Heads You Win

by Jeffrey Archer

  * * *

  “I’ve been given another raise,” said Elena triumphantly, when Alex joined her for breakfast the following morning. “I’m now on a dollar fifty an hour. I’m going to suggest to Dimitri that it’s time for us to start contributing to the rent.”

  “Us?” said Alex. “I don’t contribute anything, Mama, as you well know. But that could change if you’d allow me to earn some extra cash on the weekend.”

  “Doing what?”

  “There are always odd jobs going at the market,” said Alex, “especially on weekends.”

  “I’d allow you to look for a weekend job but only if you can assure me it won’t interfere with your school work. I’d never forgive myself if you didn’t get a place at NYU.”

  “It didn’t prevent my father—”

  “Your father wanted you to go to college every bit as much as I do,” she said, ignoring the interruption. “And if you were to get a degree, who knows what you could achieve, especially in America?” Alex decided this wasn’t the time to let his mother know exactly what he had in mind for when he left school.

  * * *

  Although he worked hard at school during the week, Alex couldn’t wait for Saturdays, and the chance to make some real money.

  “Will you clear up?” Elena asked as she put on her coat. “I don’t want to be late for work.”

  Once he’d finished drying the dishes, quickly left the house, and started running down the road. As he approached Players’ Square that Saturday morning, he could hear the banter and cries of the basketball players on the nearby courts. He stopped and watched them for a few minutes, admiring their skill. He wished the Americans played football, something else he hadn’t thought about when he climbed into the crate. He hadn’t realized that there were no goalkeepers in American football. He put it out of his mind as he made his way across to the patch of grass set aside for chess players.

  The first thing he saw was Ivan standing legs apart, hands on hips, wearing an unkempt sweater and faded jeans, with a black scarf around his neck.

  “You’re late,” he said in Russian, glowering at him.

  “It’s only a game,” said Alex, “so why not keep them waiting?”

  “It’s not a game,” hissed Ivan. “It’s business. Never be late when it’s business. It gives your opponents an advantage.” Without another word he moved across to a row of six chessboards that had been lined up next to each other with an empty chair behind each board.

  Ivan clapped his hands, and once he had caught the crowd’s attention, announced in a loud, clear voice, “This young man is willing to challenge any six of you to a game.” One or two potential opponents looked interested. “And to make it more interesting, he will be blindfolded. I will tell him each move his opponents make, and then wait for his instructions.”

  “What odds are you offering?” demanded a voice from the crowd.

  “Three to one. You put up a dollar, and if you beat him, I’ll give you three.”

  Several challengers immediately stepped forward. Ivan collected their money and recorded their names in a little notebook, before allocating a chair to each of the six contestants. Several people looked disappointed not to have been chosen, and one of them shouted, “Any side bets?”

  “Of course. Same odds, three to one. Just tell me which player you’re backing.” Several other names entered his little notebook. “The book’s closed,” said Ivan once the last person had placed his bet. He walked across to Alex, who was staring down at the six boards, removed the scarf from around his neck, placed it over Alex’s eyes, and tied it with a firm knot.

  “Turn him around so he’s not facing the boards,” demanded a disbeliever.

  Alex swung around even before Ivan had a chance to respond.

  “You first,” said Ivan, pointing to a nervous-looking young man who was seated at board number one. “Pawn to queen’s bishop 3,” said Ivan in English, and waited for Alex’s instruction.

  “Pawn to queen 3,” he responded.

  Ivan nodded to an older man who was peering down at board number two through thick-rimmed glasses. “Pawn to king 3,” he said, and moved on to the third board once Alex had responded.

  The crowd huddled around the players and studied all six boards intently, while whispering among themselves. Board number four admitted defeat within thirty minutes, and after another hour only one board was still in play.

  A burst of applause broke out when board number three knocked his king over. Ivan removed the scarf from around Alex’s eyes before he turned to face the crowd and took a bow.

  “Will we get a chance to win our money back?” demanded one of the losing players.

  “Of course,” said Ivan. “Come back in a couple of hours, and to make it even more interesting, my partner will play ten boards.” Alex tried not to show the anxiety he felt. “Let’s go, kid,” said Ivan once the crowd had dispersed, “and have that pizza your mother promised.”

  When they entered Mario’s Pizza Parlor it was clear that Elena was no longer doing the washing up. She was standing at a large wooden table, kneading a lump of fresh dough until it was flat and even. She was so skillful that she produced a new base every ninety seconds.

  Another chef then moved in and checked the order, before he covered the dough with the next customer’s chosen ingredients. It was then scooped up on what looked to Alex like a flat wooden spade and placed into an open wood-burning oven by a third chef, who took it out three minutes later and shoveled it onto a waiting plate. Alex calculated that they were producing a piping hot pizza every six minutes. Americans clearly didn’t like to be kept waiting.

  Elena smiled when she looked up and saw her son.

  “This is Ivan,” said Alex. “We work together at the market.”

  Elena pointed to one of the few unoccupied tables.

  “How much did we make?” asked Alex once they’d sat down.

  Ivan checked his notebook. “Nineteen dollars,” he whispered.

  “Then you owe me nine dollars and fifty cents,” said Alex, holding out his hand.

  “Not so fast, kid. Don’t forget you’ve got a bigger challenge this afternoon, so we’ll settle up at the end of the day.”

  “If any of them are as good as the guy on board three, we might even lose the odd match.”

  “Which wouldn’t be a bad thing,” said Ivan, as a waitress placed two pizzas and a couple of Cokes in front of them.

  “How come?”

  “If you lose the occasional game, the suckers become more interested. It’s a gambler’s weakness. If they see someone else win, it convinces them it’s their turn next,” said Ivan, before he devoured a large slice of pizza. “Must remember to thank your mother,” he said, looking at his watch.

  Alex glanced around at Elena, who hadn’t stopped turning out perfect pizza bases since they’d arrived. He wondered how long it would be before she was giving the orders.

  “Right,” said Ivan, “let’s get back to work.”

  * * *

  When Alex arrived back home for dinner that night, he was surprised to find that Dimitri wasn’t sitting in his usual place.

  “He was offered a job on a merchant ship bound for Leningrad,” Elena explained. “He had to leave on the first tide.”

  “Do you sometimes wonder if Dimitri is too good to be true?”

  “I judge people by their actions,” said Elena, raising an eyebrow, “and he couldn’t have been kinder to us.”

  “I accept that. But why did he take such an interest in two Russians he didn’t know who might well have been criminals?”

  “But we’re not criminals.”

  “He had no way of knowing that. Or did he? And was it just a coincidence that he joined us on deck the first night we were on board?”

  “But he’s a Russian, just like us,” protested Elena.

  “Not just like us, Mama. He wasn’t born in Russia, but in New York. And I can tell you something else. His parents are very much ali
ve.”

  Elena turned to face Alex. “What makes you say that?”

  “Because when he helps you with the washing up, he sometimes takes off his watch, and engraved on the back are the words, ‘Happy 30th, love, mom and dad,’ dated 2-14-68. Only last year. So perhaps…”

  “Perhaps you should remember that without Dimitri’s help, we wouldn’t have a roof over our heads, and there would be no possibility of you going to university,” she said, her voice rising with every word. “So I’ll say this once, and once only. You will stop spying on Dimitri, because if you don’t, you could end up just like your friend Vladimir, a lonely, sick individual with no morals and no friends.”

  Alex was so shocked by his mother’s words that he didn’t speak for some time. He bowed his head and apologized, telling her he would never raise the subject again. After she left for work, he once again thought about her outburst. She was right. He couldn’t have done more for them, but what he hadn’t told his mother was that he feared that Dimitri was working for the KGB.

  12

  SASHA

  London

  Although Sasha worked hard when he returned to school for his final year, once the last football game had been played he hung up his goalkeeping gloves and began a strict regimen that even impressed his mother.

  He rose at six every morning, and had already done two hours’ work before breakfast. He ran to and from school—almost the only exercise he took—and while the other boys were in the playground enjoying French cricket, he remained in the classroom, turning another page of another book.

  Once the bell sounded at the end of the day, and everyone else had gone home, Sasha remained at his desk and, with the help of Mr. Sutton, tackled yet another past Isaac Barrow exam paper. Finally he would run home and eat a light supper, before going to his room to do his prep, often falling asleep at his desk.

  As the day of the exam drew nearer, he somehow managed to work harder still, finding hours even his mother wasn’t acquainted with.

  “The exam will be conducted in the Great Hall at Trinity,” the headmaster told him. “It might be wise if you were to travel up to Cambridge the night before, so you don’t feel rushed or under any unnecessary pressure.”

  “But where would I stay?” asked Sasha. “I don’t know anyone in Cambridge.”

  “I’ve arranged for you to spend the night at my old college.”

  * * *

  “Perhaps I should take the day off and come up to Cambridge with you,” Elena suggested.

  Sasha managed to talk his mother out of the idea, but he couldn’t stop her buying him a new suit that he knew she couldn’t afford. “I want you to look as smart as your rivals,” she said.

  “I’m only interested in being smarter than my rivals,” he replied.

  Ben Cohen, who had just passed his driving test, drove Sasha to King’s Cross. On the way, he told him about his latest girlfriend. It was the word “latest” that made Sasha realize just how much he’d missed out on during the past year.

  “And my dad’s going to buy me a TR6 if I get into Cambridge.”

  “Lucky you.”

  “I’d swap it for your brain any day,” said Ben, as he turned off the Euston Road and parked on a yellow line.

  “Good luck,” he said, as Sasha climbed out of the car. “And don’t come home with a clean sheet.”

  Sasha sat in the corner of a packed carriage, staring out of the window as the countryside rattled by, not wanting to admit that he wished he’d agreed to let his mother come with him. It was his first journey outside London, unless you counted away matches, and he was becoming more nervous by the minute.

  Elena had given him a pound note to cover any expenses, but as it was a clear fine day when the train pulled into Cambridge station, he decided to walk to Trinity. He quickly learned only to ask people wearing gowns for directions to the college. He kept stopping to admire other buildings he passed on the way, but when he first saw the great gates above which Henry VIII stood, he was transported into another world, a world he suddenly realized how much he wanted to be part of. He wished he’d worked harder.

  An elderly porter accompanied him across the court and up a flight of centuries-worn stone steps. When they reached the top floor he said, “This was Mr. Quilter’s room, Mr. Karpenko. Perhaps you’ll be its next occupant.” Sasha smiled to himself. The first person ever to call him Mr. Karpenko. “Dinner will be served at seven in the dining room on the far side of the court,” the porter said, before leaving Sasha in a little study that wasn’t much bigger than his room above the restaurant. But when he looked out of the mullioned window, he saw a world that appeared to have ignored the passing of almost four hundred years. Could a boy from the backstreets of Leningrad really end up in a place like this?

  He sat at the desk and once again went over one of the questions Mr. Sutton had thought might come up in the exam. He was just starting another when the clock in the court chimed seven times. He left his books, ran down the stone staircase, and into the court to join a stream of young men chatting and laughing as they made their way around the outside of a manicured grass square, on which not one of them stepped.

  When Sasha reached the entrance to the dining room he peeped inside, to see rows of long wooden tables laden with food, and benches occupied by undergraduates who obviously felt very much at home. Suddenly fearful of joining such an elite gathering, he turned around, and made his way out through the college gates and onto King’s Parade. He didn’t stop walking until he saw a queue outside a fish and chip shop.

  He ate his supper out of a newspaper, aware that his mother wouldn’t have approved, which only caused him to smile. When the street lights flickered on, he returned to his little room to revise two or three more possible exam questions, and didn’t climb into bed until just after midnight. He only slept intermittently, and was horrified when he woke to hear the clock in the court chime eight times. He was just thankful it wasn’t nine. He jumped out of bed, washed and dressed, and ran all the way to the dining hall.

  He was back in his room twenty minutes later. He went to the lavatory at the end of the corridor four times during the next hour, but was still standing outside the examination hall thirty minutes early. As the minutes ticked by, a trickle of candidates joined the queue, some talking too much, others not at all, each displaying his own particular level of nervousness. At 9:45, two masters dressed in long black gowns appeared. Sasha later learned they were not masters, but dons, and that the title of Master was reserved for the head of house. So many new words to learn—he wondered if the college had its own dictionary.

  One of the dons unlocked the door and the well-disciplined flock followed the shepherd into the examination hall. “You’ll find your names on the desks,” he said. “They are in alphabetical order.” He then took his seat behind a table on the dais at the end of the hall. Sasha found KARPENKO in the middle of the fifth row.

  “My colleague and I will now hand out the examination papers,” said the invigilator. “There are twelve questions, of which you must answer three. You will have ninety minutes. If you can’t work out how much time you need to allocate for each question, you shouldn’t be here.” A ripple of nervous laughter spread around the room. “You will not begin until I blow my whistle.” Sasha immediately recalled Mr. Sutton’s first law of exams: the person who finishes first won’t necessarily be the winner.

  Once an examination paper had been placed face down in front of each candidate, Sasha waited impatiently for the whistle to blow. The shrill, piercing blast sent a shiver down his spine as he turned the paper over. He read slowly through the twelve questions, immediately placing a tick by five of them. After considering them a second time, he was down to three. One was similar to a question that had come up seven years ago, while another was on his favorite topic. But the real triumph was question 11, which now had two ticks by it, because it was one he’d tackled the night before. Time for Mr. Sutton’s second law of exams: concentrate.


  Sasha began to write. Twenty-four minutes later he put his pen down and read through his answer slowly. He could hear Mr. Quilter’s voice: remember to leave enough time to check your answers so you can correct any mistakes. He made a couple of minor emendations, then moved on to question 6. This time, twenty-five minutes, followed by another read-through of his submission, before he moved on to question 11, the double tick. He was writing the final paragraph when the whistle blew, and he only just managed to finish before the papers were gathered up. He was painfully aware that he hadn’t left any time to double-check that answer. He cursed.

  Once the candidates had been dismissed, Sasha returned to his room, packed his small suitcase, headed downstairs, and walked straight to the station. He didn’t look back, fearing he would never enter the college again.

  On the journey to London, he tried to convince himself that he couldn’t have done any better, but by the time the train pulled into King’s Cross, he was certain he couldn’t have done any worse.

  “How do you think it went?” Elena asked even before he’d closed the front door.

  “It couldn’t have gone better,” he said, wanting to reassure her. He handed his mother eleven shillings and sixpence, which she put in her purse.

  When Sasha returned to school the next morning, Mr. Sutton was more interested in studying the examination paper than in finding out how his pupil felt he’d done, and although he smiled when he saw the ticks, he didn’t point out to Sasha that he’d missed a question on a theorem they had gone over in great detail only a few days before.

  “How long will I have to wait for the results?” asked Sasha.

  “No more than a couple of weeks,” replied Sutton. “But don’t forget, you still have to take your A-levels, and how you do in them could be just as important.”

  Sasha didn’t like the words “could be just as important,” but he returned to his slavish routine. It worried him that he found the A-level papers a little too easy, like a marathon runner on a six-mile jog. He didn’t admit as much to Ben, who felt it had been far tougher than any marathon, and no longer expected to be the proud owner of a TR6.