And he would not now. Not at this board. Not in this country.
The Kutsenkos would never see America. Fidel Castro would not see another sunrise. The United States would never recover from its role in his assassination, a role that would be proven when Andrew Starcher was thrust into the role of killer.
And Justin Gilead would die. He would entrust that death no longer to underlings. He would kill Gilead himself.
The Grandmaster would lose, once and for all, just as he would lose this game.
Zharkov contemplated the board for only a few minutes and then leaped one of his knights forward deep into Gilead's territory.
The Grandmaster looked at the move and immediately conceded its strength. Gilead had come out of the opening with equality, but Zharkov was now preparing to mass his attacking men on the side of the board in front of Gilead's king preparatory to launching a killer attack. It was a bold stroke, and it would take elaborate planning on Justin's part to refute it.
Planning. There was an old chess rule that even a bad plan was better than no plan at all. In this case, however, a bad plan from Justin would have been as fatal as no plan at all. He needed a plan good enough to repel the coming attack and to leave his own pieces coordinated enough to move forward into an attack position of their own.
Planning. It had always been the key to Zharkov's life, Justin thought. Zharkov had planned on getting the defenders of Rashimpur away from the mountain monastery by sending that lone patrol of soldiers up the slopes. And Justin had fallen into the trap. While he was down at the base of the mountain, dealing with that patrol, Zharkov had moved his main body of men into the monastery and slaughtered the priests of the temple. It had been Justin's fault. He had not planned, and he had not considered the plan of another.
He could not afford that mistake now. Not in this game; not in this life. He would have to find Andrew Starcher. There were the Kutsenkos to consider as well. And there was whatever scheme Nichevo had planned in Havana. Those plans had to be dealt with.
And Justin had his own plans.
First Zharkov's death. And then his own.
It was time to complete the circle, to end the life he had not wanted to live. His karma was hopelessly ruined; there were too many deaths on his hands. It was time to die and hope that someday a real Patanjali might live, one who would not soil the honor of the name and the worth of the office of the Wearer of the Blue Hat.
But first the game. He glanced surreptitiously at his clock and knew that he would be in time trouble before this game ended. He had already used up too much time. He studied the position one more time, and thought with a sinking feeling of apprehension that he was not familiar with it. If there was a trap in there that Zharkov knew, he did not see it, and so he could only play on general principles, could only make the move that nine out of ten times would be a correct defensive move, and hope that this game was not an example of the tenth case when such a move was doomed to fail.
He pushed forward the pawn in front of his king rook square one space and lightly tapped the clock to start Zharkov's time running.
Time. He hoped he had time. Time for this game. Time to find Starcher. Time for all the things he had to do.
The defense was feeble. Justin Gilead's attempts at defense against him had always been feeble. Zharkov looked at the unnatural pawn structure in front of Gilead's king. They were men to be sacrificed, those pawns, Zharkov thought. Just as sacrifices had always saved Gilead. The monks, the people in that Polish village, the woman Zharkov had killed. All had been pawns; all sacrificed so that Gilead could escape. Until now.
Zharkov glanced at the clock. He had over eighty minutes left on his clock; Gilead had only fifteen. The Grandmaster had been playing quickly to try to conserve his time, but the rapidity of his moves and Zharkov's greater knowledge of these new lines had led Gilead to a position that was growing steadily more precarious.
Almost casually, Zharkov moved a knight forward and captured one of Gilead's pawns, breaking the barrier that had separated the Grandmaster's king from the full fury of Zharkov's attack.
Now the knight was vulnerable to recapture. Gilead's pawn would take it, and Zharkov would have sacrificed a knight for only a pawn, because in the process he would be able to launch an irresistible attack. He casually pressed down the button atop the chess clock, and as he did, he thought of Maria Lozovan. She had been sacrificed, too. It had been a game of pawns, after all.
He looked up, hoping to meet Gilead's eyes, hoping to mock him now in the final moments of his losing struggle. But Gilead's head was bent down over the chessboard, and all Zharkov could see was the hair so black it seemed almost blue. It was the way he had first seen Justin Gilead, as a young boy, bent over, his concentration focused totally on the board.
There was nothing left for Gilead, Zharkov knew. He was going to lose.
Justin knew it, too. He had no time. His plan had not worked. He had neglected chess for five years, and his knowledge of recent developments was too spotty.
And then he realized that he was wrong. The greatest thing of all still remained, and it was still on his side.
When time was short, when strategies proved valueless, when tactics had failed, when rote learning and memory had been exceeded, there was always one thing left. There was life. There was an innate sense of power and force and lines that rendered all the other factors in a chess game meaningless. There was the genius of survival, and there was the power of life.
Even as he thought that, Gilead felt a warm glow come over his body. The short hairs on his forearms bristled, standing up with energy and excitement, and he stared at the board and let himself drift into the game. He let himself be merged with the pieces, become a part of the board, and suddenly he was no longer a chess player looking down from a safe distance at the war of two wooden armies; he was in the armies and of them, and their struggle was his, and their victory would be his. Because he would live.
You are the game.
As if it were a flash of light, the sequence came now to Justin. His queen still lived. Many smaller, less powerful pieces had been traded, but his queen—the most powerful piece on the board—still lived, and she would not let her king die. It is not a game of pawns, he thought. It is never a game of pawns.
He no longer calculated; he no longer planned what response he would make to whatever move Zharkov showed him. He was the game, and he would move the game where he wanted it to move; he would make of it what he wanted it to be.
He moved his queen across the board in a long line to protect his king. He was the game. His hand reached out and touched the clock.
Zharkov responded immediately. The Russian thought that the queen move was a blunder and that Gilead now must surely lose a piece to Zharkov's marauding advancing knight. He moved that knight, attacking two pieces simultaneously.
He touched his clock, but his hand had barely moved away from the clock control when Justin moved and turned on Zharkov's clock again. So quick was Justin's motion that their fingers almost touched above the clock.
Zharkov looked across at Gilead. The Grandmaster no longer had his head down; he was looking up, but he was looking past Zharkov at a point in space far beyond the Russian. If it had been another man, Zharkov would have said he was daydreaming, but he knew that Justin Gilead was not doing that.
Justin had moved his queen again, and Zharkov now could pick off Justin's rook.
His hand reached out to make the capture, and then he stopped. He had plenty of time left; he should analyze the position carefully, in case Gilead had some kind of trap planned.
He lowered his head over the chessboard and began to calculate.
You are the game.
Justin felt it now; the power had come on him, and this time it was real and full. He was floating freely in a real world of the mind where he did not struggle, did not try to persevere. Instead, he just drifted. He would go where the pieces took him; he would move them where they chose. There wer
e invisible lines of power radiating out across the board from his king. He would trust the pieces to find those lines and to march his army of men along them, and he would go where the game took him. Because he was the game.
Zharkov moved.
Justin responded immediately.
Zharkov pondered and moved again.
Justin's answering move was done with but a second passing on the clock.
Justin now looked at the board only to see where Zharkov had moved. He spent the rest of his time staring out into space, seeing the position in his mind, letting the pieces move along their chosen paths.
He had now lost a pawn and a rook. In a different game against a different player he would have resigned. The difference in material was too great to make up in an ordinary game. But this was no ordinary game. This was life.
The queen, the pieces of the board whispered to Justin. Now, we move our queen into his camp.
When Zharkov moved again, Justin immediately responded, slashing forward with his queen, attacking Zharkov's pawn position.
The queen was defenseless. It could be taken by two of Zharkov’s pawns. The Russian looked at the move in astonishment. Gilead had blundered away any chance for the game.
Take the queen. Zharkov would be ahead by a rook, a pawn, and a queen. Hardly anyone who knew where the pieces were placed on the board could lose with that kind of advantage.
He reached to capture the queen with his pawn. He hesitated and looked at Gilead. Justin was looking in his direction but did not see him. His eyes were again fixed on something in the distance, and Zharkov knew that if he turned and followed Justin's eyes, he would see nothing there. Because what Justin was looking at was not of the world they occupied. He was seeing into the heart and soul of the game they were playing. Seeing as perhaps no man had ever seen before.
For the first time, Zharkov felt doubt insinuate itself into his mind. He glanced at his clock. He now had only twenty-five minutes left. Justin still had thirteen. The Grandmaster had made his last eight moves in less than two minutes. He no longer thought about the game, about the strategy, about the tactics or the complications. He only moved, move after inexorable move, counting on the game to play itself.
Zharkov cursed under his breath and took the queen. Mysticism was fine, but this was chess, the real world. Let Justin Gilead play the game without queen or rook or pawn. Let him try to find a win in that. Triumphantly he took the queen and savagely hit the button atop the clock.
The queen had done her job. She had protected Justin Gilead's king from Zharkov's attack, refusing to let the king fall before the Russian onslaught.
And now the rook. Without thought, without calculation, Justin moved the rook over in front of Zharkov's king and checked it. The rook could not be taken because it was protected by Justin's remaining bishop. There was only one move for Zharkov, to put his king into the corner.
He made the move immediately because there was no need to waste time studying moves when there was only one move to make.
As soon as he did, Justin moved his rook across the board, capturing one of Zharkov's pieces. As he moved the rook, it exposed the long diagonal across the board and again checked Zharkov's king, which was in line with Justin's bishop. Zharkov again had only one move, to return the king to the square it had just fled.
As soon as he did, Justin brought his rook back in front of the king and checked it again. Again, Zharkov could not take it because it was protected by the bishop, and again, he had only one move. Into the corner.
Once more, Justin slid his rook along the length of the board, uncovering a check by the bishop. He brought the rook down on the square occupied by Zharkov’s own rook. Another Russian piece had fallen.
Too late, Zharkov saw what had happened. Justin Gilead's pieces were so placed that his rook could swing back and forth across the board, move after move, first checking Zharkov's king, then capturing a piece, then checking the king and capturing another piece, until Zharkov was so far behind in material that there was nothing left for him.
The game was over. He had lost. Zharkov sat at the table, staring at the position in helpless rage. Then he rose without looking at Gilead and walked away from the table.
He left quickly. Rather than move and lose the game with his moves, he chose instead to let his clock run out. When the red flag dropped on his clock, Zharkov would have lost on time. But he would not have to be there to see it. He walked out of the room without looking back.
Justin Gilead did not see him. He was still looking off into a space beyond space. He fingered the coiled golden snake around his neck and thought only one thought.
You are the game.
And the game is almost over.
CHAPTER FORTY
There were no messages from Starcher at the front desk. Justin asked for Zharkov’s room number, walked up to the third floor, and pounded on the door. It was time to find out where Starcher was.
No one answered.
He gripped the doorknob in his hand and twisted. The metal pins in the lock held for a moment, then snapped with a loud crack under the force of Justin's hand. He pushed the door open wide and stepped inside.
The room was empty. Justin searched through Zharkov's nightstand and his dresser drawers, looking for an address or telephone number, something that would tell him what he wanted to know.
Zharkov traveled light. There were no papers, no reports or books, no address and phone directories. All Justin found was a pile of chess magazines on a table near the windows, alongside a chess set with the pieces arranged for the start of a game. The sight of the chess set enraged Gilead, and he angrily swept all the black pieces onto the floor with his arm. He picked up the black king and laid it on the board, on its side, in the universal chess gesture that said the game was lost. It meant the king was dead.
When Zharkov returned, he would know what it meant: That the Grandmaster was going to kill him.
"What are you doing here?" The words came from a big man standing in the doorway to the room. Justin had not seen him before, but he had the appearance of a bodyguard and a Russian.
"Looking for Zharkov," Justin said as he walked toward the door.
"He is not here."
"I can see that. Where is he?"
"I do not know. What I do know is that burglars are not welcome in this hotel. Who are you?"
Justin ignored the question. "I guess you don't know where Andrew Starcher is either, do you?" he asked.
"Who?"
The puzzled look on the man's face told Justin that he was telling the truth. He did not know Starcher.
Justin was standing in front of the man now, but the guard said, "You're not leaving quite so quickly. I think we'll call the house detectives first to see exactly who you are."
"Don't make trouble for yourself," Justin said.
"It's no trouble." The guard was big, but his move to his hip holster inside his jacket was practiced and fast. The gun was in his hand. Justin's move was faster, and when the guard's temple bone shattered under the forward thrust of Justin's knuckles, the man dropped heavily to the floor. He had not lived long enough even to groan.
Justin dragged the man into the room, closed the door, and walked away.
Another death. When would it end? Justin thought. How many persons would have to go before the black king fell?
When he opened the door to his own room, he saw a pink slip of memo paper on the floor. It read simply: "Call your friend with the tattoo."
Justin used a pay phone in the lobby to call the Purple Shell. Pablo Olivares answered.
"This is Justin Gilead. We met last night. I received a message to call you.”
"Si. Wait. I will take this call in my office."
Justin heard the phone being set down. A few moments later, another line was picked up. Then he heard the click as the first telephone was replaced on the receiver base.
"Señor Gilead, you are there?"
"Yes."
"I d
on't know if this means anything, but maybe—"
"What is it?" Justin snapped.
"There was a Russian sailor in here this morning. The Russians drink vodka well, but they cannot drink rum. This sailor was no different. He drank too much, and he talked too much. He said that there is a small cabin cruiser out in the harbor. It is anchored in the middle of three big Russian ships, and there are small patrol boats cruising around it day and night. I wondered if that might mean anything."
"He doesn't know what the boat is doing there?" Justin asked.
"No, señor. I tried, but he said it had been there since yesterday, just anchored there, and no one knows anything about it. But he thought it was important because the small patrol boats are around it. Could it be important?"
"It might be," Justin said.
"Good. I thought about our friend who is missing."
"Perhaps. Thank you, Señor Olivares," Justin said.
"One more thing, Señor Gilead. The men riding in those patrol boats. They are heavily armed, this drunken Russian said."
"Thank you."
"Are you going out there?" Olivares asked.
"Yes."
"You will probably be shot before your boat gets there."
"I'm not taking a boat," Justin said. "Thank you, señor."
Yuri Durganiv opened a bottle of Los Hermanos beer and glanced at Starcher, offering him one, but the white-haired American shook his head.
"Suit yourself," Durganiv said. "I find it calms the nerves when I have a busy night planned."
"Maybe it won't be so busy," Starcher said.
"Oh, it will. And for you, too." He drained half the bottle in one long gulp, leaning backward and upending it over his mouth, the bottle almost hidden in his huge hand.
Grandmaster (A Suspense and Espionage Thriller) Page 38
