‘No,’ John said after a long pause. Something moved deep in the girl’s eyes. John moved in after it. ‘No, they weren’t smuggled out,’ he continued with greater assurance. ‘And I’ll tell you why you’re here: world champions command a lot of headlines, while ex-champions mean nothing. If your brother wins it means the Russians will have to put up with him for three more years. If he loses, they just put him away. So they’ve decided they don’t want him to win after all. And they sent his sister to do the dirty work. Christ, you Russians are really something!’
Anna had quickly regained Her composure. A thin white line around her lips was the only sign of any strain. ‘You may believe anything you want, Mr Butler,’ she said, her lips pressed tightly against her teeth. ‘At the moment it doesn’t make any difference.’ She rose, took a card from her purse and laid it on the arm of the chair. ‘I must leave now.’
John watched Anna move towards the door. Somehow it was not right that she leave now: it was too anticlimatic. He would be left with only the papers, and no answers.
‘It could also be a bribe,’ John said quickly.
That touched a nerve. Anna hesitated, then wheeled like a puppet on the string of John’s words. There was confusion on her face, fear in her voice. ‘What did you say?’
The intensity of Anna’s reaction caught John off balance, and he was sorry he had spoken. If Petroff did indeed want to defect, and if he was right about the girl being part of a plot to push the world champion into oblivion, then a few indiscreet words on his part could help destroy a man he had never met. The only place John wanted to destroy Yevgeny Petroff was over a chessboard.
Anna’s eyes bored into his, and John turned away. ‘Nothing,’ he said lamely. ‘I was just mumbling to myself.’
Anna walked quickly back across the room, circled John until she was staring into his face. ‘No,’ she said firmly, her voice coloured by a faint note of desperation. ‘I heard you. You said something about a bribe, and you were referring to the papers. Why should I try to bribe you? For what purpose?’
Anna swallowed hard. Once again she seemed icy calm, but now it was obviously feigned. ‘Has someone else contacted you about my brother?’
The girl’s reserve was rapidly disappearing. Her dark eyes were large and moist. John felt trapped.
‘Look, lady, I don’t know why you’re here, or who you’re doing this for.’
Anna stepped forward, very close to him, and put her hand on his arm. It was a light touch, but it sent shivers through John like an electric shock.
The girl’s voice was very soft. ‘You must believe me when I tell you that I would do nothing to hurt Yevgeny.’
John walked to the table and slapped his hand down hard on the papers. ‘No? What about these?’
Anna flushed. She shook her head like someone fighting pain. ‘I can’t explain. Not now. Please tell me what you meant.’
John picked up his coffee and sipped at it. The liquid was cold and bitter. ‘I was told your brother wants to defect while he’s in Venice.’
The colour drained from Anna’s face, leaving her eyes like two holes charred in a piece of paper. ‘Who told you that?’ she asked in a choked voice.
‘The CIA.’
‘You must take me to the men who told you this!’
‘It was just one man.’
‘Take me to him!’
‘Why?’
She shook her head again. ‘Please. Consider it a down payment on the papers I brought you.’
It did not take John long to reach a decision. A distraction of unknown proportions had been thrust upon him, and he knew that he would have great difficulty concentrating until the problem posed by Petroff, Anna and the papers was resolved. He took a sports coat out of a closet and led Anna out of the apartment, locking the door behind him.
Neither spoke as they took the apartment elevator to the street. The girl appeared pale and shaken. John hesitated, then took her arm. Anna didn’t pull away.
If Gligoric was surprised to see John and Anna emerge from the apartment house, there was nothing in his expression to indicate it. He watched impassively as John flagged down a taxi, waited until the taxi pulled away from the kerb, then ordered his nervous passenger from the car. Finally he leaned forward and tapped his driver on the shoulder. The sleek, grey car moved out into the noon city traffic, keeping close to the taxi ahead.
FIVE
John toyed nervously with his leather chess wallet, quickly sliding the flat metal pieces in and out of the slash pockets in the wallet, replaying from memory one of the games on the sheets Anna had brought him. But his mind was not on the game; he was very conscious of the nervous tension in the girl sitting next to him. He glanced sideways. Anna had pushed herself far back into the patched seat of the taxi. Her head rested against the dirty glass of the window as she stared pensively out at the passing street scenes of lower Manhattan.
John snapped the wallet shut and shoved it into the breast pocket of his coat. ‘Do you really believe your brother can beat me?’
For a moment John was not sure the girl had heard him, and he was glad. He had thought he was merely making conversation, but the words hung in the air, revealing far more than he had intended. He crossed his legs and glanced out the window.
Anna’s voice was thin and tight. ‘Yes, Mr Butler, I think Yevgeny can beat you. I think he will beat you.’ She sighed, as though already tired of the conversation. ‘I don’t see what difference my opinion makes. You’re not going to win or lose on the basis of a poll.’
‘You think he’s going to win because he’s your brother?’ He had meant to sound amused; it came out sarcastic.
‘He’ll win because he’s a better player,’ Anna said absently. Stung by her own words, she turned towards him and touched his arm. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said quickly. ‘My mind … That was a stupid thing to say, I didn’t mean it. Please forgive me.’
‘Don’t flatter yourself by thinking I would take your insults seriously,’ John said tightly. ‘Usually I’m the one who does the insulting.’
‘John, really, I’m not thinking too clearly right now. I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.’
‘I’d like you to explain what you did mean.’
‘But—’
John shook his head. ‘I’d like you to explain what you meant. Really.’
‘Why?’ Anna suddenly flushed angrily. ‘You’re mocking me.’
‘No,’ John said easily, his anger gone, replaced by curiosity. ‘Your brother is a mystery to me, as he is to most people outside Russia.’
Anna laughed. It was a short sound, quickly stifled by tension, but while it lasted it was bright and attractive. ‘Oh, I can assure you that Yevgeny is also a mystery to most people inside Russia.’
‘Including you?’
‘Including me,’ Anna said seriously. ‘Obviously, we’re poles apart politically.’
‘Then we come back to the matter of betrayal, don’t we?’
John thought Anna was going to hit him, but she glanced forward and saw the bright eyes of the taxi driver watching her through the rear view mirror. She clasped her hands tightly together. There were dark red spots of colour high on her cheekbones.
‘Everything is a game to you, isn’t it?’ She hissed savagely. ‘If it makes you happy, you just scored a debating point.’
John was taken aback by the intensity of the girl’s reaction. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said simply. He could not remember the last time he had apologised to anyone for anything. He found that he trusted the girl who called herself Anna Petroff, and had every reason not to; liked her, and was afraid to.
The conversation had come to an abrupt halt. John did not like the silence. ‘I’d like to know something about your brother’s thinking,’ he continued. ‘You’re the closest I’m going to get to him before the match. That’s why I asked you what you meant.’
Anna turned back to the window. ‘You’re a strange man, Mr Butler,’ she said softly.
>
‘“John” was good enough when you were apologising,’ John said lightly. ‘Why not keep it that way?’
‘If you like.’ Her voice was flat.
‘He’s not afraid of me?’
‘No, Yevgeny isn’t afraid of you. In fact, he’s greatly looking forward to playing you. He’s very confident of winning.’
Once again there was a strange quality to Anna’s voice, John listened carefully, trying to hear the secret the tone concealed. Finally he gave up. ‘I’d still like to know why people like yourself confuse personalities with the ability to play chess. I’m not a performer, and nobody’s ever asked me to run for public office. I’ve never asked anyone to like me or approve of the way I live. I challenge them to beat me. Usually they can’t.’
‘Why do you make chess your whole life? Why do you shut everything, everyone, out?’
John felt his lips automatically curl into a sneer. It was the way he had always protected himself from pain. But the sneer would not stay; he wanted to laugh, but the laughter died in his throat.
‘The only time I know who I am is when I’m playing chess,’ John said simply, amazed at how easy the words came. ‘Chess is what I am.’
Anna stared at him a long time before speaking. ‘And you thank that’s all you are?’
John shrugged. ‘I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. Being the best chess player in the world is all I ever wanted to be.’
‘Then I feel sorry for you, because you’re not a whole person.’
‘And that’s nonsense,’ John said with feeling. ‘There are more than two billion people on the face of the earth; “nice” people, “whole” people. Boring people. How many are the best—the absolute best—at what they’ve chosen to do?’
Anna smiled wryly. ‘That sounds like a rehearsed line.’
‘That’s because I’ve had this same discussion at least a thousand times before.’
‘First of all, we don’t know that you’re the best. You’ve been close before, and you’ve always walked away from the chance to find out. It seems to me that you’re the one who’s afraid.’
John felt as if he had been hit in the stomach. He turned away quickly so that the girl would not see what he knew must be in his eyes. ‘I see no reason to explain my actions to you. And you haven’t answered my question: why are you so sure that your brother will beat me?’
Anna thought for a few moments, then said: ‘My brother will beat you because, in the end, he has the courage to demand more from life than you do, John. He risks more, but doesn’t have as much to lose.’
‘Lyman Building, mister,’ the taxi driver said, pulling over to the kerb.
John’s mind shifted gears as he got out and paid the driver. He helped Anna out of the taxi, and they walked together at a rapid pace past the familiar fountain and into the building. He was anxious to see what Anna Petroff and Arnett would have to say to each other.
They took the elevator to the eleventh floor. John steered Anna to the left, down the long corridor to the offices of United Textiles, Incorporated. John knocked once perfunctorily on the door and went in.
The office was as he remembered, except that a middle-aged, moon-faced secretary with strawberry coloured hair now sat behind the desk. A glazier was busy repairing the pane of glass behind the desk.
The secretary glanced up. ‘May I help you?’
John nodded towards the closed door to his right. ‘I’d like to speak to Mr Arnett.’
The puzzled expression on the secretary’s face was the first indication that something was wrong. John did not have to wait long to find out what it was. ‘There is no Mr Arnett working for our company that I know of,’ the moon-faced woman said. ‘I’m Mr Jensen’s secretary. Perhaps he can help you.’
John could feel Anna’s eyes on him. He didn’t look at her. ‘Yes,’ he said. He swallowed and found that his mouth had suddenly gone dry. ‘Let me talk to Mr Jensen.’
The secretary picked up an intercom phone and exchanged a few words with a thin, reedy voice that sounded as if it was suffering from mechanical failure. She looked up at John. ‘May I have your name, sir?’
‘John Butler.’
‘And the nature of your business?’
‘It’s personal.’
The secretary spoke again into the intercom and then looked up.
‘You may go in, sir.’
John opened the door to the inner office, and waited until Anna had stepped in behind him, and closed the door.
The inner office was over-decorated, with paintings from a dozen different schools, all of which clashed with the rug and curtains. The man sitting behind the mahogany desk was thick and florid. He bore a striking resemblance to the secretary, and John wondered if that was an occupational hazard of the textile industry. Still, the man seemed pleasant enough. He quickly smoothed down the half dozen strands of hair on the top of his head, then half rose and extended his hand towards John.
‘I’m Jensen,’ the man said. ‘What can I do for you, young man?’
John didn’t like being called ‘young man’. Most of all, he didn’t like the situation he found himself in. He ignored the hand. ‘I want to talk to Arnett.’
Jensen put his hand in his pocket and sat down. His eyes were suddenly cold. ‘I don’t know anybody named Arnett.’
‘Yeah? Well, where were all you people yesterday afternoon around four?’
‘Why do you wish to know?’
John glanced quickly at Anna. She wasn’t staring at him any more; her eyes were wide, as though she was looking at something far beyond the walls of the office. John swung back towards Jensen.
‘Somebody’s been jerking me around!’ John snapped. ‘I want to know who, and why!’
‘Are you implying that this company cheated you in some way?’
‘I’m not sure. You still haven’t answered my question.’
‘My secretary and I were at a sales meeting yesterday afternoon.’ Jensen’s hand had moved towards a drawer to his right. He half opened the drawer and left his hand resting on the edge. ‘Now that I’ve told you my business, perhaps you’d be kind enough to tell me yours. What do you want?’
Suddenly Anna uttered a choked cry, turned and jerked the door open. She ran out of the office. John hesitated, then ran after her. But he was too late. He reached the elevator just as the doors were closing. He considered the stairs, then rejected the idea of going after her. If she wanted to get away, there was no way he could stop her; she would be into a taxi and away before he could reach the ground level.
Anger and frustration welled inside him, then exploded. He kicked savagely at the elevator door, then turned to find himself staring into the startled face of the secretary who had followed him down the hall. Any suspicions John had had about the innocence of the woman were erased. Her face mirrored total bewilderment, and more than a little fear. She stumbled backwards, almost fell, then spun around and hurried back towards her office. John cursed and punched the elevator button.
Gligoric was used to making quick decisions. Also, he had been thoroughly briefed on Yevgeny Petroff so he had recognised the woman with John as being the world champion’s sister. He had masked his surprise earlier because of the man who had been with him, but he knew that his superiors would want to know precisely just what Anna Petroff was doing with John Butler. He knew he would have to pick the girl up eventually and, now that the opportunity had presented itself, he saw no reason to wait.
Gligoric had spotted Anna when she was still half a block away, running blindly, head back, tears streaming down her face. Gligoric quickly glanced out the side and rear windows of the car. The sidewalk was crowded with people, typical harried-looking New Yorkers. Gligoric instantly matched his skills against the situation and did not find them wanting.
He barked something in Russian to his driver who immediately started the car’s engine. As Anna approached Gligoric opened the car door and stepped out into her path. Anna collided with him, like a fea
ther smashing against a wall of rock. Gligoric feigned a grunt of surprise and reached out with his left hand as though to steady her. At the same time he moved in front of her and drove his right fist into her solar plexus. Anna’s mouth opened in a tortured, silent scream as the breath exploded from her lungs. She jack-knifed forward, but Gligoric gripped her tightly and used the momentum from her fall to ease her into the back seat of the car. He slammed the door shut at the exact same moment when the driver stepped on the accelerator and the car shot off down the street, neatly cutting off two taxis and cornering sharply down a side street.
The speed of the abduction was expert, clean, and totally wasted on the New Yorkers. No one seemed to have noticed; if they had, they had pretended not to. The flow of pedestrians continued on, uninterrupted, as though Anna Petroff had been no more than a drop of water sucked up by a merciless sun.
SIX
John’s nerves were stretched taut by the time he got back to his apartment. A gambit: that was the suggestion he had made to Arnett, an attempt to take his mind off his preparations, destroy his concentration, crush his will before he even got to Venice. If that was what Petroff was up to, John thought, it was working perfectly, and this realisation had the perverse effect of making John even more distracted. Was the girl in on it? Then, how could he explain her reaction to the report that her brother wanted to defect? And why the papers? Arnett? Was Arnett out to get him too? Why else go to the trouble of using someone else’s office, thus effectively erasing any trace of himself? But then there was the undisguised rage of the FBI agents, Burns and Draper. Or were they simply acting? Was it all a charade with expert actors?
John’s hand trembled as he took out his key and slid it into the lock on the door of his apartment. He twisted the lock open, pushed on the door and stepped into the apartment. He immediately froze.
The apartment had been ransacked and virtually demolished. The armchair and sofa-bed had been slashed and most of the other furniture broken. His trophies and plaques were broken and scattered about the rooms of the apartment. John felt a strange sadness when he saw the broken metal, pieces of his life torn from him and trodden on. He had never realised how much the trophies had meant to him the trophies were his home movies; his bronzed baby shoes, his photo album, landmarks of his life stretching back into the past.
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