Something dark and wet was closing over him, and he fought against it. He felt numb over his entire body; he was staring out at the world from the only safe place left to him, a small area deep inside his brain. And that place was too far away, too cramped. He knew he had to do something to fight the awful pressure. He had to do something; he had to play chess.
He began to pick up, slowly and methodically, the only things left of importance; a chessboard, pieces, and the scattered pages of the Petroff manuscript. He cleared a space on the floor and sat down, arranging the board and pieces before him, laying the papers down at his side. It felt like he was sitting on the ocean floor with a billion tons of water pressing down on him; it was incredibly hard to breathe or move.
He glanced at the record of one of Petroff’s games, then reached out and tentatively moved a piece. A droplet of sweat welled from his wrist and dropped onto the board. He blinked his eyes and found that they stung. It was only then that he realised that his body was soaked with sweat, his clothes pasted to his skin.
He played faster, ignoring the sheets, playing from memory, trying to block out everything else. It didn’t work. The events of the past few days tore through his mind like an old newsreel on an endless loop of film: Burns and Draper coming for him at the tournament, Arnett, the girl. Why the FBI? Why Arnett? Why the girl? Why, if it was all something cooked up by Petroff, had the Russians asked for a postponement?
And then the film plot broadened to include his mother and her men, his games in the park, Edgar …
John exploded, smashing his fist into the floor, picking up the board and hurling it across the room. Everything he had worked for was crumbling to dust before his eyes, because he was crumbling. He had conquered his own private demons to the point where he could play for the world championship, but now that wasn’t enough. Suddenly there were too many other players in the game.
He looked around the room for the card the girl had left. If it was there, it was hopelessly lost in the confusion. He did find the telephone directory, satisfied himself that there was no Anna Petroff listed, then looked up the number of the Soviet Embassy. He picked up the telephone receiver and listened; the phone was still working. He took a deep breath and dialled the number.
The phone was answered on the second ring. A heavily accented female voice said ‘Soviet Embassy. May I help you?’
John was grateful when his voice did not tremble. ‘You have a woman working for you at the United Nations. Her name is Anna Petroff. She isn’t listed in the telephone directory, and it’s very important that I get in touch with her.’
‘May I ask the nature of your business?’
‘No,’ John snapped. ‘It’s personal.’
‘One moment, please.’
The seconds dragged on. John drummed his fingers impatiently. Finally the voice came back on.
‘I’m sorry, sir, but we’re not allowed to give out the information you request. May I suggest you—’
John slammed the receiver down with such force that pain shot up through his forearm. But he welcomed the pain; it was better than no feeling at all.
There was a ringing in his ears like telephone wires on a hot summer day. He sat for long moments, struggling with his growing sense of panic and desperation. Finally he stripped off his clothes and took an ice cold shower. After that he felt better. He put on clean clothes, went down to the street and hailed a taxi.
The ride to the United Nations building took fifteen minutes. By the time he got there he was wet again. He was squandering the most precious thing he had, the one thing he could not afford: time. The fact that he could see no way of avoiding the expenditure only increased his frustration. He could not concentrate, and if he could not find some way of solving the riddles that had been posed, the match would be lost before he even sat down to play. Yet he knew he couldn’t back out of the match; at this stage of his life that was only another way of losing.
It did not take long for John to discover that his trip to the United Nations was wasted; no one could—or would—give him any information, except for a porter who verified that there was a Russian girl working there who answered Anna’s description, and a page who remembered seeing the name Anna Petroff on a bulletin of some sort that he had distributed. Since his instinct had led him to believe the girl in the first place, John felt he was back where he had started. Despite the fact that the General Assembly was in session, no one had seen the girl that day.
John felt himself growing numb again. He changed a dollar at a souvenir stand and placed a call to Newburgh. Tom Manning answered the phone himself.
‘Manning.’
‘This is John. I’ve got to talk.’
‘Where are you?’ Tom said quickly, reacting to the tension in John’s voice. ‘I’ll be right over.’
‘No,’ John said after a long pause. ‘I’ll drive out. I need a change of scenery.’
‘Everything’s coming apart.’
John had hoped that the ride in the rented car up the Palisades Parkway would relax him, clear his mind. It hadn’t. There had been too many ghosts riding with him. He stood now on the edge of a cliff overlooking the Hudson River. A gull swooped out of the sky, calling for its mate. The call reminded John of Anna’s stifled cry inside the United Textiles office. What had frightened her?
Tom stepped close to him and gripped his arm. John felt his muscles tense, stiff and unyielding. ‘Relax, John,’ Tom said soothingly. ‘Take it easy.’
John resisted the impulse to pull his arm away. He needed help badly, and he needed a friend. ‘Relax? That’s the last thing in the world I need to do right now. I need to work, and I can’t! I’m being crowded. First there was the CIA thing, and now Petroff’s sister shows up at my door.’
‘What?’ Tom screamed, reacting as he would to a physical blow. It was the first John had spoken of the reason for his wanting to talk. John had remained silent throughout lunch and the ride to this secluded area. The two Martinis Tom had insisted John drink had no visible effect. Tom thought he was beginning to understand why.
‘You heard me right,’ John said. ‘Her name is Anna, and she is Petroff’s sister. I’m satisfied of that. She works at the UN. She was with me earlier this afternoon, but now nobody seems to know where she is.’ He considered telling Tom about Jensen’s office and Anna’s reaction to the fact that the mysterious Arnett was not there. The story seemed too long and complicated, and he was too tired. He would speak of it when the words came.
‘For God’s sake, John, what did she want?’
‘Oh, nothing much,’ John said wryly. ‘She just wanted to give me a few of her brother’s games, his latest collaboration with half a dozen grand masters and a computer.’
Tom’s eyes widened. ‘Petroff’s latest games?’
‘Complete with analysis.’
‘Why? What reason did she give?’
‘She didn’t. She just said she was giving them to me in exchange for something she might ask of me in the future.’ John kicked dirt over the edge of the cliff, watched it fall down towards the water. ‘She was very cool about the whole thing until I told her I’d heard her brother wanted to defect. That upset her.’
Tom thought about that for a few minutes. ‘I suppose that would be a natural reaction,’ he said at last, his brow furrowed. ‘To her, we must be the enemy.’
John shook his head. ‘I think it was more than a question of national loyalties. If Petroff is planning to defect, you can be sure he hasn’t said anything to his sister about it. I think that’s what upset her, although I’m not sure why. She even made me take her to the place where I’d met Arnett. Nobody there had ever heard of him. It seems Arnett borrowed somebody else’s office to talk to me.’
Tom shoved his hands deep into his pockets and stared into space. The gull had returned, swooping low over the water in search of its dinner.
‘Is the analysis any good?’
‘Good?’ John laughed shortly, without humour. ‘You sh
ould see it! They’ve turned every system I play inside out. They’ve got four new moves prepared for the main line of the Ruy Lopez, and a whole new approach to the Najdorf Variation of the Sicilian.’
Tom shook his head in bewilderment. ‘Why do you suppose she would want to betray her brother? That is, assuming she has a choice.’
‘I’m not sure she is betraying him. At least she doesn’t think so.’ John was vaguely surprised at the degree of conviction in his voice. ‘As a matter of fact, she’s convinced Petroff is going to beat me And nothing could make her happier.’
Something in John’s voice made Tom glance at him sharply. ‘This girl impressed you, didn’t she?’
‘Yes. I suppose you could say that.’
‘You don’t believe the Russians put her up to it?’
‘No.’
‘You sound awfully sure. How else do you explain it?’
‘I can’t.’ John turned and started walking. Tom fell into step beside him. A chilly wind had sprung up and John shivered. ‘I do think the Russians are up to something though.’
‘Like what?’
‘It’s just a feeling. I think they’re trying to rattle me so that I’ll pull out.’ John smiled bitterly. ‘I suppose they’ve been looking at my track record.’
Tom’s voice was incredulous. ‘It just doesn’t follow, John. They want you to pull out, so they manage to slip you a manuscript of Petroff’s latest games!’
‘I told you, I don’t think the girl is a part of it,’ John said insistently.
‘What you mean is that you don’t want to believe she’s a part of it.’
‘I think she’s playing a game of her own. I don’t know what it is, but I don’t believe the Russians know about it. I think they are trying to get at me in a different way. That’s probably what this business with Arnett was all about.’ He took a deep breath, trying to dissipate the tension in his arms, legs and chest. ‘The only thing I know for sure is that the first game of the match is scheduled for a week from tomorrow. And we’re supposed to be in Venice the day after tomorrow.’ He glanced at the older man. ‘I’m not ready, Tom. I can’t prepare because I can’t concentrate.’
‘All right.’ Tom said decisively, ‘I’ll get Henry and a few other grand masters to move in with you for the next couple of days. Sanders will be willing, I think, and so will Johnson. Henry will screen all calls and visitors, and I’ll make arrangements to have all meals sent in. You’ll do nothing but rest, play chess and analyse.’
‘No,’ John said after a long pause. ‘Just Henry is enough. There won’t be room for anyone else. Someone broke into my apartment earlier this afternoon.’
Tom stopped walking. He touched John’s arm. John turned to face him. There was concern on the other man’s face, anxiety in his voice. ‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’
John shrugged. ‘Because I’ve been thinking about it, and I’m not sure where it fits into all this. There’s something funny about the break-in that I can’t put my finger on. Nothing was taken. Of course, I don’t have much to take. But a junkie would have taken something. But nothing is gone, as far as I can tell. Whoever did it seemed content to just bust up everything. Maybe I’m beginning to sound paranoid, but I think it’s part of the same pattern. I think the Russians are stepping up the pressure.’
‘My God!’ Tom said with feeling. ‘The Russians did ask for a postponement.’
John turned away. He found he was embarrassed by Tom Manning’s obvious concern and sincerity. He had not realised until that moment just how much this match—and his own hoped-for success—meant to the other man. Of course John knew how much Tom loved the game, and it was only natural that the director of the United States Chess Federation should want the next world champion to be an American. But John sensed that it was more than that with Tom; Tom wanted him to win, to finally prove himself. And he had waited many years for it to happen. For this John was grateful, and gratitude was not an emotion John was sure he knew how to handle.
‘There’s another thing I don’t understand,’ John said when Tom caught him up. ‘If you saw those papers you’d think the Russians would want to hold the match now. Yesterday.’
‘Precisely!’ Tom interjected. ‘Yesterday, but not today. The papers must be the key to the Russians’ attitude. You said you thought the girl was playing a game of her own. All right, let’s look at that line. Here’s how it goes: the papers were stolen and the Russians found out about it. They know you’ll be ready for anything Petroff throws at you, so they want more time to prepare something else.’
John grunted. ‘There’s only one thing wrong with that line. Why, if the girl wants her brother to win so much, should she steal Petroff’s analysis and hand it to me?’
‘Maybe the defection report is true. The papers are a kind of payment for helping him escape.’
‘Uh-uh. We’ve been over that, remember? You should have seen her face when I told her about the report.’
Tom made a disgusted noise deep in his throat. ‘I think we should postpone. The Russians asked for it first, so FIDE is bound to honour our request.’
‘Are you kidding? You’re telling me we should postpone? You’ve been on my back for the past six years—’
‘A different set of circumstances,’ Tom said quietly but firmly. ‘Then you were stumbling over your own ego. You’re a genius, John. Like most geniuses you have your own way of looking at things. I’m sure you felt you had good reason for walking away from the championship the last two times you had a shot at it.’
John flushed, but he bit back the angry words that gorged his throat.
‘I’m not criticising you, John,’ Tom continued evenly. ‘My only point is that it’s a different situation this time. Rigging grand master draws in the interzonals to assure a lot of Russian qualifiers is one thing; smashing up a man’s apartment—if the Russians did do it—is quite another.’
‘There’s no proof the Russians did it,’ John said.
‘In any case,’ Tom continued, ‘you were the one who said you were losing your concentration. You can use the time. Just this one time we’ll give the Russians what they want, because it’s also to our advantage. This is your shot, John. It won’t happen again for three more years. Let’s make sure the playing conditions—all the playing conditions—are right. You mustn’t go into this thing unprepared.’
John considered Tom’s words. He could see the logic in them, but he could feel his own hunger. It was time for him to show what he could do, and he didn’t want to wait one day longer than necessary. ‘No,’ he said at last. ‘I want to play the match as scheduled.’
‘John, don’t be bull-headed about this thing. You’ll be under enough pressure at it is. I don’t have to tell you that.’
‘No, you don’t have to tell me that. But I know I’m the best there is. Those other times … they’re past. Now I’m tired; I’m tired of not being what I know I can be. I’m tired of not being world champion.’
‘All right, John,’ Tom said quietly. ‘I’ve already booked our flight to Venice.’ He glanced quickly at John. ‘I know it’s none of my business, John, but have you visited your mother lately?’
There was a time, John reflected, when he would have been enraged at the mere mention of his mother. Now the thought of her was no more than a dead weight, a dull pain, in his heart. Suddenly, without warning, tears welled up in his eyes. He quickly blinked them back.
‘No,’ John said, his voice hard. ‘I hadn’t intended to. Not before the match. I’ve got enough on my mind.’
‘I think you should go, John,’ Tom said gently. ‘It’s not far from here. You may have more on your mind if you don’t go.’
John’s voice was almost inaudible. ‘I’ll give it some thought.’
SEVEN
It was dusk by the time John reached the hospital. A few patients were still strolling the grounds, waiting for the stony-faced attendants to once again seize hold of their lives and tell them it was t
ime to come in. John’s mother was not among them. He had been told that she rarely left her room, and that this was a cause of concern among the hospital staff. But John understood: if he were locked up here, he would never come out of his room. Not ever.
His hatred of the place was personal; often, in his mind’s eye, he had seen the padded cells, the barred windows, the male nurses with frozen smiles and needles in their hands. He had known the torment of mental anguish, winced inwardly when people had called him ‘crazy’—in jest or otherwise. He probably was crazy, he had often reflected in his more reflective moments. Perhaps that was the price he had to pay. Was his madness—his bizarre behaviour, needs, drives and hungers—the result of his brilliance in chess? Or was his brilliance the result of his madness? And he knew it didn’t matter; chess was his lifeline to sanity.
His mother had simply had no lifeline: ability to perform prodigious sexual feats was not considered to have any socially redeemable value, and it had not qualified her as a mere ‘eccentric’. When they had found her one night, naked, wandering the streets, crying out for a man—any man—to take her, they had locked her away. And the courts, with the psychiatrists, had kept her locked away. It was as simple as that. And as complicated.
Whatever he had, John thought, whatever gift he possessed, was undoubtedy from his mother. His father had been simply a drunk, and that was learned. And so he played chess and his mother made love. She was locked up; he was free, at least for a while. She could not play chess; he could not make love.
John often suffered from a recurring nightmare. One time he went to visit his mother and the attendants would not let him out again. And they would not allow him to play chess. He would cry and there would be no one to listen, to care.
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