King's Gambit

by George C. Chesbro

  ‘You need a doctor!’

  ‘That can wait until we get to Venice.’

  Tom nodded, fighting back his impatience. ‘Henry isn’t here,’ he said quickly. ‘He called at the last moment and said he was ill. I just don’t understand it.’

  It seemed to Tom that John took a long time to answer.

  ‘Well,’ John said at last. ‘That’s too bad.’

  A minute later John had strapped himself into his seat and was asleep before the plane was in the air.

  THE MIDDLE GAME

  ELEVEN

  John woke up in time to have dinner and ordered two stiff drinks before settling down to a steak. Tom watched as the drink began to restore the colour back into John’s hands and the parts of his face that were not already black and blue.

  Both men ate in silence, and after the meal Tom’s patience was rewarded. John ordered a cognac. He sipped at the drink and began to talk about the events of the previous night. His voice was even and he told the story in a matter-of-fact tone, his voice breaking only when he related how he had killed Gligoric. He omitted the part about Anna’s lovemaking. John considered that memory a very private thing, easily misunderstood, extremely precious. It was something he was afraid to talk about, as though telling about it would somehow make it lose its magic.

  Tom listened in silence, dumbfounded but holding back on his questions. One thing became very clear to him as he listened to the story, and the insight came not from what John said, but the manner in which he said it: the events of the past few hours had changed John Butler. He was no longer the man governed by the knife-edge tension that had formerly permeated his every word and movement. Now John seemed more removed from himself, at once more and less accessible. Tom thought to mention this, and then decided not to. Whatever had changed John, he thought, must have been a very powerful force. Perhaps it had been the act of killing a man, or perhaps it was merely shock. Then again, it might be something that John had left unsaid.

  Finally John finished talking. He sat in silence, staring out the window at the great banks of clouds that changed to wisps of smoke as they passed through them.

  Tom cleared his throat. ‘I’ve arranged for a heavy security guard.’

  ‘Well, I’d appreciate it if you’d un-arrange it,’ John said quietly, without turning away from the window.

  Tom shook his head in frustration. Some things hadn’t changed. ‘A man tried to kill you last night,’ he said softly. ‘There’s no guarantee that someone else won’t be waiting for you in Venice.’

  ‘I think it’s over now.’

  ‘Over!’ Tom exclaimed loudly. A number of passengers turned to stare. Tom leaned close to John and lowered his voice. ‘What do you mean, you think it’s over?’

  John shrugged. ‘I don’t think they ever wanted to kill me. They wanted to stop me from playing, yes, and they tried everything they could think of. They failed. Then things got out of hand and this man Gligoric decided to improvise. Now they probably know that Gligoric’s dead, and they may know that the CIA’s involved. I don’t think they’ll take a chance on having a similar incident in Venice. They’ll realise that their time would be better spent getting Petroff ready to play me. But as I said, it’s just a feeling.’

  ‘Well, damn your feelings,’ Tom said evenly. ‘I think you’re being downright foolhardy.’

  John thought for a moment. ‘If you do have anybody watching me, make sure I don’t know they’re there. That’s all I ask. If I see them, I’ll make a point of losing them. I mean it. I don’t want two gorillas hanging around outside my hotel door. Besides, my guess is that Arnett is going to have a few men around, and they’re bound to be better than anyone the USCF is going to hire.’

  Tom smiled. ‘I suppose you’re right about that.’ His smile quickly vanished. ‘I guess you were also right about the girl not being involved with Gligoric. But there’s still the matter of those papers. Why did she give you her brother’s games?’

  ‘Who cares?’ John said simply. ‘Maybe I’ll never know. It’s enough for me to know that I’m going to beat her brother.’

  ‘Who supposedly wants to defect. Don’t forget that. The fact that you might try to help him still makes you a very dangerous person to the Russians.’

  John shook his head. ‘I don’t think Petroff ever intended to defect.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘The girl.’

  ‘She told you that?’

  ‘Not in so many words. But that’s what she meant, and if anybody should know her brother’s mind, she should. And she definitely left the impression that she didn’t think her brother was a traitor, which is what he would be if he came over to our side, at least in the eyes of the Russians. She described her brother as a patriot. Patriots don’t defect.’

  ‘She could be wrong, or she could be lying.’

  ‘I don’t think she’s wrong and I don’t think she’s lying.’

  ‘Then why the report?’

  ‘Like I told Arnett, it was a gambit. Except that it wasn’t offered by Petroff; it was offered by the Russians. They knew how I’d react and they wanted to put the pressure on.’

  Something was working at the back of John’s mind. It passed through his consciousness like a speeding train. John tried to follow it and couldn’t. Finally he let it go. ‘Where’s Petroff staying?’ he asked.

  ‘The whole Russian contingent is booked into the San Marco. They’ve been there a couple of days. They’ve really got Petroff holed up because nobody’s seen him.’

  ‘Nobody would. He’s always under a tight security guard.’

  ‘He’s probably using the time to practise with his grand masters. The Russians sent twelve to help him prepare and analyse adjourned positions.’

  John ignored the implied criticism of his own penchant for working alone. ‘That suits me fine. The only time I care about seeing him is when we meet over the board.’

  ‘Well, you won’t have long to wait.’ Tom looked into the other man’s face. ‘Will you be ready, John?’

  ‘I am ready.’

  John turned sideways in his seat and soon went back to sleep. Tom signalled nervously for a drink.

  They landed in Mestra, a small city on the outskirts of Venice. From the air, Venice and the surrounding area had appeared like a jewel set in the Adriatic, shimmering and mysterious under the July sun On the ground the air was foul, polluted by the heavy, black smoke spewed forth by the heavy industrial plants in Mestra.

  They took a bus to the outskirts of Venice, then boarded a water taxi for the trip into the city itself. Both men had been to Venice before and had been enchanted by it; but this was not the time for sightseeing. The beauty of this fantastic city with its streets of water, ancient cathedrals and tiled squares was lost on them, at least for the moment. There would be time later to renew their acquaintance with the city, to have fun, hopefully to celebrate. Now there was work to be done. Tom stared out at the water, going over in his mind all of the preparations that had to be made, the arrangements to be checked.

  From the moment they had got off the plane, John had had his face buried in the myriad of chess journals he had instructed Tom to bring with him.

  They checked into their hotel and Tom insisted that John immediately be examined by a doctor. The bruises were pronounced superficial, and he had suffered no internal damage. John was ready to play.

  John awoke at dawn on the day of the first game. The schedule called for the first game to begin at 5 pm. John’s body had quickly recovered from the effects of jet-lag, and his eye was open. The eye was still surrounded by patches of ugly purple, but there was no pain and he felt fit.

  He wanted this time in the early morning to study last minute ideas, think, clear his mind. Later he would return to the hotel, eat a big lunch, then sleep until it was time for the game.

  He stepped quietly out into the corridor and hesitated in front of Tom’s door. He had agreed to let Tom check out all the physica
l arrangements for the match. Tom had, and had assured John they were satisfactory. Further, he had agreed to let Tom know whenever he wanted to leave the hotel. It made sense, John thought. Unwise decisions in the past had almost cost him the opportunity to play this match, and he did not want to repeat his errors. On the other hand, things had been very quiet during the two days they had been in Venice. He could not see any real purpose in waking Tom: Tom was not a young man, and the strain of the past few months had left their mark on him too. To wake him would only cause needless worry. Besides, John thought, he would be careful.

  John walked on down the corridor to the elevator. In keeping with his new resolve to be careful, he got off at the second floor and took a fire exit to the ground level.

  It was a bright, sunny day, and the air was clear, a good day, John thought, to take the first step towards the world chess championship. This was also a good time to relax and prepare himself, for the rigours of a match that could last as long as two and a half months.

  He walked along the edge of the piazza, staring down into the muddy waters of the Grand Canal. And he found himself thinking of Anna. Her face, her perfume, her voice and her body were in his mind. He did not try to push the thoughts away; instead, he savoured them.

  An hour later he stopped at a small pavement café for coffee. He sipped the creamy cappucino and worked chess problems in his mind. The man next to him was reading a copy of the International Herald Tribune. John casually glanced over the man’s shoulder to read the headlines. What he read struck him like a physical blow. AMERICAN GRAND MASTER COMMITS SUICIDE ON EVE OF CHAMPIONSHIP MATCH.

  John did not have to read the small print to know that the grand master was Henry Palmer. He suddenly felt sick. He quickly set the cup down, left a few lire and walked rapidly away.

  A few moments later two men, coming from opposite directions and walking on opposite sides of the square, moved after him And these men were followed by two others.

  The Theatre Venezia where the match would be held was a large, modern theatre near the Palazzo San Marco. John stood in the warm sunshine beneath a canopy of soaring pigeons and read the marquee which had notices in Italian, English and Russian.

  WORLD CHESS CHAMPIONSHIP MATCH

  5:00 PM

  Today’s Game Sold Out.

  Tickets for Future Games Available At Box Office.

  John tried one of the lobby doors It was open. He pushed on it and walked into the darkened lobby.

  John waited for his eyes to grow accustomed to the dim light, then looked around him. The lobby was huge, with plush red carpeting and gold plaster walls. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling. A dozen closed-circuit television sets were distributed at regular intervals to accommodate the overflow crowd that would not be able to fit into the auditorium. In addition, there were giant demonstration boards at opposite ends of the hall where various grand masters would lecture on the games in progress.

  A guard suddenly stepped out of an office. He stopped and froze, startled to see an intruder. He quickly recovered and strode hurriedly forward, his face red with anger. John stood still, and the guard stopped a few paces away. The anger vanished when he recognised John.

  ‘Prego, Signor Butler,’ he said, making an expansive gesture towards one of the padded, sound-proofed doors that led into the auditorium.

  ‘Grazie,’ John said. He walked through the door that the guard held open.

  The auditorium had seats for two thousand, and had been specially outfitted with sound bafflers for the match. The plush seats sloped gently downward to a stage which was starkly bare except for the needed essentials; a table, a chess set and chairs, two for the players and one for Isaac Green, the Israeli grand master who would referee the match. Above the stage was another demonstration board, electronically controlled, and a neon sign that could flash SILENCE in three languages if the spectators became too enthusiastic.

  John walked down the centre aisle and climbed up onto the stage. He sat down in his chair and fingered the white pieces of the chess set, those he would be playing in the first game. Then he looked out towards the empty auditorium. In his mind’s eye he imagined how it would look that afternoon, jammed to capacity with chess aficionados; patzers, experts, masters and grand masters from around the world.

  He knew he would be nervous at first, seemingly unable to harness his mind and concentrate. His hands might tremble slightly. But he knew Petroff would be experiencing the same difficulties. He would make his opening move and press the clock. Petroff would respond, and the game would be on. That initial stage-fright nervousness would vanish and the tension would evaporate as they both struggled through the opening, springing surprises, batting to enter a favourite line.

  Then the tension would increase again; but it would be a new, more terrible tension, that which comes from two men trying to gut one another, to break the will to resist. More than one chess player has ended in the hospital suffering from that kind of tension. That, John thought, is what he would be trying to do to Petroff. And what Petroff would be trying to do to him. Neither man would emerge from the match the same. Chess was the purest form of gladiatorial combat—and occasionally the most savage. It was one mind pitted against another, and the object was not to momentarily overcome, but to break. That was the only way a twenty-four game match could be approached.

  John glanced at his watch. It was noon. It was time to return to the hotel, eat and rest. Then he would return to this place that loomed in his mind as the apex of a lifelong struggle. The end of a journey.

  He rose, carefully replaced the pieces in their original positions, then left the theatre through a side exit.

  The squares were now crowded with tourists and a profusion of sidewalk artists, all mass-producing their wares as they vied for the attention and lire of the spectators.

  There was a sound in the air that was somehow incongruous. It took John a moment to identify it: a high-speed power boat was running at full throttle out in the bay beyond the square. It swept along over the glassy water, then made a hairpin turn and started towards the square. There were two white-shirted men in the boat. One was standing up, waving his arms in some kind of signal.

  John stood still a moment too long. He was only aware for a split second of the two men who had suddenly flanked him, cutting him off from the rest of the crowd, bumping him in the direction of the water. He gasped with surprise and pain as the long hypodermic needle pierced his clothes and slid into his arm.

  The drug acted almost instantaneously, attacking his nervous system, numbing his muscles. He tried to call out and found he could make no sound. His muscles went limp and he started to collapse.

  The men gripped him under either arm, then quickly and expertly eased him down into the bottom of the boat. The last sound John heard before losing consciousness was the high-pitched whine of the engine as the boat sped out towards the open water at the edge of the bay.

  TWELVE

  John slowly regained consciousness. He almost wished he hadn’t. His head felt as though it was filled with steel wool, and the arm where the needle had slid in throbbed painfully.

  He opened his eyes. He was lying on a canvas cot in the corner of a large room that smelled of animals. A light refreshing breeze blew in from an open door at the opposite end of the room. Outside the door John could see a rutted dirt road with an old panel truck parked at the side of it. Beyond the road he could see fields of ripe grain swaying gently in the breeze. The pastoral scene—and especially the truck—looked most inviting. The burly man with bulldog jowls sitting in a straight-backed chair by the door didn’t.

  Three other men were crowded around a small table in the centre of the room. John grinned wryly when he saw what they were doing. If he wasn’t absolutely sure of the men’s nationality before, he was now. American hoodlums would be playing poker, Russians would be playing chess, which was exactly what these men were doing. Two of the men were actually playing, and the third was absorbed in the progress
ion of the game.

  John glanced at his watch. It was 2.45. He felt a small tingle of anticipation and hope; there was still time. Then reality seeped in, quashing the elation. First, he could not even be sure it was still the same day. Second, it was obvious that the four men sharing the room with him were going to take a dim view of any attempt on his part to leave it. He abruptly sat up.

  Bulldog Jowls pointed with his finger towards the cot. ‘Sit down,’ he said in broken English.

  ‘Shit!’ John exploded. ‘What the hell—!’

  John started for the door. The three men at the table sprang to their feet. One of the men had grown a gun in his hand. John ignored it; if they wanted to kill him, they could have dumped him in the bay. Bulldog Jowls had risen and was blocking the door. John, blind with rage and frustration, lowered his head and tried to go through him. It was a mistake. Bulldog Jowls put out a hammy hand and stopped him as though he had no more momentum than a drifting feather. The big man gripped John’s arm with his left hand, then punched the shoulder just below the collarbone. It was not a hard punch, but it was expertly placed. The entire arm immediately went numb.

  ‘Sit down,’ Bulldog Jowls repeated.

  John went back to the cot and sat down. The four men looked at each other, and the two chess players began to laugh. The man with the gun waved it in John’s direction.

  ‘No-no,’ the man said with a huge grin. His English was barely understandable, but the grin was enough to make John want to strangle him. ‘Is no-no. You no leave now.’

  John glanced at his watch again. It was 3.00.

  ‘You’re crazy if you think you can get away with this!’ he shouted, knowing he was on the verge of hysteria and not caring. ‘Do you think people won’t believe me when I tell them I was locked up by a bunch of Russians?’

  John suddenly blinked; they probably wouldn’t, he thought. Another one of Butler’s crazy tricks … Butler couldn’t stand the pressure. And even if they did believe him, what difference would it make? The Russians would have retained the championship by forfeit, and, under the rules of FIDE there was no way anyone could force them to relinquish it, short of some kind of proof that John knew it was unlikely he would ever be able to provide.