Operation Destruct

by Christopher Nicole

  The young man smiled. “You’re looking at Jacob Arno, the International Master. Jon is his opponent.”

  Craufurd took several steps to his right, in order to see Jonathan’s face. From one extreme to the other, he thought. Jonathan Anders was even younger than he had anticipated, at least in appearance. He sat straight, both arms resting on the table in front of him, fingers motionless, waiting for Arno to move; his suit was crushed and looked just a little too small for him. When Arno at last picked up a piece, Jonathan made a quick notation on his score pad, replaced the pencil, and then resumed his position, hands flat on the cloth, gazing at the board as he considered his reply. Arno knocked out his pipe, refilled it, discovered that he had no matches, and quickly left the table to stride away to the exit.

  “Is he a good player?” Craufurd asked.

  “I told you, he’s an International Master.”

  “I was referring to Anders.”

  “Well, yes, he is. He could be a very good player, if he’d take the game a little more seriously. But he only plays at it.”

  “Chess is a game?”

  “Chess is an art,” said the young man seriously. “And like all art forms it requires continuous study, and continuous application, to reach the top. Jon has all the talent in the world, quick sight of the board, good theoretical knowledge, acute combinative perception . . . he could reach master class in two years, if he wanted to. But he only plays in a couple of tournaments a year.”

  “Possibly he has a living to earn,” Craufurd suggested.

  “Haven’t we all?” the young man asked. “But what’s a living, man, compared with becoming a master? He’ll never be this good again.”

  “But he won’t beat Mr. Arno, presumably?”

  “He’s doing it,” said the young man. “When Arno fiddles like that, he’s in dead trouble. Jon played a Petroff, you see.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t,” Craufurd said. “Perhaps you’d explain it to me.”

  “You mean you’ve never heard of the Petroff defense?” The young man sighed. “It’s a method of avoiding the Ruy Lopez, see? Ever heard of the Ruy Lopez?”

  “Unfortunately, no. He sounds Spanish.”

  “He was. He invented a chess opening, see, and it’s remained the most popular of all chess openings ever since. If white opens pawn to king four, black must either go into one of the half-open defenses like the French or the Sicilian, or reply pawn to king four himself. But this gives white the opportunity to play the Lopez, you see, and that means he retains the initiative for a good twenty moves, if he plays accurately. By then, more often than not, he has a won game. The Petroff is an attempt by black at an immediate counterattack. You develop the king’s knight before the queen’s knight. Get it? It’s more risky than most other openings, of course. But if it comes off, you’re away.”

  “So you would describe Anders as a risky player?”

  “Of course not. He’s a good player. There’s a difference. A good player thinks of his opponent as well as the board, see? Arno is a master. That means as far as experience goes, or theory, or practice, he’s way ahead of an ameteur like Jon. But he does prefer a slow, steady build-up. Let him get all of his pieces working on a full board and you don’t stand much of a chance. Upset him with an early counterattack and it might just work. It’s paying Jon. He’s two pawns up.”

  “How very interesting,” Craufurd said. “In the circumstances, I don’t think I had better interrupt him at this moment. No doubt I’ll have an opportunity of speaking with him later on. What time do they call it a day?”

  “Six-thirty.”

  “Oh, good,” Craufurd said. “The pubs will be open.”

  *

  Craufurd sat in an easy chair and sipped a whisky and soda. On the far side of the street he could see the door of the auditorium, and here he was entirely inconspicuous. The bar was full—mostly, he presumed from the conversation, with chess players. He felt as if he was eavesdropping on an exclusive club with a language all its own.

  Beyond the auditorium was the sea. It was early April, but the weather was surprisingly warm. Not everyone in Bognor was playing chess, after all; there were people on the beach, and more sitting on the waterfront. Bognor Regis was preparing for its usual busy season. Craufurd was fond of all the south coast resort towns. Forced by the requirements of his profession to involve others in continual danger and discomfort, he preferred never to leave England, and this ban on foreign travel included even Wales and Scotland. His annual holiday was spent in Bournemouth, although he occasionally visited his sister in the Isle of Wight. He appreciated gentle hills and under-cliff drives. But there was a great deal to be said for the flat walks and endless beaches east of Chichester Harbor.

  He watched Jonathan Anders come out of the door, got up and crossed the road. Away from the chess table Anders seemed to become younger. Craufurd knew he was twenty-three, and he also knew that in this business above all others, there could be no graver mistake than to attempt to judge a man on his appearance. Yet he felt uneasy.

  “Mr. Anders?”

  Jonathan looked him up and down, frowned, and then smiled. His rather taut face relaxed with genuine good humor. His gray eyes sparkled. “That’s me.”

  “I was watching your game earlier this afternoon,” Craufurd said. “You had a good position when I left. A Petroff defense, was it?”

  “That’s right,” Jonathan said. “I didn’t win, you know.”

  “Oh, dear me, what a shame. But weren’t you up two, er, pawns?”

  “I had to give them back. Arno had the initiative, you see. I’m not sure going after those pawns was a good idea. My pieces became very disorganized. So I let him get the material back in exchange for counter chances on the king side. But it wasn’t good enough. I was left with nothing better than a perpetual check at the end. Pity, but there it is.”

  “I suppose that is one of the great lessons to be learned from chess,” Craufurd said. “It forces you to look the facts of every situation in the face, and to make a decision, one way or the other.”

  “And hope it’s the right one,” Jonathan agreed. “Are you playing, Mr. . . .?”

  “Craufurd. No, I’m only down for the day. I’m having a drink in the pub across the street. Will you join me?”

  “That’s very kind of you,” Jonathan said. “I’ll have a lager.”

  “Well, do sit down, my dear fellow.” Craufurd bought the drinks, returned with them to the table. He found Jonathan brooding over his score pad. “Does your failure to win bother you?”

  “I’d just like to be sure that perpetual check really was necessary. It would worry me to think I overlooked a win against someone as good as Arno.”

  “And did you?”

  “I think I was right. I’ll have to go over the game with a board to be absolutely sure.”

  “And you intend to do that?”

  “Of course.” Jonathan raised his glass. “Your health, Mr. Craufurd.”

  “And I will wish you better fortune with your next game. I was talking with a young fellow over at the playing room, and he told me you don’t take your chess seriously enough.”

  Jonathan smiled. “It’s a valid criticism, I suppose. But it’s not the beginning or the end of life, is it?” He finished his beer. “Now perhaps you’d tell me what this is all about.”

  “I’m not with you,” Craufurd said.

  “I’ve never seen you before in my life, and there are at least thirty chess players at this congress who are ranked above me. Of course, I find your interest gratifying, but . . .”

  “But you are mystified. You have a direct approach.”

  “Sometimes it pays.”

  “Quite. Actually, I was asked to look you up by a man called Headly, who shares a mutual friend with you. Harold Indman.”

  Jonathan raised his head, gazed at the older man. “Good of Harold to think of me. I haven’t seen him in ages. How is he?”

  Craufurd smiled, lit a ciga
r. “You don’t deny knowing him. I like that. And I can prove that I have a right to bring his name into the conversation. Your name, for instance, is Jonathan Anders, and you were born on July 16, 1945. A good time to be born, I’d say.”

  “I’ve no regrets.”

  “Education: Minor public school and redbrick university. B.A., Honors in history. But you were saved from having to go schoolmastering, weren’t you, Jonathan? You were recruited to work for a London firm of antiquarian booksellers in William IV Street. You’ve been with them for eighteen months, now. But you’ve never actually sold a book, have you?”

  “If you know that much about me,” Jonathan said, “then you also know that I am going to have to do something about you, Mr. Craufurd.”

  “I realize that is a possibility,” Craufurd agreed. “And I understand that you would be quite efficient at it. If you prefer playing chess to breaking blocks of wood with your hands, you are perfectly capable of doing that as well. You have a high marksmanship rating. However, I don’t think you will find it necessary either to shoot me or to break my arm, Jonathan. I happen to be a director in your firm.”

  “Prove it.”

  “As a matter of fact, I am the Managing Director of your firm. My intimate friends call me C.E.D. 1. The initials stand for Counter Espionage Department, as you know. The number speaks for itself. As far as I am aware, your intimate friends would call you C.E.D. 84.”

  Jonathan frowned.

  “So I would say that you are at the very bottom of our profession, while I am at the very top.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “No sirs, please. And no apologies. I think your attitude was very correct. Your challenge was, as I mentioned, lacking in subtlety, but that in itself may be a form of subtlety, as it was explained to me by our chess-playing acquaintance.”

  “But what do you want with me?” Jonathan asked.

  Craufurd lit a fresh cigar. “I imagine that during the past eighteen months of filing and memorizing, and practicing your marksmanship and your unarmed combat, and of indulging in various other even more reprehensible activities, such as stealing, or attempting to steal, valuable documents from a well-guarded safe, you must have wondered if you would ever actually be employed in doing any of these things.”

  Jonathan smiled. “After my brief experience of burglary I came to the conclusion that I would never be employed at all.”

  “Ah, but Mr. Headly was impressed. When you started falling about in his wires he wrote you off as another incompetent youngster, but as the evening went on he apparently revised his opinion. He judged you as a young man who doesn’t give up easily, or in fact, who doesn’t give up at all. Mind you, resisting arrest was both irregular and dangerous. You were warned that the test would be carried out under actual conditions?”

  “Yes. But I didn’t believe the bullets were live until he fired.”

  “But that didn’t stop you either, did it? Tell me about the weighted handkerchief. Mr. Headly found that one of the most interesting aspects of the whole evening. It’s not regulation issue, surely.”

  “Good lord, no. Just something I dreamed up, from the old Roman gladiatorial equipment. You know, the net and trident against sword and full armor. Of course, a handkerchief is very much smaller, but then, it’s something no one would ever think of checking. And it can be very distracting.”

  “Well, well. And where did you get those little iron balls?”

  “From an old bagatelle set.”

  “Good heavens,” Craufurd said. “I’m inclined to think Headly may be right. Of course you flunked the burglary test, absolutely. But I’ve always valued resourcefulness above an ability to perform certain tasks by rote.”

  “You don’t mean you’re going to use me in the field?”

  “That is one way of putting it, certainly. You are being called upon somewhat earlier in your career than is usual, or really desirable. Unfortunately, this latest crisis in the Middle East has stretched us to the limit, and now something has come up much nearer home which has to be sorted out as soon as possible. I need an operative who is capable of working on his own, of using his head logically, and who, remarkably, also knows something about skin diving. I understand this is one of your accomplishments.”

  “I enjoy it. When I can find the time.”

  Craufurd stood up. “You are going to have all the time you wish, Jonathan. Now let us take a stroll along the waterfront, where we can talk in more privacy. And you can prove to me how observant you are by telling me how much you know about the Ludmilla.”

  *

  The sun had set and the light was fading fast. A few of the older vacationers remained on the promenade, wrapped in rugs, gazing out to sea, enjoying the fine weather while it lasted. The younger ones had hurried back to their hotels and boardinghouses to snatch a hasty dinner before going out on the town. For the moment the evening was quiet, the only sound the ripple of the sea on the sand. The sky was clear, the air just chilly enough to keep the mind alert.

  “I don’t know anybody by that name,” Jonathan said.

  “This is a thing,” Craufurd said.

  “A thing? A ship, you mean? A Russian trawler, or something, which went on the rocks near the Channel Islands in Thursday’s gale.”

  “Rather indefinite, I’m afraid. Still, as you say, the Ludmilla was a Russian trawler, and she went on the rocks off the west coast of Guernsey on Wednesday night, while the weather was very bad. She struck almost a mile out, went down like a stone, and now lies in about thirty feet of water. There were no survivors.”

  “Good lord! I didn’t know. I’m sorry, but I make a point of never reading newspapers or watching television during a tournament. I only overheard a news broadcast yesterday morning.”

  “There is a great deal of mystery as to what happened. Apparently, the man on duty at the Hanois Lighthouse, which stands on the reef extending from the southwestern tip of Guernsey, saw the lights of a ship close in and coming to the northeast at considerable speed, just after midnight on Thursday morning. There was a gale blowing, and visibility was poor, both because of the driving rain and the high sea, but rockets were fired to warn this vessel, although obviously Guernsey itself must have shown up on her radar screen. In any event, she ignored the warnings, and a few minutes later she struck. The lifeboat from St. Peter Port reached the scene as soon as it could, but the ship had already gone down, and she was unable to pick up any survivors. The vessel itself was not identified until Thursday afternoon, when the bodies were washed ashore, together with various bits of flotsam. The Guernsey authorities then contacted the Home Office, which in turn informed the Soviet Embassy. A man from the Embassy flew over on Thursday night.”

  “And you say no one got ashore?”

  “So far eleven bodies have been recovered from the various bays along the west coast of Guernsey.”

  “And that was the lot?”

  “That is the regulation crew of a vessel of that size, certainly. As to whether there was anyone else on board, well, that is one of the things I would like you to find out. However, it is really one of the minor aspects of the tragedy.”

  “I’m glad you used that word tragedy,” Jonathan said. “I was beginning to wonder just how you felt about it.”

  Craufurd paused to flick the stub of his cigar onto the sand before lighting another. “It is possible that a dozen human beings went to their deaths in the Ludmilla. I find this quite horrible, believe me. However, as they are dead, there is nothing either you or I can do about them. Our business is to discover why they died, and, if possible, to profit from their deaths.”

  “And so you wish me to go to Guernsey? I’ll enjoy that. I spent a very pleasant holiday there once. Not in April, though.”

  “I understand April is rather a good month, in Guernsey, although not for bathing. And I do indeed wish you to return to your favorite island, but not in quite so obvious a manner as your eagerness suggests. As I told you, to the public at large, this
tragedy is a complete mystery. What was a Russian trawler doing in those waters at all? Why did she not heed the rockets? Why did she not see the land in time to alter course? What was happening on board her during those last few minutes? It makes for a good story. I believe the island is crawling with reporters. The whole thing is very embarrassing to our Soviet friends. Unfortunately, it could become even more embarrassing to us.”

  “You’re not going to tell me we sank the ship?”

  “That is one of the things I would like you to find out, Jonathan. Our information on the Ludmilla arises from a message which was received by my office six weeks ago. It came through one of our Iron Curtain couriers, and simply said, ‘Meet Ludmilla Portland end March Urchin.’”

  “Urchin being an operative of ours?”

  “Urchin is the code name of one of my very best men, Katorzin. Katorzin has spent the last ten years in the Soviet Union in what is called a sleeping capacity. You know what that means?”

  “He has joined the enemy, and for ten years has engaged in no espionage whatsoever. His business has been to gain their confidence and, if possible, to achieve a position of trust in some enemy organization.”

  “Correct. Except for your unpleasant use of the word enemy. Great Britain, my dear Jonathan, has no enemies. At least, not officially. What we do have are a great number of rivals, all searching for knowledge. Much of this knowledge being of a somewhat dangerous variety, we happen to feel that for us to be in possession of it would be for the benefit of mankind. You, as a history graduate, may think differently.”

  “On balance, I come down for us,” Jonathan said. “The margin in our favor is small, but it does exist.”

  “I’m very happy to hear you say so. Katorzin was a scientist of considerable ability in the field of marine biology. Now for some time the Soviets have been investigating marine life and habits on a very large scale. This field is of course of interest to all maritime nations, learning more about how fish propagation could be increased, how they may be used as a staple diet, as will probably be necessary within another generation or so, how the spread and health of fish life can be controlled, and how their movements also can be controlled. You will appreciate that any government able, for example, to move large shoals of fish from sea to sea, or perhaps just drive the fish away from one specific area, could certainly bring at least financial distress on many of its rivals. It is an area in which the British economy is unfortunately vulnerable. Katorzin’s mission was to hold a watching brief on the Russian program, and not to attempt to contact us, until and unless he secured information vital to our security.”