One False Move

by Robert Goddard

  ‘Well …’

  Joe smiles. He seems amused by Carl’s presumptuousness. There’s an arrogance buried beneath his diffidence. The arrogance of someone who knows what he’s truly capable of. ‘When?’ he asks simply.

  ‘California’s eight hours behind. Tomorrow afternoon would be good. That’ll give me time to set it up with them. Let’s say two o’clock. Don’t worry. They won’t mind starting early.’

  ‘Two suits me.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Come to Tideways. We’ll do it there.’

  I suddenly realize Joe is relieved. We’ve given him back control. Go is his element. He can’t think his way out of the position we’ve put him in with Vogler. But maybe he can play his way out.

  ‘Sounds like it’ll be interesting,’ he says with the ghost of a smile.

  Carl seems pleased with himself when we leave and it’s very obvious why. He’s well on his way, as he sees it, to sorting out the mess. I say as little as possible. I’m angry as well as confused. Carl can’t be handling this better than me. Yet apparently he is. Something’s definitely wrong. But I can’t figure out what it is.

  News from Ursula would make me feel better. But all I get, when I stop at Tideways and go in to tell Hazel I won’t be staying there that night – mercifully persuading Carl to wait in the car – is news of her.

  ‘Miss Kendall’s left. Short notice. I know. Liz wouldn’t be pleased.’

  ‘Left?’

  ‘Called back to head office in London, so she said.’

  I’m so dumbstruck I can see Hazel wondering what there is between Ursula and me. I say no more and make an exit, pausing out by the front gate to phone Ursula. But I just get voicemail. I leave a message – ‘Call me’ – then head for the car.

  ‘Cheer up, Nicole,’ Carl greets me. ‘Everything seems to be panning out just perfectly.’

  I manage a stiff smile and keep my thoughts to myself.

  Carl chatters about office goings-on while we drive out of Falmouth. Fortunately, he doesn’t seem to require much of a contribution to the conversation from me. My mind whirls round the ifs and maybes of the situation to no avail.

  I feel a surge of relief when Ursula actually does call back. We’re waiting in the queue for the King Harry ferry when it happens. With a quick ‘I’ve got to take this’ to Carl, I jump out of the car and move a safe distance away.

  ‘What’s happening, Ursula? I’ve just been to Tideways.’

  ‘Ah. You know I’ve had to go back to London, then. I’m in transit as we speak.’

  ‘But what about—’

  ‘Let’s not get into specifics on the phone, Nicole. Suffice to say I’m going to submit the results we got for evaluation. Hence my trip.’

  ‘There were results, then?’

  ‘I can’t say any more. Just sit tight and I’ll be in touch.’

  ‘But how long—’

  ‘As soon as possible. You can rely on that. We both have an interest in moving this forward without delay.’

  ‘Yeah. But I’m the one stuck—’

  ‘Sorry. Got to go. Speak soon.’

  She’s gone.

  I hurry back to the car. The ferry’s in and the first vehicles are driving past us.

  ‘Thought I might have to take the wheel myself,’ Carl complains.

  ‘I’m here now.’

  ‘Physically, yeah.’ He taps me on the temple, which I find incredibly annoying. ‘We could do with your brain coming to the party as well, though. Who was that you were gassing to?’

  ‘No one,’ I murmur in reply as I start the car.

  ‘Seemed urgent.’

  ‘Well, it wasn’t. So that’s all right, isn’t it?’

  Carl makes a face at me. ‘If you say so.’

  The evening isn’t much fun, to put it mildly. It’s close to torture, in fact. Carl’s full of optimistic predictions about what Joe’s going to do for Venstrom and hence for our careers. More specifically, his career.

  We both end up drinking too much before, during and after dinner, though for different reasons. I slip out of the hotel after telling Carl I’m off to bed and walk along by the harbour. I wonder if Vogler really is going to do a deal. He frightens me almost as much as he angers me. But has Carl actually managed to read him better than I have? And why did Ursula leave town so abruptly? Something isn’t right.

  I walk as far as the stretch of Lower Castle Road where I first spotted Joe on Monday. I can see the house lights of Admiral’s Reach above me through the undergrowth. I go up the steps Joe came down that morning. The shadows are inkily black at the top. I tread carefully as I follow a path to the left.

  I nearly collide with a gate, find the latch by feel and press it gingerly down. It opens to my push.

  The path continues on the other side. There’s light ahead, flooding down across a sloping lawn.

  I linger in the overhang of some bushes, careful not to step into the light. The house is above me, lights blazing in virtually every room, most of them uncurtained. But I can’t see anyone.

  Then a figure does move. A door slides open and Marianne walks out on to the decked balcony. She’s sloppily dressed in loose trousers and a fleece and she’s carrying a tumbler in one hand. She leans on the railings and looks down towards me. She takes a deep swallow from the tumbler. I hear ice clink against the glass. Then she arches her neck and stares up into the darkness of the sky.

  There’s a shout from inside the house. Her name, I think. She glances behind her. Then she drains the tumbler and throws it down on to the terrace below the balcony, where it smashes explosively, making me jump with surprise.

  There’s another shout from inside the house. She tosses her head and walks back in.

  I stay for another few minutes. But nothing else happens. The show’s over.

  It looks like I’m not the only one angry with Conrad Vogler.

  Friday October 11

  The first thing I see, when I look out of the window of my room, is Carl in jogging kit, stretching his thigh muscles on a bench a little way up the road that leads out of the village. He’s already just about completed his morning exercise programme, while I feel fuzzy-headed and stiff-limbed, unable to think about much beyond strong black coffee.

  But Carl has no intention of letting me ease into the day. About twenty minutes later, while I’m still drying my hair after a shower, the phone rings. It’s Carl, calling from his room.

  ‘You up for breakfast, Nicole?’

  ‘Go ahead without me.’

  ‘OK. But here’s a heads up. I had a Skype conference with Bruno last night.’ Bruno Feltz – Venstrom’s head of technical operations. Carl Skyped him last night? After all that beer, wine and brandy? Amazing. And why, anyway? As far as I know, he spoke to someone in Bruno’s department setting everything up earlier in the evening. ‘We’re definitely on for two o’clock this afternoon. It’s all set.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘You could sound more enthusiastic.’

  ‘I’m really looking forward to it, Carl.’

  ‘Good. Because I’ll need you to be on top form for that and our dinner with the Voglers. They’re picking us up at seven. Got anything glam you can put on?’

  ‘It won’t come down to how I’m dressed.’

  ‘How long does a game of Go actually last?’ The question, popping into his head, mercifully distracts him from the subject of what I’m going to wear.

  ‘Joe normally wraps up his online games within a couple of hours.’

  ‘As long as that?’ He sounds as if he was hoping for a lot less. ‘He’ll win, though, won’t he?’

  ‘I don’t know. Besides, it’s not the result that matters. It’s how he measures up.’

  ‘He’d better be as good as we think he is.’

  ‘It’s the computer that says he’s good, not us.’

  ‘This is a big day, Nicole. You do appreciate that, don’t you?’

  ‘Stop worrying, Carl. Everything’s goin
g to be fine.’

  I say it to get him off the line. As for believing it …

  I haven’t a clue what’s going to happen today.

  It’s not until I go down to breakfast an hour or so later that I realize the Dymas is no longer anchored off Castle Point. It’s gone, vanished like some kind of mirage. And with it, presumably, Andreas Kremer. Whatever needed to be settled between him and Vogler has been.

  Why that should worry me as much as it does I’m not sure. It feels, I suppose, like yet another piece in the puzzle I don’t understand. More disturbing in its way is the sensation I have that I may be no more than a piece in the puzzle myself, moved and manipulated by others for reasons I can’t begin to comprehend.

  We reach Falmouth at midday and have a long but light working lunch at the Greenbank Hotel. Carl’s on edge, cautioning me to be on the look-out for signs that Joe’s trying to rig the game. How I’d spot any such signs he doesn’t explain. But, since I’m certain Joe won’t try to rig anything, I just nod obligingly to shut him up.

  We walk over to Tideways half an hour before the game’s due to begin. Hazel’s there, cheered by a recent telephone conversation with Liz – ‘She sounded well and said she was feeling pretty good considering’ – but Joe hasn’t arrived yet. He’s told her he’s using the dining room this afternoon, though, which sounds promising. Carl and I settle ourselves in there and wait. Carl establishes the link with Bruno’s team in Palo Alto. There’s a run-through of how the computer’s moves will display themselves on the screen. Then they wait too.

  Joe ambles in with only about five minutes to spare, running his fingers through his hair and looking ridiculously relaxed. I say how pleased I am to hear Liz is doing well and he gives me a distant smile. ‘She’s doing OK, yeah.’ He sounds different from how he normally does. He sounds as if he’s speaking to me from some place far away.

  Carl starts outlining how we’ll proceed, but Joe cuts him short. ‘We’ll play this out on a proper board if it’s all the same to you.’ Or even if it isn’t, his tone implies. ‘I’ve brought Rog along to move for the computer.’

  As if on cue, Roger Lam walks in, carrying a briefcase. He takes out a folded Go board, two pots of stones and a special timer clock. He sets them down on one of the tables and unfolds the board. I introduce him to Carl, who looks put out by this unexpected turn of events.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ says Roger. ‘Joe’s explained the situation to me. I’m just going to make sure we stick to the rules and get a legitimate result.’

  ‘What are you implying?’ Carl responds snappishly.

  ‘Nothing at all. But I understand you want to see Joe play a physical game of Go. Isn’t that right?’

  ‘Yeah, but—’

  ‘Well, here we are, then.’

  ‘Do you know what’s at stake … Roger?’ Carl asks suspiciously.

  ‘I think so.’ Roger glances at me. ‘I was quite surprised when Joe told me about Venstrom’s interest in his talents, but I was more than happy to help him out this afternoon. In fact, I’ll be fascinated to see what happens. You too, I imagine, Nicole.’

  I give him a rueful smile. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t be completely frank with you, Roger.’

  ‘Is there a problem your end, Carl?’ Bruno cuts in on the computer audio. ‘We’re past time for commencement.’

  ‘No, there’s no problem,’ Carl responds in a fluster.

  ‘We’re happy for Joe to play Black.’

  Joe smiles. ‘I’m happy for gridforest to play Black.’

  Carl gapes around helplessly. ‘What’s the difference?’

  ‘Black has the advantage of playing first,’ says Roger. ‘Compensated for under Chinese rules with a komi of seven and a half points or six and a half under Japanese rules. Chinese rules suit us. Which suits gridforest?’

  ‘Whatever,’ says Bruno, sounding impatient.

  ‘OK. Chinese rules it is. And a time limit of two hours. Agreed?’

  ‘Agreed.’

  Roger sits down at the table, positions the bowls of stones and the clock and carefully squares up the board.

  Joe sits opposite him. He leans back and pushes his hair clear of his forehead. He lets out a long, slow breath. ‘OK,’ he says softly.

  ‘Are we good to go?’ asks Bruno.

  Roger looks enquiringly at Joe. Joe nods. ‘Yes,’ says Roger. Then he smiles. He at least, it seems, is enjoying himself. ‘Let battle commence.’

  The computer stands on a table next to the one at which Joe and Roger are sitting. Its screen is angled so both Roger and Joe can see it, though Joe appears to pay it no attention whatsoever. He concentrates on the board and, for substantial stretches of time, the ceiling above his head, bending his long neck back to gaze upwards. Roger moves twice as Black – once on the board, once on the screen – and once as White, on the screen only.

  The clock is actually two clocks in a single case, each controlled by a push button. After gridforest moves, Roger presses the button on his side, stopping his clock and starting Joe’s. After Joe moves, he presses the button on his side. And so on.

  The game begins in a strange kind of semi-religious hush. Carl and I just sit and watch. Joe says nothing. Neither does Roger. Joe and gridforest start by occupying two corners of the board each. Then two of the corners start to be filled in. Neither player seems to hurry or hesitate. The pattern’s lost on Carl and me, of course. It might be orthodox, it might be daringly different. We just don’t know. And only a student of Roger’s pursed lips and raised eyebrows would be able to deduce what he makes of it.

  Play slows after half an hour or so. By now there’s a bunching of stones in one corner. I’d love to know what the balance of advantage is, but I can’t ask. Joe looks calm and confident. Roger is, well, rapt is the only word, I think. He starts to be slightly more expressive from this point on, though, smiling or shaking his head, often at the same time. But it doesn’t seem as if he’s impressed by one side’s play as against the other.

  Carl’s having trouble containing himself. He whispers in my ear, ‘Who’s winning?’ and all I can whisper back is, ‘Haven’t a clue.’

  That’s not strictly true, of course. The clues are there, in black and white stones, slowly gathering on the board. But we aren’t equipped to interpret them.

  Suddenly, while gridforest is pondering its eightieth or so move, the door opens and Duncan Forrester walks in. He pulls up in surprise when he sees what’s happening. Joe looks over his shoulder at him, but I can’t see the expression on his face. The expression on Forrester’s face is … disappointment, I think. ‘Excuse me,’ he says quietly. Then he turns and slips out of the room.

  ‘Move,’ Bruno announces impatiently down the line from California. Gridforest has moved. But Roger hasn’t reacted.

  ‘Sorry,’ he apologizes at once. He peers at the screen, then makes the move on the board and re-starts Joe’s clock.

  Joe looks troubled as he turns back to the board. He mutters something I can’t catch.

  I don’t understand what’s occurred between him and Forrester. But something has. I jump up and follow Forrester out into the hall, closing the dining room door carefully behind me.

  Forrester’s just standing there, staring at a drab framed print of a maritime scene that hangs on the wall. He turns and looks at me. ‘It’s getting serious, I see,’ he says in an undertone.

  ‘Venstrom can open up a whole host of opportunities for Joe, Duncan.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s true.’

  ‘But you don’t approve?’

  ‘It’s got nothing to do with me, has it?’

  ‘Actually, I get the feeling it has.’

  ‘It’s Joe’s decision.’

  ‘We think he may be a genius – a uniquely talented individual. He could guide a team that transforms the way humans and computers interact. With all the concern there is about AI and what it portends for the future of mankind …’

  ‘It’d be a crime to neglect Joe�
��s ability?’

  ‘Yes. I think it would.’

  ‘Well, there are crimes and then there are crimes, aren’t there? Liz told me something interesting last night. She crashed on her way back from Asda at Penryn. Crossing the car park with her trolley after leaving the store, she saw someone she recognized. A guy called Frank Scaddan. He worked for her late husband. Tough sort of a character. No stranger to the police. His brother runs a dodgy car repair business. Not your natural mid-afternoon Asda shopper, I’d have said.’

  ‘You think he sabotaged Liz’s car?’

  ‘Well, he’d know how to. And working for Charlie Roberts means he worked for Conrad Vogler as well. Maybe he’s gone on working for him.’

  ‘Maybe. But that’s all supposition, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is if that’s all you want it to be.’ He looks at me for a long moment, then says, ‘Forget I mentioned it. I’ve got to go. I have a lesson at three.’

  With that he turns and walks straight out of the front door.

  When I go back into the dining room, it’s immediately obvious something has changed in Joe’s mood. He’s wandering around the tables, muttering to himself. Roger looks up at me and shrugs.

  ‘What did the old guy say?’ asks Carl.

  I shake my head. ‘Nothing. He just wanted to let Joe know his mother’s doing well.’

  ‘Then what’s the problem?’

  ‘Joe can take as long as he likes over any move within the overall time limit,’ says Roger.

  ‘Is that what he’s doing – deliberating over his next move?’

  ‘How’s it looking, Rog?’ Joe asks suddenly in mid-wander.

  ‘Is he allowed to ask a question like that?’ Carl puts in before Roger can reply. ‘Bruno?’

  ‘Why not? If he can win with a little help from his friend, maybe we’ll hire his friend as well.’

  ‘I can’t help Joe win,’ says Roger. ‘As for how it’s looking, not good for White, if I’m honest.’

  Joe chuckles. ‘Not good as in terminally bad?’

  ‘I certainly don’t see any chances for you.’

  ‘Black’s shoulder hit at forty-seven was quite something, wasn’t it?’

  ‘As it’s turned out, yes.’