King's Gambit

by George C. Chesbro

  He pounded the cot in frustration. The two chess players glanced at each other and exchanged a few words in Russian. All four men laughed.

  One of the chess players, a man with thick glasses and a collarless white shirt, turned to John.

  ‘We know you not happy with us,’ he said with a broad grin. ‘We sorry. But you must take it easy. Is that how you say? “Take it easy”?’

  John flushed. ‘How many games do you want me to spot your man? One? Two? How about letting me out in time to let me play the bastard just one game?’

  They didn’t understand, but they found it funny anyway.

  ‘One game!’ Bulldog Jowls howled. ‘That good. That good!’

  John gripped the edge of the cot with rage. Then, through a tremendous effort of will, he forced himself to release his grip and lean back against the wall. He turned his face away from the four men and stared at the wall.

  Losing his temper was the same as giving up, he thought. And he couldn’t give up. Not yet. He would have to wait them out. By now Tom Manning would know he was gone and would be raising a hell of a stink. Arnett would probably have a small army of agents out looking for him. In addition, he did not think FIDE would declare the match forfeit after only one game. If Tom yelled enough, it might be three, or even four. That made a week.

  He looked around him. There were cases of dried goods stacked up against the wall, and milk cans that John was sure were filled with water. So they had the provisions. His task would be to find a way out before Isaac Greene awarded the match to Petroff.

  John knew he must begin to consider his situation as he would a difficult chess problem. He was in imminent danger of being checkmated, and he had to find a successful way to defend. And defending meant getting out of the farmhouse and back to the match.

  Perhaps there was no way to defend; innumerable chess situations were simply hopeless, and that might be the case here. But if there was a solution, John thought, he would find it. Goddamn it, he’d find it.

  Flight was out, and they were too professional to all be kept napping at the same time. And there was no way to bull his way out. Bulldog Jowls could tie him up into a knot without any help at-all from the others.

  John glanced back towards the centre of the room, and his first idea came to him; a trap. It occurred to him that it might be better to wait for another time. But there might not be another time. Besides, John found he was impatient. He would see just how passionate these men were about their chess, and how impressed they were by the fact that their prisoner was the world title contender.

  John slowly rose and moved towards the table where the game was being played. The reaction was immediate: Bulldog Jowls was up out of his chair and guns were once again waving in the air.

  John made an innocent gesture in the direction of the chessboard. ‘Don’t get nervous,’ he said quietly. ‘I just want to watch the game.’ He wasn’t sure they understood. ‘Chess. Chess.’ He pointed towards his eyes. ‘I want to watch.’

  The chess players finally grasped his meaning. They exchanged glances, then looked towards Bulldog Jowls who was apparently their leader. One of them said something in Russian. The big man at the door gave it some thought, then nodded curtly. John understood. He moved to the table.

  His presence did have an instantaneous impact on the game; the players became even more serious. Both men wanted to impress him. John watched impassively, his arms folded across his chest. He hoped the tension he felt did not show in his face.

  Although the game was well into the middle game, John recognised the position as one usually arising out of a Sicilian Defense, which meant that both players were fairly sophisticated. That was good, John thought; his plan depended on the men knowing more than the fundamentals.

  John saw the checkmate coming five moves in advance. The man in the collarless shirt saw it too, and attempted to launch a vigorous counter-attack. In the process he left his king side open. His opponent quickly seized the opportunity. He moved his black bishop over to a open diagonal.

  ‘Checkmate!’ he said, clapping his hands with delight, casting a quick glance towards John.

  John gave a quick nod of approval. The man in the collarless shirt groaned.

  John motioned towards the board. ‘May I?’ he asked quietly.

  Both players nodded enthusiastically. John quickly set the pieces back up in the position that had evolved a few moves before the checkmate. The third man was bending over the table, watching with intent interest.

  ‘You might have tried this,’ John said slowly to the man in the collarless shirt. He moved the pieces deliberately, demonstrating a possible line of defence the man might have tried.

  The man in the collarless shirt nodded, then reached out and completed the combination.

  ‘Good!’ the third man said. ‘Good!’

  ‘Yeah,’ John said with a wry smile. ‘That was good. Now watch this.’

  He re-set the pieces in another position, then began to move them about The three men stared on, uncomprehending John glanced quickly in the direction of Bulldog Jowls and suppressed a grin. Bulldog Jowls was squirming in his seat, anxious to join the others.

  John first sacrificed his queen, then a knight and a bishop. When he had finished, the black forces were depleted and the white queen and two rooks were all bearing down on the black king. John stepped back and shrugged, as though the implications of the position were obvious.

  ‘You see?’

  The man in the collarless shirt scratched his head, unable to believe that any grand master would set up such a simple position.

  ‘White win,’ he said.

  John made a gesture of disgust. ‘No, no. Black wins.’

  There were astonished grunts from the other two men who bent closer to the board.

  ‘Black win?’

  ‘Black wins,’ John said casually.

  ‘You show.’

  ‘Uh-uh. No help. You figure it out for yourself.’

  The three men bent over the table. There was much mumbling. John heard his own name mentioned, and the Russian word for ‘grand master’. John turned to one side and smiled. Because he was who he was, the men were unable to believe that the position was as simple at it seemed.

  Bullodog Jowls could stand it no longer. He rose from his chair and hurried across the room. The other three men moved aside and made room for him. The four of them began to feverishly analyse.

  The man in the collarless shirt thought he saw something. He pushed the others aside and moved the pieces.

  ‘See!’ he said in Russian. ‘This is possible! This, then this—’

  ‘Then this,’ the man next to him said impatiently. He demonstrated a checkmate of the black king on the next move.

  ‘Here, then! The pawn moves forward!’

  ‘That’s impossible, stupid! You’ll still be mated in three moves!’

  Bulldog Jowls thought he saw something. He started to move a piece but was distracted by the sound of a truck starting up outside the farmhouse.

  ‘Shit,’ Bulldog Jowls growled as he turned in time to see John backing the truck at high speed down the rutted road. ‘Shit.’

  The sign read: VENEZIA-23km. His watch told him it was 4.30. John pressed the accelerator to the floor; the carburettor coughed, but the needle on the truck’s speedometer did not rise above the 55km mark.

  It was very important to John that he reach the theatre in time to play the first game. That gave him an hour and a half. Petroff would start his clock at five, but the game would not be declared forfeit until after an hour had passed. That gave him ninety minutes.

  There were a number of reasons for John’s sense of urgency. When he had been a prisoner he had tried to look on the bright side of things; now he contemplated the darker side. First, although it was unlikely, there was no guarantee that Isaac Greene would not declare the entire match forfeit on the basis of one missed game. He was empowered to under FIDE rules, and the Russians would certainly press fo
r just such a ruling. Second, if he were able to make it to the theatre in time to play the first game, he would enjoy a tremendous psychological advantage over Petroff who, most likely, would be shocked to see him. Even a loss would mean nothing, since he would have lost close to an hour on his clock and nobody would expect any kind of successful performance under that kind of time pressure.

  If he could somehow manage to win, it was possible that Petroff’s will to win would be crushed at a single blow.

  In addition, there was the simple challenge of getting there. He wanted to see the looks on the Russians’ faces when he entered the hall.

  It was 5.15 by the time he reached the boat dock and large parking area at the edge of Venice. He considered stopping to phone ahead, then decided not to. He was unfamiliar with the telephone system, did not know the number of the theatre, and could not speak Italian. Stopping would just eat up more time. Besides, although it was a calculated risk, he did not think the match would be cancelled if he didn’t make it. And he wanted his appearance at the theatre to be total surprise.

  Petroff would have punched his clock fifteen minutes before. Now the Russian would be sitting impassively, staring at nothing, waiting for the minutes to pass. The Russians—and Isaac Greene—would be glancing nervously at their watches. The audience would be growing impatient. Tom would be beside himself with nervousness and worry.

  John brought the truck to a screeching halt next to a kerb seventy-five yards from the loading platform. He jumped out of the cab and raced towards the dock where a fully loaded water bus was just pulling away. He shouted and waved his arms, then lowered his head and pumped his legs. He slowed to a walk when it became obvious to him that he was not going to make it.

  He fought against his rising panic and looked about him. Over to his right a well-dressed business man had just finished tying up his power boat and was taking his briefcase out of a well in the boat. John took a number of deep breaths, then walked over to him.

  ‘Excuse me,’ John said. ‘Do you speak English?’

  The man glanced up, studied John’s dishevelled appearance, then shook his head.

  John resisted the impulse to look at his watch again. ‘John Butler,’ he said, pointing to himself. ‘I play chess.’

  ‘Chess?’

  ‘Chess. Right.’ He pointed out over the water, then to his watch. ‘Theatro Venezia. I’m supposed to be there.’

  The man shook his head again and started to turn away. Then he hesitated and turned back again. His face lit up with recognition. He pointed a finger at John’s chest. ‘John Butler. Chess!’ He made motions with his hands as though he were playing.

  John nodded quickly, again pointed to his watch, then the boat. ‘Theatro Venezia, please?’

  The man grinned and nodded his head. He quickly untied the boat and motioned for John to get in. John quickly climbed in, breathing a sigh of relief. The man climbed into the stern and started the engine. A few moments later the boat sped out into the middle of the canal.

  The man seemed highly excited—and not a little amused—at the presence of his famous passenger. He kept up a constant stream of talk which John replied to with an occasional nod of his head. But he was concentrating all his energies on trying to relax. His watch told him it was 5.45.

  Other power boats sped by, twisting in and out between the many, multi-coloured gondolas filled with camera-laden tourists. Suddenly the man cut the motor and drifted to a landing stage.

  ‘Theatro Venezia,’ the man said, pointing out over to a large, peaked tower beyond the square.

  But John knew exactly where he was, and how to get to the theatre. He reached for his wallet and started to count out some bills. The man shoved his hand away.

  ‘No, Signor,’ the man said gravely.

  John removed the packet of complimentary tickets from his pocket, passes that Tom had given him the day before. He pressed these into the man’s hand. The man looked at them, then smiled.

  ‘Grazie, Signor.’

  ‘Grazie to you,’ John said. Then he vaulted over the side of the boat and raced across the square towards an alley at the far end. It was the same way he had come out earlier in the day. He might not be in any shape to play, John thought, but he was going to make it. For today, that was enough.

  It was 5.55 as John approached the rear exit to the theatre. The guard glanced up with surprise, but by the time he reacted John had already sprinted past him and was in the theatre, taking a short flight of steps three at a time. He rounded a corner at the top of the stairs and raced down a long, narrow corridor leading to a backstage door. He burst through the door, past two more startled guards, then raced towards the light shining through a small crack in a curtain backdrop.

  He came out through the curtain on to the brightly lit stage. An excited roar cascaded from the audience to his left, but John barely heard it. He was standing very still, frozen in his tracks, staring at Petroff’s empty chair. The clock was still.

  The officials on stage stared at him incredulously. Tom Manning entered from behind the stage, saw him and let out a whoop. Below, the Russian contingent rose from their seats in the first row of the auditorium and quietly filed out.

  John went over to the board, unhesitatingly made his first move, then punched the clock. Petroff’s clock started to click.

  John slumped in his chair and stared at the empty space across from him.

  THIRTEEN

  He sat in the dark in the empty theatre, listening to the distant sound of his own thoughts. He searched inside himself for the elation and sense of triumph he knew he should feel and found only emptiness. He had reached the top of the mountain he had been climbing all his life only to find that there was nothing there. He felt as if something had been stolen from him.

  He heard the door open out in the auditorium, then muffled footsteps coming down towards the stage. The footsteps became louder as they came up on the stage Then they stopped behind him. John knew who the footsteps belonged to without looking.

  ‘Congratulations, champ,’ Arnett said.

  There was no mockery in the man’s voice, and John was grateful for that. ‘I would have beaten him,’ he said quietly.

  Arnett walked around and sat down in Petroff’s chair across from him. He cleared the chess pieces out of the way and leaned his elbows on the table.

  ‘What difference does it make?’ Arnett said easily. ‘The Russians have packed up and gone home. You win the world championship by default.’

  ‘By default. That’s what makes the difference.’

  ‘You have what you always wanted, and you took the Russians’ best shots to get it.’

  ‘But that’s not chess.’

  ‘No, it’s not chess’ Arnett cleared his throat. ‘I’m sorry we missed you down on the square. Those guys were fast, and we weren’t expecting a boat.’

  John said nothing. The boat, the farmhouse, all seemed related to incidents that had happened a century before.

  ‘Tom Manning partially filled me in on how you managed to get here. That was good, Butler. Real good. You keep a clear head.’

  John crossed his arms over his chest and looked away. He hoped the other man would take the hint. Arnett didn’t.

  ‘Manning told me where to find you,’ Arnett continued. ‘What I can’t figure out is why you’re sitting here by yourself in the dark. You should be out celebrating.’

  Arnett’s compliments had been sincere, but now something else had crept into the CIA man’s voice. John didn’t feel like trying to figure out what it was, or what Arnett wanted. He was very tired.

  John made an impatient gesture. ‘What happened? Do you know? What the hell has been going on here?’

  Arnett gestured around the empty auditorium, as though the answer were obvious. ‘Petroff didn’t show. And the Russians knew all along he wasn’t going to show.’

  ‘You think they killed him?’

  ‘No. All they wanted was a six month postponement. If you didn�
�t show up, then they’d have it, and they’d worry about your story and the publicity later. The most important thing was getting the postponement. That would seem to indicate that they expected Petroff to be ready to play in six months.’

  ‘If he’s sick—’

  ‘No, he’s not sick. That would be too simple. Remember, the Russians didn’t want to give a reason for their request. If Petroff had claimed illness, FIDE would have insisted that he be examined by one of their doctors. It’s obvious the Russians didn’t want that. Therefore, the postponement would have to have been by mutual consent. That’s why they initially started harassing you. They figured you’d blow up under the pressure and the USCF would give them the postponement gladly.’

  ‘What about the report that he wanted to defect?’

  ‘Who knows? Maybe it was just another pressure tactic, or maybe it was real and the Russians found out about it. They wanted six months to instil a little patriotism in him.’

  John thought about it, then shook his head. ‘It still doesn’t add up. Not all of it Whatever was happening, Petroff’s sister must have known about it. She wanted me to postpone. Yet, she gave me Petroff’s game and analysis. You can’t imagine how valuable those games would be to a potential challenger.’

  ‘I have some idea,’ Arnett said dryly. ‘I’ve made it my business to find out.’

  There was a long silence. Finally John spoke softly, as if to himself. ‘After I killed Gligoric, I was coming apart at the seams. If she didn’t want me to play, all she had to do was leave me in that apartment. Instead … she gave me herself, filled me up. I wouldn’t have made it here if it hadn’t been for her.’

  ‘Sounds like quite a woman.’

  It was too casual and easy, and it made John angry.

  ‘What kind of a stupid remark is that? I want to know why she did it!’