by Jack Murray
Ratcliff eyed Kit closely. He could see how Kit quickly understood the ramifications of their conversation. Gently, he asked, ‘I was wondering what you intended doing?’
‘I can’t play,’ replied Kit.
This seemed to disappoint Ratcliff, although Kit could not be sure. The face of Ratcliff usually portrayed two emotions: good-humoured calm or rage. There was not a lot in between. Travel between the two emotions took place at an unhealthy velocity that was as bad for Ratcliff’s blood pressure as it was unwelcome to those on the receiving end.
‘Well of course, it’s your concern but may I ask why?’
This was something that Kit had hoped to avoid. He looked away from Ratcliff towards the lake. Ratcliff sensed a mind in turmoil and remained silent for Kit to collect his thoughts. After an uncomfortable silence, Kit opened about the events of Christmas and the aftermath.
When he had finished, Ratcliff said, ‘Good God, Kit. How terrible. You poor fellow. What is the prognosis for this young lady? Will she recover?’
‘I hope so. It’s so hard to say. We don’t know yet if we did enough at the time. She may come out of the coma but who knows how she’ll be,’ said Kit, fighting hard to contain his emotions.
‘I’m terribly sorry to hear this, Kit. It certainly throws a different complexion on what I had intended saying to you.’
Kit turned to Ratcliff, ‘Really? What were you intending to tell me?’
‘I’m in no position to tell you anything now, Kit. It was more of a request,’ replied Ratcliff.
‘You wanted me to play the match.’
‘Yes.’
‘Even though you must know that Serov has every chance of winning. I’m not quite the player I was. Clearly, Serov will have had more recent match practice than I. He’ll be very focused on the game. I won’t be, as you may imagine.’
Ratcliff smiled, but there seemed to be sadness in the smile.
‘I hope you won’t be offended, Kit, but I wasn’t expecting you to win. In fact, I fully expect the Russians to try and make capital, so to speak, out of your probable defeat in the press and elsewhere.’
‘So why on earth would I play?’
‘There’s a lot of interest in this game, as I said. It goes all the way to the top. We could use your agreement to participate in such a high-profile game as a bargaining chip to get some of our boys released from prison,’ said Ratcliff, before adding, despondently, ‘We’ve had a run of bad luck on that score. Anyway, it’ll be back-channel stuff.’
Kit sat back in the seat and exhaled slowly. This was an impossible situation for him. However, he knew what he would have to do. The thought that his bailing out of a chess match would result in British agents staying in a Russian jail was abhorrent to him. Ratcliff sensed how Kit was thinking and patted him gently on the back.
‘I’m truly sorry Kit. If there was another way, we’d do it. Unfortunately, we’re fresh out of alternatives.’
Kit looked at Ratcliff, he could see how uncomfortable Ratcliff felt about putting him this position. A bird splash-landed on the lake and both men looked at it. The surface of the lake had a thin crust of ice forming. The sight of it made Kit shiver, or was it the decision facing him? He wasn’t sure, but he knew that couldn’t refuse. Finally, Kit nodded to Ratcliff.
Almost as an afterthought, Ratcliff added, ‘Who knows, old chap; you might even win.’
Chapter 7
Fiona Lawrence was a mathematics prodigy. At twelve years old she had already reached a level not only far in advance of her fellow school children it would have sent a few university lecturers rushing to their textbooks to bone up on philosophical Boolean algebra.
For relaxation, she played chess. In fact, she played a lot of chess; friendships for Fiona tended to be with adults rather than children. Kids of her own age found her advanced intellect and interest in things mathematical, distinctly odd. Only from time to time did Fiona miss the company of children her own age. However, a few minutes exposure to other giggling girls talking about the latest romantic novel they were reading swiftly disabused her of any notion that she was somehow missing out.
Fiona’s ability at chess had long since outstripped her teachers at the chess club and other players in the area. This is why, as she sat in the John Knox Presbyterian Hall in the centre of Edinburgh, she felt an excitement that she’d, perhaps, never felt before. The chance to lock horns with a genuine equal.
This was another thing that separated Fiona from other children her age. She had an unabashed certainty of her own cerebral superiority. Fiona really believed she could beat a prospective potential world chess champion like Filip Serov.
When playing chess, the tiny warrior always wore battle red. She viewed the colour as an extension of the game. For her it was a sign of aggression and strength. In a room full of somberly dressed Presbyterians, she would stand out. This was exactly what she wanted.
Just before eleven in the morning, there was a commotion in the hall as the Russian made his entrance. He was flanked by one rather large man and another smaller, mean-looking, man. Fiona could barely suppress a smile as she saw her opponent. He had no idea his day of reckoning had come.
-
The morning for Serov had begun with a bracing walk across Princes Street Gardens. The park occupied the valley running along Princes Street on one side and Castle Rock, the volcanic plug which led up to Edinburgh Castle, on the other. The sun was shining, although this was just a detail as it seemed to be generating precious little heat. Serov didn’t care. He was enjoying the freedom and the relative warmth, at least in comparison to Mother Russia.
He found Edinburgh much to his liking. There was an openness to the city but also a seriousness, dignity even, which appealed to him more than he cared admit. He quickly banished such thoughts and continued to walk through the gardens with a mood that swayed between elation at his surroundings and sadness that his work would begin in earnest, taking him away from the tranquil solitude he was enjoying so much.
It was difficult for Serov to hide his lack of enthusiasm for the Presbyterian Hall as he climbed out of the car. The building was dark and austere like the other buildings he had seen, but there was also an oppressiveness. Serov felt this was in keeping with the role of religion for the working man. He didn’t like this building or what it represented. However, he was here to win more than just a series of chess matches.
Smiling like a politician, he shook hands with a church minister named Upritchard and his very earnest although not unattractive daughter. To his surprise he found Upritchard to have none of the earnestness of the building or his daughter. In fact, he seemed positively honoured to have Serov visit them. This was followed by more introductions as he walked into the hall. He had each forgotten their names within seconds.
As dark and oppressive as the exterior was, the interior more than matched it in its ability to crush the spirit. Serov hoped that he could make short work of the series of opponents seated at tables which formed a “U”. He looked around the room. A quick count revealed around a dozen eager players waiting to commence battle. None of them seemed younger than fifty. All were smiling up at him expectantly. Then he caught sight of the twelve-year-old Fiona Lawrence. Wearing bright red, she stood out from the dark suited men like a witch among altar boys.
Their eyes met.
Fiona Lawrence smiled at Serov. There was no humour or cordiality, however. Serov immediately detected the smile of a predator. He knew this would be the match. More than this, he knew she knew this too. Almost imperceptibly she nodded to him thereby confirming his suspicions. He disliked her on first sight. He would make an example of her.
Before the matches began, Daniels called him over to pose for photographs with the church elders and the chess club president. Formalities out of the way, Serov was introduced briefly to his opponents. Fiona Lawrence was sitting on the last table. They shook hands. Her hand was very small. Following the introductions, the games began in earnest.
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Serov walked from player to player making a series of quick-fire opening moves, he was always black. That is until he reached the table of Fiona Lawrence. She had switched the board around, allowing Serov to play the white pieces. Theoretically this gave Serov a slight advantage. He glared in anger at the pocket predator. Before she could react, he swiftly turned the board around so that she would have a better chance.
Fiona Lawrence raised one eyebrow and the smile left her face. Upritchard, who was trailing Serov around, much to the grandmaster’s irritation, glanced at the rest of the room. Everyone was watching rapt at this battle of wills. To a man and woman, each was thinking the same thing.
Serov’s ‘for it’ now.
Miss Lawrence was a source of great pride, if not much affection, at the chess club. Antagonising Fiona Lawrence, even if you were a grand master, was to take the chess equivalent of your life in your hands.
After a tense few moments Fiona Lawrence, to the intense relief of Upritchard and the disappointment of the room, opted to avoid a diplomatic incident. She reached down to move her first white piece. Her selection caused gasps.
Fiona moved a3. The pawn in front of the Castle moved two squares. This was in complete opposition to classic, safe opening moves using either the King or Queen pawns. It was named the Anderssen opening, after a former world champion who had devised it. The move was used very rarely for the simple reason that its fundamental weaknesses were exposed as the game progressed. This meant the chances of winning were much lower than more traditional openings. Against someone of Serov’s skill it stood no chance, theoretically.
Serov’s face darkened in anger. Such a move, against someone of his standing, was tantamount to an insult. The little witch was effectively forfeiting her chance of winning in favour of a highly complicated and messy pitched battle. He hated the menace, madness, and confusion of such games.
As Newton once observed, each action has an equal and opposite reaction. Seeing the anger cloud Serov’s face made the child prodigy smile again in a manner which, to those witnessing it agreed, bordered on Satanic.
Serov moved his King’s pawn two squares and marched back around to the first table in a very dark mood. For the next thirty minutes, driven by a controlled fury, Serov lapped around the room laying waste to the great and good of the chess club. All except Miss Lawrence.
He ignored her. Completely.
Instead, he focused on finishing off the other players. He did this with an alacrity that bordered on contempt. The period of inactivity incensed young Fiona, much to the delight of Serov, as he completely disregarded her lap after lap.
This new theatre in the mind war between grandmaster and schoolgirl had, by now, attracted the attention of many more people than just the chess club. Billy Peel was a late arrival to the venue. However, his highly tuned newsman’s instinct for tension had detected ‘an atmosphere’ in the room. He set to work.
With eleven out of eleven victories under his belt, Serov was finally able to focus his full attention on the young opponent. As he finished his penultimate game, he turned from his vanquished opponent to see Fiona Lawrence was no longer at her table. She was, in fact, speaking to Fechin. This was alarming and dismaying in equal measure. It was alarming because he hadn’t realised Fechin could speak English. It was a source of dismay because he had no idea what he was saying to her. From the genial smile on the young girl’s face, he guessed that it was information she would use against him.
He was right.
As this horse had already bolted, he could only glare at Daniels to indicate his displeasure at Fechin’s actions. The sharper-witted Daniels noticed what was angering Serov and called Fechin to join him immediately. The look on the face of Daniels was enough for Fechin. Realising that his conversation with Serov’s opponent may have been ill-advised, he quickly parted from her and scampered over to Daniels with the air of a schoolboy about to face corporal punishment.
Serov and Miss Lawrence both approached either side of the chess table like two gunfighters. Each wore a scowl, neither blinked as they stared at one another on their way to the seats. The atmosphere was febrile.
All around the two warriors a rush ensued to view the battle. Dignity and Presbyterian solemnity were thrown to the wayside as pensioners clambered over tables to get a view of the titanic tussle about to ensue. Unusually for a Presbyterian Hall, never mind a chess club, one of the members was surreptitiously taking bets. The odds on an unexpected victory for the twelve-year-old home favourite against the world renounced Russian grandmaster were an ungenerous two to one against.
Notwithstanding this, there were several takers at this price, including three bob from the very Reverend Upritchard. He hedged this with another two bob on a draw, which was evens. His daughter looked at him with raised eyebrows. Upritchard immediately recognised disapproval in the firm set of her mouth. He sighed. So, like her mother.
Serov stared down at the board and then he looked at his opponent. With great deliberation he put his hand on the King-side Knight and moved it. Without looking away from her opponent’s eyes, Fiona Lawrence put her hand on a pawn and made her next move. The battle had begun.
Chapter 8
The atmosphere in Mary’s hospital room was subdued. The shades on the window filtered out what little light there was outside. Mary remained stable but unconscious. Kit was in a sombre mood which his meeting with Ratcliff had only made worse. He related to his friends details from his meeting with Ratcliff. It was clear he was torn between refusing and a sense of duty towards his old commander. Both Esther and Bright urged Kit to play.
‘Kit, I don’t think Mary would want you to give up on everyday things never mind your duty,’ said Esther sympathetically. There were circles under her eyes, Kit noted. She was probably having as much trouble sleeping as he was.
‘I’m not sure a chess match falls under either duty or national interest,’ replied Kit doubtfully. He sat back in the chair gripping the arms tightly. His two friends could see how torn he was between Mary, his own doubts on his chances and the wider considerations raised by Ratcliff.
‘Maybe so, Kit’ said Bright, ‘But if what he says is true. Maybe if you play then it’ll help get some of our boys released. Ratcliff doesn’t sound a bad sort. He’s not putting a gun to your head, is he?’
This was the key issue for him.
‘No, he’s not. This makes it all the worse, oddly. I don’t owe him any debt and it’s not as if we were close. He’s a good sort, but I suspect I’d think differently if I’d crossed him.’
‘Why do you say that Kit?’ asked Esther out of curiosity.
‘He was a very intense sort of chap. Almost fanatical in his dislike of the Bolsheviks. He genuinely fears the influence they could wield in England.’
‘How extraordinary,’ said Bright.
‘I agree but then again, he’s privy to more information than I. He spent a lot of time over there. He was out there long before me. In fact, he probably knows Russia more than anyone I’ve met. If he’s in a funk about what they could do then I suspect, there’s probably some basis for it and politicians will listen to him. He’s very well connected.’
‘All the more reason why you should play, Kit,’ pointed out Esther.
Kit looked down at Mary. Fear and sadness gripped him. ‘I hate to be away from her. I hate to think about anything else now even if thinking of her, here, like this because of me, makes me despair.’
Esther took his hand, ‘It wasn’t your fault Kit. Don’t think this way. Perhaps if you do this for Major Ratcliff it’ll help take your mind off Mary; something to do until she wakes.’
Kit smiled in gratitude at Esther before adding despondently, ‘Oh yes, being publicly humiliated by a Russian grandmaster will really help my mood.’
Bright and Esther laughed and assured him that he stood an excellent chance. As they laughed, Kit detected just the merest hint of movement from Mary’s face. He turned excitedly to Esther, ‘Did yo
u see that?’
‘Yes, I did,’ cried Esther. Both crowded Mary and implored her to wake. The momentary flicker of hope died very quickly. Her beautiful face remained tranquil. Kit stroked her hair gently.
‘Come on my love, come on,’ he whispered, sadness etched across his features.
Very soon after the visiting time was finished, and they reluctantly left Mary. Kit and Bright returned to the apartment, while Esther went to the park to indulge in her hobby of painting in watercolour.
-
Miller drove the short distance to the Telegraph office. There was a long queue as he arrived. Thankfully, the young woman at the counter was very much to Miller’s liking and the time passed much too quickly. Miller smiled at the young woman when it was his turn, but she was much too business-like to notice. Can’t win them all, thought Miller and read out the messages. The first telegram was to Georgy Bergmann confirming his acceptance of the challenge. The second telegram to Ratcliff was to let him know his decision. Miller noted that after recording the messages the young woman had glanced at him surreptitiously. He pretended not to notice. Instead, he replicated her business-like air and desire to expedite the commission.
-
Kit sat in the apartment with Sam snoring gently on his knee. Normally self-possessed, he felt anxiety grip his stomach at the thought of what lay ahead. It had been years since he had played chess seriously. Before the War, he had been a fine player. Unquestionably one of the strongest in the country. His title had probably made him one of the most prominent players although Kit modestly acknowledged that he was far from being the best. After returning from the War, he had taken the game up again but made no attempt to play seriously against top players.
Now he felt like an athlete, just back from injury, being asked to compete against an Olympic champion. He didn’t give two bob for his chances. It was some comfort to know victory would only be a welcome by-product of the match rather than the sole object.
