Bishop Takes Queen
Cassandra Rose Clarke
Prague, Czechoslovak Soviet Republic
April 23, 1970
1.
The man across the table steepled his fingers and stared down at the chessboard. He looked so much older than he had the last time Sasha had seen him—when had that been? Only four years ago? Five? In this business even a few years could age a man.
“I’m waiting, old friend,” Sasha said.
The man flicked his hand dismissively. “As if you don’t take your time, too. All that correspondence chess—you can spend hours contemplating a move.”
“Not that I do,” said Sasha.
The man let his hand hover over a rook for a few seconds. A breeze drifted through the budding tree branches overhead, bringing a hint of chill to the sun-warmed air. Sasha didn’t mind. The faint twittering of the birds above assured him spring was here for good.
The man moved his hand away, and Sasha sighed, rolling his eyes. “Bozhe moi!” he said. “You’ve gotten slow in your old age.”
The man slid a bishop across the board and leaned back in his seat, folding his arms over his chest. Sasha laughed. “That’s it? All that time and you went with the obvious move?”
The man smiled. “I like to consider all my options.”
Sasha studied the board, unconcerned. In truth, he was in no hurry. The sun was warming him, and he was winning the game. His old friend was just delaying the inevitable.
Sasha clicked a knight into place.
“A good thing spring is finally here,” the man said, rubbing at his chin. “I always forget what the sun feels like by the end of winter.” He glanced up at Sasha, his gray eyes sharp and glinting. “But that wouldn’t bother you, eh? You Russians, you’re used to the cold.”
“We Russians know how to prepare,” Sasha said. “Which, coincidentally, is why we always win at chess.”
The man shook his head, chuckling under his breath. He moved his queen across the board. A fatal mistake, but he didn’t seem to notice, just leaned back again and gestured at Sasha to continue.
Sasha made his move. “Checkmate.”
His old friend threw up his hands. “What?” he cried, leaning over the board. “Are you sure?” Sasha watched as his eyes flicked over the spaces, following the moves he should have taken. “Damn you, Komyetski.”
Sasha shrugged. “You need to learn to be more Russian.”
It was an old conversation; his opponent just shook his head and swept the pieces into their little cloth bag. They’d played this game hundreds of times over the years and he’d never beat Sasha once. But it had still become a ritual for them. A quick game of chess in the park, beneath the trees. Easy and familiar.
“Maybe next time,” Sasha said, as he always did.
The man snorted. “If you don’t wait five years again.”
“That should have been enough time for you to improve.”
The man handed Sasha the bag of playing pieces, and Sasha dropped them into his briefcase. When he folded up the chessboard, he slipped his fingers underneath, just to be sure. Not that he didn’t trust this old friend of his, but it would be a pity if their game had gone to waste.
But, just as he expected, his fingertips brushed against the envelope his friend had slipped beneath the board when he set it up an hour earlier, before Sasha arrived.
“At least I was able to get out, enjoy the sun,” the man said.
“That’s all that really matters.” Sasha dropped the board into his briefcase and then snapped the latches shut. He stood up and so did his companion. They shook hands, the birds sang out to each other, and Sasha’s vision glimmered with the prospect of a long-fought-for victory.
“Until next time,” Sasha said.
“Until next time.”
They went in opposite directions, Sasha toward the car he had driven to the park, and the man to someplace unknown. When Sasha slid into his car, he popped open the briefcase and pulled out the envelope. Slipped the contents out. Briefly, quick as a flash. There was still time to catch his old friend if the man had tried to swindle him.
But no. This was exactly what Sasha had been looking for. He put the contents back in the envelope and the envelope back into his briefcase. He started the engine of his car. Glanced into his rearview mirror. But of course his friend had vanished. Their table sat empty beneath the tree.
Patience, Sasha thought, before he pulled away.
2.
Josh didn’t think he should be enjoying this as much as he was.
Up in the ring, Aurel Cervenka flung out one massive arm, his gloved fist connecting with Jurik Prazek’s face. Prazek’s head jerked back as if it had been yanked by a string, and then he went sprawling. Kazimir and his associate leapt to their feet, screaming at Prazek to get off his ass, they had money riding on this, goddammit. Kazimir shoved Josh’s arm. “We’re losing!” Kazimir shouted, gesturing at the ring. “That damned Prazek thinks he can just lie there.”
Josh stood. “He’ll get up. He always does.” For a moment Josh felt a rush of dizziness—when did he become the sort of person who said those sorts of things? Who knew those sorts of things? Because he did know them. Somehow, Joshua Toms from Brooklyn, bookish and queer, had come to understand boxing.
In the ring, Prazek was stirring, pushing himself up on his shaking legs. The referee stopped the countdown and backed away, hand lifted. The crowd erupted into wild screaming, and Josh let out his own howl of approval. He had money riding on this fight, same as Kazimir. When he’d pulled the bills out of his wallet, he’d told himself it was because he needed to work his way in, he needed to make the connections. But the truth was he wanted to do it. He had a good feeling about Prazek.
A good feeling that looked like it might pay off. Prazek shook himself, beads of sweat radiating out across the ring. He slapped his gloves together.
The referee dropped his hand, the bell dinged, the two fighters lunged at each other.
It was exhilarating, watching that fight. Better than being in a fight yourself, an experience Josh had always found bewildering and faintly terrifying. He’d never gotten it, when those ex-military types would talk about feeling the most alive in the midst of violence. But watching it, the way the two fighters eyed each other, sweat gleaming on their skin, muscles corded in preparation for some explosive burst of energy—Josh felt it now. A sense of sheer existence running between the two men. It was so simple. No diplomacy, no tradecraft. No blurry middle ground. One would win, and one would lose.
For the sake of his wallet, Josh hoped that winner would be Jurik Prazek.
Cervenka got in another punch, but Prazek ducked it, went in for an undercut. The crowded roared and Josh roared along with them, pumping one fist in the air as Prazek pounded along Cervenka’s ribcage. Cervenka tottered, tilted, and Josh sucked in his breath.
“Come on, come on, you stupid mamrd!” Kazimir shouted. “Give it up!”
Cervenka slumped down to his knees. Prazek pulled back his arm, and his fist shot out like a bullet. Cervenka flew backwards, landing hard on the mat. Josh shouted the countdown with the rest of the crowd, stamping his foot in time with the referee’s hand as it slammed down next to Cervenka’s head. “Eight! Nine!” He grinned, exchanged a delighted glance with Kazimir. “Ten!”
The crowd erupted into a cacophony. Josh fell back on his chair, exhausted, as if he’d been the one fighting. Kazimir sat down next to him and took a long drink of his vodka, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I thought for certain I’ll be out that three hundred,” he said, shaking his head. “But you were right, my friend. Jurik Prazek always gets back up.”
“To Jurik,” said Josh, lifting his own glass of vodka.
“To winning,” said Kazimir.
Josh laughed, and they clinked their glasses together. Josh was growing accustomed to the vodka at these fights, strong and burning and halfway to pure ethanol. A world away from the smooth impor
ted gin of Bar Vodnář.
“We have a break coming up,” Kazimir said, gesturing at the ring. “To give next set of fighters time to prepare.”
“To give the audience time to make their bets, you mean,” Josh said.
Kazimir laughed and slapped Josh hard on the back; Josh knew now to brace himself, and he didn’t jerk forward the way he used to, didn’t spill a drop of that fiery vodka. “You’re learning well! But before we make our bets, I need to speak with you.”
Josh’s good mood wavered, and he knocked back another gulp of vodka to avoid revealing the tension creeping into his system. “Oh? What about?”
“Don’t look so serious! Just a proposal. I think you will like it.” Kazimir tilted his head toward the crowd. “But there are many ears out here, even if they are all drunk. Come, let us go into my office. I promise you will have time to make next bet.”
Josh nodded. Kazimir was his usual amicable self, but Josh still couldn’t shake the anxiety coiling up inside his stomach. Anxiety and—if he was being honest with himself—a hint of excitement. A proposal meant he was doing his job. It meant he’d found his way in for sure.
They wormed their way through the crowd, Kazimir shouting greetings at friends and regulars, lifting his bottle in salute. When they finally slipped into the office and Kazimir shut the door, the silence buzzed in Josh’s ears. Kazimir twisted the blinds shut.
“What kind of proposal are you making?” Josh said, suddenly much more nervous.
“One worth keeping secret.” Kazimir winked at him and then sat down in the big faded chair behind his desk. Josh sank primly into his own chair. He shouldn’t have drunk so much. His thoughts scattered like bees, unable to quiet.
“It’s about my other business,” Kazimir said. “The one that isn’t boxing.” He gestured at the crowd outside the office, and Josh nodded.
“Of course.”
“Well, we have new job offer,” Kazimir said, “from group that would be—of interest to you.”
Josh looked up at him, held his breath. Kazimir leaned forward. His eyes were hard and flinty.
“Of interest to your people,” Kazimir said, nodding once. “I think you will find this group, they and your people have some similar goals. Some similar,” Kazimir waved one hand around, “politics, let’s say.”
Josh’s throat was dry. His chest was tight. He hoped this was going somewhere useful.
“The job is big one. Maybe dangerous. And we don’t have help we need now, after some—incidents a few weeks back. Nothing you need to worry about.” Kazimir nodded at Josh. “You may have heard some things. An exchange got out of hand. Small-time, yes? But still, some of our men are resting.”
“What exactly are you proposing?” Josh said carefully.
Kazimir laughed. “I think you know! We are friends, you and I. And friends help each other, yes?”
“Yes.” Josh’s face felt hot. He hoped he wasn’t blushing.
“Exactly! And your friends are my friends, that is what I say. So perhaps, if your friends, your people, if they do good work on this job, then we can turn to them in the future, yes? And they,” Kazimir’s eyes sparkled with mischievous cheer, “they can turn to us.”
Josh was too breathless to speak. Here it was, the opportunity they’d been looking for. A way of connecting Prague Station to the underground.
“Do you think they would be interested?” Kazimir asked, peering at Josh with an expression that almost, Josh thought, looked vulnerable, as if he were afraid Josh might say no.
“I believe so,” Josh said. “And appreciative, too, that you would ask us.”
Kazimir’s face split into a smile. “Excellent!” He clapped his hands together. “Truly wonderful. I am glad you came to us, Josh, my friend. Glad, indeed.”
Josh was certain he was blushing now. “I’ll need to know more about the job,” Josh went on, “for when I take it to them.”
“Completely reasonable!” Kazimir said. “It’s a hand-off situation. This group, they have cargo that must be loaded onto one of their boats, and then they will sail it away. Far away, you know?” Josh did know. Out of the Eastern bloc, no doubt.
“What sort of cargo?”
“That, I do not know.” Kazimir shrugged. “Only that it is very precious.”
“Drugs?”
Kazimir laughed. “I do not think so. Something more precious than that. Truly, I do not know. They tell us nothing.”
Josh frowned. Artwork, maybe, or jewelry. Money, even. He doubted it would matter much to Langley, not if working with Kazimir’s crew would mean securing such a solid alliance.
A shout went up in the crowd outside. The next fight was about to start.
“Ah,” Kazimir said. “It seems you missed your chance to place bet. I am sorry.”
“It’s fine.” Josh grinned at him. “I shouldn’t push my luck after that last fight anyway.” He paused. “And your proposal—it was worth it.”
Kazimir’s face lit up. “So you will help?”
Josh nodded. “I’ll talk to my, ah, people today. But I think they’ll be very interested.”
“Excellent news, my friend! I am delighted.” Kazimir stood up and held out his hand. Josh did the same and took Kazimir’s; they shook, Kazimir’s grip tight and sure. “I think you will very much like having us as partners.”
“I think I will, too.” Josh grinned, even though his heart was pounding wildly.
• • •
Zerena wanted something. Again.
Tanya tapped her fingers against the table. The scent of sugar was going to her head—why did Zerena insist on meeting at this bakery? What purpose did it serve for her to be constantly surrounded by confections?
The girl behind the counter called to the owner in a rattle of soft vowels from which Tanya, with her rusty university-course French, could only pick out a word or two. Something about cakes, about eggs.
The bell over the door chimed, and in glided Zerena, sunglasses covering half her face, a sleek leather purse dangling from the crook of her elbow. The counter girl called out a greeting, which Zerena returned, along with a request for two cups of espresso. Her own French was flawless. Of course it was.
“Tanya, dear, so glad you could meet me.” Zerena breezed over to the table and sank down. “I took the liberty of ordering you an espresso.”
“I heard.” Tanya crossed her arms over her chest. “Why are we meeting?”
“Let me know if you want a pastry to go with it.” Zerena swept off her sunglasses and tucked them in her purse, carrying on as if they were two friends meeting for an afternoon out.
“I don’t want a snack.” Tanya took a deep breath. Tread carefully. She tried not to fall into the trap of anxiously spiraling around Nadia’s warnings. She could handle herself. She could handle Zerena. “I want to know why I’m here.”
Zerena peered up at her. Her lips almost curved into a smile. “You’re here because you want to hear what I have to tell you.”
Tanya scowled.
“Excusez-moi?” It was the counter girl, with two tiny ceramic cups steaming on a tray, tiny sugar spoons laid out beside them. She set the cups and the spoons down on the table.
“Merci beaucoup,” Zerena said, and the girl bounced back off to the counter. Zerena stirred the espresso, murmured the magic word.
“Well?” Tanya said. “What do you have to tell me?”
“I have an offer.” Zerena smiled down at her cup. “Rémy’s espresso is as bad as his coffee. You’ll want to cast the charm, I imagine.”
“Is this your offer?” Tanya said. “Coffee?”
Zerena laughed. “No, although after the charm I think it’s good enough, don’t you?” She smiled, leaned forward, placed a gentle hand on Tanya’s wrist. Tanya stared down at her hand, the woman’s long elegant fingers, her polished nails. “No, this is something a little more—personal.”
Tanya stiffened and pulled her hand away. “What do you mean?”
�
��You and your American friend,” Zerena said. “You’re having problems, yes?”
“What?” Tanya’s whole body went cold. Under the table, she dug her nails into her thigh. The counter girl had vanished into the kitchen; it was just Zerena and her, surrounded by powdery cakes. “What did you say?”
Zerena tittered. “Oh, I’ve hit a nerve! Interesting.”
Tanya stared at her. Where was she going with this? How did she even find out about Gabe—
The fight. Of course. So Zerena hadn’t been watching Nadia’s fight, either. Or else she and Gabe hadn’t been as discreet as Tanya had thought.
Studying Zerena’s expression, those icy, knowing eyes, Tanya realized it wouldn’t have mattered how careful they had been. Zerena would have found out anyway.
“Yes, I have contact with an American,” Tanya said. “But as you noted, it’s a personal matter.”
Zerena arched her eyebrow. “I won’t say I wasn’t curious, but I wasn’t going to ask. A contact on the other side can always be useful.”
Tanya settled back in her chair.
“But a contact’s no good if you can’t contact him, isn’t that right?”
God, she’d heard everything. Tanya sat very still, afraid to give anything more away.
“Tanya,” Zerena said, an indulgent gush to her voice, “I’m not judging you. I’m offering to help.”
Tanya’s stomach twisted around. She kept hearing Nadia’s voice, telling her she needed to be careful. “Help how?”
Zerena smiled, sipped at her espresso. Somewhere in the depths of the kitchen, dishes clanked together. “I’m the wife of the Soviet ambassador,” she said. “I can speak to people an officer of the KGB can not.”
Tanya didn’t move.
“It would be nothing,” she said, “to slip a message to your American friend. He’s as good about coming around to the diplomatic parties as you are.”
Tanya said nothing.
Zerena laughed. “And you can’t necessarily be seen with him, can you? But I can. It’s my job, dear. If you have a message for him, it would be simply nothing for me to ensure it finds his way into his jacket pocket.” She sipped the last of her espresso and set the cup upside down on its saucer.
The Witch Who Came In From The Cold: The Complete Season 2: The Complete Season 2 (The Witch Who Came In From The Cold Season 2) Page 24