Counterplay

by Robert K. Tanenbaum

  Azzam snorted. Fools like her host and his piggish little wife and their fat, Westernized daughters and corpulent sons would be purged from the Islamic state. In the meantime, they served a purpose greater than themselves.

  “I believe it is your move,” Kane said.

  Azzam studied the board. She hated games, but he’d insisted that she learn to play chess. He said it sharpened the mind and was “good training for staying a step ahead of your opponent” and had started a daily “tournament.” So far she had yet to win a game and was growing tired of the loser’s penalty.

  She studied the board carefully. To open, Kane had moved his king’s pawn ahead two spaces. It seemed harmless enough, so she mirrored his move by jumping her king’s pawn two spaces forward, too.

  “Has it begun?” Kane asked casually, moving his king’s side bishop diagonally through the space opened by his pawn until stopping in front of his other bishop’s pawn.

  This move required more study. Moving the bishop seemed to presage an attack from that side. She moved a pawn forward one space toward his bishop. The move freed her queen to sally forth and meet the danger on that side.

  “In sha’ Allah,” she said.

  “Yes, God willing,” Kane said dryly, “though I don’t suppose He will have much to do with this. Just remember, don’t rush. These first moves are not the ultimate targets. They are insignificant pieces on the board, not the king.” He studied the board as if surprised by her move. His hand went to his bishop but then retreated. Instead, he moved his queen diagonally to the right, into the space in front of his bishop’s pawn, facing her bishop’s pawn across the board.

  Azzam’s eyes narrowed as she glanced at his queen. He was up to something but seemed to be building toward one of his precious “classical attacks” that he used over and over to break down her defenses. She thought she might gain the upper hand by attacking before he was prepared. She moved her knight’s pawn ahead two spaces, placing his bishop in danger. He would either have to move the bishop, allowing her to bring out her queen on the next move to go on the attack, or lose it.

  “I want them all guessing when it will be their turn…Karp, most of all,” Kane said. “I want him to suffer…. I know you think that my plan has too many…um…shall we say, ‘nuances.’ But I want them distracted, looking the wrong way when we make our move…. You see, my dear Samira, there is much to be gained when things aren’t as they seem.” He moved his queen across the board and took her bishop’s pawn, exposing her king. “Checkmate.”

  Azzam sat looking at the board, stunned. He’d defeated her in four moves. Backtracking, she saw that his intent had been clear the moment he moved his queen. Yet she’d been preoccupied with his bishop because it was closer to her side and had seemed the greater danger.

  “Disappointing, Samira,” he said shaking his head. “You are still too easily distracted, too committed to your little wars of attrition…you take my bishop, I take your pawn, you take my knight, I kill your queen. That’s not chess…nor is it the way to win in the real world.”

  Azzam sighed and rose from the table. “I’ll go see if there is a message yet from California?”

  “Ah ah aah,” Kane chided as he turned back to the window. “Not so fast. You forget, there is always a price to pay for losing.”

  She heard the sound of his zipper, and her shoulders sagged as she walked around the table and knelt in front of him. Sometimes it seemed the glorious day of her death would never arrive.

  “Come on, come on,” Kane urged impatiently. “What’s taking so fucking long? I haven’t got all night.”

  7

  AS AZZAM SANK TO HER KNEES, AN OLD MAN WALKED INSIDE a barn on a prison work farm outside of San Diego and carefully placed the rake he’d been using against one of the dairy cow stalls. He lingered momentarily in the shadows, inhaling deeply the fragrance of bovine excrement, fresh hay, and mechanic’s oil. Good, honest smells.

  For just a moment, he allowed himself to fantasize that he was just a simple farmer, finishing up after a hard day’s work; dinner would be on the table soon, a wife removing a pie from the oven as children gathered noisily. But he didn’t allow himself to dwell there long. He felt it was a sin to try to escape the reality of the greater sins he’d committed, so he rarely let himself indulge in such simple pleasures.

  The other inmates, and even most of the guards and administrators at the prison farm, knew him as Richard Ely, supposedly an old bank robber serving out a life sentence. He kept to himself. When he wasn’t in the garden tending to the rows of vegetables, he remained as much as he could in his cell, reading his Bible and praying for forgiveness, coming out only to eat, shower, and attend mass.

  Even his cell was bare of anything that might be considered comforting, except perhaps the crucifix on the wall. There were no photographs of family and friends; no pictures of nude women or men (as preferred by some of his fellow inmates). When he did speak to the other inmates, he had a habit of calling them “my son,” but otherwise he was just a tired old man who apparently had no one else in the world and was just biding his time until he checked into the big house in the sky…or the hot one down below.

  And yet, he was no bank robber, nor was his name Richard Ely. His true identity was much more shameful. He was Timothy Fey, the former archbishop of New York, who dreamed of the day he would die…hoped that it would be in his beloved garden, his head lying on the warm, good earth, his eyes turned to heaven and the promise of salvation. He wanted nothing except to meet God, whom he thought he had served all his life only to fail so miserably, and ask for forgiveness.

  In moments of contemplation, lying at night on the cold cement floor of his cell, Fey sometimes still wondered how he’d ended up as he had. He’d not sought to commit any crime or hurt another human being. He had not plotted to steal, or rape, or murder. Yet he had been partly responsible for all those things.

  As a onetime parish priest in Ireland, he’d sought all of his life to care for the sick, nurture the poor, and spread the word of eternal salvation…free for the asking. His rise to power had been in large part due to his reputation for honesty, piety, and dedication to God. His greatest sin, he had thought, was the sin of pride. He’d wanted to build a new cathedral—grander and more magnificent than even St. Patrick’s—to be located next to Ground Zero where the World Trade Center had stood. He wanted that to be his legacy to his flock and, he now admitted, to his own name. So he had not seen—or more honestly, had turned a blind eye—to other sins, bigger more horrible sins, being done in the name of the church through evil men at the bidding of the most evil of them all, Andrew Kane.

  He’d trusted Kane, as both a friend and the church’s attorney— listened to the whispered lies. He convinced himself that what was being done was for the greater good of the church and its believers, and that he needn’t trouble himself with the uncomfortable details.

  After Kane was caught, and the truth thrown in Fey’s face, he’d wanted only to live long enough to testify against his Judas. He wanted to do whatever he could to make sure the man was sent where he could do no more harm. But now Kane had escaped, and Fey only went through his days because to take his own life would simply compound his sins.

  Fey turned at the sound of the barn door opening behind him. He squinted against the bright afternoon sun that flooded in. The dark silhouette of a man passed across the blinding light. It was difficult to make out his features, other than he was a big man. Then Fey saw the white collar.

  “Ah, Father,” Fey said as the man stepped into the barn. “I did not recognize you.” He squinted more as the man moved just out of the light. He could see that the man had wavy dark hair and a pale complexion but little else to distinguish him. “Do I know you?”

  “I am new,” the other man said. “They told me I could find you here, Your Excellency.”

  Fey was startled at the reference to his old life. “You know who I am?” he asked.

  “Yes,” the man s
aid circling around until he was nearly behind Fey. “I was sent to…find you.”

  So this is how it ends, Fey thought, feeling both fear and relief. “Tell me this, at least,” he said. “Are you an ordained priest?”

  The man stopped. “I am,” he said. “In fact, I was ordained by you, Your Excellency…. But that was a long time ago, in another life.”

  “Yes. I seem to recognize the voice. Would you do me the favor of hearing my final confession and then, when you are finished with what you need to do, perform the rites.”

  “Even from a hollow priest? One who no longer believes in God?”

  “If that is all I have—better a man who once knew Him than never.”

  The man sighed. “Then sit, Your Excellency, and I will do as you ask, although I do not know what good I will be as an emissary between your soul and your god.”

  “Our god,” Fey said gently. “And He will understand and forgive me, as He will understand and forgive you someday.”

  Fey sat on a milking stool, facing the open door through which the light had softened and was turning to gold as the sun dipped toward the ocean. As he had since he’d been a boy on the violent, troubled streets of Belfast, he asked forgiveness of a priest “for I have sinned.”

  When Fey was finished, he paused. “Are there no acts of contrition?”

  The man behind was silent for a moment then said, “An Our Father and one Hail Mary. Is there anything else?”

  “Only that I forgive you…. Our Father…”

  “Thank you, Your Excellency,” the man said softly. So softly that Fey wondered if his executioner was crying when the garrote dropped over his head and tightened about his throat.

  The man was strong, but it wouldn’t have mattered if he’d been a weakling. Fey made no attempt to struggle or escape. Dying, he thought, isn’t as painful as I imagined it might be. His lungs cried out for air and his head throbbed for want of blood to his brain, but they were overwhelmed by the feeling of release. He let himself slip away, overjoyed to discover it wasn’t into darkness but toward the light beyond the barn door.

  When Fey’s killer was sure the old man was dead, he relaxed his grip and wiped at the tears that rolled down his cheeks. He’d murdered many times now, but none had been so hard as this man who had reminded him of the soul he’d lost. He cursed the devil for the weakness of his flesh and Andrew Kane for exploiting it, turning him into the monster he’d become.

  The priest glanced one last time at Fey, whose face was bathed in the last beams of light from the nearly defeated sun. The old man seemed to be smiling ever so slightly. “I hope you find peace,” said the priest. Turning to leave, he left the garrote around Fey’s neck as he’d been instructed. The murder weapon was comprised of a set of rosary beads strung onto thin, tough wire from which dangled a gold medallion on which was embossed the image of St. Patrick’s Cathedral in New York City.

  Closing the door behind him, he walked rapidly toward his car, got in, and drove to the main gate.

  “Take care of all the sinners, Padre?” the guard asked with a smile as he waved him through.

  “Just one, my son,” he replied, rolling up the window. “Just one.”

  8

  AT THE SOUND OF LOUD VOICES IN HIS OUTER OFFICE, KARP glanced up from the political finance reports he had to sign off on and tapped his pen on the desk. He knew he should be irritated at the inevitable interruption. While the normal workday was just about over, he had hours’ more campaign work to do, which he did on his own time. Karp didn’t feel right soliciting votes on the taxpayers’ dollar. However, anything was better than dealing with minutiae of his campaign, so he got up from the big mahogany desk to see what was causing the ruckus.

  Opening his door, he was confronted by the sight and smell of a filthy and wide-eyed individual in a stained and deteriorating tie-dyed T-shirt on which were stenciled the words Jerry Garcia Lives! With his wild mane of wiry gray hair and unkempt salt-and-pepper beard, the man reminded Karp of what Moses might have looked like coming down from the mountain after a particularly grueling session with God…. That is, if Moses had lived in Haight-Ashbury during the late 1960s. The man certainly sounded like a prophet, even if he smelled like bad wine, sweat, and cheap marijuana.

  “JEHOVAH KNOWS HOW TO DELIVER PEOPLE OF GODLY DEVOTION OUT OF TRIAL,” the man thundered, “BUT TO RESERVE UNRIGHTEOUS PEOPLE TO BE CUT OFF ON THE DAY OF JUDGMENT!…SECOND PETER TWO!”

  The preacher was not alone, however. Indeed, he was performing a spoken-word duet of sorts with Mrs. Milquetost, who was darting around to face the man no matter which way he turned, demanding that he leave the premises “or face the consequences.” Every time he shouted some new Biblical passage, she shouted back. But he ignored her until she finally gave up and hurried to her desk where she began to dial for security.

  Karp reached out and gently took the receiver from her and hung it up. “That’s okay, Mrs. Milquetost,” he said, careful to pronounce her name as she insisted. “I know this man and will deal with this.” He turned to the intruder and said, “Good afternoon, Mr. Treacher. To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?”

  “ON THAT DAY A GREAT PANIC FROM THE LORD SHALL FALL ON THEM, SO THAT EACH WILL LAY HOLD ON THE HAND OF HIS FELLOW, AND THE HAND OF THE ONE WILL BE RAISED AGAINST THE OTHER! ZACHARIAH FOURTEEN, TWELVE!” The man’s voice boomed as if speaking to a multitude in an auditorium, not two people in a small room, but then he seemed to notice Karp for the first time. His jaundiced and red-rimmed eyes focused and he smiled. “Why, good afternoon, Mr. Karp, hail fellow and well met,” he said pleasantly and at a normal volume.

  “Is there any particular reason for these rather forbidding quotations, Mr. Treacher?” Karp asked. “You’re frightening my receptionist.”

  “I’m not afraid of him,” Mrs. Milquetost hissed. “I just want him out. This is a place of business…not some street church.”

  Edward Treacher bowed gallantly to the red-faced receptionist, who couldn’t seem to decide whether she resented the intruder more or Karp for stopping her from calling security. “I shall leave promptly, dear lady,” he said, “after I have delivered a very important message to your employer.”

  “And what is that?” Karp asked. Treacher had once been a philosophy professor of some note at New York University during the Flower Power years. Legend had it that he’d taken too much LSD during one rock festival and had never quite returned to planet Earth. He’d certainly never returned to teaching or any other full-time employment, preferring to live homeless on the streets. He was full of doomsday quotations and had a habit of turning up at the most unusual times and places—in fact, he was a material witness in the murder of rap star ML Rex by a cop working for Andrew Kane. But otherwise he was harmless.

  Leaning toward Karp conspiratorially so that Mrs. Milquetost, who strained to hear, was thwarted in the endeavor behind her desk, Treacher whispered as he winked, “Oh, just the usual end-of-the-world stuff, Mr. Karp. You know, if I keep it up long enough, I’m bound to be right; the world has got to end—sooner than later at our current pace…. However, I have been sent here on a more immediate mission and that is to warn you, and I quote, ‘Take care, Mr. Karp, the forces of evil are gathering and the pale rider is returning to Sodom’…otherwise known as our beloved Big Apple. ‘A harbinger of bad tidings will soon arrive from California as proof that what I say is true.’”

  Treacher glanced suspiciously at Mrs. Milquetost, who narrowed her eyes and looked like she’d wanted to gouge his out. “On a personal note, I myself only just escaped an evisceration by one of their number before dawn this morning and was narrowly saved by our mutual friend Mr. Grale,” he said. “Apparently, Mr. Kane does not take kindly to those who interfered with his plans to take over the city. But I’m just a small fish in this pond, the attempt was unprofessional and halfhearted, and the would-be assassins are now rat meat beneath the city. Oh, and it was our Mr. Grale who asked me to deliver the warning.”


  Karp grimaced inwardly at the thought of Grale dispatching yet more “demons,” though it sounded like it had been in defense of another. “All right, Mr. Treacher, I’ll certainly take it under advisement,” he replied.

  In all honesty, he was growing tired of all the “forces of evil gathering” stuff. There are good people and bad people, he thought, not angels and demons. But Grale and his Mole People, of whom he figured Treacher was one, certainly had their ears to the ground when it came to word from the streets, and it paid to listen to what was being said beneath the mumbo jumbo.

  Treacher reached out and clapped Karp on the shoulder. “Good…well, that’s about it, unless you have something to eat,” he said hopefully. His hopes were dashed by the stern countenance of Mrs. Milquetost. “I see you do not, so if you’ll excuse me, I have the Lord’s work to do; places to go, folks to warn about the end of the world…. Sort of like a spiritual Paul Revere, don’t you think? One if by land, two if by sea.”

  “Wait,” Karp said. “If you’re in danger, maybe we can find a safe place for you to stay for a while? After all, I’ve got to keep my witnesses alive.”

  Treacher chuckled. “Safe? For how long would you keep me a pampered prisoner? There won’t be a trial; the defendant has escaped and even now plots against you and others. No, I am as safe as you can be in New York City, and there are bigger fish in the pond that Mr. Kane is trying to land than me. Have a care, Mr. Karp.” With that he turned on his heel and strode purposefully from the office.

  “Shall I call security to escort him from the building?” Mrs. Milquetost inquired, starting to reach for the telephone again.