‘I don’t have time to talk to CIA agents! Can you understand? I have time for nothing but my work!’
John was at the door in three quick strides.
‘The subject I wanted to talk you you about was Yevgeny Petroff.’ Arnett turned to find John frozen, his hand still gripping the knob. ‘Is the match still on?’
John turned stiffly. Conflicting emotions flashed on and off in his eyes like traffic lights. ‘Why do you ask a stupid question like that?’
Arnett shrugged casually. The hook firmly in place, he began to tug gently on the line. ‘Because you have a reputation for torpedoing ventures that are in your best interests. Most people assume you’ll beat the Russian, if and when you do finally sit down and play him.’
John looked as if he wanted to throw something again. Instead, he asked: ‘Do you play chess?’
The question caught Arnett off balance. ‘Some,’ he said wearily.
‘A patzer,’ John said contemptuously. ‘Keep your opinions on my play to yourself until you get to be a grand master.’ Once again the lights changed. ‘What about Petroff?’
Arnett indicated a chair. ‘Why don’t you sit down?’
‘You said you wanted to talk to me about Petroff.’
‘All right,’ Arnett said after a pause. ‘We’ve received a report that Petroff wants to defect.’
John looked away. After a few moments he went to the chair and sat down. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said quietly.
‘What don’t you understand? It seems pretty simple to me. The man is tired of living in Russia. He wants to come over to our side.’
John shook his head. ‘Russia is a chess player’s paradise,’ he said distantly. ‘That’s why the Russians, man for man, are the best in the world. They’re given everything; time, the best computer analyses. Here …’ John shrugged and left the sentence unfinished.
Arnett finished it for him. His tone was mildly mocking. ‘Here you’re not appreciated?’
John glanced up quickly. ‘That’s right,’ he said seriously. ‘Here I’m not appreciated.’
‘There are other things in life besides chess, Butler.’
John laughed. It was a short, quick sound, without humour. ‘Not to a grand master. And certainly not to Petroff.’
Now it was Arnett who seemed puzzled. His face bore the expression of a man who is afraid he’s missed the punch line of a joke. ‘What do you know about Yevgeny Petroff?’ he said after a long pause.
‘He’s world champion.’
Again there was a long silence. When Arnett finally broke it his tone was incredulous. ‘My God. That really is all you know about him, isn’t it?’
‘That’s why you’ll always be a patzer, Arnett,’ John said with a sneer. ‘Being the best in the world at what you’ve chosen to do is everything.’
‘Don’t you ever read a newspaper?’
‘I told you: I don’t have time.’
Arnett shook his head almost imperceptibly. He slowly walked around behind the desk and sat down. He leaned back and fixed his eyes on John’s. ‘Petroff just happens to be a poet who came close to winning the Nobel Prize a few years ago,’ Arnett said evenly. ‘His work isn’t the kind that exactly endears him to the Politburo. Six years ago he founded a literary journal that was closed down by the government the week after it published its first issue. So Petroff simply took it underground. That literary journal is the hottest property in Russia today. Petroff publishes his own work in it, along with that of every other dissident in the country. Most of the contributors use pseudonyms. Not Petroff.’ Now it was Arnett’s voice that was edged with contempt. ‘Those are a few of the things Petroff finds time to do besides play chess.’
Arnett waited, but John said nothing. Once again John’s face was impassive, his eyes blank.
‘In other words,’ Arnett continued, ‘Petroff has been giving the Russians fits for almost a decade. So far he’s gotten away with it because he brings home the bacon on the world chess scene, and we both know how important that is to the Russians. But the pressures must be enormous. Now it looks like he’s had enough. He wants to come over.’
‘Why tell me all this?’
‘Because the story goes that Petroff is going to need your help to defect.’
‘That doesn’t make any sense. I’ve never even met Petroff.’
‘I suppose it’s also occurred to the Russians that their star chess player might not be too happy in his own country. That’s why he’s rarely seen at any of the big international tournaments. They don’t let him out of the country. When they do, he’s given an escort of six KGB agents. They never let him out of their sight, and he’s not allowed to speak to anyone. Without help, there’s just no way for him to get to us, or for us to get to him.’
Something didn’t seem right. John stared hard at Arnett, but the other man’s face was impassive. ‘Then how did you find out about this rumour in the first place?’ John asked. He made no effort to keep the suspicion out of his voice.
‘Petroff’s friends inside Russia,’ Arnett replied evenly. ‘It’s communicating with him when he’s out of the country that presents a problem. That’s where you come in. Say, hand me that other drink, will you? I wouldn’t want it to go out the window.’
John didn’t move. Arnett rose and got the drink himself. He sniffed at it, then threw it back with one swallow. He shuddered, ‘You used good judgement, John,’ he said. ‘It’s lousy Scotch.’
‘You can call me Butler. And you were just about to tell me where I came in.’
‘You’ll be the only foreigner allowed within fifty feet of Petroff when you play him in Venice at the end of the month. He reads a little English, and you read a little Russian; that’s what comes from having to follow the world’s chess literature. In any case, you’re the only one he’ll be able to contact when the time comes.’
‘What time?’
‘The time when he feels he’ll be able to make his break; the time when we’ll be able to move in at best advantage. You could be in Venice for up to two months, depending on who scores twelve and a half points first. Sometime during that stay Petroff should be able to shake loose from his watch dogs. It could be during a training session, or a recreation period. It could even be an end run off the stage during the match itself, if we wanted to be melodramatic. But Petroff is the only man who’ll be able to say when. And when he’s sure of the time and place, he’ll tell you. You’ll tell us, then we’ll take over from that point. That’s all there is to it. Will you do it?’
John might have been concentrating on a chess problem; he sat for long moments without moving, his eyes slightly out of focus. Finally he leaned back in the chair and crossed his legs. ‘No,’ he said quietly.
Arnett felt as if he had been punched in the chest. He realised now that he had seriously underestimated his adversary. He hadn’t been reeling the other man in at all; John had merely been circling.
‘No?’ Arnett’s voice was strained by disbelief. ‘You won’t simply look for a brief note? Listen for a whisper?’
‘You said you knew something about chess,’ John said, his eyes flashing. ‘Then you should understand that a top player must have nothing else on his mind if he hopes to win against the best competition. This isn’t some warm-up tournament I’m playing in; it isn’t a contest for first board at some local chess club. Petroff and I will be playing a twenty-four game match for the chess championship of the world.’
Arnett seemed about to say something. He didn’t. Instead he went back to the spider-webbed glass and stared out at the city below. It seemed to be an act of indifference; in fact, he had turned his back on John to hide his fear. He was afraid he was going to fail His work—and this operation in particular—depended on his ability to control other people, and he did not see how he was going to be able to control a megalomaniac who virtually everyone agreed was crazy.
John squirmed in his seat. Arnett’s back infuriated him, and the rage transformed itself into
, a desperate need to talk, to explain, to justify, to somehow build a ladder of words that would allow him to scale the wall that always seemed to separate him from other people.
‘I happen to be the best chess player in the world,’ John said tightly. ‘I always knew that I would be some day; and I have been for the past four or five years. I could be the greatest player who ever lived.’
‘Your modesty overwhelms me,’ Arnett said distantly.
‘I’m not bragging, I’m just stating a fact. I’ve said it many times, and now the time has come to prove it.’
‘Nobody’s asking you not to play.’
‘But nobody’s ever given me a thing,’ John continued, ignoring the sarcasm in the other man’s voice. ‘Everything I know, everything I’ve done, has been despite of, not because of, the situations in which I’ve found myself. Chess is the most demanding occupation there is, bar none, and everyone in the world knows it except the people of the United States. I’m known everywhere; except in my own country where the people are more interested in a bunch of morons knocking each other silly or in watching other morons bat a little ball around a field. It’s insane.’
John paused, probing to see if the rage had gone. It hadn’t. ‘The Russians,’ John whispered for no apparent reason. ‘How I hate the Russians.’
Arnett turned and looked at John with new interest. ‘Why do you hate the Russians?’
‘They cheat.’ John’s eyes were like clear panes of glass looking inward on his soul. ‘They don’t break the rules, they just cheat; playing for draws against each other, then playing like tigers against everyone else. That’s how they control the top international tournaments. The only thing that can be said for them is that they appreciate chess. The Russian players have the complete support of their government; their grand masters don’t have to earn a living hustling chess games or kissing some sponsor’s ass.’
‘You’re crazy, Butler,’ Arnett said without feeling.
‘Me, I’m hated in my own country; I’m hated because I refuse to admit that I have any other responsibility but to play the best chess I’m capable of. I’m the best because I have talent, but talent isn’t enough. I learned very early to put every other distraction out of my mind, to concentrate only on the game. That’s the only way it can be. Now you’re asking me to play the most important match of my life with half my mind on something else; looking for some kind of signal that might never come. You’re asking me to risk losing because Petroff isn’t happy with the country he’s living in—the country, by the way, that made it possible for him to be champion in the first place. You must be mad.’
Arnett went to the table and poured himself another drink. He started to lift the glass to his mouth, then set it back down. ‘Chess is a game, Butler. It’s not a religious rite. It’s two men pushing pieces of wood around sixty-four squares. You’re feeling sorry for yourself while I’m talking about a man’s life.’
John made a gesture of contempt. ‘Your opinions on the metaphysics of chess don’t interest me,’ he said. ‘Do you think I’m a fool? You don’t want to help Petroff defect because it’s a nice thing to do; you want to do it to embarrass the Russians. That’s part of the game that you play, and the value of a human life has no more meaning in your game than it does in mine. Chess players don’t assassinate people.’
Arnett decided to angle for a new position. ‘You said you hated the Russians.’
‘Not enough to risk losing the championship match just to embarrass them. I’ll do that anyway when I beat their man.’ John paused. Something moved behind his eyes. ‘Besides,’ he added, ‘it could be a gambit.’
‘A gambit?’
‘A gambit, yes; a phony sacrifice to gain material or to checkmate an opponent.’ John laced his long fingers together and met Arnett’s puzzled gaze. ‘The Russians are devious,’ he continued. ‘That title means a great deal to them. I wouldn’t put it past them to float a rumour like this just to take my mind off the match. I sit there waiting for some signal while Petroff proceeds to blow me off the board. He wins, I lose. He goes back to Russia a hero while I go back to the United States a fool; with the Americans cheering because the obnoxious John Butler got beat.’
‘Jesus, Butler!’ The disgust in Arnett’s voice was real.
‘I’d like to go now.’ When Arnett said nothing John rose to leave. Suddenly he felt very tired.
‘Butler!’
John paused with his hand on the knob He stared through the frosted glass of the door at the reversed letters which read, UNITED TEXTILES, INC. Arnett’s voice came at him, even but stripped of all guile. John knew it was Arnett the man speaking, not Arnett the CIA agent.
‘I just wanted to tell you that you’re a bastard. A real bastard.’
John pulled the door open and stepped out of the office. Tom Manning and Henry Palmer were waiting for him in the corridor.
‘John!’ Henry’s voice squeaked boyishly.
John hurried down the corridor without looking up. The two men fell into step beside him. ‘How did you two get here?’ John asked absently.
‘The same men who took you away came back and told us where to find you,’ Tom said, his voice strained from the physical effort required to keep pace with John. ‘They seemed pretty upset, said there’d been a mix-up.’
Henry stopped at the elevator but John hurried past and disappeared down a stairway. Henry started to go after him but Tom reached out and grabbed Henry’s arm. ‘Let him go,’ Tom said quietly. ‘He’ll talk when he feels like it.’
Tom was vaguely surprised to find John waiting for them outside the building. He was standing on the edge of a mall, staring at the taxi-stained traffic on Fifth Avenue. The spray from a nearby fountain rainbowed in the late summer air, then fell out of the sky, spotting John’s jacket.
‘There was no mix-up,’ John said as Tom and Henry moved up beside him. ‘And it wasn’t the FBI that wanted me. It was the CIA. A man the name of Peter Arnett.’
‘What did he want?’ Tom asked anxiously.
John continued to stare at the traffic. ‘He told me Petroff wants to defect,’ he said after a long pause. ‘He wanted me to help.’
Henry whistled softly. Tom stepped forward and half-turned so that he could see John’s face. It was expressionless. Only his eyes seemed alive, bright and constantly in motion. ‘What did you tell him?’
John’s eyes stopped moving. ‘I told him no.’
‘What did he expect you to do?’ Henry asked.
‘Wait for a signal from Petroff. I was supposed to tell the CIA how and when he wanted to make his break.’
Henry shoved his hands in his pockets and looked down at the tops of his shoes. ‘You think it’s some kind of trick?’
John, sensing the tone of reproach in Henry’s voice, glanced sharply at the other man. ‘I don’t care if it’s a trick or not,’ he said tightly. ‘I don’t want any part of it.’
‘It could be real,’ Tom said thoughtfully. ‘The only thing that’s kept Petroff out of Siberia for the past five years is the fact that he’s world champion. It could be that he’s had enough.’ He looked into John’s eyes. ‘I think you were wise to stay out of it.’
‘Why do you say that?’ Henry said quickly, betraying his own feelings.
‘It’s possible that the Russians know something is up.’ Tom paused and glanced warily at John. ‘The Russians contacted the International Federation two weeks ago. They wanted to postpone. Naturally, we refused.’
John’s eyes darted in Tom’s direction and his voice was sharp, ‘Why wasn’t I informed of this?’
‘We thought you had enough on your mind preparing for the match,’ Tom said evenly.
‘You should have told me!’
Spots of colour appeared high on Tom’s cheekbones. He turned away for a moment. When he turned back the colour was gone. ‘Do you want the match postponed, John?’
‘Of course not. I’ve worked too hard and waited too long to let Petroff get awa
y from me now.’
‘Precisely,’ Tom said curtly. ‘It’s our option to insist that the match be played as scheduled, and FIDE will back us up. If the Russians don’t want their boy to leave the country, they forfeit the title.’ He touched John’s arm lightly. ‘The important thing is to keep this thing out of your mind You take care of the chess, and the US Chess Federation will take care of the organising details.’
‘He might never be heard of again,’ Henry said distantly.
‘You said something, Henry?’ John’s voice was sharp, a warning signal.
‘I was just thinking of what Petroff must be going through,’ Henry said quickly. ‘If he loses that title the Russians will nail him for good. It’s a hell of a prospect.’
‘Would you like me to give him the match, Henry?’
‘You know I didn’t mean that, John. I was just thinking—’
‘You were just thinking what you would do in my place, which is lose, Henry. You’d lose because you’d have your head filled with romantic notions while Petroff was wiping his feet all over you That’s what’s wrong with your game, Henry; too many busted sacrifices.’
A hot flash of hate welled up in Henry’s throat like bile. He swallowed it. The suddenness and force of the emotion had surprised Henry, and made him afraid. ‘There aren’t that many people in the world who can beat me, John,’ Henry said softly.
‘I can beat you, and so can Petroff.’
‘You, yes; you did it in the candidates’ matches. Petroff, maybe, maybe not.’
John granted derisively and Henry felt his face burn.
‘I’ve never had a chance to play the man! He’s like a ghost! He comes out of the woodwork every two years or so, beats everyone in sight, then goes back to raising hell.’
‘Then he must not be that unhappy, rights’ John snapped. ‘But you still want me to help him out of his misery.’
‘I didn’t say I’d help him if I were in your place! God damn it, John! You don’t have to insult me every time you want to make a point!’
Tom stepped between the two men and made a conciliatory gesture. ‘Nobody’s criticising your decision,’ he said to John. ‘If Petroff wants out that bad, and the CIA wants him, then it’s up to the professionals to work up a plan and carry it out. But it’s not going to do anyone any good for the two of you to argue. There are too many other things that have to be done. John, you’ve already lost a day. Now, why don’t you forget about this Petroff thing? Take Henry home with you and do some analysis. I’ll have dinner sent up to your apartment.’
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