Pawn (Ironclad Bodyguards 1)

by Molly Joseph

  She hoped the talisman worked, because they’d be in Dubai in a few hours.

  The pressure cooker was about to start.

  Chapter Eleven: Dubai

  “Chess is ruthless: you’ve got to be prepared to kill people.” —Nigel Short

  As soon as they landed in Dubai, Sam understood that the game had changed. Their time in Helsinki had been a vacation, a respite from reality. Nothing and no one had managed to touch them, aside from a few curious Finns who meant to wish them well. They’d been safe, encased in a block of ice. Now they’d gone from ice cube to warm, seventy-five degree temperatures.

  They’d also gone from relative anonymity to a raging media storm.

  The match started in two days, and American-woman-plays-Saudi-man had captured the worldwide zeitgeist. Hundreds of media outlets, newspapers, and magazines set up camp at the hotel where the match would take place, and where Grace was supposed to stay. A mass of journalists awaited her arrival, hoping for photos and sound bites before the match started. The crowds grew so large, they overcame hotel security as well as Dubai’s match security, and clogged the lobby and parking areas.

  Sam held Grace’s hand in the backseat of the State Department car while agents argued outside about whether to stay here amidst the madness, or find another hotel. In the end, it was decided Grace was most secure staying in the building where the match would be played, so they snuck her upstairs on a freight elevator and bundled her straight to her room.

  It wasn’t a huge or luxurious suite, but it was big enough, with a separate bedroom and a gorgeous view of the city. It adjoined Renzo and Krishna’s suite on one side, and the State Department’s operations room on the other, so Grace wouldn’t even have to venture into the hall unless she wanted to go down to the chess venue, or leave the hotel. And from what Sam had seen of the chaos downstairs, she wasn’t leaving the hotel.

  “This is big time, huh?” Sam carried her bags into the bedroom and placed them beside the bed. People had already been over the suite with detectors and sweepers, but Sam looked over it again, in closets and under beds, in drawers and behind curtains. When he went back into the main room, he found Grace standing in front of the window, a great pane of glass not unlike the window in Helsinki. They were just a lot higher up, and it was a lot sunnier outside.

  “It looks so warm.” She looked back at him with a sigh. “I wish we could go out, or open a window. I wish there was some way to feel that warmth.”

  The air conditioner blasted over her words. Sam turned it down. “I don’t think we should go out.”

  He felt agitated. There wasn’t supposed to be chaos like this over a damn chess match. When he checked his messages, he saw that Ironclad’s CEO had texted him personally from London. Everything okay? Need any help?

  Client is secure, Sam texted back.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked Grace. “Should we send for some food?”

  “If you want.”

  “What do you want? Do you want to rest? Unpack? You have interviews later today.” He consulted a paper. “Down on the fifteenth floor.”

  The chess federation had asked her to do three pre-match interviews, with a strict limit of twenty minutes each. The rest of the time was hers, and Sam was determined to protect her from any distractions. She needed time to relax and time to psyche herself up. Maybe a little sex later, to help her sleep.

  “It’s so bright,” she said, squinting out the window.

  “You can close the curtains.”

  “No, I like it.” She smiled, the old Grace smile. “It’s so wonderful to see the sun again. Do you think they have pizza here?”

  “If you want pizza, we’ll find you pizza.” He crossed to stand behind her, nuzzling her nape as they looked out at the glittering Dubai cityscape. “This is your time, Grace Ann Frasier. You can have anything you want.”

  *** *** ***

  The first reporter to interview Grace was a silver-haired man. Someone really famous, Sam told her. She didn’t know who he was but he seemed nice. He asked her questions about her interests (chess), how she had spent her childhood (chess), and what this match meant to her.

  What it meant to her?

  She’d cleared her throat and looked somewhere over the man’s shoulder and said, “I guess the main answer to that question is that I want to win.”

  Everyone in the room smiled, like she’d said something cute. It unsettled her. Was she saying stupid things? Was everyone going to watch her on the news clip, with her too-thick glasses and her too-short hair, and think, what’s wrong with her? Would they know the haircut was the result of an emotional meltdown? Would they think all of this was a mistake? If she lost, that’s what people would think, that she was overrated.

  The next interviewer was a blonde woman with a French accent. She asked pretty much the same questions, but instead of asking what the match meant to her, she asked Grace what she would do if she won.

  Grace didn’t want to sound cute this time, so instead, she said, very soberly, “I would take my father on vacation.” She meant Zeke when she said her father, since he was the only father she’d ever really had. “And my seconds,” she added. “My helpers. I’d take them on vacation too.”

  Again, everyone smiled that smile. Ugh.

  “Take them on vacation where?” the blonde woman pressed.

  “Someplace warm,” Grace replied.

  “Without chess boards?”

  Grace gave her a puzzled look. What did chess boards have to do with vacation? The woman clapped her hands and said, “That’s a wrap. I’m ending it with that look. Perfect.” She reached to shake Grace’s hand. “I hope you win, Miss Frasier. We’re all on your side.”

  She bustled away, and left Grace thinking, why? Why was everyone on her side? Because she was the underdog? Because she was a woman? Al Raji was the default bad guy just for playing her. For the first time Grace thought, if the situation was reversed, she might be kind of pissed to be in Al Raji’s shoes.

  The next interviewer was an Arab woman. She wore Western-style clothes, long black pants and a jacket, but she also wore a hijab, and Grace thought, oh no. The headscarf controversy.

  She looked over at Sam, but he was watching the translator, an older Arab man in white robes. There were introductions, and a couple more men came in to set up the camera and standing lights. Grace fidgeted in her chair while the woman consulted a tablet. Her first question, relayed through the frowning male translator, was this:

  “Why do you think you are qualified to play Saad Al Raji, the world’s best chess player?”

  She could see Sam’s frown in her peripheral vision. Grace didn’t know if she was supposed to talk to the woman or the translator. Her eyes flicked between the two of them. “I’m qualified because of my Elo ratings. The player rankings. Because my ranking and his ranking match up.”

  “Have you played Al Raji before?”

  “No.”

  The woman looked at her notes. “Have you defeated other men?” she asked through the translator.

  Grace barely restrained herself from rolling her eyes. Deferential, Sam had warned.

  “Yes, I’ve defeated other men,” Grace said, very calmly and deferentially. “I don’t really think about whether I’m playing a man or a woman. I’m more concerned with how they play the game.”

  The woman murmured something to the translator. He turned and spoke to Grace with hard dislike in his gaze. “Do you think you will win?”

  “I hope I’ll win,” said Grace. “I’ve been practicing hard, and coming up with strategies to try to win the match.”

  The translator spoke to the woman. Halfway through, Sam interrupted in Arabic. The man and woman both turned to stare at him. He repeated whatever he’d said, a muscle ticking in his jaw. The translator frowned and consulted with the woman again. Grace gave Sam a questioning look but he made a sign for wait, and stay calm.

  The reporter’s next question, via the translator, was “Do you think
it is fair to ask Al Raji to play you when you will not modestly dress?”

  “What?”

  “When you will not dress appropriately?” He pointed at the reporter’s hijab as an example.

  Sam was really frowning now. You could have heard a pin drop in the room. One of the State Department guys in the corner adjusted his suit jacket and scratched his chin.

  “I’m wearing a sweater and a pair of dress pants,” said Grace. “That’s generally accepted attire at a chess match.” She narrowed her eyes. “And I think my hair, even if it’s showing, is pretty modest. I mean, it’s clean and brushed.”

  Sam made a quelling sound, so soft she could barely hear it. Grace clamped her mouth shut.

  “Thank you,” said the reporter in accented English after the translator shared her words. Neither of them were smiling. Grace wondered who had okayed these reporters. FIDE, the match organizers? She needed to get a publicist. Zeke had told her so, around the same time he’d told her she needed a bodyguard, but she’d never agreed to the publicist.

  As soon as all the reporters were gone, they started the big operation to return her to her room on the eighteenth floor. They used earpieces, and hand signals. Hallway clear? Elevator ready? She could have used this kind of protection in Russia, but she’d been so innocent then. They stood in the doorway, waiting for the signal to exit.

  “What was that thing with the translator?” she asked Sam, now that they were alone. “Why did you interrupt him?”

  “Because he wasn’t translating what you were saying. He changed your words.”

  “In what way?”

  “When you said you were working on strategies to defeat Al Raji, he used a different word in Arabic. He said you were working on tricks to defeat your opponent. It wasn’t the right word.”

  “Oh.” There were so many ways to mess up here. It scared her. “Thank you for correcting him.”

  Sam didn’t say anything. Grace bit on a ragged fingernail. “Did I do a really bad job in those interviews?”

  “No, you did fine.”

  “Tell me the truth.”

  “That is the truth. You did very well. You were polite. You were authentic, and people like that. Don’t worry about it. All you should be thinking about now is getting ready for the match. Let everything else go.”

  They finally signaled Sam, and he escorted her out into the hall. The corridor was empty. Quiet. The thick diamond-patterned carpet muffled their steps. There were more security guards in the hallway and outside the elevator, Arab guards who avoided her gaze. Grace wondered if Al Raji was in one of these rooms. Just as she wondered it, a door opened and she heard a familiar lilting voice, and male laughter.

  Fredrik appeared just as she reached the door. She stared at him, then looked into the room behind him. More white-robed men, and a glimpse of Al Raji. She was sure it was him.

  “How could you?” she asked, as Fredrik angled the door to block them from view. “How could you?”

  “What did you think I would do?” Fredrik gestured toward Sam with a sneer. “Still have your paid companion, I see.”

  Sam took her arm. “Come on, Grace. Let’s go.”

  She held back, staring into Fredrik’s cool blue gaze. “I asked you to be my second. I trusted you. You know how hard I worked.”

  “How hard you worked? What about how hard I worked? That’s the thing, Grace. You’ve never cared about anyone but yourself. It’s nice to finally be appreciated. Al Raji and his team have been very grateful for my help.”

  “Oh, have they? Do they know you call them ragheads and towelheads, and dirty Arabs? Would they be grateful for that?”

  Sam tugged her arm again. His features were taut. She was afraid he’d lose his temper, that there’d be another fight here with all the security people.

  “Your team is going down,” she said to Fredrik in a hard voice. “So enjoy their gratitude while you can.”

  She let Sam pull her away and hustle her down the hall to the waiting elevator. She stood in the middle of it, engulfed by a bunch of government suits.

  “You knew that’s where he would be,” said Sam, as she stood there shaking in fury. “We all knew it. But you’re right. They’re going to lose, so it doesn’t matter.”

  “It does matter. He’s such an asshole.” Fredrik hadn’t only messed up this match for her, he’d almost killed her relationship with Sam. She despised him for it. He was dead to her for life. “Wait until I tell Zeke.”

  “You shouldn’t tell Zeke. He feels guilty enough for suggesting Fredrik in the first place. Just let it go.”

  “Was that true what Fredrik said? That I never appreciated him?”

  Sam leaned closer to whisper in her ear. “Change the word ‘appreciated’ to ‘fucked’ and I think you’ll uncover the basis of his anger. He wanted you and he couldn’t have you. He’s getting back at you in the only way he knows.” He straightened and squeezed her hand. “By the way, it’s good to finally hear you talk some trash.”

  The agent beside Sam glanced over at her. She could have sworn the man’s lips curved up in a shadow of a smile, then the elevator door opened with a ding, and Grace was hustled into the hallway and down to her room. She promptly sat at her chess board.

  “Will you get Krishna and Renzo?” she asked Sam. “There’s this new gambit I want to try.”

  *** *** ***

  As expected, the only way to coax Grace to bed at a reasonable hour was with sex. Sam kissed and caressed her until she stopped thinking about chess, and exhausted her to the best of his ability. By one in the morning, Dubai time, she’d fallen into a deep, contented sleep.

  Sam picked up his phone to take one last look through his texts and emails, and found a text from Mrs. Ferlander, Zeke’s housekeeper.

  Call at your earliest opportunity. Not in front of Grace.

  A sinking sense of dread settled in Sam’s stomach. He checked to be sure Grace was asleep, then crept from the bed into the other room. Mrs. Ferlander answered the phone on the first ring.

  “Zeke’s in the hospital,” she said by way of greeting. “It’s just a precaution. He’s got the flu.”

  “Jesus.”

  “He doesn’t want Grace to know. They’ve got him hooked up with fluids and anti-virals. He doesn’t want her to worry. Is she there?”

  “She’s sleeping.” Sam lowered his voice. “How is he? How serious is this?” Mrs. Ferlander’s pause told him all he needed to know. “I have to tell Grace.”

  “No.” Her sharp voice cut him off. “Zeke doesn’t want to worry her before the match. He was absolutely emphatic on that point.”

  “Well, she’s going to want to talk to him tomorrow night for sure, since the match is the following morning. What am I going to say?”

  “He’s resting now so he’ll have the strength to call her tomorrow and wish her luck.” She paused a moment. “Wait. Zeke wants to talk to you.”

  Sam ground his teeth, looking out at the city lights of Dubai. This couldn’t be happening, not now.

  “Sam?” Zeke’s normally deep voice was soft and ragged. “Sam?”

  “I’m here.”

  “I’m sick, damn it.” Weak as he sounded, he was the same belligerent Zeke.

  “You picked a shitty time to catch the flu, old man,” said Sam.

  “Agh. They have these medicines now. I’ll feel better tomorrow.” Sam heard labored breath, and a sigh. “Don’t tell Gracie. Promise.”

  Sam didn’t want to promise. Listening to Zeke’s slow, slurred speech, and his noisy breathing, he was very, very scared. “You’re putting me in a tough spot. I think she’d want to know. Maybe we can ask FIDE to delay the match.”

  “Why? Because an old man got sick?” Another rasping sigh. “I’ll be better tomorrow.”

  Sam didn’t want Zeke to keep talking. He needed every scrap of energy to beat this illness, especially with his compromised health. “Put Mrs. Ferlander back on,” he said.

  “No. Promise firs
t. Don’t tell Grace. Not...yet.”

  “Fine. I won’t tell her yet. But you have to get better. I’m not kidding.”

  “If I don’t...” Sam could barely hear him now. His voice thinned to a whisper. “If I don’t, you take care of her. Protect her, till the…till the money runs out. My money, my estate all goes to Grace. To protect her. Promise.”

  Foolish old man. Do you think I would desert her? “You don’t have to worry about Grace,” he said, keeping his voice steady through some desperate force of will.

  “Promise,” he insisted, drawing out the syllables.

  “I promise I’ll protect Grace, no matter what happens. Always, no matter what. I’m in love with her, Zeke.”

  “Ohhh.” The old man’s strained voice gained a bit of energy. “I’m glad. Gracie is...special.”

  “She’s very special, and she loves you to death. So you’d better rest and regain your strength, so you can celebrate with us when all of this is over. If you want me to keep this a secret from Grace, that’s what you need to do.”

  Zeke made a weak sound of assent, then Mrs. Ferlander was back on the line.

  “How is he, really?” Sam asked. “Get away from Zeke so you can talk to me honestly. Do we need to get on a plane?”

  She was silent a moment. “Not yet. I’ll keep you posted. We should know in the next day or so if the anti-virals are going to work.”

  Sam ended the call a short time later, and buried his head in his hands. “Not now,” he murmured. “Please, don’t happen now.” Zeke had been a sick man even before this illness. Sam stood and went to the bedroom, and looked in at Grace sleeping, her short waif hair spread out on the pillow, her hand open beside her head.

  He’d never been the type to pray. He hadn’t believed in religions or gods since he was a very young child. But in the darkness, looking at the woman he loved, he felt echoes of prayers rise to his lips, whispered Arabic entreaties for healing he’d learned at his mother’s knee. O Allah, remove the hardship. O Lord of mankind, grant cure. Thy Name is my mercy, and remembrance of Thee is my remedy.