King's Gambit

by George C. Chesbro

  ‘Why would the Russians do that, Butler?’

  John’s face felt very hot. ‘Because they don’t want their man to lose the world title. He will if he plays me.’

  ‘Such modesty!’ Draper sneered as he held the strip of film up to the light and studied it for a few moments. When he again looked at John his eyes were hard. His tone was that of a man who had been personally insulted. ‘These happen to be photographs of the inside of one our our highest security missile bases. You think the Russians are going to let photos like this loose just to stop you from playing a few chess games?’

  ‘Chess is very important to the Russians. It’s part of their ideology; a Russian is—and always will be—champion because he’s a communist. That title is worth millions to them in propaganda value.’

  ‘That sounds like a lot of bullshit,’ Draper said tautly.

  ‘As far as letting the film “loose”, as you put it, it wouldn’t make any difference. If they’ve got the information, they’ve got it. Period.’

  ‘Bullshit is bullshit!’ Draper’s face was very red. ‘There’s a spy in that plant, and we’ll find him. But in the meantime we’ve got you, and that gives agent Burns and I a great deal of satisfaction. Your job was to act as a courier. You planned to drop it in the Russians’ lap while you were in Venice. Who knows? Maybe Petroff himself was supposed to be your contact. Neat—if it had worked.’

  John fought against the panic rising in him, against the impulse to fight back through rage and insult. ‘Why would I want to get myself involved in something like that? For money?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ Burns said sarcastically. ‘Not money for you, Butler, you’re too smart for that. But we’re not stupid. Money doesn’t mean that much to you. Besides, you’d have all the money you’d need if you could win the world title.’

  ‘Right,’ John said. He thought he had scored a point. ‘So I’m still waiting to hear what my motive would be.’

  The answer came to John a split second before Burns told him. He had been completely outmanoeuvred, and Anna Petroff, it seemed, was about to cash in on her temporary sacrifice of time and material. It was the final blow, and it had the effect of stopping the breath in John’s throat. He watched in horror as Burns reached into a small briefcase on the floor and drew out the sheaf of games the girl had given him.

  ‘There you are,’ Burns said. ‘Motive. An edge against Petroff. You were going to sell out your country for a few sheets of paper.’

  EIGHT

  While John was being booked and locked up, he felt like a man in a dream. He used his phone call to call Tom Manning, then lapsed back into a protective, dazed state of numbness.

  Now that Burns and Draper had him, their hostility had disappeared. Once again they were cool professionals, wrapped in cloaks of moral righteousness. Their manner indicated that they felt they had definitely done John a favour and that, one day, John would realise this and thank them for it. John ignored them. Their only setback came when Tom Manning and Henry Palmer showed up at the police station and were allowed, over the vociferous protests of the FBI men, to talk to him. They were escorted to a small interrogation room by a tough-looking sergeant who remained there while they spoke. Occasionally John caught a glimpse of Burns or Draper pacing nervously past the small, mesh-covered window in the door.

  Both Tom and Henry seemed stunned. Henry had developed a small tic in his right cheek. The nerve throbbed with clock-like regularity.

  ‘How did you get in to see me?’ John asked quietly.

  Tom smiled crookedly. ‘It took some doing, but you find chess buffs in some of the strangest places.’ He had tried to sound cheerful, but the words came out tired and nervous.

  ‘I don’t suppose you know any chess buffs who can get me out of here?’

  Tom shook his head slowly. ‘I’m afraid not, at least not before a formal arraignment. They’ve got you on a federal espionage charge, John. Even if we could get you out, they’d never let you leave the country.’

  John glanced at Henry. Henry smiled weakly and dropped his eyes. John shifted his gaze to Tom. ‘Then the match is off, isn’t it?’

  ‘It looks that way,’ the older man said. ‘I don’t see any way you can be in Venice when you’re supposed to be. It looks like the Russians got their postponement after all.’

  ‘Postponement? You’re a bit hopeful, aren’t you? You don’t really think they’re going to agree to a postponement when they find out I’m in jail?’

  ‘Maybe I can get to them before they find out.’

  ‘C’mon, Tom. They know. They put me here.’

  ‘Maybe I can stall through FIDE’s rules committee.’ Tom’s voice lacked conviction.

  Henry cleared his throat and spoke for the first time.

  ‘How did it happen, John? How did the microfilm get in those chess pieces?’

  John stared hard into the boyish face. ‘Do you think I put it there, Henry?’

  ‘Of course not!’

  Something bothered John, and he couldn’t put his finger on it. He let it go after a few seconds and turned to Tom. ‘Whoever broke into my apartment put the film there,’ he said flatly. ‘They busted up everything so that I wouldn’t be suspicious and look around. They were hoping that I’d blow under the pressure they’d already applied, but the microfilm was their insurance policy. When it looked like I was ready to show up in Venice, they tipped off the FBI. So the point of breaking in wasn’t to take anything; it was to leave the microfilm.’

  ‘That would also explain why the girl brought up the papers,’ Tom said carefully. ‘She was setting you up.’

  ‘Right,’ John said distantly. There was a bitter taste in his mouth, in his mind. ‘They would look like my “payment”. But there’s still something odd about the whole thing.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I’ll let you know when I can pin it down myself.’

  The sergeant glanced at his watch, then stepped forward and stood close behind John. Henry stood up quickly.

  Tom gripped John’s arm tightly. ‘Is there anything we can get you?’

  ‘Yes. My chess wallet.’

  ‘Sorry. I thought of that. I tried to bring it in to you but they took it away from me. They said the pieces are too sharp.’

  ‘Shit,’ John said without emotion. Then his eyes flared. ‘You can bet I wouldn’t commit suicide without taking those two FBI baboons with me.’

  ‘You’ve got to take it easy, John.’

  ‘Yes, John,’ Henry said nervously. ‘You’ve got to relax until we can straighten this thing out.’

  The guard grabbed John’s arm. ‘Time’s up,’ he said, gesturing to the clock on the wall.

  John shook hands with Tom and Henry, then allowed himself to be led away through a barred door at the rear of the interrogation room.

  Beyond the interrogation room was a smaller room, and beyond that an iron door closing off the cell block. The guard opened the iron door with a key from a ring on his belt.

  It seemed colder beyond the iron door, or perhaps it was only in John’s mind. The long corridor he was led down was lined on both sides by cells, and was faintly illuminated by a succession of naked, low-wattage bulbs. John could barely make out the dark figures of men sleeping in the cells. One man was standing at the bars of his cell door. His face was blank, and he did not look at John or the guard as they passed. The man’s eyes were red, as though he had been crying.

  John was unceremoniously escorted to an empty cell near the end of the corridor. The door slammed shut behind him with the terrible finality of metal locking into metal. He stood very still in the darkness, trying to calm himself. The moment the door had slammed shut the cell had seemed to grow smaller, like in his nightmares. It was a nightmare, John thought, but he was living it. No one had said when he would be released. He was sure that Tom would attend to the technicalities of getting him a good lawyer, but the subject had not been discussed. Now he was locked up, isolated.

  They
might never let him out. They would claim he was mad like his mother, transfer him to a hospital.

  John tasted blood and realised he had bitten into his lip. He dabbed at the wound with his handkerchief and glanced around the cell. There was a bed, a wash basin, and a commode, discoloured by what looked like dried vomit. That was all.

  He listened to the sounds of a jail at night. Men snored and occasionally broke wind. Somewhere at the opposite end of the cell block a toilet flushed. Someone—probably the man who had been standing—was crying.

  John sat down on the edge of the bunk. He did not want to sleep, dared not sleep; his living nightmare was bad enough, and he did not care to be tormented by his other demons. He tried to clear his mind in the only way he knew how. He imagined a chessboard, then closed his eyes, filling the board with pieces, locking the image into his mind. He chose a game he had played in an invitational tournament in Palma de Mallorca. He had been nineteen at the time, and it had been a brilliant victory against a Cuban grand master.

  ‘Pawn to queen four,’ he whispered softly, making the white move in his mind, then responding with black’s: ‘Pawn to queen bishop four. Knight to king bishop three.’

  ‘I don’t see any way you can be in Venice when you’re supposed to be.’

  ‘Pawn to king four. Pawn takes pawn. Knight to queen bishop three. Bishop to king two.’

  ‘You’re going away for a long time, Butler.’

  John shook his head, trying to dispel the voices. The image of the board was blurring in his mind and he struggled to retain it, reaching out for it like a drowning man to a life preserver.

  ‘Pawn to queen’s rook three,’ he said quickly, pushing the piece forward in his mind. ‘Bishop to king three.’

  ‘Are you still playing that silly game, Johnny? When are you going to go out and get a job?’

  ‘Queen to rook four. Bishop to bishop four.’

  ‘No, Yevgeny isn’t afraid of you. In fact, he’s looking forward to playing you. He’s very confident of winning.’

  ‘Castle! Castle! Pawn to king rook three! Knight to knight four! Pawn to knight four!’

  ‘Hey!’ a voice yelled from a cell close to his. ‘Shut up, shit head! What the hell’s the matter with you?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Butler, I think Yevgeny will beat you. But 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’ll win because he’s a better man.’

  John leapt up and gripped the bars of his cell. ‘Hey! Guard! guard! I want a chess set!’

  ‘Hey, man!’ another voice shouted. ‘Shut up! You crazy or something?’

  ‘Goddamn it!’ John screamed. ‘Can’t you just give me a chess set?’

  ‘Shove it up your ass, pal!’

  Shaking with helpless rage and fear, John went back to his cot. Finally he slept.

  John was awakened early by a key turning the lock of his cell door. Immediately afterwards a set of footsteps went away. A second set came towards him. John rolled over and found himself looking up at Peter Arnett.

  The first thing that caught John’s attention was the tan car coat Arnett had draped over his right arm. The coat was spotted with raindrops. That meant it was raining outside, and John was surprised to find how much such a trivial piece of information meant to him. Arnett’s face was impassive, but there was a slight hint of amusement in the cold eyes.

  ‘The spook,’ John said quietly.

  Arnett smiled thinly. ‘I see you’re picking up the argot.’

  John’s initial irritation passed quickly, and he found that he was glad to see Arnett. He wondered if jail always had that effect, turning things upside down. He tried to imagine how he would survive the years in prison … he couldn’t. He knew he wouldn’t survive. He had been locked up less than eight hours, and already he was prepared to do almost anything to get out; anything but sell himself.

  ‘I suppose you’ve come to gloat.’

  ‘Gloat over what?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ John said, suddenly feeling foolish. ‘You caught me at a bad moment.’

  ‘They’re all bad in jail.’

  Arnett removed the coat from his arm and John could see that Arnett was carrying a paper bag. He opened the paper bag and produced two containers of coffee and rolls.

  ‘I hope you like your coffee regular,’ Arnett said, offering one of the containers.

  John took the coffee and sipped at it. The hot liquid hit his empty stomach and sent a warm glow through him. The strong, acrid fumes in his nose had a bracing effect. He swallowed some more, then set the container to one side. He shook his head when Arnett offered him a roll.

  ‘You know why I’m here?’ John asked.

  Arnett sat down on the opposite end of the cot. He crossed his legs and stared casually at John. ‘Sure,’ he said easily.

  ‘You know, it crossed my mind that you might be a Soviet agent.’

  John was vaguely surprised when Arnett didn’t laugh. Instead the man nodded absently. ‘Interesting thought,’ he said without any show of emotion. ‘I’m not, but it’s shrewd of you to consider the possibility. Usually, nothing in this business is ever what it appeals to be at first sight.’

  ‘Including people?’

  ‘Especially people.’

  ‘What about you? You think I hid that microfilm.’

  Now Arnett laughed. It was a cold sound, without real humour. ‘Of course not. The film was obviously planted by those sportsmen from Moscow.’ He snapped his fingers. The sound reverberated like a pistol shot in the small, closed space, ‘Checkmate.’

  John flushed. ‘If you believe that, why am I still in here?’

  Arnett shrugged. ‘This is a domestic matter. As long as it remains that way. I don’t see that there’s much I can do about your situation.’

  ‘Then you can get out,’ John said evenly.

  Arnett ignored the demand. ‘What we have here is a kind of jurisdictional dispute. The FBI wants you put away because they think you’re a threat to Truth, Justice and The American Way. I want you out because I’d like the answers to some questions.’

  ‘What questions?’

  ‘I want to know what the Russians are up to.’

  ‘I thought we’d already answered that one. The Russians don’t want Petroff to lose.’

  ‘Or defect. There’s still the possibility that the report was accurate.’ Arnett ran his fingers absently over the scar on his face. ‘The Russians are playing a pretty heavy game here, and I want to know why. That’s why I want you to go to Venice and hear what sweet nothings Petroff has to whisper in your ear, if any.’

  John felt his stomach contract painfully, ‘I thought you said you couldn’t get me out of here.’

  Arnett blinked rapidly, as though John had interrupted a train of thought. ‘Oh, that,’ he said casually. ‘I said it was a problem of jurisdiction. If you agree to co-operate with me, that problem disappears.’

  ‘And what does “co-operating” mean?’

  ‘In this case it means doing no more than what I asked you to do in the first place.’

  John reached inside himself, searching for the controls to the emotional roller coaster he was trapped on. ‘It’s too late. The match has been called off.’

  ‘That’s not what I hear,’ Arnett said evenly. ‘I’ve already talked to your friend Manning. He and Palmer are waiting for you outside.’ He paused and drank some of his coffee, watching John over the rim of his cup. John struggled to keep his face expressionless, but he was sure that his eyes betrayed him. He said nothing. Arnett rose and spilled the rest of the coffee into the toilet. ‘Cold,’ he said.

  ‘Stop playing with me, Arnett.’

  ‘I believe you planned to leave for Venice tomorrow morning. You agree to co-operate and you can walk out now. You’ll even have time for a little practice.’

  ‘I’ll do what you ask. You knew that before you came in here.’ />
  Arnett nodded approvingly. John rose and walked quickly to the door of the cell. He stood there, trembling with anger and bitterness. Regardless of the circumstances, he now found himself in a position where he felt indebted to the other man; it was a situation he could barely tolerate.

  ‘Just a minute.’

  John whirled. ‘Aha!’ he said, making no attempt to conceal his feelings. ‘Now it comes, right? Something you forgot to mention! Just a few more little strings?’

  Arnet looked at him oddly. ‘You’d better slow down a little, Butler. You’re not going to do me any good if you have a heart attack. There are no more strings. I just want you to look at a photograph.’

  John, swallowed his anger and took the photograph that Arnett pulled from his pocket. The surface was grainy, and was obviously a cropped blow-up. It showed a large, husky man with dark features and cold, expressionless eyes, like Arnett’s.

  ‘Ever see him?’

  John shook his head. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘His name is Alexander Gligoric, and he’s a KGB agent. Gligoric is a nasty customer. He’s been seen in New York, and I suspect he’s the one who was given the assignment of putting you out of commission. If you’ll pardon the analogy, that’s like using a bulldozer to weed a garden.’

  ‘That’s not very flattering.’

  ‘It wasn’t meant to be. But it is accurate. That’s what I meant by the Russians playing a heavy game. I want to know why. On the other hand, I wouldn’t want to see you put out of commission permanently.’

  ‘You’re telling me that I could be in some kind of danger?’

  ‘Something like that. I’m telling you to watch your ass.’

  John tried to identify what he felt as fear, and couldn’t. That made him afraid. He had never thought of himself as being suicidal, but death seemed very remote to him, no more terrible than any number of things that he could imagine happening to him in life.

  ‘There’s a girl,’ he said after a long pause. ‘Petroff’s sister. I was wondering—’

  ‘Sorry,’ Arnett said curtly, I don’t know anything about that.’

  Arnett signalled for the guard. The cell door was opened and John followed Arnett down the corridor. He felt the curious stares of the other prisoners, but John did not look at them. They passed out through the iron door, through the interrogation room to the station exit. The sergeant at the booking desk did not even look up.