Keverin looked at the board for two full minutes while his clock ticked silently away. Justin could see the Russian's face reddening in anger at himself for blundering away a win.
He nodded in resignation, then sighed, looked up, and smiled at Justin.
"A draw?" he said.
Justin nodded. "I'll be happy to take one against you."
Keverin pushed the button on his side of the clock down halfway. This stopped both clocks, and the two men rose and shook hands.
"Beautifully done," Keverin said.
"A swindle," Justin responded. "It was all I had left since you chopped my position up so badly."
"The older I get, the more I learn that the hardest thing to do in chess is to win a won game," Keverin said graciously. "Especially against a player like you. I had forgotten how good you are."
"And I still have never beaten you," Gilead responded.
"Go back into retirement before you have the chance again," Keverin said.
Justin knew that the Russian was speaking with real warmth. A player who had lost or been swindled out of a win first felt anger and annoyance at himself, but then usually only admiration for the player who had done it to him. Great players all viewed chess as a life-or-death struggle, but it was a wonderful kind of death because you sprang back to life as soon as the pieces were again set up on the board for the next game.
Keverin clapped Gilead around the shoulders, and the two men walked off to the tournament director to sign the official score sheets. As he walked away, Justin felt Zharkov's eyes burning into his back.
Three of them.
Starcher had spotted them while he was walking toward the giant statue of José Marti, which loomed over the Plaza de la Revolución. They were dressed like Western businessmen on their way to lunch, but their faces were either pale or blotchy red, the faces of people not used to the sun. And they had been too regular in changing their positions. One followed him; another was amidships of him; the third was in front of Starcher. But they rotated positions precisely every five minutes, and while the rotation was the correct maneuver, the rigid schedule was not.
Starcher was surprised that they had not made a move against him yet. It was late afternoon now. Were they waiting for further word from Zharkov? Justin had told him that the chess games must end no later than six o'clock each evening. Would he have to wait until dark before these men picked him up?
Starcher strolled right, down an uncrowded concrete path bordered by bushes, toward the Avenida Ayestara. The park had been emptying for the last hour. It had been filled mostly with women, many with babies, but now they had left, probably on their way home to prepare dinner.
He couldn't help feeling that it was good to be on the street again, good to be an agent again. He had spent more than three hours on the streets of Havana, most of it walking, and his heart felt fine. Maybe there was still room in the CIA for someone like him. He could be a courier, anything, just something to do that didn't involve sitting behind a desk and feeling miserable when young agents went out on missions and never reported back. So he was old, but what was age when you were good? And he was good.
He paused to light a cigar and noticed the three men had come together and were walking toward him. He cautioned himself not to make it too easy for them. He took a puff on his cigar, then walked briskly toward the street. He half expected to hear the sound of running feet as the Russians closed on him, but he didn't. He paused just before reaching the sidewalk and glanced back again. The three men had gone, but as he turned back, confused, a black car pulled up to the curb.
The rear door opened, and a dark-skinned man snapped in English, "Get in." He held a gun aimed at Starcher's belly.
Should he run? Would it make his capture look more real?
Before he could decide, the three men who had been following him emerged from the bushes on either side of the concrete walkway, grabbed his arms, and pushed him easily into the back seat of the car.
"What's going on here?" he snapped to the man holding the gun on him. He was a big man, much bigger than the usual Hispanic.
"This is your welcome to Havana, Mr. Starcher," the man answered. "Please put your hands in your lap and do not move them."
Wordlessly, Starcher did as he was told. He was glad they had finally captured him.
Just before six o'clock, the young American resigned from his clearly lost game with Zharkov. After a perfunctory handshake, Zharkov went immediately to his room and dialed a telephone number.
"Do you have him?"
"Yes," said Yuri Durganiv.
"Is he giving you any trouble?"
"None at all. He's too old for trouble," Durganiv said.
"Fine. Be careful of him. He's got a bad heart, and I wouldn't want anything to disturb him. He's valuable."
"I understand," Durganiv said as Zharkov hung up.
Success. He had the CIA man, the man on whom he could hang the blame for Castro's murder.
And Justin Gilead was a dead man.
The telephone was mounted on the bulkhead of a small cabin cruiser anchored out in Havana harbor. Yuri Durganiv, while talking to Zharkov, had stood in the doorway, aiming a snub-nosed .38 revolver at Starcher, who sat on a cot on the other side of the cabin.
Durganiv had made a mistake. He thought that Starcher could not speak Russian. The American was too old to cause trouble, Durganiv had said, and Starcher thought grimly, I might just teach the son of a bitch he's wrong.
The Russian had made another mistake, too. When he searched Starcher he had done the cursory police search most people used, patting down the inside and outside of both legs, but ignoring the back of the legs. With a little sense of comfort, Starcher felt the weight of the small revolver still taped to the back of his left ankle.
Too old? Starcher thought. This Russian who looked like a Cuban might learn otherwise.
After Starcher found out what Zharkov was up to.
The day's four chess games had been completed. The Russians had duplicated the American performance of the day before: two wins, a loss, and a draw. The score at the end of two days was the United States, eight points; the Soviet Union, eight points.
The players were advised that the next day's game would start at ten o'clock instead of one. The match chairman announced that Fidel Castro would be at tomorrow night's dinner to speak and to welcome the players, and the committee needed the extra time to prepare the ballroom for his appearance.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
When he had received no message by eight o'clock, Justin knew that Starcher was in trouble.
The Grandmaster pushed aside the remnants of the salad plate he had ordered from room service and closed the book of chess openings he had been studying.
He dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt and walked down the steps from his room to the ornate gilded lobby of the sprawling old hotel.
The telephone rang in Zharkov's room. "Yes?" he said.
"He is leaving now," a voice said.
"Make sure he does not return," Zharkov said.
Starcher looked through the small window of the ship's cabin in which he was locked. Just a few yards away, he saw a sloping gray wall, but as the cabin cruiser rocked backward and he was able to glance up, he saw it was not a wall at all but the hull of a giant Soviet cruiser. From the other side of the cabin, the view was much the same, but the Soviet destroyer there was a hundred yards away and he could see its outline clearly.
Floating nearby were two small patrol craft, machine guns mounted in their sterns.
He paused for a moment to consider his predicament. He was being held captive on a boat, surrounded by warships of the Soviet navy. He might be able to use his gun to escape, to shoot his captor, but then what? He knew nothing about boats. If he could get this one started, what then? Would he even be able to get it to shore? Or would those Soviet patrol boats overtake him and gun him down before he got a hundred yards away?
By now, he knew Justin Gilead would be wor
ried about him because he had not called. But Justin had no idea of where he was, and unless he forced the information from Zharkov, he would not be able to find him. And Starcher still had no idea what Nichevo's plans were.
He finished the last of the large mug of coffee that Durganiv had brought in to him, then lay down to rest on the narrow wood-framed cot. He would just have to wait. He had allowed himself to be captured to find out what Zharkov had planned, and it was pointless to do anything now until he had found that out.
He would wait, and he would rest. He would not act but react.
His eyes felt very heavy, and he realized how tired he was, and as he fell asleep, he thought, Starcher, you're sixty-six years old, and right now you feel every minute of it.
He touched the pistol taped to the back of his ankle. For a moment, it made him feel secure, but then he passed into a deep sleep in which he felt nothing.
From the outside, the Purple Shell looked seedy. The building needed painting, and the windows were dirty and fly-specked. But inside, the barroom was clean and neat, the floor spread with sawdust. At the end of the long bar was a small dining room with four square tables.
The bar was half filled by six men sitting on stools. They had the look of seamen, wearing rough sweaters and baseball caps, and their clothes emitted the smell of fish.
They talked jovially with the bartender, a tall, cadaverous man with sad, droopy eyes. He wore a white shirt and black trousers, covered by a white apron. His sleeves were rolled halfway up his forearms, and on the back of his left wrist was tattooed a purple seashell.
The bar's customers turned to look at Justin as he entered and walked to the stool at the corner of the bar, away from the main group of men. When the bartender came, he ordered a glass of red wine.
Justin put a five dollar bill on the bar, and asked softly in Spanish, "American money good?"
"Americans are running dogs, capitalistic imperialist warmongers who would enslave the minds of all freedom-loving peoples everywhere," the bartender said. "But in the interests of international harmony, I will take American money. As much as you have." He grinned a crooked smile. "You are American?"
Justin nodded. The bartender said, "This is not a usual stop for Americans visiting the Caribbean."
"I'm a chess player," Justin said. "Are you Pablo Olivares?"
At the term "chess player," the bartender stiffened momentarily. "Si," he said.
"We have a mutual friend," Justin said. "Harry Andrew?"
The bartender looked blank, and Justin leaned forward and said, "Maybe you know his name as Starcher."
The bartender quickly shook his head. "I know no one of that name, señor."
He reached for the five dollar bill, but Justin took the man's arm.
"Amigo," he said, "I mean you no harm. Starcher came with me. I also know Harry Kael, who is somebody else in the United States that you know. I'm looking now for Starcher. Do you know where he is?"
"I know no Starcher," Olivares insisted. He pulled away from Justin and made change at the register, then brought back a few Cuban bills and put them on the bar. Justin said, "Stay and listen." When he noticed that the men at the end of the bar were looking toward him, trying to overhear their conversation, he stood and leaned close to Olivares.
"Señor Olivares, you mean nothing to me. Starcher is my friend, but I have no reservations about calling the Cuban secret police and telling them that you work for Harry Kael in the CIA. I won't mind telling them that your girlfriend is involved, even if she isn't. I won't mind telling them that you were Andrew Starcher's contact when the CIA sent him to Havana. Señor, it doesn't mean anything to me, and if you do not speak to me, with honesty in your heart and in your words, I will do all those things."
The bartender's sad eyes grew sadder as he seemed to weigh his alternatives. Then he said, "Let us talk in the back. There are too many open ears here." He turned away.
"Luis," he called out. "Watch the bar. My friend and I have to speak privately."
He led Justin through the empty dining room to a small office in the rear of the low one-story building.
"What is your name?" Olivares asked when he had closed the door tightly behind them.
"Justin Gilead."
"You have identification?"
Gilead showed him his passport, and Olivares said, "You look older."
"I feel older," Justin said.
The Cuban had reached a decision, and he said, "Starcher told me about you.
"Then you know I'm his friend and you can trust me. He was supposed to call me tonight, but he didn't. I'm worried about him. He's old and not too well. Do you know where he is?"
"I'm sorry, señor. He was here, and we talked much of the night. He is very tenacious, your Mr. Starcher. But I know of nothing the Soviets have planned here. I have heard nothing from their sailors, even though many of them come here to drink on shore leave, but I hear nothing. My woman knows nothing of what I do, nothing. Mr. Starcher—how do you say it?— he picked at my brain all night but we found nothing there. He left, telling me to notify him if I hear anything. But I have heard nothing."
"Did he say anything to you of his suspicions?" Justin asked. "Did he tell you where he might go or who else he might speak to?"
"No." Olivares shook his head sadly. He looked like a basset hound who'd missed a meal. "Apparently he told you nothing, and he told me the same."
"Did he say he would come back here?" Justin asked.
"He wished me well, señor, and said that he would speak highly of me to some friends of his. I'm sorry I cannot be more help."
"Thank you, then. I appreciate your kindness in talking to me."
"One thing, Señor Gilead. I gave Mr. Starcher a gun that I once took from a sailor. He is not unarmed."
"Good," Justin said. He walked toward the door. "Do taxicabs pass here?" he asked.
"Taxicabs pass almost nowhere in Havana," Olivares said. "But if you walk two blocks away from the harbor, that is Avenida de la Revolucíon. Sometimes one can find a taxicab there." Justin nodded, and Olivares said, "I would be careful wearing that golden medal around your neck so openly. This is not a peaceable area of the city."
"I am not a peaceable man," Justin said.
When he walked out through the bar again, the stools were all filled. Justin left his change on the bar and went out into the cool evening air.
"Shouldn't you study for tomorrow’s game?" Katarina spooned a large serving of steamed fish and rice onto Zharkov’s plate in the single room of her apartment.
"No. Studying is not necessary."
"Aren't you the cocky one? Win one game and now you're ready to conquer the world."
"I play the Grandmaster tomorrow."
"Gilead," she said softly. "Tell me about him. I've only seen old pictures of him. What does he look like now?" She sat across the narrow table from him, her eyes intent.
"He looks much older," Zharkov said. "I don't know where he's been the last four years, but wherever it was, it was hard on him. He is thinner and moves more stiffly. Once he moved like quicksilver. He does not move like that now."
"Good," she snapped. "I hope his every joint bleeds."
Zharkov smiled. "Why do you hate him so?"
She looked at the floor for a moment, her face bewildered. "I... just do. I feel sometimes that I was born hating him." She laughed nervously. "Of course, that's ridiculous, since I can't..." Her voice trailed off in embarrassment.
Suddenly Zharkov was filled with pity for her. "You don't remember being young at all, do you? No childhood friends, no first experiences."
She smiled, too brightly. The tip of her nose was red. "You were my first experience," she said, and kissed him. "The rest doesn't matter. If I was meant to forget, it was for a reason."
He stroked her hair. For a moment, he felt an aching tenderness for the woman with no past, the dead girl he had brought to life with his passion.
"And if I was meant to hate Justin Gilead,
that was for a reason, too," she said.
There was no sentimentality to her, and he could not permit any in himself. She was a gift, a gift he would one day have to destroy. Those were the terms.
Zharkov withdrew his hand, bringing himself back under control. "You will not need to hate him much longer," he said. "He dies tonight."
She looked disappointed. "I wanted to kill him for you," she said. "It would have been my gift to you."
He wanted to touch her again, feel her trusting warmth. Would she love me so if she'd had a choice? he wondered.
He would never know. Katarina, in her way, was no more human than a robot, a manufactured person created for his use. It would be foolish to think she was something more. But, oh, so easy.
"You are your gift to me," he said softly, and turned away.
Ahead of him, Justin could see the broad palm-lined Avenida de la Revolucíon, but before he reached the corner, a taxi came down the side street along which he was walking. It stopped for traffic, and Justin whistled and waved to the cabbie, who leaned out his window, looked nervously down the block, then motioned for Justin to get into the cab.
Justin had decided. He would go back to the hotel and squeeze out of Zharkov the whereabouts of Andrew Starcher.
He closed the cab door behind him. Another man, crouching in the front seat, rose and aimed a pistol at Justin. "You'll sit very still," he said in halting English, then told the driver to move on.
Justin recognized the man with the gun as one of the KGB guards he had seen at the chess match. Headlights glared through the rear window of the cab. Justin guessed there were more KGB men in a trailing car, just to make sure that he didn't try to escape.
"Where are we going?" he asked.
"For the ride, as you Americans say," the Russian said. "Sit back and enjoy."
The locks on the back doors clicked automatically as the driver engaged them from the front of the cab. He jerked forward to move into traffic and sped down the highway away from the heart of Havana. The headlights stayed in position behind them.
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