her to use the Alekhine defense? Haha. No. She’d be using the Frasier defense, acting instead of reacting, and doing everything in her power to throw him off guard. Oh, yes, Mr. Al Raji, that’s a very pretty move with your bishop.
And I’m going to move my bishop right here.
The Plexiglas quieted the sounds from outside, but it didn’t erase them entirely, so she heard the exhalation from the audience. The spectators watched on monitors displaying computerized representations of each move. Later, when all the games were done, chess enthusiasts would enjoy them like movies, rewinding through their favorite parts, dissecting the best moves and the mistakes.
Which weren’t always so clear.
Al Raji thought she had made a mistake. Everyone in the audience thought she’d made a mistake, but what she’d made was a gambit, a risk that might play out in five moves, if Al Raji reacted the way she expected him to react. And he probably would, because his weakness was safety and mathematical planning. He propped his head on his hand and looked at her. She stared over his shoulder.
If this doesn’t work, I’m going to lose, but it’s just one game. It’s only the first game.
After long moments, Al Raji moved his queen to g5. He would know it was a risk, so he must have had plans of his own. She tried not to react in any outward way as she moved her bishop, and then a pawn. You don’t even know, she thought. You don’t know. She was tempting him with moves that seemed just plausible enough, if not smart. She was, after all, a woman, and women didn’t know how to play chess properly.
By the tenth move, he finally understood. He pursed his lips and glared up at her. She twirled a piece of hair between her fingers and realized how immodest he might find that. She lowered her hand. Only then did the audience begin to react to her strategy. Grace hadn’t trapped him yet in checkmate, but Al Raji wouldn’t be able to escape an eventual checkmate with any of his remaining moves. She’d set up a mousetrap, a series of events that ended only one way.
Game one. She’d won it. Al Raji’s frown deepened as he tipped over his king, the accepted gesture of concession.
Grace let out a long sigh. One game down. Only six more to go, if she could win every one, and she was pretty sure she could win every one, because Al Raji’s understanding of the game wasn’t equal to hers.
She was so relieved, so excited and proud that she barely noticed what was happening outside their glassed-in shelter. Gruff voices and whistles, sharp words in Arabic that she didn’t understand. The voices ratcheted up, and spectators crowded into the aisles. Sam appeared beside her, pul
ling her to her feet.
“We’ve got to go. Immediately.”
“But the arbiter has to record the game—”
“Now, Grace.” He held her hand firmly and led her toward the door.
“Liar! Pretender!” The words came in English now, loud, angry English with foreign inflection. “She cheated. She used deception and trickery!” Arms waved and people pointed and argued. Suited agents surrounded her as they exited the Plexiglas enclosure, but the crowds behind them were pressing forward. Mr. Albourg stepped up to the microphone but someone grabbed it and flung it against the glass, and threw the stand at her. One of the security people deflected it.
“Go, go, go.” Sam shielded her with his body and shouted at them, but there was nowhere to go. No one was moving. People pushed and shoved. Someone snaked a hand past Sam and punched Grace in the shoulder hard enough to bring tears to her eyes. Fingers grabbed and caught her hair. She pressed her glasses against her face, afraid someone would take them and smash them. Her shoulder throbbed. Sam’s arm was a steel band around her waist. When the security team accomplished an opening in the crowd, he hauled her up and carried her.
“Keep your head down,” he said. “Hold onto me. Don’t get separated from me.”
She clung to his neck for dear life as the agents powered through the angry mob to a side door. People screamed all around her in a language she didn’t understand. It was worse outside, like rioting. People were getting hurt, beaten and knocked down by police. Shrill whistles and sirens pierced the air.
“Krishna and Renzo,” Grace shrieked in Sam’s ear. “We have to go back for them.”
“We can’t go back. They’ll be okay.”
The agents guided Sam to a big, black SUV and he pushed her inside, climbed in after her, and slammed the door. Another agent got in on the other side. The driver looked back at her.
“Does she need medical attention?”
Grace shivered as Sam checked her over. “No. Not immediately. Where are we going?”
“Danish Embassy.”
The car jerked as the driver gunned the engine and attempted to disperse the clamoring crowd. Someone beat on the glass. Grace slid down onto the floor, cowering, expecting to be gunned down at any moment. Panicked noises leaked from her throat.
“It’s okay,” he said, reaching to reassure her. “Don’t be afraid. It’s an armored car. Nothing can break that glass.”
She couldn’t stop shaking. If they got their hands on her, this crowd would tear her to pieces. Russia would seem like nothing once these rioters were done with her.
“Grace.” Sam tried to pull her back up onto the seat, but she couldn’t uncurl from her protective ball. No, no, no. Not again. Not this violence again. Her shoulder ached and blood pounded through her veins.
“Look at me, Grace. Look at me.” Sam forced her head up as the car finally accelerated away from the hotel. A rock glanced off the window and she flinched again. She was too scared to breathe. Too scared to cry.
“Listen to me,” said Sam. “You’re safe. Do you understand? I wouldn’t have let them get to you. Everything’s going to be okay.” He took her head in his hands and peered into her eyes. “What happened in Russia won’t ever happen again. I promise. I won’t let it happen again.”
She didn’t care if the other agents were watching. She crawled into Sam’s lap and pressed her face into his neck, and started sobbing with panting, shuddering breaths.
*** *** ***
They went to the Danish Embassy because it was closer to the airport, and because everyone else assumed they’d head to the American Embassy. The Danes agreed that they could stay, provided they didn’t publicize their location. Sam assured them there was absolutely no chance of that.
All but a few of the other agents went to the American Embassy, both to provide additional security and to give the impression that Grace was there. Another group quietly collected Renzo and Krishna, and took them to the airport so they could go home. At the Danish Embassy, Sam was asked to check his weapon, and he and Grace were taken down an elevator to a suite not unlike their hotel room in Dubai, except that there were no windows. Sam couldn’t get his phone to work.
“It’s okay,” he said, holding her in the center of the main room. “Everything’s going to be okay.” He hugged her close and tried to calm her. He felt like an asshole, a failure. Yes, he’d gotten her out alive with the help of the State Department agents, but he hadn’t gotten her out untouched. She’d been groped and hit and terrorized. She’d nearly suffered a nervous breakdown in the car.
“Do you think I can take a shower here?” she asked. “I want to take a s-shower.”
“Of course, baby. Whatever you need.”
He understood her desire to get clean, to wash away the peril of the last hour. He went with her into the bathroom. They might be staying in a windowless cell, but it was a five-star windowless cell, with hotel-style toiletries, piles of clean, fluffy towels, and a pair of white terry bath robes. He undressed too, because he wasn’t capable of leaving her side, not yet.
When they stepped under the warm spray, he saw the darkening bruise on her shoulder. He traced it, frowning. “Does this hurt?”
“Not really. Not so much anymore.”
“I’m sorry.” Sam hated that she was bruised. He hated that he’d failed her—again. He shouldn’t have allowed her to play in that plastic box, hemmed in on four sides by a powder keg of a crowd. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get you out of there fast enough. I’m sorry you got hurt.” In the moment he’d been adrenalized, but now, when he thought about what might have happened to her... “Jesus,” he choked out. “Gracie.”
He took her in his arms, and she started crying again, hiding her face against his chest. They stood that way for a long time, letting the water wash away the grit and the panic, and his useless anger. He could be upset with himself later. Right now, Grace needed reassurance that the crisis had passed.
Finally, when she was soothed enough to release her death grip on his shoulders, he tilted her head up and brushed back the tendrils of her wet hair. “I’m late with this,” he said, “but congratulations, superstar. You won. You beat him.”
She barely smiled as she shook her head. “I haven’t won yet. It was only one game, and it’s best out of twelve. This game might not even count. They’ll have to cancel the rest of the match, won’t they?”
“I don’t know. But you won, Grace Ann Frasier. You proved you could beat him.”
“I want to be happy, but…” Her lips started to tremble again. “People got hurt today because of me. I saw them getting beaten up by the police and the SWAT teams.”
“Not because of you,” he corrected her. “Nothing that happened today was your fault. Just get that out of your head.”
Sam didn’t know what was going to happen from here, but he knew that Grace deserved to be proud of what she’d accomplished inside those Plexiglas walls. Sam didn’t know anything about chess but he understood that Grace had played one of those games, like that Immortal Game she always talked about, a game so daring and ingenious that people would be dissecting it for years.
She was still in a jittery mood when she got out of the shower. They put on the robes, since they had no extra clothes to change into. Everything they’d brought to Dubai was still back in their hotel room. The Danes produced food at least, sandwiches and French fries and salads, even chocolate chip cookies and cinnamon ice cream. They’d had a light breakfast, so they fell on the offerings. It seemed to do wonders for Grace’s mood. He watched as she polished off four cookies in a row, then they started in on the ice cream together.
“We’ll have to send a thank you note to Denmark,” Grace said with a satisfied hum.
Sam chuckled, then realized she wasn’t joking. Yes, of course. Why not send a thank you note to Denmark, for the shelter, the soft bath robes, the ice cream? He’d never taste cinnamon after today without thinking about this moment, the two of them exhausted and
emotionally spent, sheltered in this embassy room.
“We need to call Zeke,” Grace said when they finished eating. “He’ll be worried. Can you call him? Is your phone working yet?”
He checked his display. “No, I think we’re too far underground. I can head upstairs and try to find a better signal. But I think you should stay here. Any message you want me to give him?”
She finally cracked a grin. “Tell him he was right. That Al Raji plays too much like a computer.” Her grin widened. “And I beat computers all the time.”
Sam put on his pants and shirt, and took their leftovers upstairs with him. He was shown to an area with reception and his phone lit up with messages and texts. Renzo and Krishna were safely in the air. Grace’s image and footage of the riot was on every 24-hour news channel and website. Liam Wilder, the Ironclad CEO, had sent him a boatload of emails. Grace Ann Frasier had officially become Ironclad’s most threatened client.
Nothing from Mrs. Ferlander and Zeke. He tried three times to call her, and went to messages each time. “Tell Zeke that we’re fine, that Grace is safe and in good spirits after her win,” he finally said. “I hope the old guy’s on the mend. I expect to be out of here tomorrow, and we’ll call you then.”
He hung up and rubbed his hands over his eyes. He wanted to ask about retrieving their luggage, but there was no one around but the security guards by the door. He went back down on the elevator instead, and keyed himself into their room. He found Grace in front of the television, watching the same news footage he’d been watching upstairs.
“Did you talk to Zeke?” Grace asked.
“I left a message. Still not sure if the reception around here is messed up.” It was a hedge, a half lie. He was afraid to tax her with anything else right now. Zeke had been wise, as always, about not telling her, but Sam had an anxious feeling in his gut. On the news broadcast, a man’s voice droned in Arabic over the violent images of the protesters outside the hotel.