Pawn (Ironclad Bodyguards 1)

by Molly Joseph

  Pawn (Ironclad Bodyguards 1)

  Chapter One: Grace Ann

  Chapter Two: The Bodyguard

  Chapter Three: Helsinki

  Chapter Four: Seconds

  Chapter Five: Spies

  Chapter Six: Own it

  Chapter Seven: Beyond Reason

  Chapter Eight: The Party

  Chapter Nine: No

  Chapter Ten: I Need You

  Chapter Eleven: Dubai

  Chapter Twelve: The Match

  Chapter Thirteen: Going Home

  Chapter Fourteen: Angry and Confused

  Chapter Fifteen: After Dubai

  Chapter Sixteen: The Match, Again

  Chapter Seventeen: Like Music

  A Final Note

  Coming Soon: DIVA: Ironclad Bodyguards 2

  About the Author

  PAWN

  Copyright 2015 by Molly Joseph/Annabel Joseph

  Cover design by Bad Star Media

  badstarmedia.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, shared, or distributed in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  PAWN

  Ironclad Bodyguards #1

  Molly Joseph

  Chapter One: Grace Ann

  “They’re all weak, all women. They shouldn’t play chess, you know. They lose every single game against a man.” —Bobby Fischer, 1961

  Sam checked his watch, then closed his copy of Chess for Dummies and slid it into his briefcase. He crossed the lobby to the bank of glass elevators and stepped in after a svelte Asian woman in a designer suit.

  “Thirty-five,” he said when she turned to him with a flirtatious raise of her eyebrow. He had that effect on women. It was his height, maybe, or his prominent, symmetrical features. Tall, dark, and handsome, they’d called him in the Army, ribbing him for genetic blessings beyond his control.

  The Asian woman slid him another look. She was older, and attractive. Her sleek hair was dyed a deep, uniform black, not a stray gray hair to be found. Sam could tell she was rich, with the tailored clothes and pristine dye job. Working for Ironclad, he’d come to recognize the signs of wealth, all the habits and trappings, even the smell of it. He could place shoes and leather bags with designers, and facelifts with their elite surgeons. Like all Ironclad’s bodyguards, he’d learned to recognize the powerful and wealthy—and appreciate that they paid very well.

  The woman exited at the twenty-six floor with a last lingering look over her shoulder. Twenty-sixth floor meant she worked in finance. Yes, very rich, and used to getting what she wanted, if her shameless appraisal was any clue.

  Dream on, he thought. Rich women gave him hives.

  Rich women tended to be spoiled and demanding clients. Sam had only managed to tolerate his last female client for a week. She’d pulled out all the stops: asked for help zipping up her dress, “accidentally” left the door open as she paraded around nude, even pretended to faint in the shower.

  He shuddered at the memory. She’d been a dry, brittle narcissist who thought of him as an object for hire, a cabana boy. He was a personal protection officer, not a gigolo. He was an ex-soldier, veteran of Yemen and Afghanistan, and he didn’t put out for clients no matter how rich they were. He kept it cordial and professional, per Ironclad’s guidelines.

  The client he was about to meet was a woman, so he wasn’t completely sure he’d take the job. She wasn’t a CEO or politician this time, but some big chess celebrity in her early twenties. He’d skimmed a few articles about her meteoric rise to the top, with descriptors like brilliant and genius. Impressive? Sure, but Sam wouldn’t take the assignment if she turned out to be a rich bitch.

  He got off on the thirty-fifth floor, signed in at the front desk, and waited to be buzzed through to the vast hive of offices and cubicles behind the lobby’s safety glass. Ironclad was a massive company, with international headquarters in London and a shit-ton of offices, personnel, and clients all over the world. When Sam bailed out of the Army, when he couldn’t bear to shoulder through another mission, he’d found distraction and another opportunity to serve at Ironclad, this time with less sand sticking to his sweating balls.

  Subconscious memory made him twitch his step and tilt his hips sideways. No, no sand and no sweat. He stopped outside the assigned conference room and looked down at his suit. He was lint-free, clean and pressed, his tie knotted in the exact center of his starched collar. He checked his watch. Ten AM exactly. He pushed open the door and entered the room. Out of habit, he scanned the space to locate everyone in attendance. It didn’t take long because there were only two people—Walter, his boss, and a very old man.

  “Ah, here he is,” said Walter. He shook Sam’s hand, then turned to the client. “This is Sam Knight, one of our best agents. Sam, this is Ezekiel Valshmic.”

  “Valshemnik,” the old man corrected with good humor. “A cumbersome Russian-Jewish name.”

  “Mr. Valshemnik,” Sam said, taking care to pronounce it correctly. He took even greater care shaking the guy’s hand, lest he break it off or something. He’d never seen such a wizened client in Ironclad’s offices. He had to be eighty or more.

  “Eighty-two,” Mr. Valshemnik said, reading the question in Sam’s eyes. “Believe me, I feel every day of it. And you can call me Zeke.”

  “Thanks, Zeke. I’m sorry if I seem surprised. I was told the client was a woman.”

  “She is. Myself, I have nothing to fear but the grim reaper, and even that, I don’t care about much anymore.” He lowered his chin, regarding Sam from beneath swollen, age-etched eyelids. “Don’t get old. It’s no fun.”

  Sam smiled because Zeke smiled. There was a radiant warmth in his features, wrinkled as they were. “I’m not that young,” Sam said. “Thirty-two.”

  “Agh. Talk to me in fifty years.”

  All three men laughed. This was standard company procedure. Welcome clients, laugh at their jokes, show a human side. Cultivate a relaxed atmosphere before you got down to business—because business in the high-profile security division was always a serious thing.

  Zeke’s laughter petered out with a rattle and a rasp. “What’s your name again?” he asked Sam. “I’m horrible with names.”

  Sam glanced briefly at Walter. Was the guy senile, or just forgetful?

  “Knight,” said Sam, sitting next to him. Walter took the chair on his other side. “Sam Knight.”

  “Knight, eh? Better to be named Knight than Rook. Or Pawn.” The old man gave a wheeze of a laugh. “That’s a chess joke.”

  “I don’t play.”

  Sam had learned to do a lot of things in his thirty-two years of life. He’d learned to triangulate danger, duck bullets, train foreign soldiers, some of them little older than children. He’d learned to eavesdrop and hide in plain sight, and strip corpses of identifying information, but he’d never learned the game of chess. He’d never been one for games.

  “Well,” said Zeke, his smile fading. “It’s not necessary for you to be able to play chess. Gracie has enough of that in her life.”

  “By Gracie, he means Grace Ann Frasier,” said Walter, smoothly insinuating himself into the conversation. “She’s the client, although her schedule precluded her from attending this meeting.” He slid a tablet device across the table. Sam opened the highlighted file to find the usual collection of photos and clippings.

  Grace Ann Frasi
er looked more like a college coed than a world-famous chess player. She was pretty and slight, with long blonde hair and wide blue eyes framed by dark-rimmed glasses. Pert nose, petite mouth. She came very close to being adorable, in a nerdy-genius kind of way. She certainly seemed very young for her list of impressive titles: US Champion, FIDE Grandmaster, International Grandmaster, World Chess Challenger.

  Sam flicked further, through photos of Miss Frasier accepting awards and posing with various luminaries, even the President. It would have impressed him if he wasn’t around these types of people all the time. There was a folder full of articles he’d need to read if he took the assignment.

  He glanced through the profiles and interviews and came to one last folder, a file labeled CONFIDENTIAL. He tapped it open and his fingers went still, his gaze arrested by a police photo. Years of military training allowed him to maintain a poker face as he studied the bruised and bloodied face, the swollen eyes. For a moment he questioned if it was even her.

  Yes, it was.

  Keeping his expression neutral, he closed the folder, put down the tablet, and turned to Zeke. “I’d love to learn more about what type of assistance Miss Frasier needs.”

  “Well, as you know, she’s one of the world’s top chess players,” said Zeke, with obvious pride. “She has the kind of gift that only comes along every few generations. Really, she’s a marvel to watch.”

  “I’m sure,” said Walter, smiling patiently. Sam pictured her bruised face and thought, Get to the point.

  “Unfortunately...” Zeke shifted, his old joints snapping and creaking in the chair. “Her talent at the game has created some challenges.”

  “How so?” Sam asked.

  The man sighed, spreading his fingers, then steepling them in front of his chin. “World-class chess has always been for men. Fair or not, it’s always been a fraternity. Women are not outlawed from competing for the world title, but they have traditionally competed only within the women’s division.” He paused, his features growing tense. “But Grace’s rating got too high for that.”

  “Her rating?”

  “As chess players win or lose, their ratings go up and down in comparison to their opponent’s, so competitors can be appropriately matched. Of course, you have a handful of players who are the best, and they generally play each other.”

  “Miss Frasier’s in that handful of players?”

  “Right now, she has the second-highest rating in the world.” The corner of Zeke’s lips turned down, his burst of pride replaced by a frown. “Last summer, her rating allowed her to enter a world-class tournament in Russia. As a relative newcomer, no one expected her to do much, but she slaughtered all seven of her challengers, embarrassed them, honestly. One of those challengers was the long-time Russian champion, a revered national figure named Anton Komarovski.”

  Zeke waited for some sign of recognition, but Sam wasn’t up on the chess stars.

  “Well, the important thing isn’t who she beat. It’s what happened afterward.” Zeke shut his mouth tight, his jaw working beneath his sagging jowls. “There was a lot of anger, you see, that this young American woman would come in and demolish their chess champ. There were accusations of cheating and payoffs. They said she used feminine wiles to rattle Komarovski and influence the arbiter, and, oh, they said many worse things about her, none of them true. We should have gone home at once but we couldn’t get a flight.” Zeke ran a shaking hand through his thin, graying hair. “There was bad weather, a storm. We stayed another night at the hotel.”

  He fell silent, staring off into the distance. When it became obvious the old man wasn’t going to tell the rest of the story, Walter spoke quietly.

  “There’s a police report in the file. To summarize, three men broke into her room and attacked her. It was assumed to be in retaliation for unseating the Russian.”

  “I was right next door.” Zeke’s voice was back again, broken off with grief. “I was on the other side of the wall, rooming with one of her seconds. How could we not have heard? Not have known they were beating up Gracie? But even if I’d known, how could I have protected her? Me, an old man?”

  A tear broke free of Zeke’s pouched eyes and trailed down the lattice of wrinkles composing his face. I know how that feels, Sam thought. I know how it feels to not be able to protect someone. He’d stared into the dead eyes of his fellow soldiers too many times not to empathize.

  “I’m sorry that happened.” It didn’t seem enough to say, but anything else would sound patronizing. “Were the assailants brought to justice?”

  “No, and I doubt they ever will be, since the police over there acted like blighted fools, and the Russian government was eager to hush the incident up. When Gracie was well enough, we flew back under military protection. And you would think...” His voice grew tight and cut off again.

  “Take your time, Mr. Valshemnik,” said Walter.

  Zeke rallied and raised a bony fist. “You would think an attack like that would have stopped her. I’m sure they thought such an attack would stop her, but she looked at me on the plane and asked, ‘Will we make it to Manila?’ She had another tournament there, you see. And what could I tell her? ‘No, of course you’re not going to Manila, my girl. There are people out there who want to hurt you for being a woman who bests men. Who want to hurt you for being too good at a game.’ No. I told her we would go and we did. And you know what? She won there too.”

  “She sounds like a very strong person,” said Sam.

  “Strong?” Zeke snorted. “She weighs about ninety pounds. Crowds frighten her. Groups of men frighten her, and that’s all the chess world is, great groups of men. This past week, amidst much controversy, she was invited to compete for the title of World Champion.”

  “I saw that on the news,” said Walter. “It’s certainly captured the public’s attention. An American competitor, and the first female challenger.”

  Zeke exhaled with a woebegone air. “I can’t tell you the politics and egos involved. Despite her fears, despite the threats she’s received, she has accepted. As much as we’ve tried to fly under the radar, she won’t be able to do it this time.”

  “How are you related to Miss Frasier?” Sam asked.

  Zeke thought a moment. “I suppose you might say I’m her adoptive father. I met her as a nine-year-old, in an inner-city chess program. I used to volunteer in the schools.”

  “And you adopted her?”

  “Not officially, but I did what I could. I provided a safe haven when her home life got rough, gave her a warm meal most nights, and helped her develop her game. I was a chess grandmaster myself in my heyday. I played Tal and Smyslov. I even beat Spassky. Once.” He looked from Walter to Sam and waited.

  “I’m sorry,” said Sam. “I don’t know any of those people.”

  “I think I might have heard of Spassky,” Walter said with an apologetic air.

  Zeke waved a hand. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that Grace needs help, and I can’t protect her at my age. I can’t even travel with her anymore. My health won’t permit it. When I don’t accompany her to Dubai for the match with Al Haji, opportunists will try to take advantage.” He shuddered. “I can’t bear for her to be hurt again.”

  “Dubai?” Sam sat up straighter. “The tournament will be in Dubai?”

  “It’s a match, not a tournament. The World Chess Championship Match, two months from now, in March. Her opponent is Saudi Arabian.” He looked at Sam. “I was told you speak Arabic.”

  “I do.”

  “As I understand it,” Walter said, looking to Zeke for confirmation, “Miss Frasier is seeking close security during the time up to and including her appearance at the Dubai match.”

  Close security. The bodyguard-as-nanny. In this case, it was probably called for. “Does Miss Frasier understand what close security entails?” Sam asked.

  “Yes, everything has been explained to us. Since the Russian incident, she would prefer to have an able-bodied companion at ha
nd.”

  “What kind of travel are we talking about?” asked Sam, referring back to the tablet.

  “At the end of this month, she’ll be meeting three seconds in Helsinki. They’ll hole up there to prepare for the Dubai match,” said Zeke.

  “What are seconds?”

  “Assistants, in a sense. They’ll work with Gracie to plan strategies, and look for weaknesses in Al Haji’s game. All players at this level have seconds. I’ll be helping too, from here.”

  “Helsinki in January?” Sam raised a brow. “Isn’t it a little cold there?”

  Zeke shrugged. “It’s a good place to go when you want to hide. There’ll be less media there, and Al Raji’s spies are sure to stand out, if they brave the cold to begin with.”

  “There are spies in chess?”

  Zeke snorted for a second time. “Of course there are spies. Al Raji has got people in New York right now, following us around, talking to our friends. Going to Helsinki is a strategy; everything in chess is a strategy. Saudi Arabians don’t care much for ice and snow.”

  “And you have spies on Al Raji?”

  Zeke gave him a hard look. Yes, then. Okay.

  “These seconds she’s meeting in Helsinki… Could one of them be a spy?”

  “Goodness, no. We choose more carefully than that. But to know a player’s seconds is to know their favored schemes and skills, so it’ll be cloaks and daggers in Helsinki. All of it is very, very high intensity, and very complex.”

  Sam was beginning to sense that. He thought about the Chess for Dummies book in his briefcase and felt stupid.

  “At any rate,” the old man continued, “she’ll work with her seconds for six weeks or so, and then...” He pursed his lips, his wrinkled skin drawing thin. “Then the mad pageantry of the World Championship will begin. It’s like the Olympics, except there are only two athletes. It’s an astounding amount of pressure.”

  Then why does she do it? That’s what Sam wanted to ask. She’d had the tar beaten out of her six months ago. Then all this nonsense of analysis and preparations, and spies, and secret, mysterious seconds. So many endless hours of planning and plotting, for what? A game that was only interesting to the nerds of the world. “How much does Miss Frasier make? This seems like a lot of stress over a board game.”