For Sondra 0. and the
folks who live on the hill

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This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and
incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or
are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or places
or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental

GRANDMASTER
Copyright © /984 by Warren Murphy and Molly Cochran

AH rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book
or portions thereof in any form.

An original Pinnacle Books edition, published for the first time
anywhere.

First printing/October 1984

ISBN: 0-523-42205-9

Can. ISBN; 0-523-43195-3

Cover art by Stephanie and Mark Gerber

Printed in the United States of America

PINNACLE BOOKS, INC.

1430 Broadway

New York. New York 10018

987654321

.PROLOGUE

Somewhere a bell faintly tinkled The room was as large as a
castle courtyard, lit by clusters of tall scented candles in each
of the four comers, but the ceilings were so high that no light
reached there, and looking up gave him the feeling of staring
up at a dead sky. on a night without stars.

Figures scumed by along the base of the walls. Their
movements were soft. and although he could see only shadows,
he knew that they were women

Three feather-filled cushions, each of them eight feet square,
were piled atop each other in the center of the room. A
woman lay on the cushions, and he knew, without knowing.
that she was the one he had been summoned to see.

He hesitated, but the woman beckoned him forward with a
slow movement of her graceful arm. She was naked but for a
golden chain wrapped three times around her waist. As he
drew closer he could see that her hair was black and long,
pulled forward over her left shoulder so that it draped across
her breasts. Even in the dim candlelight, her hair glistened
like oiled glass and her eyes seemed made up of thousands of
individual amber crystals, each of them reflecting the light
from the candles in the room. Closer to her. the scent of
incense was stronger, almost overpowering. He drew it deep
into his lungs and felt warmth radiate from inside him.

He stood now in front of the cushions, his knees almost
touching them, looking down at the woman. Her body was as
artfully arranged as an old master's composition; though she

1

2                 GRANDMASTER

was naked, the placement of her hair and the shadows that
darkened her made it impossible for him to see her clearly.

"Do you know why I have had you brought here?" she
asked him in Russian. Her voice was musical, its pitch ex-
actly the same as that of the bell that still tinged softly from
one of the far corners of the room. He breathed deeply again;

his body felt as if it were losing its muscles; he wondered if
she had spoken or if he had merely imagined the bell was
speaking to him.

She was looking at him, waiting for an answer. He tried to
speak, but no words came. He shook his head.

"Because you belong to me," she said softly. Hd   . I
never left his face.                                 V ?

Belong to her? No. No one belonged to anyone else. He
summoned up his will and again tried to speak. This time,
with effort, he forced the words out. "Madam, I . . ."

She ignored him. "From the day of your birth, you have
belonged to me."

"And if I do not so choose?" he said thickly. He was
surprised that he had been able to speak the words; speaking
was such an effort.

"The choice is not yours," she said, a hint of annoyance
tingeing the smooth, throaty sounds. "You are only a man.
Do not forget that. You are limited by your senses, your
mortality. But I will make you more than a man."

She paused as if awaiting an answer, but he could no
longer speak. The very presence of the woman seemed to
obliterate his sensibility and reason. He wanted only to be
invited to lie down with her on the soft cushions, to rest his
body and his aching, confused mind.

"You are my chosen one," she said. "I have searched
the earth for you."

He stared at her, unable to tear his eyes away from her
shadowy face. "Why?" he asked softly, feeling cold. "Who
am I to you?"

A smile flickered around the edge of her mouth. "In all
things there is opposition, reversal- Yin and yang, light and
darkness, good and evil. In those beings of power, there are
also two sides. Do you understand?"

He drew a deep breath to try to clear his mind, but instead
his lungs were filled again with the sinuous fire of the incense.
This place was somehow infused with magic, he knew, power-

Prologue                      3

ful magic. Lapping around the borders of his consciousness
was fear. The woman was soft and dark and smooth and rich
as dreams, but there was no comfort in her for him.

"Is there someone who wilt come to this place?" he asked.
"Someone to challenge me, perhaps? An evil man . . ."

The woman's smile broadened into a coarse, harsh laugh
that resounded through the room.

The man did not understand. He waited for her to explain,
but instead she rolled over onto her back without speaking-
Suddenly her body came alive, breasts thrust forward, the
dark curled hair between her legs sharply visible in the
candlelight. She was holding something in her hands. It was a
snake fashioned out of gold, long and curved into an S. Its
scales were meticulously carved, its mouth open with its
tongue darting out as if it sensed danger.

She placed it between her legs and drew it slowly between
her thighs. Her eyes deigned to meet his. "Come to me," she
commanded.

He came.

She held the gold snake up to him. Its luster seemed to
grow in intensity, hurting his eyes- He feared the snake.

"Take it." she said.

Trembling, he accepted the carved serpent. It burned his
hands. His very soul seemed to gasp at the contact-

"An evil man has already come." she purred. Her voice
licked him with promise. "The Prince of Death has come. My
evil man."

He closed his eyes. He understood. "My goddess." he
said.

She placed her silky hands on top of his. At her touch, his
fear of the snake's power vanished. With a sigh, he snapped
the golden serpent in two.

"Yes." she said softly into his ear, filling him with a deep,
perverse lust thai he realized he had longed for all his life.
She had been right: He had no choice- His destiny was to
serve her, to drink her magic, to live in spheres high above
the scrambling and rutting of common men.

"My Prince of Death. You have the seeds of greatness in
you. I will make those seeds bloom, my prince. And you will
kill the golden snake for me."

"I will," he promised.

4                 GRANDMASTER

Then she opened to him and wrapped her body around
his and, as the bell still faintly tinkled and the air grew
heavier with the scents of incense and carnality, she took him
into the depths of his own darkness.

Book One

THE COILED SNAKE

.CHAPTER ONE

The dock on Pihiaja Island was deserted, as it always was in
Helsinki's black early mornings. The patrolman yawned and
checked the luminous face of his wristwatch. It was an hour
before dawn. Just another ninety minutes and he would
drag his chilled body home and bury it in the warmth of
his wife.

He heard a faint scratching sound behind him and he
wheeled, his right hand slapping down toward his heavy
leather police holster, but then he relaxed as he saw a solitary
wharf rat running down the middle of the wooden dock.

He smiled grimly, faintly embarrassed at his display of
nerves. The punkkarit, the local hoodlums, had everybody
frightened. Each day, the newspapers carried stories of their
plundering raids, and all the members of the police's tiny
dock squad had been warned lo be extra watchful while on
duty. Moored ships could be a paradise for vandals and
burglars.

The patrolman's footfalls echoed heavily along the bleak
wharf. His breath blew out in clouds. Soon all the harbors in
the Gulf of Finland would be closed with the first ice. In the
distance a sleeping tanker sent tubes of yellow light over the
black gulf. Nearer, tied up to the condemned section of wharf
where the policeman walked, another vessel rocked silently on
the water. It was a fishing boat, sizable but ancient, a black,
empty hulk without even an identifying name on its transom.
He walked toward it. The boat was obviously abandoned,
although he had never seen it before.

8                 GRANDMASTER

Suddenly, behind him, the numberless rats housed in the
decayed pier house set up an indignant chatter and scattered
in all directions The policeman turned toward the source of
the noise, a thin line of sweat rising across his forehead
Punkkaril7 Here^ He pulled his night stick out of his belt as
he approached the low stone building

But it wasn't the kids with their Mohawk haircuts and
snapping switchblades He cursed softly and smiled with
relief at the dim figure crouched against the crumbling facade
of the pier house The man was asleep He was dressed in J
ragged sailor's jacket and a pair of filthy trousers Under his
head was a tattered old duffel, which the man used as a
pillow

'Hey, what s this7 the officer said in Finnish, prodding
the mdn with his toe The vagabond snorted awake and
strained to focus his eyes on the policeman "Get moving
You can t sleep here ''

He repeated the command in Swedish The man stirred
slowly "And take your things You won't be coming back "
He pointed at the duffel with his night stick

The derelict obeyed He brought himself to his feet shakily
Then, shivering, he dragged the ragged canvas bag away
from the wall He looked up at the officer with watery eyes

"Well, go on," the policeman said gesturing with his
head toward the end of the dock The man padded away
softly, his back bent The officer watched him go, then
walked back to the black boat

He stepped carefully over its mooring lines and scanned the
vessel with his flashlight Over the place where the ship's
name normaliy would have been, a black painted board hung
suspended from two hooks

That was odd, he thought It was as if someone had
purposely concealed the identity of the old hulk He leaned
over the pier, reached out with his stick, and lifted the board
For a moment the name Kronen gleamed in white letters
against the black crupper The policeman straightened and let
the board fall back against the vessel with a slap He moved
farther along the pier, the beam from the flashlight moving in
a straight line along the length of the craft He stopped,
looked at the boat again, and shook his head in puzzlement
Why would anyone try to conceal the name of a boat9 Unless
the boat had been stolen

The Coiled Snake                  9

He reached behind him and pulled his small mobile radio
from the leather holder on his belt Just before he depressed
the button, his neck snapped backward and his spine lurched
with a painful blow from the rear The flashlight hurtled out
of his hand into the water below, and the radio dropped onto
the wooden dock with a muffled thud

"What    what    " the policeman groaned, buckling to
his knees

He twisted his head and saw the hobo standing above him,
looking completely different from the boozy tramp he had
chased from the dock The man he saw now was as blankly
efficient as a machine, avoiding the policeman s eyes as he
yanked him to his feet

"No, please," the policeman began But by then the knife
m the hobo's hands was already singing upward

The officer gasped once, his eyes bulging in shock as the
blade tore into the left side of his throat and sliced up to his
right ear His hands struck out, jerking wildly, as if they had
been electrified His feel skidded A stream of bubbling blood
hissed out from his neck, forming a cloud of vapor in the cold
air as it shot forward in an arc His head fell back on the ho-
bo's shoulder

Silently, four black-clad men appeared on the deck of the
black boat The Kronen's engine roared to life Keeping his
head down to avoid the stream of blood, the hobo hoisted the
body and heaved it into the gulf The policeman's lifeless
face, still bearing an expression of horrified surprise, shim
mered near the surface for a moment

The boat Wdb pulling out The hobo kicked the policeman's
radio into the water, ran back for his duffel, tossed it on deck,
and leaped after it He caught hold of a rail and pulled
himself on board as the Kronen sped out of the harbor

His knife and the right side of his face were bathed in
blood

The captain relinquished the wheel to a crewman, then
turned and stared without expression at the blood- and sweat-
soaked man who stood before him, as if trying to decide
whether or not to allow his visitor to remain on board His
face, dark and windbumed around intelligent eyes that seemed
incapable of surprise, held traces of both contempt and amuse-

10 GRANDMASTER

ment for the man with the duffel who waited silently for his
verdict

"I'm onty a smuggler, you know ' the captain said finally,
his English lilted with Scandinavian cadences ' Killing po-
lice is not part of our contract '

The man didn't answer A heavy drop of perspiration roiled
unnoticed down his face. streaking through the caked blood
on his cheek The muscles around his jaw were clenched
tightiy

' Ah." the captain said with disgust and jerked his thumb
toward the cabin below

With a ragged sigh, the man hurried down the companionway

Below deck, he stood in the small main cabin, alone.
rubbing his arms to ward off the sudden chill that always
came over him after moments of great fear With some
surprise, he noticed that the knife he had used to kill the
Finnish policeman, a Bundswehr combat model, was still
clenched in his fist He unclasped the hand with effort, and
the Bundswehr cfattered to the floor Its outline was imprinted
on his blood encrusted palm He stooped over to pick it up,
nnsed it off under the saltwater tap of the sink, dned it
carefully, and replaced it in his cwi pocket

How long9 he thought as ht ashed the brown film from
his hands He was forty-four years old, the oldest active field
agent he knew How many more border runs could he make
before his nerve gave out completely'7 How much terror could
a man stand in his life9 He closed his eyes to the salt sting of
the water as it ran over his face and head

He dned himself on a rag remnant of a towel and, still
shivering, sat down at the cabin's rough plank table From his
duffel bag he removed a watertight plastic pouch, which he
opened and emptied onto the table He had already checked
everything in the pouch three times, but the difference be-
tween three times and four times someday might be the
difference between living and dying

He nodded silently as he checked the bag's contents in the
dim light of the single oil lamp There were two well-forged
Finnish passports for a husband and wife There was a Rus-
sian identity card with his own photograph on it and a set of
Russian work papers There was a fully loaded Swiss Hammerli
eight-shot pistol Inside a slim manita envelope was two
thousand dollars in American money, an unimpressive amount

The Coiled Snake                fl

of Russian rubles, and his American passport under his true
name of Frank Riesling

Enough, perhaps, to gel him into and out of Russia with his
two illegal passengers Certainly enough to get him killed if he
was caught before he reached Moscow

But all this for a chess player7

He thought momentarily of the dead policeman, and his
hands trembled He bolted from his place at the table and ran
to the small ship's head m the rear of the cabin where he
vomited into the stained, smelly toilet A policeman murdered'7
For a chess player7 Was it worth it7

As he sat again at the table and began scooping the con-
tents back into the black plastic pouch, he knew he would have
to try to sleep, despite his jangled nerves He had not slept the
night before, and the Journey ahead was a long one

The Finnish fishing boat would lake him to Hamina, near
the Russian border Then Saannen, the captain, would send
two of his three crewmen to take Riesling northward, overland,
on a route that ran west of the Russian city of Vyborg

Directly north of Vyborg, they would leave him, and he
would be on his own The tnp into Vyborg itself was going to
be a bitch without sleep, he knew On foot all the way, which
was rough in October, even with the help of a corrupt oid
border patrol guard who averted his eyes in return for a
healthy bribe and got to secretly stick it to his superiors for
busting him from a posh posting in Leningrad to serve out his
commission in the frozen provinces

If he managed to cross the border and ;/ he managed to
avoid the KGB agents on spy-catching duty in Vyborg, then
he would have a train nde into Leningrad and an hour's flight
to Moscow The chess player, whose name was Kutsenko,
and his wife were supposed to be ready to leave Moscow
immediately The three of them would go back the way
Riesling had come In Hamma, they would board Captain
Saannen's fishing boat and be on their way to Stockholm

All nght, he thought It had started out badly with the
policeman, but it was manageable Riesling had made the tnp
a dozen times

But never before, he thought bitterly, on such short notice
Never before without first getting advance approval from
headquarters Was he nght to go9 Was he nght to chance it9

12 GRANDMASTER

Stubbornly, he pushed the questions out of his mind. Two
hours to Hamina.

He looked longingly at the small bunk across the cabin
as Captain Saarinen entered, a grease-smudged bottle of
Koskenkorva vodka in one hand. In his other hand was the
remains of a large, toothmarked makkara sausage, and he
gave off its fumes as well as those of French Gitane cigarettes.
which he smoked constantly, insisting that the dark brown
tobacco, unlike the "blonde" used in American cigarettes.
was healthful for the human organism. Somehow, it seemed
not to have done anything healthful for his chronic cough-

As soon as Saarinen walked through the doorway. Riesling
rose automatically, and his hand darted toward the pistol
inside the plastic pouch. When he saw it was the captain, he
peered past him toward the small companionway behind.

"Sit down, sit down." Saarinen said with annoyance.
"There's some trouble, but nothing to do with the business
back on the wharf." He lit a blackened candle lamp on the
table. The light cast huge shadows on the grease-spattered
wall.

"What, then?" Riesling asked coldly.

Saarinen gestured to Riesling's empty chair with his chin
and pulled a cracked mug from behind the sink. "You," the
captain said, his dark eyes now twinkling tike a satyr's. "I
have brought you on this run for many months, yes? I do not
even know your name, and yet I know you like a brother.
And like a brother, I worry for you. Always nervous, always
expecting the worst. That is your way, but you will drive
yourself to sickness, my friend." He splashed some vodka
into the mug and took a swig from the bottle himself.

"You agreed to take me to Hamina." Riesling said
stubbornly.

Saarinen sighed. "Hamina, yes. But I do not think my men
can take you to Vyborg."

Riesling reached into his coat and produced a thick enve-
lope filled with currency. He slid it along the tabletop toward
Saarinen. Wordlessly the captain hefted the envelope and
stuffed it into his pocket. "Enough for Hamina," he said.

"What trouble?" Riesling asked quietly.

Saarinen poured a long draft into his mouth and exhaled
noisily. "The Russians have doubled up on their Finnish

The Coiled Snake                13

border patrols," he said. "Your friend in Vyborg has been
removed."

"The old man at the guard station?"

Saarinen nodded. "Shot."

"What about you?"

"The ship's running empty," Saarinen said. The Kronen
had made a tidy fortune for Saarinen by illegally transporting
food and small machinery to Russia and its satellite states.
His three crewmen, all experienced smugglers, carried the
goods into Soviet bloc countries and sold them at highly
inflated prices on the black market. Only one of his band,
Saarinen claimed, had ever been stopped by the authorities,
and that man had been killed on the spot, leaving Saarinen's
lucrative business to thrive undetected.

Riesling, like Saarinen, entered and left the Soviet Union
frequently for illicit purposes, but the goods he smuggled
were people. Scientists, scholars, the occasional military
defector—people who would never be permitted to leave
Russia alive—had been guided by Riesling to the West. It
was this mutuality of purpose that had brought the American
agent and the Finnish criminal sailor together in a symbiotic
no-questions relationship that had lasted for the better part of
two years.

"Is Vyborg the only place with reinforcements?" Riesling
asked, trying to hold down a rising panic.

"Everywhere. All the border entries except in the far north.
And that's useless. It has already been snowing heavily for
weeks everywhere north of Kuhmo."

Riesling swallowed. "Why do you think . . . ?"

The captain shrugged his meaty shoulders. "There's a
new premier in Russia, and I expect the KGB is trying to
make an impression so he doesn't fry their asses.'' He shrugged
again. "It'll wear off before long."

"Christ," Riesling said under his breath.

"Even the run to Hamina is a danger now. Gogland is
crawling with secret police. You'll see when we pass."

Riesling rose and went to the small porthole on the star-
board side of the cabin. Gogland Island, a Russian outpost
square in the middle of the Gulf of Finland, was not yet
visible in the foggy dawn light.

"They won't stop us." Saarinen explained reassuringly,
cutting a thick slice off the sausage with his pocketknife.

14

GRANDMASTER

"The Kronen is a fishing vessel registered in Helsinki- We
are permitted in these waters." He stuffed the meat into his
mouth and chewed noisily. "If not for you, there would be
nothing extraordinary about this trip at all. We would have
passed Gogland in any case."

He washed the meat down with a long drink of the
Koskenkorva. "But Hamina is too far for an ordinary fishing
boat from Helsinki. This time, we will blame the sea for
taking us so far off course or the drunkenness of the captain,"
he said with a laugh- "But we will not make this trip again.
Not until the Russians have decided once again that losing a
few of their countrymen to the West is not worth the effort at
the borders, eh?"

Riesling looked at him sharply. How much did the man
know?

"Take it easy," Saarinen said. "I would have to be blind
not to notice that the passengers with you on the return route
were all Russians. The boots, the clothing. Even their breath
is Russian- Russians smelt bad. Don't insult my intelligence."

He took another drink and wiped the spillings from his chin
on his sleeve. "Anyway, I don't care. I have not led a
blameless life myself. But the difference between us, my
friend, is that I have no government behind me, as you do."

He waved away Riesling's objections before they could
begin. "1 do not believe that you are transporting Russians
out of Russia for your own enjoyment. So if the KOB catches
you, they question you, a little torture, perhaps . . ." He
shrugged expressively. "In the end, they trade you for one of
their own spies- Not so bad, eh? But if they catch Saarinen,
he hangs. So peace, yes?" He held up the bottle in salute.

Riesling drank thoughtfully, his eyes never leaving the
Finn. Saarinen smiled. "Well. we're only young once. My
men will take you as near to Vyborg as possible—in Finland,
that is."

Well, at least that was something, Riesling thought.
But not much- It meant he was apparently going to be
deposited near a heavily guarded Russian border station and
left to his own devices for getting into the Soviet Union and
out again with the premier Russian chess champion and his
wife.

"Unless you want us to turn around and go back." Saarinen
said, as if reading the American's mind. "As far as the dock

The Coiled Snake                 15

authorities are concerned, the Kronen has been at sea since
yesterday. You won't be linked with that unfortunate police-
man." He paused. "You didn't have to kilt him, you know."

"Yes, 1 did," Riesling said flatly. "He saw the name of
your docked boat, which has supposedly been out to sea since
yesterday, and he was radioing his headquarters. A word
from him and you might have trouble - - , I might have
trouble."

"If you say so," Saarinen said, but Riesling was not
listening. Why the hell hadn't he been warned about the
border buildup? Were they going to wait until he got caught?
The CIA had its head up its ass again. Maybe he should wait.
Let that damned chess-playing Kutsenko get out of Russia
later, some other way-
No. He couldn't abort now. Kutsenko wasn't just a chess
player; he was the champion of the world. His defection
would make the Russians crazy. No. Riesling would go into
fAoscow and from there, play it by ear.

If he could gel into Moscow. The Finnish border buildup
might mean that his cover had been blown. His mind raced,
juggling all the possibilities.

As if reading his thoughts, the dark Finn smiled and pulled
out a deck of cards. "To Hamina?" he asked, shuffling.

Riesling nodded- At least playing cards would break the
tension he felt. He placed a twenty dollar bill on the table.
Saarinen, he knew. gambled only with American dollars.

"Very well, my friend," Saarinen said, digging through
his pockets. With a slap, he brought forth a heap of crushed
Gitanes, a dirty handkerchief, several matchbooks, a wad of
soiled, sea-dampened bills, an assortment of coins of various
currencies, and a lumpen piece of yellow metal on a chain.

Riesling gasped involuntarily at the sight of the necklace.

"All my worldly possessions," Saarinen said- He straight-
ened out one of the cigarettes and lit it, spitting the loose
tobacco onto his lap, then began sifting through the bills with
stubby fingers. "I do not wish to lose the money you gave me
for this trip at cards. With this new fire under the Russians'
arses, I will probably need it." He patted his coat over where
he had placed Riesling's envelope and laughed. "But of
course, if it is an interesting game . - ."

"May I?" Riesling asked, picking up the gold necklace. It
seemed hot to his touch, and with a small exhalation of air,

16

GRANDMASTER

he dropped it back onto the table, where it glinted dully. The
chain held a circle medallion the size of an American quarter.
The gold was speckled with grime embedded in a thousand
small craters. In the center was the figure of a coiled snake
with a small droplet of imperfectly poured gold at the base.
Riesling's hands shook as he stared at it, unable to tear his
gaze away from the ornament. It seemed to glow, and the
spot where it had touched Riesling's flesh felt marked somehow,
as if he had been stabbed and the shock of it had sent a
sudden shot of fear into the pit of his stomach.

"It is a strange thing, that," Saarinen said quietly. "I felt
it, too. Almost a power it had- 1 nearly threw it away." He
laughed quickly. "But who throws real gold away, eh? And
the snake may be an antique. I thought I would hold it until I
get to Stockholm and see what it's worth."

Riesling's heart was thudding. He had seen the medallion
before- It had hung then around the neck of a man now dead, a
man with extraordinary power, a man who had once saved
Riesling's life.

"Where did you get this?" His words came out in a hoarse
whisper.

Saarinen tossed a crumpled twenty into the center of the
table and dealt the cards. ' Todhale. Near the Tatra Mountains,
in Poland."

Riesling looked up, his face drained of color. "Where in
the Podhale?"

"A village about twenty kilometers north of Zakopane. I
forget the name. Cards?"

Riesling picked up his hand slowly. "When?" he asked.

"What? Do you want cards or not?"

The American forced his attention back to the cards and
discarded two. "When did you pick it up? The medallion."

"Oh, that." Saarinen laughed as he tossed down a card
and dealt more from the deck. "I don't know. Two months.
Maybe three." The long ash from his cigarette dropped onto
his shoulder and roiled in an untidy trail down the front of his
jacket- He sheared off another slice of sausage and offered the
rest to Riesling. He shook his head and stared at the amulet.

"There's a story," the captain said, belching. "Some fool
runs up to me as I'm driving out of the village in a donkey
cart. Of course, I was ready to shoot the bastard—it was dead
night and me without any papers and my pockets full of

The Coiled Snake                17

cash—but he didn't act like any kind of military type. Arms
flapping, checking behind him every other second. So I fig-
ured a family man who'd stolen something in the village for
a little food money. I had to laugh." He took another
swallow and gestured to his partner to get on with the game.

Riesling breathed deeply. "He stole it from a grave, didn't
he?"

The captain cocked his head and looked at him. curious.
"How did you know about the grave?"

Riesling shook his head. A grave robber. Of course- There
wasn't any other explanation. Even the Grandmaster didn't
rise from beneath six feet of earth. He had seen the records
himself, the photographs the Russians had gloatingly sent.
Death was death, the final victor. For all the Grandmaster's
miracles, he couldn't stand up to death.

He threw in another ten dollars. "I knew the man it
belonged to," he said simply. "He was killed outside of
Zakopane. In the Podhale. He wore that medallion when he
was buried. That was four years ago."

Saarinen smiled- "But it couldn't be the same medal," he
said indulgently.

"It was the same. The drop of gold on the bottom of the
snake. Hand poured, very old. It'll bring you a hundred or
more American in Stockholm." '

Saarinen stared at him for a moment, then burst into a fit of
bellowing laughter, banging the bottle on the tabietop. "Well,
I'll be a son of a whore!" he shouted, brimming with mirth.
"I'm going to make a dollar or two- Wonderful."

Riesling won the hand and scraped in his winnings. Saarinen
handed him the deck. "Fucking Polacks'll tell you anything,"
the captain said. lighting another cigarette between bursts of
wheezing laughter. "You should have heard the maniac. Pssl.
Psst." He performed an elaborate pantomime of a man whis-
pering secrets as he scanned the horizons for unseen law
officers. Riesling smiled. "Been in the family for years, he
says. Belongs to the Undead One. he says. Shot by a Russian
colonel. Buried in a rock slide. Dug up and buried again.
Risen from the dead. yet!" He chortled. "Pretty good, eh?
The Polish Jesus Christ."

Riesling dropped the card he was dealing. His fingers froze
suspended in midair.

The Grandmaster had been killed in a rock slide.

18

GRANDMASTER

"Excuse me," Riesling said, pulling the cards back to
him.

Scowling, Saarinen picked up the dropped card. !t was a
deuce. He tossed it back with a grin. "Just checking."

Riesling said slowly. "He didn't happen to mention how
he got the medallion, I suppose."

"Oh, he had an answer for everything, that one- Said his
son found it buried outside the house where this vampire or
whatever, the Undead One, lived. With the village whore, no
less!" He guffawed so hard that tears streamed down his
cheeks. "On my mother's grave, I swear that's what he said.
Mary Magdalene, no doubt. I had to give him the money after
that." Hooting, he drained the bottle with a vengeance and
rummaged behind the sink for another.

"How long did he have the amulet?" Riesling asked.
"Welt, maybe it was four years," Saarinen said. He belched
loudly as he returned to the table with a fresh bottle of vodka.
"He said he was afraid to sell it because the Russians might
find out he had it. But he'd sell it to me because 1 was leaving
the country."

"And the dead man?" Riesling asked.

"You mean the Undead One?" Saarinen said mockingly.
"Remember? We're talking about a Polack vampire here."

"What happened to him?" Riesling said as he made a
show of looking at his cards.

Saarinen lowered his voice into the hushed tones of a
storyteller unfolding a tale of horror and death. "The Russian
colonel," he said. "He came looking for the Undead One,
and the vampire vanished. The Russian killed the whore in a
rage. No one ever saw the Undead One again. The Polack
swears the grave was empty."

"You're right," Riesting said lightly. "Another fairy tale."
Saarinen leaped from me bench. "There's Gogland." He
pointed to a speck of land ahead, barely visible through the
porthole. He ran to the companionway and shouted, "Cast
your nets!" to the men on deck. Then he blustered from the
-cabin as the sailors above threw out the fishing nets.

In a few minutes he returned, bleary from the blast of
morning sunlight. "For the sea patrols," he said. "We won't
stay here long. No fish." He winked and sat back down
heavily in front of his cards. "New deal," he said, shoving
them aside.

The Coiled Snake                 19

Riesling gathered up the cards again-

"Not that I don't trust you, my friend," Saarinen said.

"1 understand."

"You think it's worth a hundred American? I got it for five
hundred ziotys. What's that? Twenty American, I think. That's
the first time I ever made a profit on a Polack. You know. my
brother married a Polack. That's why I have to go there."

Riesling dealt. With a grunt. Saarinen put his feet up on the
table and rested his head on the sink behind him. "Rising
from the dead," he muttered. "Speaking English. Playing
chess. Must have been drunk out of his mind."

"What's that?" Riesling asked sharply.

Saarinen raised by twenty. "Drunk. Drunk, I said."

"You said chess." Suddenly Riesling was shivering.

Saarinen smacked his lips sleepily and grinned, "Who
knows? Maybe in Poland, Jesus Christ is an English-speaking
vampire chess player- If you've got your own pope, you can
do anything."

Riesling tried to steady his hands, "Saarinen, I want that
medallion," he said. With a start, the captain brought himself
out of his doze- "I'll give you two hundred dollars for it."

Saarinen took his time answering. He appraised the Ameri-
can slowly, his smiling eyes taking, in the clenched jaw and
sudden outpouring of sweat. "Sentimental reasons?" he asked.

Riesling worked to keep his face a blank. "The dead man
had relatives," he said. "They'd like to have it."

"Ah, yes. for the relatives." The captain stroked the sooty
growth on his chin- "Quite a large sum, my friend. The
necklace must be a valuable object. To you, at least, eh?"

His smile faded. Riesling's Hammerii pistol was pointed
directly at his face-

"Two hundred dollars." Riesling said.

Saarinen spread out his hands in a gesture of helplessness.
"My friend," he said soothingly. His satyr's smile returned.
"Make it three."

-CHAPTER TWO

Andrew Starcher ran his hands over his face, vaguely hoping
that the gesture would somehow stop the headache pounding
in his brain. He read the coded message from the American
consulate in Leningrad in front of him for the second time, then
reached in his desk drawer for the vial of Aldril.

"Tranquilizers?" Corfus asked, an amused smile softening
his blunt Tartar features.

"Blood pressure pills. I'm a rare spy. I'm going to die of
old age, I guess." Starcher shook out two of the tablets and
washed them down with cold coffee.

At sixty-six, Andrew Starcher was a recruiting poster for
the American diplomat—genteel, distinguished, his snow white
hair and hawklike nose bespeaking generations of good
breeding. Grimacing, he pushed the telex cable toward his
assistant.

Outside, the first snowfail was accumulating in the cobalt
twilight of the Arbat district of Moscow, its graceful old
homes twinkling with warm light. In that snow, Starcher knew,
someone was watching.

Someone was always watching. Any number of KGB pave-
ment artists with their cigarette-lighter cameras and miniature
radio transceivers invariably Turked around the American em-
bassy at any given time, and the office of the cultural attache
was particularly fascinating to them.

Starcher had known about diplomatic espionage since his
first days with the CIA, but it had always seemed like a joke.
Even newspapers weren't particularly interested in stories

20

The Coiled Snake                21

about diplomatic personnel who were chased out of a country
for spying.

Now, here he was. after twenty-five years in the field,
arranging square-dancing exhibitions and tours of Moscow for
American movie stars, and he was vaguely embarrassed about
it, even though it was only the cover for his true job as the
top CIA man in the city.

Mike Corfus bent over me rumpled cablegram, squinting as
he followed Starcher's decoding markings. His bulky appear-
ance belied Corfus's sharp intelligence. The son of Russian
immigrants who'd settled on New York's seamy Lower East
Side. he had worked his way through Yale and had graduated
summa cum laude right into the CIA, without any of the usual
family connections.

He had been in Moscow only a month, serving as Starcher's
eyes and legs. Where Starcher, locked up by his visibility,
could only conjecture about what the Soviets were doing,
Corfus could go out on the street and find out. He was
Starcher's deputy in dealing with field agents like Riesling.

Corfus's immediate predecessor had died a suicide, hanged
in his home. It was the sort of "suicide" the KGB specialized
in for annoying diplomatic personnel. Corfus welcomed the
risk. He was fluent in Russian, was as tough as a commando,
hated the Communists, and Starcher trusted him.

"I don't understand the message," Corfus said honestly.

"It's very simple," Starcher said. "Riesling left a message
at one of our drops in Leningrad. He's got a lead on two big
Russians who want to defect, and he's on his way here to set
it up. Saarinen brought him in."

"Who's Saarinen?"

"Some degenerate Finnish fishing captain whom Riesling
always uses. But the message says that Riesling's got some
big news for me."

"Hold on," Corfus said. "Two defectors. What two
defectors?"

"I don't know. I queried Helsinki, but they didn't even
know Riesling took off on this run. He went without
authorization."

"Great," Corfus said sarcastically. "He's got big news for
you. What news? Did he say?"

Starcher shook his head- "I think this is going to be the last
run for Riesling. He's losing his judgment."

22

GRANDMASTER

He reached for one of the thick Havana cigars he kept on
his desk, debated whether or not to heed his doctor's orders,
and the doctor lost. He bit the end off the cigar, spitting it out
with guilty satisfaction.

Corfus said, "I don't know how the hell he got through the
Finnish border. The KGB is crawling up there."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Starcher said. "Maybe he
picked up a tail and knows about it. Maybe that's why he left
this message so vague, just in case it got into the wrong
hands."

"So we wait?" Corfus said.

"We wait," Starcher said as he lit the long black cigar.
As Corfus sprawled on the leather banquette alongside the
large desk, he said, "I don't understand about Finland anyway.
Why did the Russkies pack the border? They own Finland."

"They own Cuba, too." Starcher said, "and they're send-
ing people in there, too." He blew out a thin stream of white
smoke. Cuba was what he didn't understand. Finland was a
perennial escape route for Russian defectors. The KGB could
always make a case for beefing up personnel there, particu-
larly with a hew premier to impress-
But Cuba? Cuba was totally in Russia's pocket- Yet, the
island had been getting a slow buildup of KGB agents and
troops, and despite Fidel Castro's loud complaints, the new
men were neither withdrawn nor explained -

"There's no pattern," Corfus said. "That's what's con-
fusing."

"Oh, there's a pattern," Starcher said. "There's always a
pattern. Nichevo." He sighed. It was the only explanation,
and it frightened him.

"Nichevo?" Corfus smiled, surprised. "It means 'nothing.
Who cares?' It means a lot of things."

"I know. A joke of Joseph Stalin's," Starcher said. He
walked over to the window and looked down at the snow-
covered street. Beneath a street lamp stood a man, shivering
in the cold, surrounded by new snow. He had not moved
from his spot in hours.

Starcher laughed bitterly. "Another hero of the cold war,"
he said, staring at the little man below. But he felt the same
twinge of envy he had felt every day since he had been posted
in Moscow, consigned to stare out at the world beyond the
goldfish bowl that was the embassy.

The Coiled Snake                23

Starcher missed the field work. He had left his aristocratic
southern roots to do battle in three bloody wars and every
filthy secret skirmish in between. This world, peopled with
misfits—from the shivering little man on the pavement beiow
to the secret masters who pulled the invisible strings that set
earthshaking events in motion—this was the world he had
chosen to live in, to die in. He had never married, never
spawned the offspring from his family's ancient and promis-
ing gene pool. Because the work came first. Not the
Company— the work.

It was a perversion, he supposed, as sick and senseless as
the urge to molest small children. To be in love with secrecy,
to relish fear, was more than simple patriotism. A man of
Starcher's age ought to have outgrown it, he knew. Most
agents bumed out quickly and looked forward to working
behind a desk.

Riesling, for instance. The man had been a good agent,
cautious, experienced, and smart, but his nerve was giving
out. During the past few months, Riesling had acquired small
mannerisms—grinding his teeth, taking fits of shivering chills—
mat worried Starcher. And now Riesling's judgment was
going, too.

God, he'd love to replace Riesling himself- That'd give a
laugh to the administrators at Langley. A sixty-six-year-otd
man . - - No, he thought, sighing. He belonged right where
he was. Standing in a glass house for every first-year KGB
agent in Moscow to see. The grand old spymaster, directing
the movement of others, while he himself remained helpless,
rooted, respectable, impotent.

"I just never thought I'd be the one who was being
watched," he said quietly.

"Beg your pardon?" Corfus said.

His voice snapped Starcher back to reality.

"Never mind," he said, drawing the draperies.

"Is Nichevo a branch of the KGB?" Corfus asked.

"No. Nichevo's not a branch of anything anymore, except
maybe Stalin's ghost. It started out as one, though. Small
work. Blackmailing diplomats with prostitutes, paying ex-
C1A men to write exposes of the Company, convincing the
state to pump hormones into Soviet athletes, minor things to
make the West look bad."

24 GRANDMASTER

"Kind of a Department of Dirty Tncks," Corfus said with
a smiie He had always liked the old man

"You could say that After Stalin bullied his way into
becoming a Russian legend, though, he didn't want to be
associated with the iow-tife antics of the group anymore, so
he put his nephew in charge " He blew a perfect smoke nng
toward the ceiling "The story goes that when the nephew
asked Stalin about the name of the organization he was going
to run, Stalm answered, 'Who cares9' and sent him away
Nichevo7"

Corfus laughed "Doesn't sound too dangerous to me "

"Ah," Starcher said, holding up a bony finger "But the
nephew turned out to be sharper than Stalm expected He
kept the group small, but over the years he replaced Stalin's
thugs with a half-dozen of the best brains m Russia and the
satellite states He chose them himself, from the universities,
the military, even from the civil service, but never from
Intelligence, never from the KGB From what I've been able
to dig up. he worked with the Soviet spy apparatus, but he
distrusted the bastards like poison "

He coughed and his face registered pain Cigars had been
forbidden to him since a bullet in East Berlin pierced his left
lung That had been Starcher's last field assignment

A field career ended honorably, according to the boys at
headquarters It was small consolation for the constant pain
that signaled the end of his life's work

"Sit down," Corfus said, as he stepped over to Starcher to
lead him to the leather banquette

Starcher pushed him aside "Don't patronize me," he said
acidly "I'm not the doddenng old fool I look like " Corfus
backed off, and, feeling guilty. Starcher harrumphed and sat
down anyway "At any rate, he found these men and women
and gave them a chance to grow with Nichevo, dirty tncks
and all. while the organization grew By the time Khrushchev
got booted out of office, Nichevo was in charge of planning
big stuff The invasion of neutral countries, the infiltration of
propagandists into every undeveloped nation receiving aid
from the United States. Soviet subs in enemy waters, the
buildup of military bases hidden in a hundred obscure spots
around the world, you name it " He spread his arms

"Where is he now, this nephew of Stalin's7"

The Coiled Snake                25

"His name was Zharkov He died four, five years ago
Bleeding ulcers "

Corfus looked up "Oh Well, then

"He had a son dunng the war," Starcher said, making
circles with his cigar in the ashtray "A very bright boy,
brains right off the charts Alexander Zharkov Graduated
with lop honors from Moscow University, made full colonel
in the army when he was thirty Zharkov trained him himself
since childhood Rumor has it that the boy started attending
the Nichevo directorate meetings d& soon as he was out of
short pants Zharkov wasn't taking any chances about who
was going to succeed him Alexander lived and breathed
Nichevo until he joined the army and was sent out on military
patrol He was in Poland when his father died He came back
to head up Nichevo

"And you think he's behind the men moving into Cuba7"

"It's got the signs No explanation and no apparent reason
It's got Zharkov's stamp alt over it "

"Would he be behind Finland7" Corfus asked

Starcher stubbed out his cigar with some viciousness "That
I don't know I don't think so " He looked at his watch "It's
almost six," he said "I want you to take up a watch "

"Sure," Corfus said. rising "Here^"

"No, I'll stdy here Riesling wil'l contact me if everything's
clear But if there s trouble, his fallback is always at the
Samarkand Hotel I can't be seen with him, of course Bad
policy "

Corfus smiled "I understand "

"You've met him7'

"Once I know his face "

"Good If he shows up at the Samarkand, he's hot,
understand7"

Corfus nodded

"You'll have to move quickly Get him to the safe house
on Ohkotney as soon as you can I'll wait here tor your
call "

"What if he doesn t come7" Corfus asked

"Wait till nine o'clock at the bar—that's the most visible
area—then order dinner It'll give him a little more lime in
case he needs it I'll page you at the Samarkand if he contacts
me first "

26                GRANDMASTER

Corfus hesitated by the door. "And if he doesn't get in
touch with either of us?"

But Starcher wasn't listening. He was back at the window,
peering out through the drapes at the small man standing^
shivering in the snow.

-CHAPTER THREE

At six o'clock. Riesling was still two hours outside Moscow.
He had stolen one car in Leningrad, then switched autos at
Kalinin, stealing an old ZIL parked on a busy street.

Punchy. He hadn't slept for days. That was it. The dead
policeman in Helsinki, the harrowing sojourn through the
Russian border, the long drive from Leningrad. All of it had
exhausted him.

And the medallion. He fell for it in his pocket. Even its
touch was frightening, ominous^ It weighted him with the
same feeiing he used to gel on the football field at school, the
dull ache when he was running for the ball during a critical
point in the game. As the ball soared overhead, he knew—by
the wind, by the awkwardness of his legs, his balance imper-
ceptibly off, by some despairing cry within—that he wasn't
going to catch the pass. It was during those moments, as if he
had some special insight, beyond reason or Ihe connotation of
words, that he knew he was going to lose.

"Just get to Starcher," he said aloud, letting go of the
medallion in his pocket.

He searched his rear-view mirror. Clean, no gray Fiat. All
right. He'd lost the car, with its lone occupant wearing a
white stocking cap, somewhere in Kalinin.

More likely, he'd never been followed in the first place. In
ail probability, the man in the stocking cap was an ordinary
Russian, a factory worker, a telephone man, just someone
driving into Moscow with no more sense of Riesling's iden-
tity than the man in the moon.

27

28 GRANDMASTER

He shook his head to clear it. When you begin to suspect
everyone, when the stink of treachery permeated every comer
of your world, you were finished. The suspicion would break
you. It distracted you. In time, it killed you.

"Burnout," he muttered. No one was following him. He'd
just spent too long on the job.

Once he reached Moscow, he would ask Starcher to recom-
mend an immediate transfer. To anywhere. And a leave. He
would go to Monte Carlo or the Aegean and drink himself
stuporous and find a woman. And let all the men in all the
white stocking caps go back to alj their jobs at all the docks
and factories or wherever they all worked, and to hell with
them- No more. Not for him.

He dumped the ZIL at Kiev station and boarded a crowded
metro car ripe with the odors of tabaka and shashlik. He had
made it to Moscow. For the first time in days, he began to
feel some semblance of safety.

All for a goddamned chess player, he thought, easing into
the luxury of a vacant seat. A hell of a way for a good field
man to go, over a two-bit defector who wasn't even in
intelligence.

Yet that was how they did go, he knew. An overheard
word, a chance sighting, and death blew its whistle and sent
you to the bench. No fanfare. No trial by twelve good men
and true. Just a bullet in the back while you weren't looking.

He was sweating. From his pocket he pulled out a handker-
chief and gasped audibly. The gold medallion was dangling
from its chain in the foids of the cloth. He stuffed it quickly
back into his pocket and rose, pretending not to notice the
stares of the other passengers around him.

He worked his way toward the front of the train. Starcher
was going to have to get the chess player out of Russia.
Riesling was through. The trip from Finland into Russia had
been rough. Trying to go out the same way, with the added
baggage of a chess player and a woman, would be suicide.
The border was just too tightly sealed. He wasn't taking
anyone back through Finland again, ever.

He had three things on his mind. Tell the chess player the
deal was off for the time being. Then get to Starcher. And get
rid of the medallion, he thought, near panic. It was doing
something to him, almost as if it had a power of its own that
was too strong to harness. Christ, why had it come to him?

The Coiled Snake                29

Perhaps because he owed a debt. It had been . . . how
long, eight years? Riesling had been sent into East Berlin to
pick up a defector, but it had been a setup. When he went to
meet the defector, there was no defector. Only the KGB
waiting for him.

He had gotten out of the trap but, with a shoulder dislo-
cated and a knee injured, had been able to flee only to the
third floor of an industrial storage loft in a seamy commercial
comer.of the city. The KGB had followed and had ringed the
building with men. That they hadn't rushed the building was
clear indication that they wanted him alive, perhaps as a
prime exhibit in some showy for-Westem-consumption spy
trial. There was no way out, and Riesling had carefully
checked his revolver, placed his extra shells on the floor in
front of him. and sat down to wait. One bullet would be for
him.

He passed out from the pain.

Then someone was shaking him.

He struggled to open his eyes and then to focus them. The
first thing he saw was a golden coiled snake close to his face.
He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again. The coiled
snake was on a medallion. It hung around the neck of a young
man with piercing sky blue eyes.

Riesling had tried to speak, but the man had clapped a hand
over his mouth.

"Don't talk." he whispered. "We're getting out of here."

"Who are you?" Riesling said-

"I work for Starcher. They call me the Grandmaster," the
young man said.

"I don't know if I can move," Riesling had said. "My
shoulder's separated, and my leg's messed up."

"We'll manage."

As the man helped him to his feet, Riesling saw that a
section of the corrugated steel wall of the storage loft had
been ripped open. as if by a giant can opener. A tear, shaped
like the pupil of a cat's eye, four feet long and a foot wide,
allowed moonlight to seep into the loft.

The Grandmaster led Riesling to the hole in the steel, slid
through himself, and then reached back for the American
agent. "Put your good arm around my neck." he whispered,
"and hold on for dear life."

Riesling followed the man. threw his right arm around him,

30 GRANDMASTER

and then they were moving down the side of the building,
three stories down into a narrow alley, closed off at both
ends, that separated the loft building from the tenement next
door.

When they reached the ground, the Grandmaster helped
Riesling to the tenement building and they went inside. Be-
fore the door closed behind them, though, Riesling looked
back. He had thought there was a rope hanging from the ugly
gash of ripped steel in the loft building. But there was no
rope. How had they climbed down the smooth steel side of a
building? He could not ask.

They traveled silently through the cellars of a half-dozen
buildings before exiting onto a street.

"Sorry, but you're going to have to get into the trunk," the
Grandmaster said as they approached a battered old Ford
sedan. Riesling nodded. As the trunk lid closed on him, the
last thing he saw was the coiled snake medallion around the
young man's neck.

The pain knocked him out, and he did not know how long
he was unconscious. When the trunk was opened again, two
Americans in dark clothes helped him out and into a boat that
moved him across the river and into the free half of Berlin.

The Grandmaster was gone; Riesling never saw him again.
And months later when he asked Slarcher who he was, Starcher
said simply, "He works for me sometimes-"

"How did he get me out?"

"I don't know," Starcher said. "He does those things."
He would say no more.

Riesling came back to the present as he heard the train
conductor's voice crackle over the loudspeaker in his car. He
fell as if he were choking, and when the metro stopped at
Mayakovsky Square, he roughly shoved his way through the
passengers in front of him to get outside to the open air.

The chess player, Ivan Kutsenko, was waiting in the dirty
little cafe off Gorky Street. His rubber-galoshed feet were
crossed at the ankles, and he twirled his hat in his hands as he
glanced in continuous rotation at the four corners of the room.

He was the chess champion of the world, famed for the
subtle, far-reaching brilliance of his play and his total nerve-
lessness at the chessboard. Yet, Riesling thought with disgust,
here he sat as twitchy as a drunk driver in a police lockup. It

The Coiled Snake                 31

was dark outside, but Kutsenko was stilt wearing sunglasses-
Probably he thought they were a disguise. All he needed was
a hand-painted sign on his chest: "Arrest me. I'm trying to
defect to the West."

He couldn't look more suspicious if he had a stick of
dynamite in his mouth. Riesling thought. The American agent
brushed some imaginary lint from the lapel of the East
German-made topcoat he wore and removed his homburg- He
hung up the clothing, then with a feigned expression of
surprise, greeted the chess player like a long-lost acquaintance.

"Do join me," Kutsenko said. rising, his eyes behind the
dark glasses darting around the room.

Unobtrusively, Riesling slipped into the chess player's seat
at the table. It faced the window, and Riesling was better
prepared to spot a tail than was Kutsenko, who looked as if
he was about to collapse in a fit of nerves.

Smiling, he ordered a beer as he cased the room. Three
other tables were occupied, by old men. mostly. A single
man who walked with a limp stood at the counter and sipped
coffee. No white stocking cap. It had been a delusion, after
all. Bumout,

"Our arrangements are canceled," Riesling said softly.

The chess player's face fell. "But my wife," he protested.
"We have prepared everything."

"I'm sorry, it's not possible. My people will be in touch
with you about an alternate route."

"When?" Kutsenko was on the verge of tears. "Already
they're watching me. My wife was discharged from her post.
No reason was given."

Riesling felt his stomach turn a slow revolution. "Recently?"

"Today."

Blown. It was all blown.

Riesling smiled tightly as the waitress placed the stein in
front of him. "1 understand you will be playing in a chess
tournament in Havana later this year." he said. struggling to
look as if they were exchanging casual pleasantries.

"Perhaps. One is never sure ..."

"Be there- With your wife. I'll arrange for one of our men
.to meet you."

"How will I know him?" Kutsenko said. choking in fear.

Riesling thought tor a moment, then said, "He'll talk about

32 GRANDMASTER

the weather. He'll say, 'In Havana, the sun is hot. but it's
good for the sugar crop.' Can you remember that?"

Kutsenko nodded. "Will you excuse me for a moment?"
Riesling asked, rising. He made his way toward the rest room
at the back at a leisurely pace.

Riesling had selected the cafe as a meeting place because
of its layout. Two crude wooden partitions separated the lavato-
ries from the dining area. Beyond them, the small kitchen led
directly to a rear exit. Without doubt, Riesling thought, the
cafe had lost more than one customer through the kitchen
door, since it couldn't be spotted from the dining room.
Riesling went out silently, leaving the chess player to figure
out his departure for himself.

In the cafe, the man standing at the counter crooked a
finger toward the front window.

On Gorky Street, the immense Tchaikovsky Concert Hall
glittered in the sunlight, flanked by the Mossovyet and the
Sovremennik Youth Theater. To Riesling's right rose the tall
tower of the Samarkand Hotel.

It would have to be the Samarkand now, he thought. He
was blown, because surely the Russians had someone watch-
ing Kutsenko. It was just a matter of time now. Costless but
sweating profusely, he walked down the wide boulevard with
what semblance of casuainess he could muster, scanning the
long lines of workers waiting outside the meat markets, stamp-
ing and exhaling clouds like steaming horses.

He didn't know what prompted him to turn around, to
search the crowd behind him. The instinct was so ingrained in
Riesling that he never questioned it. He was a professional-

So it was that he was not horrified or even terribly sur-
prised at the certain knowledge that he was going to die.

Behind him. less than a block away, was the man in the
white stocking cap.

.CHAPTER FOUR

Mike Corfus felt like a connoisseur as he swirled his brandy
near the candlelight. The bar of the Samarkand was elevated a
few feet off the lobby floor, and from his vantage point at the
railing, Corfus could watch both the front and the side doors
ofthehotet.

He liked the Samarkand, with its Byzantine flourishes and
pre-Revolutionary charm. It was part of another Russia, peo-
pled with aristocrats who walked these floors in jewel-buckled
shoes, where the silk gowns of ladies wearing tiaras rustled
softly as they moved.

Corfus smiled to himself. Sometimes his own naivete amused
him. In czarist Russia, he would have been a serf. He even
looked tike a serf. Times didn't change that much.

In the lobby below, a German tourist with a camera dan-
. gling around his neck posed his squat wife in front of a mural
depicting Tamerlane as he led his Mongol archers to victory
along the Silk Road.

"Ein Augenhlick," the German shouted, waving the other
occupants of the lobby toward the comers while he adjusted
.--' his camera. "Gehen Sie heraus!"

^.   Corfus could tell by the facial features of the people in the
;.jlobby that most of them were Russians. They ignored the
^^German's commands to move out of his way.
:|T   "Another?" the bar waitress asked indifferently, gesturing
i^to Corfus's half-empty glass.

K' "No, thanks. I'd like to take my time," he answered in
flawless Russian. The waitress sneered and lumbered away.
^
fe".                        33

34

GRANDMASTER

Russian women, Corfus decided, should ail be fitted with
mudguards.

A loud crack, like a clap of thunder, sounded from some-
where near the kitchen. Corfus saw the waitress look up and
amble slightly faster toward the rear of the hotel. The other
patrons hesitated for a moment, then resumed their conver-
sations. In the lobby, the German tourist had handed the
camera to his wife and was seated formally in one of the
hotel's red upholstered chairs in front of the massive side
doors. His sneakers dangled beneath an expanse of exposed
white shin. He was shouting orders at her, gesturing angrily
as she fiddled with the camera's knobs and buttons. The squat
woman was bent over like a snail, peering with great concen-
tration into the viewfinder, when suddenly she straightened
up, her face ashen.

"Was is los?" the tourist bellowed. But by then the woman's
scream had riveted the attention of everyone in the lobby.

The panic was instantaneous. Behind the German, through
the curtained glass double doors, staggered a man covered
with blood. Half his shoulder was blown off, and he clutched
with agonizing effort at the strands of flesh that remained.
Blood spurted out of him like a fountain, splashing into his
face in a sickening rhythm. He shielded his eyes from the
light with his good hand.

As the passersby veered around the man with expressions
of horror on their faces, two red-uniformed hotel clerks strode
over to him. With amazing strength, he knocked one of them
sprawling on the carpel, then continued his rabid-dog walk
toward the bar, where the occupants shouted their objections
and backed away. Corfus half rose, feeling nauseated.

"Help him," a woman shrieked in provincial accents.
"Why doesn't anyone help him?"

As one of the hotel clerks tackled the bleeding man from
behind and forced him to the floor, Corfus recognized his
face. "Oh, my God," he whispered.

"Just a moment. We've called an ambulance," the clerk
shouted. The man flailed beneath him.

"No!" he screamed. The sound was a cry of betrayal, of
agony. His arm shot up and quavered in the air.
Corfus scrambled down the steps on wobbly legs and forced

his way through the melee. "Riesling," he said, "Starcher
sent me."

The Coiled Snake                35

It seemed so horribly inadequate. But Riesling's eyes bright-
ened at the words- He groaned as he stretched his violently
shaking hand toward Corfus.

"Help me," he said.

Corfus bent over the wounded man. Riesling moaned,
pulling himself close. The blood from his shoulder seeped into
Corfus's suit. The flesh from his exploded shoulder hung in
strips. With a gasp, he grabbed the useless, blood-drenched
hand dangling at his side and stuffed it into his pocket.

He reeked of sweat and fear. The hotel clerk looked to
Corfus with shock and disgust. "Sir?" he asked meekly.

"It's all right. Hurry up that ambulance."

"In Havana," Riesling sputtered, then was seized with a
spasm of pain that shook him the length of his body. "In
-Havana . . ."he mumbled and Corfus leaned closer to hear.

A burst of blinding white light gave Corfus a jo!t. The
German tourist was assiduously snapping pictures of the two
of them, while his wife tugged, sobbing, at his jacket. "Bitte,"
she wailed. "Bitte. new ..." He pushed her aside and
snapped another picture.

"Get the hell out of here, you vulture!" Corfus shouted at
him in English.

Riesling clutched at him. "No time." he whispered. "Take."
He thrust his good hand into his jacket pocket and handed
him a blood-soaked bundle of papers. He repeated the action
twice more, each time coming up clutching scraps of personal
property.

"Please, wait for the ambulance," Corfus said, but Riesling
kept turning over his belongings, one pocket after the other.
All the while, he kept talking wildly between ragged gasps,
while Corfus struggled to hear him. Riesting forced his way
into the pocket that contained his other hand. When he brought
it back up, the dead left hand was wound around a metal
chain to which was attached a gold disc. He screamed with
..pain as he untangled the hand, suspended in the air like a
^puppet's, and the medallion fell to the floor.

The German's camera flashed again.
; "Take it. Pick it up'" Riesling commanded. Sweat poured
\ into the comers of his mouth. Holding on to the dying man,
| Corfus stooped to pick up the gold necklace.
f Then, inexplicably. Riesling let go of Corfus and kicked
him in his side, and Corfus sprawled backward. Before he

36

GRANDMASTER

could regain his footing, hell had opened up and swallowed
them all.

In the double doorway stood two men, both carrying heavy
pistols. One of the men, scanning the crowd, wore a white
stocking cap, his features blunt and menacing. The other was
smaller and bareheaded. He took aim.

Corfus caught sight of Riesling as the wounded man strug-
gled to his feet, then lurched a few feet away from him
toward the other exit. His throat closed in pity. In less than a

second, he knew, the man was going to die in front of his

eyes.

The bullet caught the spy square in the back. and Riesling
arched convulsively and flipped sideways in midair, his shat-
tered arm flinging outward in a spray of blood.

The next moments were pure madness. Riesling's hand
clawed at the floor. Somehow, he was managing, in the
extreme of suffering, to move toward a cluster of terrified,
shrieking onlookers plastered against the wall. The bare-
headed man fired again at Riesling. His body jerked upward
and then fell forward with a thump.

Corfus backed away. His stomach wrenched. The man in
the stocking cap was standing in firing position again, imper-
vious to the screams of the people in the lobby.

And he was aiming directly at Corfus.

In the next second, a woman, sobbing in panic, lunged in
front of Corfus. The bullet took her in the head, exploding it
like a melon.

The brutal act was accentuated by a flash of white light.
The photographer, scurrying toward the main doors with

his prized camera, suddenly fell backward, a gaping hole torn

in the right side of his throat.

It had all happened in a span of seconds. The stampede for
the exits began, and Corfus went with the crowd. Outside, a
swarm of onlookers had already begun to collect. He didn't
see the gunmen leave. He looked back once. All he saw were
the splayed bodies of Riesling, the woman with half a head,
and the German photographer.

Starcher said nothing for several minutes. He just sat at his
desk, the light from me lamp forming a pool of yellow light
over the haphazard items that Corfus had placed there. Slowly

The Coiled Snake                37

Starcher shifted the objects around to form two neat double
lines.

He picked up the three passports in the upper left comer
and leafed through them. The Americanpassport was Riesling's.
The other two were Finnish and had evidently been stolen en-
were still in the process of preparation, since the stamped
photographs of the subjects were missing. They belonged,
ostensibly, to a Rickard and Miqa Trojioi. The other items on
the desk were Riesling's Russian working papers and identity
card and a manila envelope containing some six thousand
rubles and several hundred dollars in American bills.

He set them down again. "He gave you all of this?" he
asked, gesturing to the collection of papers and oddments.

Corfus nodded. "He emptied his pockets and stuffed every-
thing into my hands."

Starcher squeezed his eyes shut. His headache was back.
"Were you spotted?"

Corfus snorted. "Damn right. The bastard had a gun pointed
dead at me."

"What happened?"

Corfus lowered his eyes. "Someone—a woman—got in the
way." Starcher looked up at the ceiling. "It got pretty bad,
Andy."

Starcher nodded, expressionless. An incidental murder.
Riesling had tried to save Corfus's life by pulling the gunfire
away from him. "What did Riesling say? Try to remember
the exact words."

"I don't think he was lucid," Corfus said. "He didn't
. make a lot of sense-"

"Go ahead."

"He said something about Havana, first. The sugar crop or
something. Really, it didn't seem to mean anything."

"What did he say exactly?" Starcher pressed.

"All right, all right. He said, 'In Havana, the sun is hot,
but it's good for the sugar crop.' That's what he said. Exactly."

Starcher sat back. "Havana?" he whispered. Riesling only
traveled between Finland and the Soviet Union. What was in
Havana?

"I told you it didn't make sense."

"Are you sure about Havana?" Starcher said slowly. "Could
it have been Hamina? They sound alike."

38 GRANDMASTER

"It was Havana," Corfus said stubbornly- "Anyway, they
don't grow sugar in Finland."

Starcher exhaled. "What else? Was that all?"

"No. He said something else when he gave me the
neckiace."

"The necklace?"

"The guy was cracked, I teli you."

Starcher rummaged through the items on his desk. "What
necklace?" he asked, frowning.

Corfus poked around the items. "I know he gave it to
me," he mumbled. "It was after he dumped the rest of the
stuff into my hands. He acted as if it was important. Maybe
it's still in my pocket." He rose and walked to the small
divan where he had draped his coat and rummaged through
(be pockets. "Here it is. It must have gotten stuck in the
liaa«."

^ '   He tossed the gold medallion onto the glass desktop with a

!".„• "•*•"''••-' •     , -
: •'•/-cWtBSfir

I-, Stucfaer stared at it fora moment, unmoving. The gold disc
|^»iAt» attcieat coiled snake figurine seemed to glow with a

|Nl>»Wl»ww;^

^^•Wffi^tovdseS from the medallion to Starcher. "What—
° what's the matter?"

Starcher reached out for me necklace with tentative fingers.
He robbed the gold thoughtfully. It felt warm to his touch.

So long, so long ago . . .

"What did Riesling say?" Starcher asked, pulling off his
bifocals with a grimace. The hand that had touched the
medallion trembled.

"He said the Grandmaster was alive."

Starcher shot out of his chair. An intense pain coursed
down his left arm. "What?"

"It was the last thing he said," Corfus said, confused.
"Tell Starcher that the Grandmaster is alive- Are you all
right?"

Starcher groaned and gasped for air. His chest tightened as
if a steel band were squeezing his lungs together. The comer
of his desk shot up to meet his gaze; his chair toppled with a
heavy crash. "The medallion," he said softly. But of course
that was ridiculous. Even the Grandmaster's coiled snake
didn't possess the power to stop a man's heart. With a sigh,
he lost consciousness in a sea of pain.

-CHAPTER FIVE

Alexander Zharkov filled his lungs with the crisp October air
mixed with the smell of new bread from the bakery on
Neglimmaya Street. To his left, several blocks away, the
twenty towers of the Kremlin's fortress walls pricked the sky.
Beyond them, the bright-colored gingerbread domes of St.
Basil's Cathedral stood in splendid ancient barbarism.

It was said in the old legends that Ivan the Terrible plucked
out the eyes of the cathedral's designers so that its magnifi-
cence might never be duplicated. Zharkov's eyes rested for a
moment on the structure, as they did each morning. He
understood the belligerent, bloody czar of all the Russias,
now defiled for his selfish achievements.

He had understood since his days as a student, when he had
first set his unworldly eyes on the great cathedral. While his
contemporaries set about ensuring the success of their careers
by vocally damning the excesses of the corrupt kings and
praising the weekly agricultural output of the Ukraine, Zharkov
had been silent, listening, planning- Even then he had under-
stood the price of greatness, and respected it.

He turned down a side street lined with modest homes,
their shutters open. He nodded to an old grandmother, a
baba, who swept her steps each morning as Zharkov passed.
She smiled toothlessly and watched him walk toward the
two-story house that no one on the street spoke of.

The people in the neighborhood knew that it was not a
home. It was not a brothel, because no women came or left
there. It was not an office, because no office sounds issued

39

40 GRANDMASTER

from the small house with the tightly closed windows. Onty a
crew of workmen in a truck came to the dark little house with
regularity, letting themselves in before dawn every day with
dollies loaded with electronic equipment, and then lei them-
selves out within the hour. Those neighbors who guessed that
the equipment was for electronic security sweeps of the prem-
ises kepi the information to themselves. Such knowledge was
not welcome in Moscow.

The house belonged to Nichevo- Sporadically it served as
the meeting ground for five or six serious, silent men. Zharkov
was the youngest among them. And the most powerful.

A heavy-set man carrying a brown envelope stood at the
foot of the steps leading to the front door of the house. They
exchanged glances tentatively. Years of secret meetings had
inured them both against demonstrative Russian welcomes in
full sunlight.

"Comrade," Zharkov said, with the briefest nod toward
the brown envelope. He unlocked the front door. It closed
behind them with a double click. Zharkov led the heavy-set
man through the front parlor and into a small office contain-
ing little more than a desk, a few uncomfortable wooden
chairs, and a wall of new metal file cabinets on which rested
incongruously an omate chessboard inlaid with ebony and
ivory.

"You are well, Sergei?" Zharkov said with more warmth
once they were away from the inquisitive eyes of the people
on the street.

"Well enough- My son wishes to change his course of
study at the university. He wants to take up art," the man
with the envelope said with a shrug.

Zharkov smiled at the man's obvious discomfort. General
Sergei Ostrakov was KGB in the style of Stalin: a trained
bear of a man who obeyed blindly, killed easily, lived
automatically, and spared little thought for the inconsequen-
tials of life, which included every activity not directly linked
to his personal survival. "Art is a worthwhile study." Zharkov
said.

"Not for the son of a fighting man. Disgraceful- You are
lucky not to be fettered with the burden of a family. Alyosha."
He used the friendly Russian diminutive for Alexander, but
the name seemed to come from his mouth only with effort.

"Your coat?" Zharkov said.

The Coiled Snake                41

The KGB man shook his head, "No. I'll just stay a
minute." He tossed the envelope onto Zharkov's desk. "There's
something in there that might interest you."

He was fishing for something. Zharkov knew, and he re-
fused to rise to the bait. He sat on the soft leather chair
behind his desk and slowly lit a cigarette. The envelope
remained untouched on the desk.

After a few seconds of awkward silence. Ostrakov spoke
again. "This is something in your field of interest," l^e said.
"Kutsenko is attempting to defect to the Americans. He met
with an agent last night,"

"Which agent?" Zharkov asked mildly, his hooded eyes
still looking down at his cigarette.

"We think it was Frank Riesling. He divested himself of
any identification before he died, but our researchers made
him from some photographs." He thrust his chin toward the
brown envelope- "He worked out of Helsinki, taking defec-
tors out through the northern route."

"And what happened?" Zharkov asked-

"Nothing," Ostrakov said. "It's in the envelope."

Zharkov leaned forward and pulled a sheaf of photographs
from the envelope. The first was of a fat woman posing for
her portrait in front of a mural. The second showed another
woman, arms outstretched, falling as her face exploded into
fragments.

"Some of these are inconsequential," Ostrakov said
offhandedly. He gestured to the photo of the woman in her
moment of death. "An accident," he said.

Angrily, Zharkov slammed the photos down on his desk
without looking at the rest.

"What happened to Riesling?"

"He's dead."

"Your men killed him?"

"Yes."

"And Kutsenko?"

• "He is being watched. I've had him watched for two weeks
now," Ostrakov said. "ever since I learned he was planning
to defect. I had his wife fired from her job at the hospital,"
he said proudly.

"You idiot," Zharkov snapped-

Ostrakov bristled, but Zharkov ignored him and began to
look again through the rest of the photos. He blew out a

42 GRANDMASTER

lungful of smoke in disgust Nichevo had given him a certain
power over the KGB, but it would never be enough power to
change the mentality of its people The KGB was cluttered
with heavy-handed fools.

"That's the agent," Ostrakov said. The third photograph
showed a man reeling to the floor in agony, his shoulder
blown away. In the foreground were several shadows hover-
ing around neatly upholstered furniture.

"Where were these taken?" Zharkov asked incredulously.

"At the Samarkand Hotel, around eight o'clock yesterday
evening. There was a man taking pictures of the incident, an
East German tourist."

"A tourist?" Zharkov shouted, throwing the photographs
down onto the desk. "You had a man shot to death in the
lobby of B busy hotel during peak hours"—he slammed his
fist down on the picture of the dying woman—"killing God
knows how many innocent bystanders ..."

"Only two bystanders, comrade," Ostrakov said coldly.
"The German tourist was taking incriminating photographs,
as you can see. It was unavoidable." He stepped back a pace,
his friendly intimacy replaced by the official persona of his
rank. "Colonel Zharkov, I wish to remind-you that Nichevo's
function does not extend to dictating what the KGB will do."

"You do not have to remind me. Every bungled perform-
ance by your organization reminds me." With a snap. he
picked up the photographs again.

"I am trying to remember that you are my friend. Comrade
Colonel," Ostrakov said angrily. He rambled on, but Zharkov
didn't hear him He was transfixed by the last photograph in
the series- It showed Riesling, screaming in pain before the
bewildered, terrified face of a dark young man, as a shiny
metal object glittered in the air on its way to the floor- The
carved surface of the object was facing the camera.

Zharkov held his breath as he pulled a magnifying glass
from his desk drawer and held it over the black-and-white
photograph. Under the lens, the object leaped into prominence.

It was a medallion bearing the figure of a coiled snake in a
circle.

Zharkov closed his eyes. He felt dizzy. The Grandmaster
had surfaced.

"It is the same. isn't it?" Ostrakov asked.

The Coiled Snake                43

Zharkov looked up, his eyes alert and suspicious. "I don't
know what you mean," he said.

The KGB man spread his arms. "Alyosha," he said in a
strained attempt at friendliness. "We have spent many years
together. We have marched in the snows of the Caucasus.
killed together in the jungles. We have bathed together and
shared women. I know the mark you keep beneath your
collar.''

Zharkov swallowed, trying to focus on the fat man who
seemed to sway in front of him. "Why have you come?" he
asked quietly.

"The medallion. We wish to know its significance. Before
he died, Riesling passed everything in his possession to the
man in the photograph. We've identified him as Michael
Corfus. He's a liaison officer at the American embassy, but
he's Starcher's deputy in the CIA."

"I know who he is," Zharkov said- "You've captured
him, too?"

Ostrakov shrugged. "No. With his diplomatic immunity,
he could only be expatriated anyway. We're keeping an eye
on him."

"In your usual subtle fashion, no doubt," Zharkov said.
He stubbed out the cigarette. He allowed himself only a
handful every day and never one before lunch. This idiot and
the other fools at the KGB had stuck their blundering fat
hands into a sensitive Nichevo operation, and it was Zharkov's
own fault. He should have taken greater care to keep the
KGB out.

The facts were clear. Riesling had passed the medallion to
Corfus. He should never have been allowed to leave the
premises, but the KGB decided not to capture him at all. Why
should they? They were probably still busy celebrating their
successful terrorizing of a hotel full of foreign visitors. Two
bystanders dead. Riesling killed. Kutsenko alerted.

All a waste.

And worst of all, the medallion was gone.

He looked up and met Ostrakov's eyes. They were the eyes
of a beast of burden, trained to see only what they expected,
blind to truth. No, Zharkov would not tell the KGB anything.

"The medallion," Ostrakov prompted.

Zharkov dismissed il with a flick of his hand. "Meaningless,"
he said. He stood up and extracted from a file cabinet a plain

44

GRANDMASTER

green folder. "The green signifies a closed case," he said.
slapping the folder into Ostrakov's open hands. Inside were
medical reports, a detailed account of the circumstances of
death, and a grainy photograph of a dark-haired man lying in
a shallow open grave. The face in the photograph, smeared
with dirt and lacerated with small cuts, looked vital even in
death. The clothes he wore were rough, handmade garments
of the style worn by the goral of the Polish highlands. Around
his neck was a medallion that bore the image of a coiled
snake.

"Who was he? He's wearing the same medallion."

Zharkov answered in a monotone. "The one last night was
probably a copy. His name was Justin Gilead. He was a chess
player, and the CIA ran him around the world. He was killed
in an avalanche in Poland four years ago. I was there at the
time."

Ostrakov grunted, tossing down the green folder. "The
Americans know about this?"

Zharkov nodded. "I saw that they got copies of the file."

"And your neck, Comrade?" Ostrakov asked bluntly.

Zharkov's hooded eyes flashed. "It is an old scar. It means
nothing. Not to me and not to you and not to your superiors.
Understand?"

The KGB man sputtered in front of Zharkov's vehemence.
"I thought the medal might contain some kind of secret
message," he said.

"You should have asked Riesling before your thugs pulled
the trigger," Zharkov said dryly. "Where is Kutsenko now?"

"My men have him under surveillance," Ostrakov said.

"I want him left alone," Zharkov said.

Ostrakov's face clouded- "But that's impossible. He is the
world chess champion, and he is planning to defect. Impossible.
My superiors—"

"And I want his wife to be given her job back- She should
be made to believe it was all a mistake."

"I will never be permitted to—"

"I will take full authority for this," Zharkov said. "I'll
send a report to the directorate today. They'll understand.
Kutsenko is very vital to plans that Nichevo is working
on."

"What plans?"

"You know better than to ask that." Zharkov said curtly.

The Coiled Snake                45

He led Ostrakov through the front parlor and to the door.
"If you don't believe me, wait for instructions from your
superiors. That is the Russian way, I suppose."

"Zharkov, I've told you—"

"Just try not to kill Kutsenko in the meantime. Or this
Corfus. I think I will need him as well."

"You are insulting, Alexander Vassilovitch." Ostrakov said,
his face red. "There is a new premier. 1 do not think Nichevo
will continue to ride roughshod much longer."

"Until that happens, good day. Comrade." Zharkov said
without expression.

Settling down to write his request to Ostrakov's superiors,
his hands passed over the green folder- Inside lay the photo-
graph of the dead Justin Gilead. Zharkov look it out and
studied it again. In repose, Gilead's face was almost that of a
boy, and it was as a boy that Zharkov best remembered him,
hunched over a chessboard in a banquet room of the Hotel de
Crillon in Paris.

It had been a match between children, a meeting of two
lonely, gifted len-year-old boys who had drawn themselves
into the magic of a strange game where kingdoms were lost
and won in the turn of a thought. Alexander Zharkov had
played against Justin Gilead then,, in the sight of chess mas-
ters from all over Europe and the Soviet Union.

Young Alyosha had burned with shame when his father
strapped a radio receiver to his forearm before the match- He
explained thai the American boy. Gilead, was probably the
finest child chess player in the world snd that Zharkov could
not leave the game lo chance.

"I play well. too. father," Alyosha had protested, but the
receiver remained.

During the match, the Russian grandmasters conferred on
each of Alyosha's moves. His instructions were broadcast to
him through minute electric shocks on the flesh of the
Russian boy's arm. The first set of signals named the
piece to move; the second told him which square to occupy.
He clenched his teeth to hold back his tears during the sham
match- He wanted to play Gilead alone, to match his mind to
his opponent's. As it was. Alyosha was little more than a
robot mechanically moving pieces on a board- He looked
across at the young American with the raven black hair,

46 GRANDMASTER

grateful that Gilead's head was always down, over the board,
studying the pieces and the positions.

Aiyosha read the signal on his forearm and made another
move. For the first time, Justin Gilead looked up, revealing a
pair of eyes of the most extraordinary electric blue Zharkov
had ever seen. They were old eyes, wise and pained, locked
strangely into a child's face and body. Giiead moved a knight
and said softly, "Check. Mate in five."

Stunned, Aiyosha turned and looked across the room to
where the delegation of Russian chess masters were following
the moves on a portable chessboard. His father's face was
flushed with anger. Aiyosha knew there would be no more
instructions, no more radio signals.

He resigned. As the two boys stood up to shake hands,
Gilead whispered, "Do you speak English?"

"A little," Aiyosha said numbly.

"I hope someday I can play against you, and not those
men back there." He nodded toward the rear of the room.

"Oh ..." Aiyosha wanted to die of shame.

"Your sleeve," Gilead said.

Zharkov looked at his shirt cuff. where a small wire looped
close to the fabric. "You knew."

"It's all right." Gilead said. "Another day. Another place.
We will play a real game."

After the match, Justin was surrounded by press photogra-
phers and reporters, eager for a story on the young chess
genius. He never mentioned Atyosha's radio receiver-
There had not been a rematch- Zharkov was permitted to
continue his chess career until he began his military service.
He followed his father to Nichevo meetings, said nothing,
and listened. Justin Gilead disappeared off the face of the
earth that very week.

Zharkov saw Gilead only twice during the twenty-five
years that followed.

On both occasions, Zharkov had killed him. On both
occasions, the Grandmaster had relumed.

The second time had been four years ago in Poland. The
Grandmaster had survived anrf escaped, but then had vanished
from the earth. The Americans did not know where he was,
in fact believed him dead, and even Zharkov's far-flung
network of spies had not been able to find a trace of him. The

The Coiled Snake                47

Russian eventually had come to believe that Justin Gilead had

died of his wounds-
Died. The way a human being would have-
And now the medallion had surfaced, and while Ostrakov

did not know what it meant. Alexander Zharkov did. He

knew ii as surely as he knew the sun would rise in the

morning. He had feared it for years.
Justin Gilead—the Grandmaster—was alive.
Unconsciously, Zharkov's hands lifted to the high Russian

military collar he wore.
Justin Gilead. The hunter- The hunted. Their destinies were

as entwined as their pasts, and Zharkov knew he could never

leave Gilead's death to others. That task. he knew. had been

assigned to him and him alone since the moment of his birth-
He tore open the collar. Beneath it, burned into his flesh

and scarred into ugly permanence, was the mark of the coiled

snake,

Book Two

THE WEARER OF
THE BLUE HAT

.CHAPTER SIX

Justin Gilead learned early about death. His mother, a stage
\ actress of remarkable beauty, died before Justin was three
.', years old. His father, a novelist known worldwide by the
'; single name Leviathan, which graced a stream of flashy if
^embarrassingly illiterate best-sellers, decided during his wife's
faneral that the care of a preschool infant would hinder
mightily the extensive research in the bars and bordellos of
/ Europe necessary to produce his masterpieces.

',   As a result, Justin was raised in different cities around the
United States by a succession of faceless aunts and uncles and
chance associates of his father's who welcomed Leviathan's
fat checks in return for sheltering and feeding a small boy
who spoke little, had few friends, and amused himself by
., playing solitary games of chess during the lonely evenings of

his childhood. One uncle encouraged him, and soon Juslin
- was playing in, and winning, tournaments. When he was nine,

he finished second in the United States junior chess champion-
' ships.

(,  Donald Gilead learned of his son's ability at the chessboard
f:only when the invitation for Juslin to participate in the French
||oumament reached him while he was in Paris arguing with a
pvhore over the price of an evening. Thinking of the good
Ipublicity the boy's victory could generate for Leviathan's
" ook, the elder Gilead had Justin flown over alone like so
luch baggage.




After Justin's triumphant match with the young Russian
)digy, the boy accompanied his father into the dim bars and

51

52 GRANDMASTER

illegal gambling houses in the seedy side streets of Courbevoie.
where Donald Gilead found comfort. They did not speak
much to each other. Gilead had all but forgotten the presence
of the quiet boy. Justin, too, kept to his own thoughts. They
were of robes.

Yellow robes. The back of the chess hall had been full of
small, dark men in yellow robes, watching, concentrating.
Bul their focus was not on the game. He, Justm Gitead, had
been the object of their attention. He could feel them; their
thoughts were almost palpable to him. And in words that
were not words, the men in the yellow robes had said, Come.
You are of us. The man is not your father. This is not your
home. We have come to lake you home.

At first he had found the intense stares of the small men to
be distracting, but whatever energy—that was the only word
he could think of for their strange communication through
distance, their language without words—they sent to him
shortly had the reverse effect- It concentrated his vision. It
tightened his ranging mind until there was nothing for him to
see or question or understand except the chess pieces in front
of him, the knights and bishops and pawns that moved to his
direction. For the length of that extraordinary match with the
Russian boy who had not been permitted to control his own
pieces, Justin Gilead did not merely play the game. He was
the game.

He wished he could talk to someone about the old group of
men in their yellow robes and the unearthly feeling of power
they had sent to him during the match. Slowly he looked
around the bar. His father, shirt unbuttoned down to the
belly, was fondling the breasts of a dirty-looking blond woman
to the encouragement of other bleary-eyed patrons.

No, there was no one who would understand about the men
in the yellow robes. He looked the other way and tried to stay
awake. At the far end of me bar, a dark man with a sharp
nose and thinning hair sat silently, watching Justin's father
and the blond woman.

His father shouted something, and the woman shouted
back, spewing out a stream of gutter French. Justin turned in
time to see his father reel back drunkenly, then smash his fist
into the woman's face. She screamed. A small explosion of
blood sprayed from her nose.

Swiftly, his face blank, the dark man at the end of the bar

The Wearer of the Blue Hat            53

rose. As he walked toward Justin's father, who had collapsed
across the bar, he reached into the short cloth jacket he wore
and popped open a knife with a six-inch-tong blade.

All conversation stopped. The only sound in the bar was
the rhythmic chant of a frothy French jazz tune. The bar
patrons quickly slinked off their stools and away like unsee-
ing worms. The barman stood stock-stiil as if to convince the
man with the knife of his discretion. The man with the knife
jerked his head toward the door.

Donald Gilead, his hands held shakily above his head,
staggered wildly toward the exit, the man and the blond
woman behind him.

Justin was frozen. He stood up on rubber legs and looked
around the bar frantically, searching for someone who would
help, but no one paid any attention to the boy. Running, he
made his way out the door in time to see the dark man jab the
blade into his father's bloated, exposed belly. Donald Gilead
stared ahead stupidly for a moment, shuffling on his feet,
then crashed backward into the slime of the stone-paved
street.

The boy stared at the scene, breathing shallowly, watching
his father's open eyes glaze over like those of some huge
felled beast. A trickle of filthy water from the street formed a
black pool around the dead man's face and mixed with the
thread of blood oozing from between his tips. A wave of
shock and revulsion nppled up through Justin's insides. For a
moment, the man lying dead in the street looked no more
human than the carcass of a slaughtered bull.

He looked up uncomprehendingly at the two figures stand-
ing over the body, the blond woman with her nose blackened
comically with smeared blood, and the dark man holding the
switchblade. By the harsh blue-white light of the street lamp,
the knife glinted like a moving, living thing as the man
walked slowly toward Justin, his breathing audible in the
quiet night.

Justin backed away. Slowly at first, his hands shielding his
face like a childish mask, he watched the silver gleam of the
blade alternately disappear into shadow and shine brightly
under the light as the dark man came closer, faster, toward
him. His head bumped against the rough surface of a wall.
The bump sent one message shooting through his body, and
that was that this man, this stranger, was going to kilt him.

54 GRANDMASTER

He ran. Through the street, past heaps of rotting garbage
and half-open back doorways reeking of liquor and stale
smoke he ran, panting, not danng to look back, trying to keep
his footing on the slippery stones of the pavement.

Two men walked out of one of the dingy bars along the
street. Justin scurried up to them. clutching one of the men by
the leg of his trousers.

"Stop him!" he yelled, pointing. "He's got a knife. He
killed my father, and he's going to kill me. too,"

Shrugging profusely, the man said something in French
that was meant, Justin guessed, to sound comforting Justin
kept pointing, trying to indicate through his gestures that
someone was after him. The two men looked at each other,
then took a few steps down the street. The running footsteps
had stopped. The dark man was gone. There was no one in
view except a man and a woman, strolling arm in arm at a
leisurely pace.

The Frenchman with Justin gestured to the couple and
spoke something that sounded like a question.

"No," Justin said, relief flooding through him.

Then, as the couple passed beneath the street lamp, Justin
recognized the blond woman. And beside her, the man with
the knife, now hidden from view.

The woman smiled and called a name, holding out her
arms.

"Ah," the Frenchman said, lifting Justin off the ground.
He laughed and called something to the dark man and the
blonde as he offered Justin to them-

Justin screamed, kicking the Frenchman in his side "Put
me down!"

The Frenchman dropped him with a curse and shouted at
the couple. They paid him no attention. They were running
after the boy.

The two sets of footsteps dropped off to one. The dark man
was alone again. The winding street grew darker. Several of
the street tamps had been smashed, and the seedy bars had
given way to abandoned buildings and vacant lots. There was
no one here, and Justin's limbs were trembling from the long
exertion.

Still the footsteps came.

Justin forced himself to keep running, searching for a wider
cross street, where he could lose himself, find a taxi, a police-

The Wearer of the Blue Hat            55

man - - , No. He had learned his lesson with the Frenchman.
Anyone he stopped would smile and shrug, not comprehend-
ing his pleas for help. And then turn him over to the dark man
with the shiny knife. There was nowhere for him to go but
straight into the darkness, running as long as he could, until
the dark man caught him, until ...

His legs buckled. With a groan, Justin hit the pavement on
his knees and slapped forward, skinning his face. He heard
his breath whistling out of him. He closed his eyes. He
couldn't run anymore.

Farther.

He looked up. There was no one- Only the silent night
broken by the sound of the dark man's footsteps, walking
now.

Farther.

It was not a word, exactly, but a command nonetheless,
some unspoken will that was drawing him up, pushing him
forward.

The chess pieces, think only of the chess pieces.

He propelled himself ahead, his knees hurting, the bits of
grave! embedded in his cheek beginning to sting.

/ am the game.

The silent force was stronger. It pulled him, enveloped him
like strange music growing louder. It was al] around him,
along with the scent of almonds and tush flowers. It was
overpowering, an eerie chorus of voices calling to him, lead-
ing him to them

He picked up speed, traveling as fast as he could, his lungs
bursting, his body wracked. He wished it were al! a dream,
and that he would awake in Aunt Jane's house or Uncle Sid's
apartment and he would be safe in Houston or Cincinnati or in
any of the other places he'd been instructed to call home. But
he knew it was no dream. The street was real. the footsteps
behind him were real, the knife the dark man carried was
real.

Still, something peculiar was happening to him, something
like a dream. The music, the flowers, the scent of almonds:

Peculiar yet somehow , . . familiar.

/ am the game

When he saw the darkened alleyway, he knew he could go
no farther- It led to a dead end. There was no light at the end
of the alley- No place to hide- Nowhere to go from there. It

56 GRANDMASTER

was the end of his journey- Yet this was where the music had
called him.

Exhausted, he sat down in the altey and waited for the dark
man.

When he arrived, the dark man stood squarely in the
middle of the alley entrance, in silhouette. Justin watched him
reach into his jacket. Holding his arm aloft, the dark man
pressed the switch of the knife, and the blade shot upward,
casting a long shadow. He closed in.

With a cry. Justin scrambled to his feet. Once again he
heard the man's labored breathing.

"Go away!" he screamed.

The breathing grew louder.

"Please." Justin whispered.

The dark man lunged.

Justin leaped backward. As he did. he felt the brush of
something soft against his face. Soft . . . and smelling of
almonds-
He gasped at what came next. In a split second the dark-
ened alleyway was filled with billowing forms, graceful as
the flapping of birds' wings. Something had been waiting in
the shadows of the alleyway, something so silent it could not
be heard even in dead silence. That something whirled now in
formation around the stunned man with the knife. He crouched
down, babbling, and still the forms moved, too swiftly to see.

The dark man stabbed viciously into the circle that sur-
rounded him, but the blade cut only through empty air- He
arced, thrusting frantically, attacking the floating, unearthly
forms like a caged animal.

Juslin watched in awed terror. For behind the strange,
biurred forms, surrounding them and filling the alley, was the
music he had heard, powerful and sweet, as loud as a
symphony.

The dark man lunged again. The circle broke, spitting him
out like a seed. The moving forms became still. Toe music
slopped.

They were men, Justin noted with astonishment. The men
at the tournament. Six small men in yellow robes, almost
identical with their shaved heads, who could move so fast that
his own eyes saw nothing but a blur. They formed a tine now,
blocking the path between the dark man and the opening of

The Wearer of the Blue Hat            57

the alley. One of them stepped forward two paces and stopped,
silent-
Snarling, the dark man raised his dagger overhead in warn-
ing as he backed up toward Juslin. With a swat, he grabbed
the boy by his collar and yanked him forward, the knife held
at his throat, and began inching forward.

Justin shuddered, feeling uncontrollable, noiseless tears
streaming hotly down his cheeks. He had been caught, and
the six little men in front of him had helped to catch him. The
blade against his throat felt cold. He would be killed in
minutes, maybe sooner. The music was gone now. It had
betrayed him.

Behind him, the dark man gave a little laugh that sounded
tike a bark as he edged past the yellow-robed man standing in
front of the others. There was no other movement. The
yellow-robed man in front, older than the rest of his band,
was as still as a tree, his lined face expressionless except for
something in his eyes, something more felt than seen, a
question unasked, a command unspoken.

Is it your will?

As if he had been hit by a hammer, Justin looked up,
oblivious to the constricting pain of the knife against his skin.
The yellow-robed man was looking straight ahead, not at
him. Yet he was watching Justin, the boy felt it, knew it,
watching from somewhere behind his eyes. And Justin knew
this man as well as if he had spent a lifetime with him.

"It is my will." the boy whispered, understanding nothing,
yet as sure of his authority over the yellow-robed men as he
had been of anything in his life.

Instantly the yellow-robed man was in the air, kicking the
knife out of the hands of the killer with what seemed like
effortless ease. Justin watched the blade whirl upward like a
propeller. With another blow to his back, the dark man shrieked
and reeled toward the far end of the aileyway, clutching
behind him. Then he looked up, his eyes widened in terror.
Before he could scream, the blade of the descending knife
struck with a thud and buried itself deep in his throat.

The dark man's arms shook spasmodically. In the moment
before he fell, he jerked his head to the side and looked
directly at Justin. The dazed expression in his eyes looked to
the boy exactly like his father's at the moment of his death.

Juslin stared at the dead man, the knife growing out of his

58 GRANDMASTER

neck. The exhibition he had just witnessed was a more terrify-
ing act than he could ever have imagined. The knife, alone,
had killed from the air, like some vengeful sword sent by the
gods. It had been a display not so much of strength as
of—magic.

Who were these men? Justin began to tremble violently.
What were they planning to do with him?

At that moment, the yellow-robed man standing apart from
the others fell to his knees in the dirty alleyway. The others
formed a circle around the boy and followed suit. spreading
their fanciful garments on the stone pavement.

"Who are you?" the boy asked as he looked down on the
circle centered around him.

"I am Tagore." the man answered. "We have sought you
for many years, 0 Patanjali."

Justin blinked. "But that's not—"

The little man held up his hand. commanding silence.
"There is no question now. You do not yet understand, but
you have shown yourself to be the one we seek. 1 welcome
you back to your home in the world of men."

He bowed low, his head touching the pavement in front of
him. The others bowed as well. Justin Gilead alone remained
standing among them- He wanted to tell them that they had
made some kind of mistake, that he wasn't who they thought
he was. that he didn't know what was going on. didn't
understand anything that had gone on since the dark man had
stabbed his father on the street. He was tired and hungry and
frightened, and all he wanted to do was to rest somewhere.

But he remained where he was, standing inside the circle of
men prostrated in obeisance to him, because the music had
come back, and the scent of almonds, like a memory, filled
the air-

.CHAPTER SEVEN

Justin was hungry.

The journey overland had taken more than three months
through the European countryside and the vast stretches of
wild, uninhabited hill country that had once belonged to the
Saracen Empire. Tagore and his band of yellow-robed men
paid no heed to modem boundaries, or to the wars that raged
along those boundaries. Always, he seemed to have an in-
stinct for the least traveled ways, leading his men and their
young charge into the most desolate regions, from the tall
pine forests of the west into the arid plains of southern Asia,
where even in summer the icy winds from the Himalayas
shook the patches of scrub grass and could freeze a man to
death-
But not these men, Justin thought as one of them prepared
a fire from small sticks. His hands moved with incredible
speed as he twirled a stick into the base of a chip of stone. It
ignited at once. Justin was no longer amazed at the skills
these small men possessed. After the meal was cooked, Justin
knew, another of the yellow-robed men would hold his hand
directly over the flames and press them into the earth, leaving
no mark on either the ground or his flesh.

He had questioned at first. He had complained of the welts
and blisters on his feet, despite his shoes, of the constant ache
in his legs. At a command from Tagore, the men all removed
their sandals and walked barefoot, carrying Justin on their
backs. When he objected to the gruel they ate as daily fare.
an unpleasant mixture of brick tea, sour milk, salt, rancid

59

60 GRANDMASTER

butter, fragments of dned white cheese and roasted barley,
which they carried with them, one of the men killed a goat
and brought it to their camp. To Justin's delight, they roasted
the goat and placed a huge shank of meat before him. The
man who had brought the dead goat bowed to Justin, then to
Tagore. and left.

Justin ate ravenously, barely noticing that the others were
not eating at all He offered some of the meat to Tagore. but
the old man refused.

"Aren't you hungry?" Justin asked.

"No," Tagore said simply.

The meal finished, Justin wrapped himself in a blanket, as
usual, while the others lay on the bare ground with only
scattered shrubs and rocks for shelter against the night winds.
He couldn't sleep. Rising, he saw only four of the six men.
Some distance away, Tagore knelt on a rocky stretch of
ground, facing the mountains to the north. Justin went up to
him and knelt beside him, wincing at the sharp stab of the
rocks. "Where is the other man?" he asked.

"He is dead," Tagore said. The flesh of his face sagged.
The eloquent long nose of the old man jutted with dignity
toward the northern mountains.

"How?" Justin asked.

"That was for him to decide. There are many ways to will
the body to die. He has gone into the shadows. We will not
find him."

"Then how do you know he killed himself?"

"He had no other choice," Tagore said. "Like all of us.
he was a monk who devoted his life to holiness. Yet this night
he performed an act by which his karma was sullied."

"Karma?"

"The life force," Tagore explained. "Each of the Creator's
beings on earth possesses a soul. In the beginning of life. this
soul possesses all things, all possibilities. But as one's life
grows, he forges by his actions the quality of that soul. The
beauty or ugliness of his destiny is charted by the wisdom and
care he places into his spirit. Do you understand?"

Juslin nodded. "But why did the monk die?"

"He knew he could never again attain the spiritual purity
necessary for our way of life." Tagore said. "His only course
was to relinquish this life and wait for the next. in which he
might justify himself."

The Wearer of the Blue Hal            61

Justin shifted his weight to sit, rather than kneel, on the
sharp stones. "He must have done something terrible," he
said.

"Not terrible. Necessary."

"What's that mean?" Justin asked.

Tagore fixed him with reproachful eyes. "You were not
pleased with your food. Because there is so little edible
vegetation in the area, he was obliged to kill the goat whose
meat you ate. In doing so, he violated one of the laws of our
religion."

"But it was food."

Tagore shook his head- "We had food. We would not have
starved without the goat. And the beast was not attacking us.
Its life was not taken in defense of our own. It was killed only
for your pleasure."

The boy scrambled to his feet- "I don't believe you," he
hissed.

Tagore only turned again to the mountain.

Justin was crying. "Did he know?" he asked in a small
voice. "Did he know what would—happen to him?"

"Yes, my son," Tagore said.

"Then why didn't he tell me? I didn't have to eat the goat.
Not if he was going to die for it."

Tagore took his hand. "One does not learn from words."
he said. "And he obeyed because you are Patanjali."

That night, Justin took his blanket to the base of the
mountain and left it there. He did not complain again.

Tagore and his men spoke little during their long sojourn.
By day, they moved swiftly, stealing silently over the iand,
leaving only Justin's footprints in their wake. At night they
watched, barely moving, listening for the faintest sounds,
seeming to communicate with one another without words.
Justin watched with them, trying to achieve the perfect still-
ness of his fellow travelers, but always he was aware of the
sound of his own breathing, the obtrusive clumsiness of his
;^    own body. When he slept, he still shivered in the cold. When
he walked, he alone, of all the men, frightened birds and
small animals with the noise of his footfalls.

"I am not like you," he told Tagore.

"No being is like another. But you will team what we
know."

62 GRANDMASTER

"Will you teach me?"

"Yes. Thai is why I have come," Tagore said.

"How?"

"In time, you will understand how."

"And when I leam?"

"Then you will understand how much you have yet to
leam."

It was dawn. In the distance, the towering Himalayas rose
out of a pink mist. Below them, just ahead of the group, was
spread a large mountain lake, still as glass and surrounded by
a purple ring of flowering wild rhododendron.

At the edge of the lake, one of the men wound his robe
between his legs and walked slowly into the water. With a
short bow toward the men on shore, he dived under and was
gone-

They watched for some time, long after the ripples on the
surface of the water had subsided and the lake returned to its
perfect stillness. Justin began to panic. "What did I do this
time?" he whispered.

Tagore smiled. "Nothing. He has gone to tell others of
your arrival. Many will come to see you. As he has the
farthest to travel, he must leave first."

"But he hasn't even come up for air."

"That is not necessary." With only a small nod from
Tagore, the remaining three men folded their robes. Each in
turn bowed to Tagore and the boy. Then they, too, entered
the water and were gone without trace.

"How long can they stay underwater?" Justin asked.

"As long as they must. There are those among us who
have lived in death for years."

"Lived in death?"

"That is what we call the suspension of breathing, the
slowing of the bodily processes. In our practice, we learn to
control our bodies through the union of our spirits with the
forces of the universe. It is called yoga."

Justin made a face. "I've heard of yoga. It's where people
sit around twisted into pretzels. They don't do what you
do—walk without making noise, hold fire in your hands. They
don't stay underwater for days, I know that," he said cynically.

"You know. you know, you know," Tagore said. "Tell
me, is there anything you don't know?"

Justin was ashamed. "I'm sorry," he said. "It's just that

The Wearer of the Blue Hat            63

the things you do don't look like anything I've seen before."
He looked up. "I guess that doesn't mean it's not possible."

Tagore smiled. "A beginning," he said, "Now you will
swim the lake."

"Me?" Justin was horrified. "But I can't do that," he
said.

"And why not? Do you not have the same limbs, the same
organs as we?"

"You know what I mean," Justin said dispiritedly. "I
can't do magic."

"Ah." Tagore said, raising his eyebrows. "It is magic you
wish to perform."

"Your kind of magic."

The old man nodded. "Come," he said. He led Justin to a
small stream near the thicket of rhododendrons and picked a
hand-sized rock off the ground. "If this rock were made to
disappear—not hide, but disappear completely, never to exist
in the form of a rock again—would you consider such an act
to be magic?"

Justin looked at the rock. "Yes," he said.

"Very well." Carefully he placed the rock in the middle of
the stream.

"What did you do that for?"

"It is the magic you requested,'" Tagore said. "I have
placed the rock in water. You see it now, but in a century the
rock wilt be gone, disappeared forever. The flow of the water
will have worn it to nothing."

"I get it," Justin said, disappointed. "There's no magic."

"You are wrong, my son," Tagore said quietly. "It is all
magic." He sat down. Not a petal moved on the thousands of
blossoms around him. "When you accepted to eat with the
rest of us, you learned to endure hunger. When you gave up
your blanket in shame, you learned to endure cold. Those
small sufferings were like the first drops of water to come
into this stream. With many drops, there will be enough water
to flow eternally, with enough force to move through solid
rock. That is the magic you will learn, my son. It is great
magic, indeed."

Justin picked up the rock. "A century?" he asked.

"Only a century. Now cross the lake with me."

He wrapped his garments around his legs and led the boy
into the freezing water. "You will not die from me cold

64 GRANDMASTER

because you have learned to endure cold," Tagore said
"Your little puddle is already growing into a stream "

He smiled, and then he was below the surface of the lake,
pulling the boy behind him Justin sputtered and coughed,
trying to keep his head above water as he rushed away from
shore He was freezing In a matter of minutes, his arms and
legs felt numb, and his stomach knotted painfully

"Tagore'" he screamed, gulping water "Tagore'"

But the monk didn't surface He continued through the
water, dragging Justin's cramping, panicking little form with
him

He couldn't breathe He was sure he was going to die
Feeling faint, he loosened his grip on Tagore's hand To his
surprise, the monk released him without any effort to hold on
But it was too late, anyway Slowly Justin began to sink,
falling into unconsciousness

When he came to, he was still in the lake, but moving
again, skimming once more over the surface of the water He
bucked in panic, filling his nostrils with water, cramping
once again with the cold

And again, the sure hands released him

Justin understood

He let himself go limp Immediately the hands of his
teacher enclosed his wrists He felt himself being swept with
Tagore's powerful movement underwater, and forced himself
not to fight it It was difficult His body wanted to fight,
screamed with urgency But each time he felt himself involun-
tarily stiffen, the hands that held his wnsts loosened tentatively

Finally, to control himself as much as he could, he gulped
in all the air he could and then submerged his head underwater
Without the fight for air, his body relaxed When he could no
longer hold his breath in his lungs, he brought himself up for
another gasp This time, he released his breath slowly, taking
as long as he could To his surprise, he didn't struggle when
he came up for air again It just filled his lungs as easily
as

As easily as breathing, he thought That was all it was
Breathing

His periods underwater grew imperceptibly longer with
each breath At last, when he could see the Rhododendrons at
the far end of the take, he stopped thinking about breathing,
stopped thinking of his body The only thought in his mind

The Wearer of the Blue Hat            65

was a feeling of coming home, of seeing the tree again, the
blue hat

The tree7

Hail. 0 Wearer of the Blue Hat

He stiffened Tagore released him and emerged minutes
later on the shore behind the circle of flowers

Struggling, Justin swam the rest of the distance and walked
over to jom him "1 guess 1 don't learn very fast," he said,
rubbing his hands over his wet clothes to warm himself

"You are here," Tagore said, "so it was fast enough "

His robe was dry He extended another to Justin

"Where'd you get these9"

"They have been waiting for us for many years," Tagore
said He took him into a cave set at the base of the mountain
and showed him the deep hole m the wall where the robes had
been buned inside a silver casket, along with woolen cloaks
and strips of cloth "Ten years, exactly That is how long it
has taken us to find you ''

"What if I'm not the one you're looking for9"

Tagore gathered sticks "You are," he said

Justin stripped down quickly and put on the robe

"This. too," Tagore said, handing him a belt made of
small bones

"What are these things7" the "boy asked, fingering the
strange white rosary

"The spine of a snake," Tagore said

"It's not like yours "

"The snake is for you alone," Tagore built a small fire
inside the cave, protected from the chilling winds outside He
took a dry bag of the tea mixture from the casket and cooked
it in the bowl he always earned "Tonight we will keep the
fire," he said

Justin smiled "Why7 I'm not weak "

"Because tomorrow we climb the sacred mountain of Amne
Xachim. We will take no food until we reach the monastery
of Rashimpur ''

"Rashimpur " The boy rolled the name on his tongue

Home

He looked up suddenly from the fire "Tagore, what is the
blue hat^"

The monk straightened "You know of the blue hat7"

66 GRANDMASTER

"I heard something, in the lake. A voice, sort of. Not
really a voice, more of a feeling . . . Oh, it's stupid."

For the first time since their journey began, Tagore raised
his voice. "Do not call stupid that which you cannot
explain!" He set the bowl aside and stood over Justin, his
eyes blazing. "Your mind and body are young, but your soul
is among the most ancient. When it calls to you through ages
of death and wisdom, do not seek to ignore it, or to treat it
with scorn. For it is the voice of Brahma, the Creator, which
speaks, and without your faith, that voice will forever be
silent."

For a moment, Justin thought the man was going to strike
him. Then Tagore turned and walked back to the fire, his
anger gone.

"It—the voice—said. 'Hail, 0 Wearer of the Blue Hat.' "

Tagore poured a portion of the gruel into another bowl and
handed it to Justin. "Then it is time 1 spoke to you of
yourself." he said.

-CHAPTER EIGHT

"At Rashimpur," the old teacher began, "we practice a
faith that is very old, nearly as old as the Sacred Mountain
itself. It is said that when Brahma completed the task of
creating the earth and its inhabitants, he was weary and
sought a perfect place to rest.

"But the oceans, moving with the rhythm of the universe,
made too much noise for the sensitive ears of me Creator. So,
too, the plains with their shifting winds and the forests, filled
with the chattering of the small creatures who dwelt there.
Only the mountain remained as a-place where Brahma could
find complete peace. Yet even the mountains sometimes crum-
bled and fell from their heights, for this was the god's plan in
fashioning the world. Change, death, and rebirth. Thus only
can eternity be wrought, for without change there can be no
life. Without life there can be no death. Without death, the
spirit of Brahma's creations cannot be reborn to change and
grow yet again.

"It was for this reason that Brahma created Amne Xachim,
the Tower of Peace, the last mountain. As it existed for his
use alone, Brahma formed the Sacred Mountain so that it
would remain forever unchanged, its stillness and silence
unique on all the earth.

"To shield it from me eyes of men, he hid it behind other,
higher mountains which would draw their attention. But he
wished to mark Amne Xachim in some way so that he himself
might find it again when he returned to visit the earth.
Toward mis end he formed this lake at its base and ringed it

67

68 GRANDMASTER

with bright flowers, which bloom despite the cold mountain
winds. Halfway up the mountain, near the cave where Brahma
chose to rest, he placed another lake identical to this."

"At Rashimpur?"

Tagore smiled. "At Rashimpur. It is there still." He drank
from his bowl and stirred the fire, enjoying the boy's
anticipation.

At last he spoke again. "His work finished, Brahma en-
tered the cave in the perfect stillness of the sacred mountain
to sleep. But once inside, he could find no comfort. For he
loved the earth he had created, constantly striving in its
imperfection, constantly changing and growing and living. In
comparison, the absolute stillness of Amne Xachim was like
death without hope of rebirth, and it saddened him.

"So Brahma, in his supreme wisdom, brought life into the
sacred mountain. For this life, he chose something of beauty
and strength that would remain for the ages of the earth,
something so silent it would not disturb the Creator in his
centuries of sleep.''

"The tree,"Justin whispered.

Tagore studied him. "Yes," he said finally. "The Tree of
the Thousand Wisdoms."

"I saw it." Justin tried to bring together the vision he had
experienced as he passed through the lake. "A big tree, not
like anything that grows around here, as wide as five men,
with dark teaves and a bark like iron. A tree that grows
without light." He looked to Tagore in bewilderment. "But I
never really saw a tree like that. Not with my eyes."

"It is the tree, all the same," Tagore said. "It stands in the
Great Hall of Rashimpur."

Justin spoke with difficulty. "How did 1 know that?"

"I cannot tell you," the teacher said.

Juslin's eyes welled with tears that shone in the firelight.

"Do not be afraid," Tagore said softly.

Justin looked up at him, his blue eyes as weary as an old
man's. "What's happening to me?" he asked. "Why am I
seeing these things?"

"You are remembering," Tagore said. "This is as it should
be. You see the Tree of the Thousand Wisdoms because the
tree was beloved of Patanjali."

"That's what you called me. In Paris, when my father ..."
He drew a circle in the packed earth of the cave. It had

The Wearer of the Blue Hat            69

been weeks since he'd thought about his father. The rigors of
the trip had overshadowed the nightmare of that night when
his father, bloated and bleeding, fell lifeless into the street.

"His eyes were open," Justin said quietly.

Tagore touched him lightly on the shoulder. "My son,
your life is destined to be filled with hardship. You cannot
escape it. Your father's death was but the first ordeal. There
will be others. That is why we have searched so long to find
you. In Rashimpur, you wilt be protected as you could never
be in your other world. We will teach you how to bring your
body into union with the forces of the universe, so that you
will not fear physical danger. We will hone your mind and
your senses so that you may seek understanding. But that is all
we can do," he said.

Justin faltered. "But what do you mean . . .?"

"You will leam in time." Tagore said gently. "Do not try
to leam too much too quickly. There is time."

"But the voice I hear ..."

"It is meant for you." He held both the boy's hands and
looked into his eyes, so deeply that Justin felt as if someone
had entered his very soul. "Listen carefully to what I am
about to tell you," he said. "And do not color my words with
pride, for I give this as warning. There are men who possess
extraordinary discipline, who can teach themselves to achieve
far beyond their natural abilities. We at Rashimpur are such
men. And there are others who are born with exceptional
gifts, who can see past and present, who can move objects
and create energy by the power of their minds alone. You of
the West call these individuals psychics, or levitators, or
other such names. But there is a third personality, very rare,
whose very being cannot be explained. His is the-hardest life,
because he must live forever alone, his spirit removed from
the rest of humanity. In order to dwell on the earth, he must
leam to be like others, yet he will never be like others. You
are such a one, Justin Gilead."

The boy's face was stony. "I don't want to be," he said.

"It is not your choice, as it was not the choice of Patanjali
to be bom the first incarnation of Brahma." He let go of the
boy's hands and stirred the fire. It leaped to life. Tagore
smiled at him from behind the flames, his features serene.
"Shall I tell you of Patanjali?"

Justin shrugged.

70 GRANDMASTER

"Veiy well. If you have no interest, I wilt not."

"No, go ahead," Justin said, betraying his eagerness.

"As I thought."

Tagore told the story of how Brahma, millennia after his
first stay in Amne Xachim, returned to earth in the guise of a
small snake. According to legend, the snake god lived in the
Tree of the Thousand Wisdoms, but when he entered the
world of men, he took the shape of a man and called himself
Patanjali.

During his life, Patanjali developed the discipline of yoga,
which he claimed united man with me stronger forces of the
universe, and it is as the first teacher of yoga that he is
remembered to this day.

Patanjali amazed the populace with seemingly supernatural
feats of physical control, including holding his breath under-
water or underground for astonishing lengths of time, lying
on nails for long periods and rising unmarked, walking through
flames, and changing his weight at will.

As he aged, Patanjali's physical strength weakened, but he
had grown to be a sage of wide renown, leaving writings mat
are still read. His reputation grew to immense proportions,
and from hundreds of miles away, followers claimed mat the
yogi was capable of such feats as animating dead bodies and
becoming invisible.

Tagore related the famous story with the skill and expres-
sion bom of many retellings- The boy sat, entranced, his eyes
riveted on the face of his teacher.

"It was then that Patanjali discovered the great sadness of
his long life," Tagore said.

"Why?" Justin jerked forward. "Didn't anybody believe
him?"

"It is not known if the sage revealed himself to be the
incarnation of Brahma, or if he even knew himself. All he
explained about his own life was that he came to earth as a
snake, and for this he suffered much persecution. Many did
not believe him. Of those who did, the Shamans, or Black
Hats, as they were called—practitioners of black magic who
performed rituals of human sacrifice and held their followers
in fear by claiming to control the weather—viewed the snake
as an evil symbol, reckoned Patanjali as evil, and counted
him among their own.

"The Black Hats summoned him to their temple, a vile

The Wearer of the Blue Hal            71

place filled with the skulls and backbones of the dead, to
welcome him. But when he appeared, Patanjali mocked the
Shamans by appearing in a blue hat, explaining that he was of
the sky and the sea, which were filled with life, and that with
his blue hat he denounced their unwholesome ways.

"The Black Hats were outraged They challenged him to
match his magic against their own before the wisest men of
the region. Patanjali, who was a humble man, said that he
knew no magic, but that he would be pleased to meet such
wise men and learn from them. He invited them to Amne
Xachim.

"There, before the sages and tribal leaders of the world as
it was then known, the Shamans performed their conjuring
tricks and incantations, speaking in inhuman voices and daz-
zling the onlookers with spells that produced flames out of air
and terrifying visions in smoke.

"When they had finished, they demanded to see Patanjali's
own performance. By this time, the yogi had grown to be an
old man, frail and weakened since the days of his youth. He
told them again that he possessed no magic, but that there
was magic enough in every leaf of every tree to fill the world.

"Disappointed, the spectators jeered him and judged the
Shamans in their Black Hats to be the greatest among them.
As a gesture of their victory, the Shamans selected one of
their number to punish the old man. He struck off Patanjali's
right hand with a sword and threw it against the Tree of the
Thousand Wisdoms. Then he plucked a leaf from the tree and
tossed it down to the bleeding old man.

" 'Use this magic to heal yourself, then,' the Shaman said
scornfully. And with that, the First Great Miracle of Brahma
occurred. The cave was filled with a terrible noise. The
severed hand of Patanjali had been transformed into a coiled
snake whose hiss was so frightening it chilled the surprised
onlookers to their depths. Moving with the speed of a light-
ning spear, the snake struck the Shaman in the forehead and
killed him at once.

"The other Black Hats stood, rooted, fearful for their own
lives. But when Patanjali rose, he earned only the leaf that
the Shaman had plucked for him in derision, and placed it
on the forehead of the dead sorcerer. It healed the wound
without a mark. The snake disappeared, and the Patanjali's
hand was restored.

72 GRANDMASTER

"The Shaman, again whole, left Amne Xachim with the
other Black Hats in shame. But the others bowed to Patanjali
and praised him, saying 'Hail to thee, 0 Wearer of the Blue
Hat.' "

Justin was transfixed. "Is that true?" he whispered.

"No one knows," Tagore said, smiling. "It is true that
Patanjali lived, some two hundred years before the beginning
of your calendar, and was believed, as we of Rashimpur
believe now, to be the incarnate spirit of Brahma, it is true
that he adopted the symbol of the coiled snake as his talisman,
and the amulet that he wore has come down to us through the
centuries. It is a powerful medallion, suffused with the spirit
of the highest god, and may be worn with safety only by the
true reincarnation of Brahma himself.''

Justin blinked. "How do you know who that is?"

"Toward the end of his life, Patanjali invited a small core
of his followers who were trained in the discipline of yoga to
join him in Amne Xachim. They did, forsaking their worldly
lives, and they transformed the cave into the monastery of
Rashimpur. Before he died, he spoke of his spirit entering the
body of a newbom infant. When that child was found, he was
shown a number of objects, among them precious stones,
toys, and ordinary rocks, covered in cloth. The amulet of the
coiled snake was so covered- Yet the child grasped it
immediately. Like you, he remembered small things of
Patanjali's life. He grew to become the most holy of men and
named his own successor on his death. The practice has
continued to this day."

"But how does he know?"

The fire lay smoldering in its ashes. "My son, that is
something only the Wearer of the Blue Hat can know."

They lay down in the cave. Outside, the wind from Amne
Xachim howled. "Tagore?" Justin asked from the darkness.

"Yes."

"Did someone pick me?"

"Yes." Tagore said. "Ten years ago, on the date of your
birth. His name was Sadika. With his last words, he dis-
patched us to find you. 'A small boy with eyes the color of
blue ice,' he told us, for he knew we would not find you for
many years. He instructed us to look for a boy from the West,
one who learns of death from the game of shah mat.''

"Shah mat?"

The Wearer of the Blue Hal            73

"Persian words. They mean 'the king is dead.' You call
the game chess."

They slept that night and awoke the next day. Tagore
wrapped himself and the boy in heavy cloaks and bound their
heads and feet with the strips of cloth from the bottom of the
silver casket.

"For the cold," he said. Then he replaced the casket in the
wall and lifted the heavy stone back into place.

At the foot of Amne Xachim he knelt and said a simple
prayer.

The climb to Rashimpur took four days. They traveled on a
narrow footpath winding up the northern slope of Amne
Xachim. They walked night and day, resting only when the
boy could walk no farther.

Justin had grown thin and pale. The hunger in his belly
gnawed at him like a living thing. When he slept, he dreamed
only of death.

It was the same dream, recurring on each of the three
nights of the journey. In it, he lay deep in a pit on foreign
ground, straining to hear the songs of birds overhead for the
last time as shovelfuls of earth crashed around his face. There
was no pain in the dream, but a deep terror permeated every
fiber of his body. For above him in the dream stood a man
whose face he could see cleariy, a man he had never met, yet
whose features were oddly familiar. This man, he knew,
would bring death, and in the dream that death was all around
him, coming closer, curling around the comers of his spirit
like gray smoke. Softly death came. as the earth slowly
swallowed Justin up, and as it approached, the familiar stranger
above him watched and stood guard, protecting death while it
wrapped Justin in its soft gray arms,

He awoke screaming.

-CHAPTER NINE

Justin tried to focus his eyes. A light drizzle was falling, and
the rain felt coot against his fever-blistered skin. The sickness
had crept up during the night, after his dream. He had not
been able to sleep again.

An hour before, the starless sky had been pitch black.
Now, streams of gray light were filtering through the ropey
clouds to the east. With the tight came the sounds of birds
and insects. With some surprise, Justin saw me sky's reflec-
tion not more than a hundred yards from him, shimmering on
the surface of a perfectly still lake surrounded by purple
blossoms. Above him, the sacred mountain of Amne Xachim
flattened abruptly into a shelflike plateau.

He squinted, hearing his breath hiss hotly out of him. The
steep incline leading to the plateau continued farther up the
peak, its brown earth and rock graduating to snow and, above
the snow, clouds. But on die plateau itself the mountain seemed
to form a solid wall of rock. And on the rock was etched what
seemed to be the outline of a door.

"Tagore," he whispered.

The old teacher rose, staring at Justin's haggard face,
stretched taut with fatigue and hunger and fever. He followed
the boy's eyes upward to the cliffside.

"Rashimpur," he said.

The monastery was barely distinguishable from the moun-
tain cliff. Built into the side of the mountain, Rashimpur
sported no pillars, no statues or colored facades. Only the
doorway, whose outline Justin had viewed from below,

74

The Wearer of the Blue Hal            75

interrupted the smooth wall of rock on the northern face of
Amne Xachim.

"Why is it hidden?" Justin asked, blinking and taking
deep breaths to steady himseif as they made their way up the
nearly vertical slope of the mountain.

Tagore followed behind closely. "It is hidden because
there have always been men for whom faith has been inconve-
nient or dangerous. Patanjali knew this. Perhaps Brahma
himself understood, and so formed the secret cave in which
Rashimpur now stands."

"Do you mean the Black Hats?" Justin asked-

"It began with the Black Hats. Since the time of Patanjali's
duel of magic with the Shamans, the Black Hats gave way to
the Red Hals, who claim to have 'reformed' the rituals of the
Black Hat- The Red Hats themselves have been taken over by
the Yellow Hats, who were influenced by Christianity. In
many areas, Buddhists have adopted our ways, but they do
not revere Brahma. In some, as among the Kalmuks and
the Burials of Siberia and in the lamaseries of Mongolia,
the czars and Chinese chieftains have sought to destroy the
power of the yogis by placing their own men as heads of the
monasteries there. And in other places, the old beliefs have
been scorned by official decree. We of all the mystical faiths
have been driven to live in secrecy by those who would
destroy us."

"Who would do that?" Justin asked-

"Those who do not understand," Tagore said. "Those
who fear any power other than that wielded by government
decree. Those who believe that an army of soldiers with guns
can erase the teachings of thousands of years."

"You shouldn't be afraid of stupid people like that."

Tagore stopped to look down at the boy- "At Rashimpur,
many holy persons will come to see you. They will brave the
greatest dangers to do so, traveling over harsh ground and bad
weather. Still, it is nothing compared with the dangers they
face each day, for many of them live in hostile lands where
their very lives depend on secrecy. The Kirghiz of Sinkiang,
now under the rule of the Chinese, were destroyed completely.
So, too, were the lamaseries of Manchuria, because they
failed to keep their existence secret. Most of those remaining
may do so only in exchange for political favors—the use of
roads built for religious purposes, now used as conduits for

76 GRANDMASTER

the military, the use of monks as spies to other lands. Many
of our number have faced death rather than succumb to the
corrupt demands of these others, preferring to see their monas-
teries obliterated and their ancient faith buried, it is only by
the grace of Brahma that Rashimpur lies protected and hidden
by Amne Xachim. No one but those in holy service know of
the existence of Rashimpur. it must remain that way until we
can live in safety and freedom/'

Justin stumbled near the top, but Tagore pushed him forward.

"You must enter Rashimpur on your own strength," he
said.

Justin nodded, trying to steady the trembling in his hands.
With a tremendous effort he pulled himself up to the plateau.
There, he stood facing the rock face of Rashimpur.

The air was thin. Justin's head was spinning. His legs
buckled, and he dropped to his knees. Tagore knelt beside
him.

"Don't help me," Justin said sharply. "I will walk."

They entered the stone doorway.

Justin was dazzled by what lay inside. The walls of the
Great Hall, illuminated by the flames from huge torches,
were made of pure beaten gold. Its ceiling dome was of
intricately wrought silver and encrusted with gemstones. so
that the hall seemed to be ablaze with colored lights. The
fragrance of almonds permeated the air.

There was no furniture in the vast hall. Yellow-robed men
with shaved heads walked soundlessly on the mirror-smooth
stone floor to where Justin and Tagore waited, bowing to both
of them. At last a small man, identical to the others, came
over and led them down the long hall to its far wall, which
terminated in the massive trunk of a tree.

"The Tree of the Thousand Wisdoms," Tagore said.

As they drew nearer, Justin saw that in front of the tree
stood a glass casket in which lay the body of an old man, the
carefully preserved skin like parchment. The man's hands
were folded across his chest, palms up. In his left hand was a
diamond the size of a robin's egg. In his right, wound around
the corpse's fingers, was the gold chain holding the amulet of
the coiled snake.

"This is Sadika," Tagore said. "We have not buried him
for these many years while we have searched for you. If you

The Wearer of the Blue Hat            77

are the new incarnation of PatanJaH and Brahma the Creator,
then Sadika will be laid to rest."

Justin was stunned- "If?" He had come with Tagore for
thousands of miles. "//"I'm the one? But you said I was."

"I believe it is so," Tagore said. "But only Sadika himself
can know for certain."

"But he's dead," Justin argued, feeling faint.

"Our death is not as yours."

He stared at the dead man, so restful, so at peace. He
closed his eyes and again saw the gray smoke of his dream,
now curling around the edges of the man's casket, enveloping
the body. He opened his eyes and looked up, frightened. The
casket was untouched. Tagore was looking only at him.

"What is it, my son?" he asked, his voice heavy with
worry.

Justin felt heat. His eyes traveled up from the dead man to
the tree, the strange dark tree he had seen in the water. Again
he closed his eyes. and now he saw the tree burst into bright
flame, the stench of burning flesh filling the Great Hall. And
above it all loomed the specter of the man in his dream, the
face strange yet familiar, watching the proceedings, unleash-
ing the death he had brought with him. He reached out for the
face in front of him, but his small hands clutched only at the
air. And then he fell forward.

"Justin!" Tagore called to him, lifting the boy's uncon-
scious body into his arms.

But Justin couldn't answer. Tagore's voice had come from
far away, from another time. long past. For now, there was
only fire and death filling the Great Hall, with the stranger.
the Prince of Death, presiding over the devastation, guiding
Justin toward his real destiny-
He awoke in a dark stone cell lit only by the flame of a
small candle. Over him. Tagore bent, placing cold cloths on
Justin's forehead. The old man's features relaxed when he
saw Justin's eyes open. "My son," he said gently.

"How long?" Justin croaked.

"You have slept for three days."

He had trouble swallowing. The burning fever had subsided,
but the sickness had left him limp and weak. His robes were
soaked with sweat and lay twisted around him. Suddenly he

78 GRANDMASTER

sat boil upright, his eyes wide and glassy. "Rashimpur!" he
cried. "The fire—the tree was on fire!"

"Hush," Tagore whispered, stroking the boy's face. "There
has been no fire."

"There was! I saw it. It was al! around. The Great Hall
burned."

"The fire was in your body, burning from the fever."
Tagore said. "Rashimpur is in no danger. There was no fire.
You have been screaming about fire for these three days, but
there is no fire."

"But the tree—"

"Silence," Tagore said, daubing the cool cloth over the
boy's cheeks- "Those who have come to see you have begun
to gather. You must save your strength- In two days' time
you must go forth into the Great Hall, prepared to assume the
duties left for you by Sadika."

Justin frowned, trying to pull the blurred image of Tagore
into focus. "What duties?"

"They are to remain unknown to all but you. If you are fit
to rule."

"But . . . how will you know if I'm fit?" Justin asked.

"I told you before that Sadika himself will tell us."

He cautioned the boy to silence and kept vigil over him for
the rest of that night and the next day. Juslin slept intermittently,
accepting small bowls of rice and tea and fighting off the
recurrent dreams of the familiar stranger who watched at the
moment of his death.

On the third day, just as the first strings of dawn were
seeping through the narrow stitted window of his cell, four
monks bearing bowls of water and jeweled caskets entered
and knelt before him. They were the same four who had left
him with Tagore at the lake below Amne Xachim.

Wordlessly, they helped him off the stone pallet where he had
lain since his first day in Rashimpur. They washed him with
scented herbs in water and dressed him in another of the
yellow robes, then led him into the corridor where Tagore
stood waiting.

"Where are we going?" Justin asked.

"To the Tree of the Thousand Wisdoms," he said.

The torches in the splendid hall were all ablaze, giving the
vast room a shimmering, underwater appearance. Visitors to
the Hall lined both walls four deep, leaving only a path on the

The Wearer of the Blue Hal            79

marble floor leading directly to the tree and the open casket
beneath it.

The visitors were magnificently dressed in strange garb. As
they waited at the rear of the hall, Tagore pointed out some of
the visiting eminences. "The Datai Lama of Tibet has come
to pay Sadika his last tribute." Tagore said. "And beside him
is Manjusri, the Saskya Lama." He nodded toward a small,
round-headed man swathed in green silk robes, his feet shod
in jeweled slippers. "Long before the establishment of the
Dalai Lama, who rules Tibet today, Manjusri's predecessors
were supreme in that holy land. Even the Mongol emperor
Kublai Khan bowed before the ancestors of Manjusri, who
are said to be the incarnations of the Bodhisat of Knowledge.
He is reputed to be the wisest of men."

Tagore pointed out another, on the other side of the hall, a
man in rags, his feet bare, who stood quietly in the shadows of
the great torches. "That is the Ralpahi Dorje," Tagore
whispered. "He is head of the Can-skya lamasery in Peking."

"Why is he so poor?" Justin asked.

"It is only in the eyes of the unseeing that the Dorje is
poor," Tagore said. "He is also descended from an ancient
line of holy men. He is considered in Buddhism to be a true
saint. His miracles in healing have been seen by all. He
chooses to live in poverty because true power comes from
humility. He is the greatest of all healers."

"But I don't understand," Justin said. "Wouldn't people
respect him more iT he didn't look so dirty?"

"Only those whose faith is not strong enough to see beyond
his rags." Tagore said.

There was a great clamor in the hall as four red-robed
monks entered, bearing a sedan chair. It was jeweled from
top to bottom, its bamboo poles lacquered a deep red. As the
four monks set the chair down and drew open its curtains, a
tall woman emerged. She wore a long garment made of many
layers of crimson gauze, but as she moved, the fabric
clung tightly to the curves of her body and showed the flesh
beneath. Gems dotted the fabric. Her black hair glinted with
jeweled pins, and on her fingernails, she wore long gem-
encrusted sheaths. She fixed her eyes on' young Justin, and,
involuntarily, he sipped in his breath. Her eyes were of the
darkest green, but they were dotted with flecks of a lighter
color, almost gold, and they seemed to reflect all the lights in

80 GRANDMASTER

the great hall- Her face was beautiful, with high, sculpted cheek-
bones and full, dark red iips, and Justin thought her the most
beautiful woman he had ever seen. He could not pull his eyes
away from hers.

"That is the Doric Pagma," Tagore said-

Justin was stunned, then forced himself to look up to
Tagore. "Is she a monk?"

"An abbess. She rules over the Samding monastery at the
Lake of Yamdrok in Tibet. Both monks and nuns follow
her, and believe her to be the incarnation of the Indian
goddess Varja. She is the most powerful personage here. Her
magic is very strong."

"As strong as the Shaman's?" Justin asked, remembering
Tagore's story of the Black Hats.

"Stronger. Much stronger- It is said that she can control
time itself. The goddess Varja is old, thousands of years. The
Dorje's followers claim that she is not an incarnation, but the
original goddess herself, living without time, without death."

"That's impossible," Justin said, noticing several of the
visitors to the hall moving silently away from the jeweled
chair of the Done Pagma-

"Nothing is impossible in our world," Tagore said. He
smiled at the exodus of people to the other side of the hall.
"They are leaving because they fear the power of Varja," he
said.

"Why? Is she evil?"

"A goddess is a goddess," Tagore said. "She does as she
wills. But many think the destruction of the monasteries at
Labrang and Pemiongchi—formerly great centers—was brought
about because of the wrath of Vana,

"How were they destroyed?"

"By—" Tagore's face changed- "The political govern-
ments of the countries where the 'monasteries had existed for
thousands of years eliminated them," he said.

"They were bumed," Justin said. "Just like in my dream.
Burned." He had started to tremble.

"Be still, my son." Tagore said. "For if it is God's will,
we will be destroyed. Not even Varja has power over the
great Brahma. And if it is God's will, we will return- Do you
understand?"

Justin said nothing. After a while, he looked up. "Tagore,

The Wearer of the Blue Hal

everyone here seems to do something better than everybody
else. What do you do at Rashimpur?"

Tagore smiled. "We of Ra-shimpur are the poorest of all,"
he said. "For we are not the wisest of men, nor the holiest,
nor the most powerful- We have only our strength and will to
take before Brahma in offering, as Patanjali did."

"Strength?"

"I have told you of yoga. It is the discipline we practice
here. With it, we try to bring our bodies into union with the
forces of the universe. We are known only for this."

"You're the strongest ones."

"It is as nothing," Tagore said. "But Brahma needs men
of physicalness as well as those of spirituality."

Justin smiled. "I think being strong is the best thing of
all."

They walked forward in silence. In the still hall, Justin felt
Varja's eyes on him like molten lead. Clasping Tagore's
hand, he made his way down the aisle to the base of the Tree
of the Thousand Wisdoms. Torches above Sadika's casket
illuminated the treasures in his hands; the diamond and the
snake amulet sparkled in the light.

Tagore faced the crowd for several minutes. Justin won-
dered what the test would be. Then, without preamble, Tagore
raised the boy's right hand with tremendous power and slashed
it down the bark of the tree.

The pain was almost unbearable. Justin felt the skin and
flesh of his right palm scrape off- Too surprised to cry out, all
he could do was gape at his bleeding hand and try to hold
back the tears that sprang to his eyes.

"Sadika!" Tagore commanded. "Is this the child?"

Justin thought he was going to faint. A river of blood ran
down his arm, staining the yellow robe he wore. The pain
gave way to an electric throbbing that seemed to have no
beginning and no end.

Tagore picked a leaf from the tree and placed it in Justin's
wounded hand. Then, causing the most excruciating pain
Justin had ever felt, the teacher closed his mangled hand into
a fist around the leaf.

He began to shake. The pain was unendurable. He closed
his eyes. And in the red darkness of his pain he saw the old
man again, not dead and in his glass casket, but standing
before him, holding out the two emblems of his office.

82 GRANDMASTER

There was a gasp from everyone in the hall as Tagore
opened the boy's hand. Justin's head swam. There was no
blood. When his fist opened, ail that fell from it was a
withered brown leaf. The hand was unmarked.

Tagore raised the boy's hand high in the air. At that moment,
the casket seemed lo creak and move of its own accord.

The sight set Justin's teeth chattering. For, as Tagore held his
arm in the air, the body of the old leader crumbled to ash before
them. In the midst of the powdery remains rested the diamond
and the gold amulet bearing the figure of the coiled snake.

"Hail, 0 Wearer of the Blue Hal," several voices called.
Others took up the chant. "Hail, 0 Wearer of the Blue Hat."

Tagore repeated the words as he lifted the diamond from
the casket and placed it in Justin's hands. Then. to the
accompaniment of the chant that .filled the hall, he placed the
sacred medallion of the coiled snake around the boy's neck.

Justin felt the surge of power from the medallion like an
electric shock that began near his heart and coursed wildly
through every nerve and vein in his body. He fought for
breath. Surely there was magic here, he thought, greater
magic than he could ever control.

"Do not fear it," Tagore whispered.

Justin looked to Varia, the abbess of magic. Her green eyes
were blazing, but she, too, bowed in respect to him.

"Hail, 0 Wearer of the Blue Hat," she said. A small smile
played at the comers of her mouth.

Tagore began the procession out of the halt, keeping Justin
in front of him. The medallion felt as if it were burning into
his chest. The congregation filed outdoors to the rock shelf on
which Rashimpur was built. Tagore knelt, and the others
followed, even Varia in her misty jeweled crimson wraps-
Alone, Justin walked to the edge of the precipice and stood
facing the snow-capped Himalayas.

He could breathe more easily now. So this was where the
amulet was at peace, he thought. Beneath the blue sky, which
was the blue hat of the gods.

I will try to be worthy of you, he thought.

He held up both arms to the sky. The huge diamond gave
off the fire of a thousand suns. The gold medallion on his
chest warmed him. He felt strong.

Never will I betray you.

Never.

-CHAPTER TEN

Alexander Zharkov sat alone in his Moscow apartment. Like
his office, the apartment was spare and ugly, even though it
was situated in one of the best buildings in the city and was
spacious enough to house two families of six.

A pair of leaded-glass doors, now sealed shut, stood beside
me armchair where he sat holding a file on Justin Gilead. But
unlike the file in his office, this one was thick, bulging with
papers. Its cover was red instead of the official green that
signified a closed file.

The only tight in the room came from an old brass floor
lamp behind Zharkov's chair. At the other end of the room,
near the doorway to the master bedroom, stood a small
dining table with two straight chairs.

Beside it was another table, smaller, on which a magnifi-
cent teak and walnut chess board was set up, with a game in
progress. Stacked neatly on the floor under the chess table
were two piles of bound copies of Shakmatni, the official
Soviet chess journal.

There'was only one chair at the chess board, stationed
behind me black pieces, because in this solitary game at
home, Zharkov always took the black side. This gave white,
who traditionally moved first, a slight advantage, and Zharkov
had conceded that advantage to his invisible opponent.

The game had begun slowly, with white's pieces opening
elegantly, following well-defined lines like a beautiful solo
dance.

But after the first dozen moves, white had deviated from

83

84 GRANDMASTER

the well-known opening "book" and moved other pieces into
play in novel and interesting positions. The solo had turned
into an ensemble ballet.

Zharkov's black pieces had joined the ballet and begun
attacking almost at once. For a while, white's position seemed
untenable and an early resignation inevitable. But slowly,
white had consolidated his position, stood off Zharkov's
onslaught, as piece after piece vanished from both sides in a
series of equal trades.

The black and white dance continued, and the unbelievable
had happened. White's king had moved, starting to march
inexorably to the center of the board to join the contest. It
was unthinkable. The king was at once both the most valuable
piece in the game, whose capture ended the contest, and the
weakest, most vulnerable, and hardest to defend.

Zharkov knew this opponent did not play a game of pawns,
but to burst into the open with his king was impossible.
Unless it signaled the beginning of an elaborate, deeply thought
attacking scheme. Or did it mean merely that the invisible
white opponent had lost his nerve and offered himself up for
confrontation and quick slaughter?

For the first time since he had opened the red folder, seeing
in his mind not its contents but the board across the room,
Zharkov looked up. Rain was pelting against the glass doors.
The room seemed suddenly dark. And there was a knocking
at the big walnut door leading out of the apartment. It was
delicate but insistent, as if whoever was behind it had been
knocking for some time, although Zharkov hadn't heard any-
thing in his concentration over me chess pieces.

He got up and opened the door. The face on the other side
warmed him unexpectedly, as it always did.

Katarina Velanova was not a beauty in the classic sense, but
her face held the subtle charm of the most complex chess. The
quick, intelligent eyes of the woman never failed to fascinate
him, shifting with a blink into dark, exotic pools and then
brightening just as quickly into the simple joy of a schoolgirl.

She was drenched, her red cotton scarf dark with rain.
Beads of water stood out on the clear pale skin—the only
thing about her that was perfect—running down the long,
sensitive nose and into the comers of her mobile mouth, which
never seemed to smile the same way twice. She was tall,
nearly as tall as Zharkov, and her eyes met his without the

The Wearer of the Blue Hat            85

slightest hesitation. Wordlessly she placed both her hands
behind Zharkov's head and kissed him. It was a perfunctory
greeting, but the sudden touch of her full lips on his shot a
quiver of excitement through him as she stepped briskly into the
kitchen to set a kettle of water to boil.

She was that rarest of beings, a woman for whom passion
was as natural as breathing. And yet Katarina was not a
sensualist.

When he had first seen her at work at the KGB. Katarina's
face had worn the stem. humorless expression expected of
KGB researchers. Her co-workers, who spent their days look-
ing through published information for the benefit of the thou-
sands of Soviet agents who manned the largest espionage
apparatus in the world, were mostly female, but they were not
regarded as women.

They were automatons, office tools dressed in shapeless
sweaters, their fingertips covered by rubber thimbles. They
moved like whispers through the enormous KGB complex on
Dzerzhinski Square and the modern eight-story building on
the outskirts of Moscow that housed the First Chief Director-
ate for Foreign Affairs.

It had been five years before. Zharkov had just become
head of Nichevo and had been in Ostrakov's office to review
some manpower estimates on Allied and Western troop move-
ments in Scandinavia.

The KGB man had issued a curt order over the intercom
for some files to be brought into the office. Katarina Velanova
carried them in. Her eyes boldly met Zharkov's. She smiled at
him without embarrassment and nodded before leaving the
room.

As soon as he began looking through them, Zharkov real-
ized the files were unusual, because instead of merely reciting
facts and statistics and numbers, they offered various conclu-
sions about the Western motive for moving troops, and gave
these conclusions a numerical weighting, ranging from most
probable to least probable.

"Who prepared these files?" Zharkov asked.

"That bitch who brought them in. And this is the end of it
for her," Ostrakov said. "She has no authority to draw
conclusions."

"Maybe not the authority, but she has the mind for it,'*
Zharkov said. "A mind of value."

86 GRANDMASTER

Ostrakov had smiled lewdly and said, "Not a bad little ass.
either." When Zharkov looked at him coldly, Ostrakov had
said, "Don't play gentleman with me. She's spread that ass
all over Dzerzhinski Square. I don't mink there's a janitor in
this building who hasn't been between her legs."

"I want her to work for me," Zharkov said.

"She's yours. [ was going to fire her anyway. What Nichevo
does is none of my affair."

Thank God, Zharkov thought. Kremlin policy did not
allow for me existence of God, but as far as Zharkov was
concerned, something special had to account for Ostrakov's
not being able to stick his hands into Nichevo's business-

Katarina Velanova appeared in his office eariy the follow-
ing week. It was dinnertime, and the Nichevo building was
empty except for the handful of around-the-clock staffers who
maintained security and watched the reports that were tele-
typed into headquarters.

"Comrade Velanova reporting for duty, Comrade Colonel,"
she had said briskly after being ushered into his office. But
why was she smiling? he wondered. It was a knowing smile,
as if she were privy to information he did not have.

"Do you like Colond Ostrakov?" Zharkov said suddenly.

"I think the man is an imbecile," she answered without
hesitation.

"And yet you have slept with him?"

"Who told you that?"

"I have been told mat you have slept with everybody.
Even with cleaning men."

"1 have also slept with cleaning women," she said evenly.
"Some of them have been of value. Ostrakov is not."

What kind of woman is this? he wondered. How could she
speak to him this way? What guarantee did she have that he
would not tell Ostrakov, so that by tomorrow she would have
a one-way ticket to Siberia?

"You do not remember me, do you?" she asked. It was a
simple question. Her eyes were frank, without a trace of
coyness or seduction.

He tried to keep his voice flat and uninterested. "Have we
met?"

"Long ago. You were meant to forget."

The woman exasperated him more by the minute. "Was it
in Russia?"

The Wearer of the Blue Hat            87

"No," she answered, dismissing the subject. "I will be
here first thing in the morning, Comrade Colonel, to begin
my duties. But first I thought you mighl tike to have this." Her
eyes twinkling with subdued amusement, she handed him a
thick folder.

It took him a moment to concentrate on the sheaf of papers.
But by the third page, he could feel hrs breath coming in
short, febrile gusts. Every word of the report—more than
sixty pages—was about Justin Gilead. Nothing had been
omitted. The names and addresses of Gilead's childhood
guardians were included, as welt as a listing of all the tourna-
ments and matches he had played in and a complete record of
all his games.

"How ..." Zharkov began, but he lost the thought. He
was absorbed in Katarina's sketches of Gilead's career with
the CIA and her inspired guesses about what Gitead had
managed to do for the United States while touring the world
as an international grandmaster. There were neat hypotheses
about his presence in Berlin in 1974, in Cuba dunng the peak
of Castro's romance with the Soviet Union, in the Philippines
in the late 1970s.

The information in the dossier had been gleaned from
hundreds of sources, most of them obscure reports by field
agents now long vanished. Compiling all the data had been a
monumental task.

"Why?" he asked finally, laying down the folder- Outside,
darkness was falling on the city, and the now powerful light
from his desk lamp cast long planes of shadow over Katarina's
face.

"Because you alone, of everyone in this nation of fools,
know who Justin Gilead is," she said softly.

He snapped to instant attention. "Who are you?" he rasped.

The woman seemed to stand up taller. She said, "I will be
here first thing in the morning. Comrade Colonel."

Without waiting to be dismissed, she turned and crossed
the bare floor toward the open doorway.

"Stop," he said softly.

She turned. Their eyes met. Justin Gitead was important,
and she knew it as well as he did. Of the nearly three-quarters
of a million people who worked for the Soviet security machine,
she was the only person besides himself who had seen that.
Katarina's was indeed a mind of value.

GRANDMASTER

He stared into her face beneath the fringe of her short, dark
hair, taking in the enigmatic sombemess of the brown eyes,
the crooked long nose which, he was sure, reddened quickly
in the cold. It was. in its way, rather a wonderful face.
Looking into it, he lost track of time and thought. He won-
dered where he might have seen it before.

As if sharing the blank, electrifying buzz inside his mind,
Katarina closed the door leading to the empty outer offices.
She did not move from her place, and her eyes never left
Zharkov's. Instead, she unbuttoned the white military-style
blouse she wore and tossed it on the floor. Her exposed
breasts were pale and rounded, and their nipples already stood
erect.

Zharkov could not react. What she was doing was unthinkable,
the grossest manifestation of decadence. Her behavior should
have cost her her job, perhaps even earned her a stint in the
city jail.

She stood staring at him. She made no move to entice him
with movements of her body or sultry glances, but stood
straight, her shoulders squared, as if for inspection. Her face
changed in front of his eyes a dozen times or more. She
looked by turns childlike and womanly, defiant, ashamed,
easeful, tense. But she never broke the electricity with a
single word, never gave him any encouragement after her
brazen and inexplicable display. Zharkov could easily see her
as a Committee informant. Forced by Ostrakov, perhaps, to
present the Grandmaster's dossier to him.

No. he thought. Not Ostrakov. He could never have thought
to assemble the folder. She had done it for someone else in
the KGB, then. Or for herself. For the power women think
they have over men by virtue of their sexuality.

She waited. Zharkov rose and walked over to her slowly.
He could smell the warmth of her, her womanliness beneath
the scrubbed cleanliness of harsh, strong soap.

When he came to her, it was not so much an act of lust as a
huge leap of faith. He wanted to trust her, to take her as
something that belonged by right to him; at the same time he
hated her for filling him with fear and apprehension. Coming
up in front of her in two long strides, he lifted her straight
skirt upward with a jerk, and tore her silky underpants from
her as if they were made of paper.

She closed her eyes. Zharkov cupped his hands around her

The Wearer of the Blue Hal            89

breasts, feeling the hot smoothness of her skin. Katarina's
legs buckled at the knees. The place between them was wet
and ready. He took her standing up, his hands clasped around
the flesh of her buttocks, where the strong muscles pulsed and
pumped and shivered with a wild, animal urgency.

She trembled once and then again, and he sensed himself
reaching climax, but at the instant when he was ready to
spend, he felt the muscles inside her body impossibly closing
down on the shaft of his manhood, squeezing him. cutting off
the flow.

For an mslant, he experienced something akin to pain, and
then she relaxed her muscles and he began thrusting into her
again. But when again he was about to spend, she again
tightened around him. making it impossible.

And he remembered. He leaned back from her so he could
see her face.

She was smiling.

"Now you remember me." she said softly, then leaned
forward and pressed the wet tip of her tongue into his ear.

"She sent you."

"Yes," she said. "I am to be here with you. To help
you."

He felt her muscles go soft, and he knew that this time she
would permit him to reach his climax, and he carried her
upright, her legs locked around his back, over to the sofa in
his office and lay down atop her and plunged into her over
and over again with a furious passion that bordered on the
sadistic-

Finally, he exploded in one giant thrust, and the two of
them lay stili, unmoving, the silence in the office broken only
by their heavy breathing.

Afterward, there were no words of love. no soft caresses.
She got dressed as if she were alone in the room, then walked
out. Neither of them said good-bye.

She reported promptly the next morning. Zharkov set her to
work to develop an intelligence system for Nichevo that could
operate independently of me KGB.

They were always formally polite to each other in the
office, and only occasionally did Katarina come to his apart-
ment to spend the night with him. He never asked her what
she did with her other nights; he did not need to.

The reports that crossed his desk provided that answer-

90 GRANDMASTER

They told Zharkov what the KGB was planning, what its
long-range policies were, who was winning the never-ending
internal power struggles in the massive agency. He knew that
Katarina bribed with sex the way some bribed with money.
and a word here, a scrap of paper there, were all pieces in the
protective fence she was erecting around Zharkov. She paid
for the equipment with her body. They never spoke of it.

The teakettle whistled, bringing Zharkov's thoughts back to
the sterile apartment where Katarina was standing, barefoot
and laughing, in the middle of the floor- She was dressed in
an old shirt of Zharkov's, the bottom half of her draped in a
towel that fit her like a sarong. Her wet hair clung to her head
in a cap of short, glossy black curls. There was no vanity in
her, Zharkov thought, and yet she was beautiful.

"Playing chess?" she teased. She was used to Zharkov's
periods of blankness, when he drew into his own thoughts
and seemed oblivious to everything around him.

He smiled. "Remembering." he said, and touched her
hair.

Her lips moved in a quick, uncertain expression before she
turned away. It was the first time in nearly five years that he
had shown her any affection.

"I have news," she said, handing him a cup. The tea
was strong and sweet, heavily laced with vodka; the fumes
stung his eyes. "Andrew Starcher's had a heart attack.
He'll probably be retired as soon as he gets out of the
hospital."

Zharkov sat bolt upright in his chair.

"In Lenin Medical Center. A nurse on the floor where he
was brought lives in my apartment building. She says there
was a big to-do over the foreign dignitary in intensive care.
Apparently he'll be flown back to America as soon as he can
be moved. Meanwhile the door is open for you."

He nodded, understanding immediately what she meant.
The ClA's top man in Russia was ill; for a brief period, at
least, his role would be filled by an inexperienced deputy
named Michael Cortus. If Nichevo was to do any mischief,
now would be an ideal time to do it.

The thought brought little joy to Zharkov. There were other
things on his mind. Katarina read his expression and said.
"What's the matter?"

The Wearer of the Blue Hal            91

He rose quickly and handed her the envelope of pictures
that Ostrakov had given him. "Look at these."

Katarina sucked in a swift rush of air as she examined the
photograph of the woman falling to the floor as her head
exploded in a red spray. "1 heard about it." she said. "but I
didn't know it was this gruesome. The Samarkand? Are they
insane?"

"Worse," Zharkov said with disgust. "They arc stupid.
Ostrakov hires terrorists and then wonders why they can't
follow orders. The hotel was filled with tourists."

"Unbelievable. Is he in trouble?"

Zharkov shook his head. "He got out of it this time. The
militia was called in. They've arrested two vagabonds, and
they're calling Riesling an unidentified low-life. The two'll
be executed before anyone can check anything."

"Riesling?" She looked up. "That's Riesling?" Zharkov
nodded briefly, waving her on to continue looking through
the photographs. "It's always strange." she said, "to see a
face attached to the files I've read. Somehow, it's almost as if
they aren't real people until—"

She stopped dead at the sight of the picture showing the
gold medallion.

"Gilead," she said, in a soft, chilled whisper. "What does
it mean?"

"I don't know." Zharkov said.

"Is he back?"

"I don't know that either. And 1 can't ask Riesling," he
said bitterly.

"It may be just the medallion." she said. "Nothing for
four years. If he were alive, we would have heard."

"He's alive," Zharkov said stubbornly. "I know it."

"Then kill him again." Her voice was cold.

"And again and again and again? When will he stay dead?"

"When you are man enough to kill him properly," she said
stiffly.

But that wasn't the point, Zharkov thought. He was man—or
beast—enough to kill anyone. But was Justin Gilead man
enough to die?

Zharkov was silent as he and Katarina sat at the dining
table over a Spartan meal of green vegetables and rice- He
was intently reading the red-covered file on Justin Gilead.

92 GRANDMASTER

Katarina watched him wordlessly as he pushed vegetables
around his plate. only a few of them ever reaching his mouth.

Finally she said, "I know where Justin Gilead is."

He looked up quickly.

"Yes," she said. "He's a shoe salesman in Schenectady.
New York.. He has a fat wife and four children."

Zharkov appreciated her attempt to cheer him and smiled
sadly. "No. He would be playing chess somewhere. I would
have read about his games."

"Chess. Always chess. Was he that good?"

"Justin Gilead," Zharkov said, "was probably the most
brilliant chess player who ever lived. He started playing again
in 1970. when he was twenty-six. A year later, he was
declared an international grandmaster."

"Then why wasn't he ever world champion?" she asked
with a touch of asperity.

"You know the answer to that," Zharkov said- "You
wrote this report."

"My report was filled with conjecture and speculation,"
she said. "Not with hard fact."

"All right. This is hard fact. For ten years, Justin Gilead
was doing the ClA's work. harassing Nichevo. In every city
he went to for a tournament, he managed to do some mischief
before he left. Sometimes he did not show up for games and
lost points on disqualification. Other times, he would adjourn
a game that he had clearly won, and the next day would not
come back to resume it. So he would lose another point for a
forfeit. For ten years, he was an American agent and tried to
play chess, loo."

He began to recite as if from a memorized litany.

"In 1972, Nixon visited China. My father headed Nichevo
then. He had an interesting welcome planned for Nixon. He
had his top agents standing by in Hong Kong. Gilead played
in a tournament in Hong Kong, and my father's agents were
never heard from again. Giiead finished third in the toumament-

"In 1975, he played in a tournament in Toronto. Soon after
the tournament, a dozen of our top people in Canada were
expelled for spying. Gilead finished second in the tournament.

"In 1977, he played in a tournament in Djakarta. When it
was over, the CIA arrested one of its own men who had been
a double agent, working for Nichevo. Gilead missed the last
three games and forfeited the tournament.

The Wearer of the Blue Hat            93

"In 1978, he played in South Africa. My father had care-
fully set up a supply route to get arms to the rebels there.
Two weeks after the tournament ended, the South African
police broke the supply line. Gilead tied for first in that
tournament.

"And in 1979, when I took over Nichevo, I planned riots
in Panama when the Americans gave the Panama Canal back.
Gilead was playing in Panama City at the time. The riots
never happened. My men were all arrested by the police.
Gilead finished second in that tournament."

"And those were all Gitead's doings?" she asked. "Are
you sure?"

Zharkov nodded. "My father knew and later I knew. The
KGB never knew. It still doesn't. But then, the Committee
never knows anything."

"Then why didn't you kill him all those years?" she
asked. "You knew that one day you'd have to."

"He was too slippery. My father tried many times,"
Zharkov said- "It was only in Poland four years ago that
we got the real chance. Katarina, I saw him in his grave.
And now he lives." The Russian shook his massive head.

"Maybe he doesn't live,*' she said. "Maybe he was in-
jured so badly that he's a vegetable now, lying in a nursing
home, peeing in a pot."

"And maybe he is just waiting for his moment to strike,"
Zharkov said.

Katarina smiled and rose to clear away the dinner dishes.
"I don't know about him, but I know I'm waiting for my
moment to strike. Will you come to bed?"

He said distractedly, "In a moment."

"I know what that means," she said. "1 hate Justin
Gilead. If he lives, I want nothing more in life than to
kill him for you." After she removed the dishes, she came
back, kissed him softly on the cheek and walked quietly
to the bedroom doorway.. "All we know is that someone
found his medallion," she said. "The Grandmaster may be a
ghost."

Perhaps she was right. Perhaps the unkillable man had died
after all. Not in Poland, where he had officially expired—
Zharkov knew that Gilead had somehow, miraculously, tricked
death then as he had tricked it once before at Zharkov's

94 GRANDMASTER

hands—but dead all the same. An automobile accident, an
illness. Agents did die normal deaths more often than not.

But not the Grandmaster. Something inside Zharkov simply
could not believe that the recovered medallion, handed to
Starcher's aide, signified nothing. Justin Gilead was about to
surface- Zharkov knew that as surely as he knew his own
name.

He stood at the doorway to the bedroom. Inside, her face
illuminated by the light from the other room, Katanna slept.
The incessant rain beat on the windows like a beast trying to
get in- Zharkov longed to lie with her, to permit himself to be
enveloped by her warmth. But something pulled at him,
uncomfortable, agitating, a force as inexorable as madness.

He looked at the chessboard. The white king stood defi-
antly out of his ranks, challenging his opponent to do combat.

Riesling . . . Kutsenko . . . Starcher . . . the Grandmaster.

The board told him that Justin Gilead was alive. He would
live until the game was over, for it was the last recorded
game that Justin Gilead had ever played. He had walked away
from that position once and had never come back to finish the
contest- The Grandmaster's life would not be ended until
Zharkov had ended this game. And after four years, the
game was still in doubt.

The Russian walked over to the chessboard and picked up a
piece. It was the black queen, sleek, balanced, intricately
carved, beautiful. The most deadly piece on the board. Power-
ful enough to topple the white king if the moves were right.

He set the queen down on a square where it gave check to
the white king.

He knew it in his bones- The white king would lead an
attack against him. And the white king would then be destroyed.
Finally. Forever.

Zharkov put on a raincoat and an old cap with a visor and
walked out into the rain. The black queen was waiting for
him.

-CHAPTER ELEVEN

He walked through the driving rain to the fashionable Sivcev
Vrazek district, where the core of Moscow's power elite kept
their city residences. He could have driven—he had a Chaika
limousine and a driver at his disposal—but drivers talked, and
official Chaikas were easy to spot after midnight curfew.
What he was about to do was dangerous, and although Nichevo
was powerful, there were limits to its official power, and to
Zharkov's.

Zharkov reached an area of shabby old buildings con-
demned but left standing despite the city's notorious housing
shortage, as part of the Soviet myth of equality. Like the
special stores where the cream of Soviet society purchased
food and goods not available to the general public for a
fraction of the price of the lesser-quality goods that ordinary
people stood in line for hours to buy, and like the cars that
"meritorious" members of the Party received, often as gifts,
the elegant apartments in Sivcev Vrazek did not officially
exist. Their high windows were carefully shrouded with thick
draperies. The buildings themselves were unkempt and mold-
ering on the street side. Only from the rear courtyards could
one see the gardens and the balconies, smelt the fragrances of
steaks and expensive perfumes, hear the luxurious whir of air
conditioners.

He pressed the intercom inside one of the buildings. A
woman's voice answered.

"Zharkov," he said. A buzzer sounded, and the drab metal
door opened with a click, revealing a thickly carpeted lobby

95

%

GRANDMASTER

decorated with gilt mirrors and French camelback sofas uphol-
stered in silk. The two ornate elevators were unattended at
night, a sure sign of power. In even the lowliest buildings.
the entrances and exits of tenants and their guests were noted
by the dezhwnaya, usually old women who sat sullenly in the
lobbies and foyers, watching and listening. They were paid
little for their efforts, but if their observations led to an arrest,
they were rewarded with food or an apartment to share with
only three other families instead of the more common six.

But no dezhwnaya sat watch here. The eyes of the state did
not peer into the bastions of its privileged class.

On the seventh floor, on the wall beside Maria Lozovan's
door, was an Italian modernist painting of a woman stroking a
cat. Both figures were rounded and tush, obviously luxury
items. As was the painting, carelessly hung outside the apart-
ment itself, Zharkov thought as the door swung open, offer-
ing him a waft of expensive perfume. As was the painting's
owner.

Maria Lozovan would have been a woman of notice in any
city in the world, but in Moscow she was nothing less than a
miracle. Cultured, charming, meticulously groomed, utterly
feminine, everything about her indicated that she had been
expressly created to adorn the arms of wealthy men. A blond
Georgian—that in itself a rarity—she possessed the high Slavic
cheekbones of her race and slanted eyes the color of copper.
No one knew her age. Zharkov guessed that she was any-
where between thirty-five and fifty, but probably on the upper
end of the scale, since he first learned about her activities
with the KGB when he was still a young man.

There were rumors that Maria had originally come to Mos-
cow illegally, as a prostitute, and was set up by a rich patron
in an apartment, with residence papers permitting her to live
in the city. Zharkov didn't know or care about her life before
the KGB, and gave no credence to the stories about Maria
Lozovan that flew around the cocktai! circuit of Soviet society.
She had been their favorite subject for years, ever since she
"retired" from service to marry.

Her marriage itself was a scandal of the first water. It was
well known that her husband, Dimitri, a minor executive for
Intourist, possessed neither the money nor the political pull
known as blat to afford the spacious eight-room apartment in
Sivcev Vrazek. It was equally well known that Dimitri Lozovan

The Wearer of the Blue Hat            97

was the lover of a highly placed homosexual member of the
Politburo.

The marriage between him and Maria had been arranged,
basically, by the state as advantageous to all concerned. The
Politburo member could continue his liaison with Lozovan
openly, without fear of recrimination for his decadence.
Lozovan was able to accept the gift of the large apartment and
priceless furnishings, and Maria, in payment for her services
as "beard" to the two men, was released from her assign-
ments as a field agent to conspicuously lead the life of a
Moscow socialite. Besides, there were other rumors that Ma-
ria had a lover of her own. A powerful man, of course; only
the most interesting indiscretions were attributed to Maria
Lozovan.

She obviously relished her role. AH her clothes came from
Paris and Rome, and twice in the last decade she had traveled
to South America for several months at a/stretch, returning
each time with a face considerably younger than the one she
owned when she left. "Plastic surgery," the gossips whispered.
"The gall! How does she get away with it here?"

Only a handfut of people not intimately involved with
secret Politburo discussions guessed at some connection be-
tween Maria Lozovan's South American tours and the sudden
eruptions of Communist uprisings on that continent, but they
kept the matter to themselves. Nobody involved with Maria's
activities was about to tell the truth about her, least of all
Maria herself.

Like everything else about her, Maria's secrecy was a
studied, cultivated quality. In fact, she appeared to have no
secrets at all, chatting amiably at the parties she and Dimitri
hosted about her work with the KGB. "Minimal, really," she
would say with the lilting laugh that was always at the ready-
"Codes and ciphers, that sort of thing. Mostly it was a lot of
hard work with no reward except a kind of"—here she
would insert a small sigh—"deep satisfaction that I might be
doing some good in the world." A smile usually followed,
one of a thousand practiced expressions of pleasure and mu-
tual confidence with her listeners.

But Zharkov knew that Maria had spent six years at Gaczyna,
and none but the most promising agents-in-lraining were sent
to Gaczyna to study. Certainly not a code or cipher clerk-
Certainly not an agent who would be retired upon marriage.

98 GRANDMASTER

Gaczyna was probably the most unusual school in the
world. It covered some 425 acres in an uninhabited part of the
Russian interior stretching from the Tatar Soviet Republic to
the Bashkir Soviet Republic. Agents who had been hand-
picked by the KGB to serve abroad, either in deep cover or as
illegals, were flown in special government aircraft to the
security zone some thirty miles outside Gaczyna, where a
military detachment searched the plane for weapons and explo-
sives before permitting it to fly into the vast compound. The
security zone circled Gaczyna completely, and no one was
permitted to enter or leave without a special pass- The school
did not appear on any map. Its teachers were assigned for
life, and were not permitted to leave, ever. As far as even the
inhabitants of the region knew, Gaczyna did not exist.

Zharkov himself had seen the school on only one occasion,
and he had been stunned at his first sight of the place. For in
Gaczyna, there were no school buildings, no desks, no
blackboards. Instead, spread at distances of no more than a
few hundred yards, were replicas of foreign towns exact to
the last detail. There were streets, buildings, movie houses.
banks, and bars- In the "English" towns, bright double-
decker buses rolled down the streets. The American locales
were dotted with blue mailboxes. Although most of the
"classrooms" were English-speaking—no one in the area
was permitted to speak Russian at any time—there were also
facsimiles of some South American cities. Maria Lozovan
had studied in these, as weli as in the mock American areas.
Her training had been exhaustive and detailed. Aside from her
acquired ability to fit seamtessly into another culture, she was
also well instructed in the use and identification of weapons,
understood surveillance electronics to a degree, and excelled
at what was called "silent sentry removal." which meant
that she could kill with a wire better than any field agent in
her class.

With these skills, Zharkov knew, Maria Lozovan still worked
for the Committee. But sparingly. An agent as dangerous as
she was was not to be wasted on inconsequential missions.

She served Zharkov a freezing cold Stolichnaya, thick as
molasses, and sipped a glass of champagne. She was artifice
itself, Zharkov thought as he watched her spin an interesting
but trivial fabric of small talk around them- Not once did she
question his motive for the visit; not once did she appear in

The Wearer of the Blue Hat            99

any way perturbed at the late intrusion. She was dressed in
some sort of silky pajamas, the kind of thing wealthy young
matrons and expensive call girls wear around the house on off
evenings, and her blond hair was perfectly styled, short and
curly in front, with the back long and upswept. It was not a
current hairstyle, but it was glamorous, and it gave her face
an illusion of sexiness that it did not actually possess. Zharkov
found himself studying the woman as if she were an exhibit in
a museum. Her face was quite different from the early photo-
graphs of her in the files. The features were the same, but
better. The slightly sloping nose had been replaced by a
narrow, upturned button. Her jawline had been restructured
into a square shape.

Zharkov, perhaps because of the potent vodka, felt an
illogical urge to laugh. Only an agent of extraordinary vanity
would go to the trouble of surgically reconstructing her face
without changing her general appearance for cover purposes.
And also because of the vodka, he thought he could discern
the blunt features of a thug beneath the fine artificial lines.
Something about her repelled him, on principle. She was me
kind of enforcer his father had eliminated from Nichevo when
it ceased to be Stalin's plaything and took on the dimensions
of a serious organization focused on serious work. Nichevo
had no place for crude killers anymore.

But Zharkov did.

"There is a man I want to question." he said bluntly.
interrupting her chatter.

Her eyes slid toward him. amused. "So? The Committee
will bring him to you. If you ask." A smile spread across her
face.

"He's an American. A diplomat. He has immunity."

"I see. It would be quite against international law to bring
him in for interrogation, wouldn't it?" She wagged a
schoolmarmish finger at Zharkov. The gesture made him hate
her.

Her complicity was obvious. She would work for him, for
enough money. But she would want to maintain the thin
charade of her innocence. He would have to endure the lewd
dance between them for a time. Zharkov wanted to get her
out of his sight, this whore of the KGB who killed for sport
and then painted her lips to conceal the blood on them. He
wanted to leave her silky presence, clear his lungs of her

100 GRANDMASTER

cloying perfume, wash his hands, bum his clothes. Instead,
he accepted another drink and danced his role as she expected.

"It would," he said.

"But, forgive me, I'm just a housewife these days, you
know," she said with a show of scatterbrained frustration that
nauseated Zharkov. "Isn't the sort of thing you're thinking of
somewhat out of the range of Nichevo?" She put her fingers
to her lips. "Can we mention the name?"

Zharkov rose. "Madam, I've taken enough of your time."

"No, wait." She touched his arm, flashing the most ingrati-
ating smile. "Do sit down. Colonel. I'm interested."

"In what?" Zharkov asked archly.

She sighed. "All right, louche, You want someone to
kidnap an American diplomat so you can interrogate him. The
man I presume you want is Andrew Starcher, but since he's
in the hospital, my guess is his assistant. The dark, ugly one.
Am I close?"

Zharkov nodded.

"You needn't worry about speaking here. Colonel. My
apartment isn't bugged." She gestured curtly toward a gilt-
framed photograph of her husband's male lover. "For obvi-
ous reasons."

She poured herself another glassful of champagne. "The
question is, why have you come to me? Everyone knows I've
been retired for years."

"That is not the .question." Zharkov said, pulling a stack
of hundred rublec notes from his jacket. He spread them in
front of her, arranging them in rows of ten. "This is the
question."

She eyed the bills with something like love. "Of course,
the Committee—''

"The KGB can have him when I'm through, if you want to
prove your loyalty to the Committee. I just don't want that
oaf Ostrakov to kill him before I've had my chance with
him."

"Then this is a personal matter? Not Nichevo business?"

"That's not your concern."

"They'll blame you. There'll be an incident," she said.

"Will there?" Zharkov asked coldly.

Maria Lozovan thought. "Of course, there are alternatives,
believable alternatives." She still had not touched the money.

"I thought as much." He laid out five new rows of bills.

The Wearer of the Blue Hat           101

Maria smiled up at him. "You were right, Comrade Colonel.
This was the question."

She scooped up the notes in both hands.
"And that is your answer."

It was nearly three o'clock in the morning when Zharkov
returned to his apartment- The first thing he saw upon enter-
ing was the chessboard set up with the black queen in play.
How dangerous was Maria Lozovan to him? What prevented
her from taking the money and spilling what she knew to the
KGB?

Only her greed, he thought. She might have guessed mat
there was something to come after the relatively minor task of
capturing Michael Corfus—a more impressive, more expen-
sive assignment.

As for himself, he decided that he risked little on me
surface. Even if Maria Lozovan turned him in, what would
the Committee do to him? At most, it might chastise him for
interfering with the diplomatic-immunity laws with a low-'
ranking American agent. But the KGB itself had done much
worse to people of far greater importance. Corfus's kidnapping
would be presented to the Americans as the act of anti-
Western radicals. Then, to make.it stick, a few troublesome
dissidents would be taken from the political prison at Lubyanka
and hanged. Nichevo? the Committee would say. Who cares?

Still, there might be questions. Why had Zharkov done it?
Why use an agent of Lozovan's caliber to get to someone as
politically innocuous as Starcher's aide?

They could not find out about the Grandmaster. Zharkov
would not permit it. Justin Gitead was his, and his alone. He
had hunted Gilead for the whole of his life. and he would not
allow Ostrakov or his clones to find the great beast before he
did.

He stripped off his clothes and crawled silently into bed
with Katarina.

He embraced her, feeling the warmth of her body rush
through him like molten metal. He remembered the first time
he had met her—God, was it fifteen years ago?—when she
had led his initiation into the rites of love and into the service
of a woman who was more God than woman, who had tied
him to her with the power of her body and her sex, and had

102 GRANDMASTER

promised him the world. In return, he had to promise her his
loyalty.

Katanna had been trained by her and saved by her, just for
Zharkov. He pressed his body against her back and with his
left hand stroked the nipple of her left breast- It responded
instantly, hardening, furrowed, and in her sleep, Katanna,
created for one purpose only, moaned slightly with pleasure.
He slipped his other hand through the small valley between
her hip and his mattress and then put his hand between her
legs. She was, as he knew she would be, wet there. He
dipped his fingers into her moistness, then brought his hand up,
to anoint her breasts with her own juice.

He felt her shudder. She turned to him, then rolled him
onto his back and climbed on him, easing him into her. In the
misty moonlight that filtered into the master bedroom from the
window overlooking the garden behind the building, he could
see her eyes Hashing as she straddled him and then began
lifting her body up and down, enveloping him, sinking down
powerfully on him, swallowing up his manhood with her
womanhood. Then she leaned forward; her hardened nipples
grazed his chest. Her tongue touched the inside of his ear,
and he heard her say softly, "1 am going to fuck you as you
have never been fucked before, Alyosha."

And he knew he would surrender himself to her completely,
that he would mink of nothing but his body and his pleasure,
but as he closed his eyes so he could concentrate on nothing
but his own throbbing sex, he saw again, in his mind, the
chessboard in the other room and the white king moving out
to meet his pieces. So naked, so vulnerable, so pitifully
exposed. The game would be his.

The game was moving, moving beautifully, and it would
be a game not of pawns, but of kings.

And he would win.

And the Grandmaster would be his.

Half a world away, a man quietly sat in a darkened room,
his legs folded under him. Outside, waves lapped against the
hull of a boat, but the man did not hear them. The unlighted
room smelted of waste and rotted food, but me man did not
notice the scent. A bowl of food sat untouched on the hard
floor next to him. The man sat staring straight ahead at a

The Wearer of the Blue Hat           103

point in the darkness ahead of him. his eyes unfocused,
unseeing.

His frame was gaunt and wasted, and his mind held no
thoughts, no visions, no great plans, no master strategies. It
was, like his body, useless and rotted.

But sometimes, alone, in the silent frightening dark, the
man remembered music and the scent of almonds

Book Three
NICHEVO

-CHAPTER TWELVE

The day after the ceremony investing Justin as the Wearer of
the Blue Hat, Tagore tied narrow tubes of cloth weighted with
•smalt stones to the young boy's wrists and ankles- He led him
to the small lake to the east of Rashimpur.

"Swim," he commanded.

The boy struggled for a few yards. "I can't," he said-
"Help me."

"Swim."

He made it a quarter of the way across before losing
consciousness -

The next week Tagore led him to a narrow footpath at the
base of Amne Xachim. "Run," he said.

"Where to?"

"To the place where you can run no more."

Justin ran until he dropped, exhausted, the dust of the
footpath biting into the raw flesh beneath the stone bracelets
he wore.

Tagore was waiting for him. "Farther," he said.

A month later, he took the boy farther up the mountain to
where the scrub grass sprouted in scattered clumps beneath
the snow. A thirty-foot-high boulder rose out of the ground,
its slick surface covered by a thm layer of ice.

"Climb," Tagore said.

The boy looked at him reproachfully. The weights binding
him had completely removed the skin around his wrists and
ankles. At night, when he slept, the weights were removed,
and his flesh healed into paper-thin scabs. But each morning

107

108 GRANDMASTER

they were rubbed raw again, the pain permeating him during
every waking moment His back and arms and legs ached
constantly with a dull throb. His fingers were cracked and
blistered. The exercises Tagore saw him through every mom-
ing left him paralyzed with fatigue and dizzy from the arcane
methods of breathing the monks taught. He was made to
stand for hours, his arms outstretched until there was no more
feeling in them, to breathe with such depth that he felt his ribs
would crack, to lie outside in the cold until his shivering gave
way to numbness. He hated Tagore.

"Climb," the teacher repeated.

Justin climbed.

Halfway up the boulder, he slipped and fell. Tagore caught
him effortlessly.

"I can't," the boy cried. "I won't. Not with these weights.
It hurts too much."

Tagore grasped him by the cloth on his back and propelled
him off the ground, onto the freezing boulder. "Climb," he
said.

Enraged, Justin climbed to the top of the rock. His arms
and legs and face were already beginning to bruise from his
fight with the massive boulder, but he didn't care. Defiantly,
he looked down at Tagore. "1 did it," he said triumphantly.

His training had begun.

From the monks, Justin learned the Hindi dialect of the
region. From special tutors summoned by Tagore, he learned
Russian. Chinese, Italian, French, German, Polish, Spanish.
From ancient books he learned mathematics and astronomy.
From Tagore he learned strength.

The small weights disappeared from beside Justin's pallet.
In their place were new weights with stones twice their size.

He was taken back to the small lake. "Swim," Tagore
said.

By the time he was twelve years old, the stones he wore
around his neck, his waist, his wnsts and ankles weighed more
than a hundred pounds.

When he was thirteen, he swam the length of the lake
without a breath.

When he was fifteen, the weights were removed. He could
outrun a rabbit.

When he was sixteen, his sleeping pallet was replaced by a

Nichevo                   109

floor of sharp rocks laced with thorns. That same year, he
teamed of sex.

At seventeen, he could walk over fire.

By the time Juslin was nineteen, he could change his
heartbeat at will. registering different pulses in various parts
of his body. For six weeks, Tagore shut him inside a sealed
cave with no food or water. When the cave was opened,
Justin rose and left in silence.

At twenty, he was left inside the cave for five months. This
time, Justin did not wait for Tagore to come to him. He left
the cave when he was ready- In front of the cave, the rock
slab that had sealed the opening lay split into fragments.

Justin had grown into a nearly perfect specimen of young
manhood. The scars where he had carried the heavy weights
had disappeared, and his skin was bronzed and hardened from
his years spent in the rugged mountain climate. The boy's
stick-thin limbs had filled out with muscle.

When he moved, it was with the grace of a tiger. He had
learned how to walk without disturbing even the dry leaves
underfoot. He could endure a degree of pain mat even the
disciplined monks of Rashimpur found astonishing. He exer-
cised for weeks on end without sleep or food. He had grown
tall, more than a foot taller than most of the monks at
Rashimpur. During devotions. Re towered above them, his
electric blue eyes surveying all he saw with detached grandeur.

"Your body has grown well," Tagore said.

"I have done my best." A small spark flashed in his blue
eyes. His teacher had never complimented him before.

Tagore became an old man. The crinkles around his eyes
and mouth had deepened into furrows, and the skin over his
beak nose was stretched and spotted. Justin had always thought
of Tagore as a big man, the greatest and strongest of all the
remarkable men at Rashimpur. Now he looked at him as a
man would regard an equal, and he noticed for the first time
that his teacher was just barely taller than the other monks,
his small bones as fragile as a bird's.

Tagore smiled with his eyes. "You have done your best,"
he said softly.

"Yes . . ." He was puzzled. "And you, too, Tagore," he
added. "Your training has given me everything."

"Ah," Tagore said. "And with my training and your body
you are prepared to rule over Rastumpur?"

110 GRANDMASTER

Justin's face broke into a sudden smile. "Yes," he said,
exultant- "I did not want to announce myself ready for the
task, but yes, I am ready."

"And for what reasons do you feel you are adequately
prepared for this task9"

Justin stammered. "I—I don't understand I'm the strong-
est of all the monks of Rashimpur. I have trained all my life
to be the Wearer of the Blue Hat- And I wear the amulet of
PatanjaJi. It is my destiny to rule. I am grown now. It is time.
You have said so yourself

"1 said only that your body has grown well. You have
learned next to nothing about your soul."

"That's not fair," Justin said. "I practice my devotions
longer than any- I have carried through the Nine Steps of
Renunciation. I have learned all of the eighty-four positions
of the Asana, and even the longest mantras. I have been the
best chela in every exercise of the spirit. The monks them-
selves have acknowledged my ability."

Tagore sat silently for several moments. "My son, a chela
is a pupil only. The Wearer of the Blue Hat does not look to
others for proof of his merit. He must know in his own heart
of his place."

"But I am the best," Justin protested. "I do know it."

"Is that why you chose to smash the rock sealing the cave
rather than to wait inside for us?"

Justin's frown disappeared. "I knew it was time. I wanted
to prove that 1 could leave of my own will."

Tagore spoke quietly, his voice full of sadness. "Was it so
difficult for you to wait, unnoticed, in silence?" he asked-

Justin didn't answer.

"Come."

They walked through the Great Hall to the Tree of the
Thousand Wisdoms. Tagore stood before it, his shoulders
stooped with age. "Do-you remember when the holy ones
came to see you by this tree?" he asked.

"Of course," Justin said.

"Was it painful when I scraped your hand along the bark?"

Justin smiled. "Yes," he said. "At that time, I thought it
was the worst pain in the world. In my dreams, this tree
possessed a bark of iron."

"But you are much stronger now," Tagore said.

"I hope so," Justm said lightly.

Nichevo                   111

Tagore raised his hawklike head. "Very well, my son.
Pass your hand along the bark once more."

Justin looked from his teacher to the massive tree. "I don't
want to damage it," he said.

"The Tree of the Thousand Wisdoms cannot be destroyed.
Never. Even by one so prideful as you." There was the
faintest trace of anger in his voice.

Justin nodded curtly. He raised his hand as high as he
could reach and grasped me bark of the tree. Then, with all
his strength, he swept his hand downward.

The pain was as hideous as he remembered. Like metal
spikes, the bark of the tree speared and cut the palm of his
hand to bleeding strings. Blood poured out of him.

Justin gasped once with the white-hot shock that seared
through him, but he quickly brought himself under control.
This was, he reasoned, Tagore's final test for him. If he could
endure this pain, he could endure anything. He would be
ready. He closed his eyes. Slowly his blood vessels contracted.
The bleeding stopped. He willed his throbbing nerves to
silence, and the pain subsided to a dull mumping. At last, he
was prepared to face Tagore-

"There is no more pain," he said proudly. Tagore said
nothing. Justin plucked a leaf from the tree. "May I heal it
now?" he asked.

"If you are the one who heals your wounds, yes." Tagore
said.

Justin grasped the leaf with his wounded hand.

He screamed.

The touch of the leaf was like fire. He dropped the leaf and
it fell, blood-soaked, to the floor. The throbbing pain had
returned, greater than before. Justin tried to will it into
submission, but the pain raged unabated.

Tears sprang to his eyes- "It's terrible." he groaned, plead-
ing with his eyes. "I can't stand it."

"You can," Tagore said coldly. "And you will. And one
day perhaps you will understand where a man's strength
lies."

He turned his back and walked away.

The next day Justin sought out the old teacher. His hand
was wrapped in cloth, and there was no pride in the blue
eyes. "Please help me to understand," he said.

112 GRANDMASTER

Tagore gave him a roll of coarse rice paper. "Kneel before
the tree and crumple this paper into a ball." he said.

Justin looked up. "And then?"

"And then smooth the paper flat. When you have finished,
begin again, crumpling the paper and smoothing it on the floor
of the Great Hall. You are not to speak during the task- You
are not to move from your place. You are not to come to me
again. Go,"

Trembling with anger and shame, Justin took the rice paper
lo the Great Hall and knelt before the Tree of the Thousand
Wisdoms. From his position on the floor, the tree looked
once again as it had when he was a boy, forbidding, darkly
grand. The tree where the spirit of Brahma lived.

As Tagore had instructed, he crumpled the paper into a ball
and then smoothed it flat on the stone floor. It was no effort.
It did not even pain his damaged hand. The exercise required
no skill, no strength, no endurance. As the monks passed,
unseeing, in front of him to gather for devotions, he flushed
with humiliation. Those others were to bow to him, he thought
angrily. They always had. It was not his place to stay on his
knees in full view of his followers, performing a task unfit for
the lowliest chela. He was Patanjali. He was the Wearer of
the Blue Hat.

Tagore walked by him without a glance. The old man has
lost his senses, he thought, hating the stooped figure who
shuffled down the long hail. Justin began to rise. There would
be a confrontation, and it would be now.

The moment his knees left the ground, the old man whirled
around and fixed him with a stare so cold and unforgiving
that it felt like a dagger entering Justin's heart- Involuntarily,
he sank to the floor again.

The old man was a magician. A mind reader. An evil,
fanatical old lunatic.

Who had given him the body of a god.

Stifling his rage, he crumpled the paper again.

The sun set and rose again. And set. Food was brought to
him once a day. He ate alone, in silence, kneeling in the
Great Hall. At night, one of the monks took him to his cell,
now cleared of the spiky rocks, and Justin lay down on the
bare stone floor, trying to hold back his tears of shame.
Autumn gave way to winter, and when the small doorway to
the hall opened, gusts of windblown snow showered the

Nichevo                   113

torches tike sparks. In spring, he heard the songs of birds
outside as he knelt in his small spot, crumpling and smoothing
the roils of paper that were brought to him every few days.

Another year passed. He would never be strong again, he
was sure. Tagore had given him the useless task to perform in
order to take away his strength—the strength he had spent a
lifetime of discipline acquiring.

To counteract his failing muscles, he began to use the time
in his cell at night to exercise. Alone, fighting off sleep, he
breathed and stretched, working one muscle against the other.
He worked a crack in the wall until a small rock broke loose.
With this he chipped away at the wall, night after night- After
a few months he had loosened a section of rock and broken it
into small pieces, which he knotted into his robes. Using the
weights as he had as a child, he performed his exercises,
teaching himself how to move again. Now, when sleep came,
Justin welcomed it.

He grew accustomed to silence. Each morning he focused
all his attention on the short walk from his cell. His legs fairly
danced with the pleasure of walking. Kneeling before the
ever-present paper, he began to observe details of the tree mat
he had never before noticed. Minute pockets of sap formed on
the bark during the autumn season; in spring, the blackish
trunk took on subtle shades of green. He grew to tell the time
of day by the shades of light and dark cast by shadows in the
hall. Each grain of rice he ate became a new experience for
him, and for the first time he tasted a variety of flavors in the
food he had once regarded as bland. He felt the response of
his organs to every breath he took, every miniscuie shiver of
excitement.

Gradually his world, which he had thought was shrunken
into one odious task, had exploded into a thousand universes,
each bursting with experience. Suddenly, he found that there
was barely enough time in each day to sift through all the
wonders that entered his mind. The world was not Rashimpur.
It was immense. And it was tiny. He meant nothing to it. And
everything.

As he was smoothing out his paper, one of the monks bade
Justin to follow him outside. The beauty of the sunset that
melted around Amne Xachim was achingly beautiful. His
nostrils filled with the cold air, and he shivered with its
sweetness. His mind reeled with the thousands of sounds and

114 GRANDMASTER

songs of the mountains, ail filled with breathtaking wonder.
He stood on the edge of the cliff where he had stood on the
day of his coronation. Once again, he felt power surge through
him as it had never done since. He touched the amulet on his
chest, and again he heard the ancient music he had heard on
the day he met Tagore. It had been mysterious then,
unknowable. But now he heard it, and knew distinctly what
the music was. It was the sound of the wind, of the birds, of
the stiti water in the lake, of the movement of the earth and
its births and deaths. It was the sound of present and past and
eternity. It was being. It was life.

This time he did not stop the tears that came to his eyes.
Never had he thought he would see anything so lovely, hear
anything so beautiful, and yet the sights and sounds that
intoxicated him were things he had seen all his life- Tagore
had been right. It was all magic, every molecule of air.

Another figure walked silently to the chffside and stood
beside Justin.

"Come inside," the old man said.

In the Great Hall, Justin slipped wordlessly to his place on
the floor, but Tagore took his hand and raised him up.

"Pull your hand down the bark of the tree," he said.

Justin obeyed without hesitation. The pain would come,
but it would leave. The tree would wound him, but that
wound would heal. And even during the worst of the pain, he
knew, the wind outside would still sing- The sun would still
set. Amne Xachim would continue to live, and so would his
immortal soul. He feared nothing.

With ail his strength he pressed against the black bark of
the tree, seeing its tiny sap tears with his new eyes, savoring
its thousand hidden colors, feeling its ancient strength beneath
his hand. In his mind, he joined with the tree, became the tree
itself. In one swift motion, he swept his bare palm down the
bark.

The bark fell in a strip at his feet.

Aghast, he stared at the peeled-away bark and at the white
stripe that ran the length of the tree. He looked at his hand.
There was not a mark on it.

He turned to Tagore. The old man was kneeling on the
hard stone floor, bowing to him. Justin reached down and
helped the old man to his feet.

"Do you remember?" Tagore asked gently. "When I first

Nichevo                   115

brought you here? You wanted magic. To show it to you, I
placed a rock in a stream."

"1 remember," Justin said- They were the first words he
had spoken in three years.

"Which is stronger?" Tagore asked, lifting the crumpled
sheet of paper from the floor. "The rock or the water?"

Justin knelt and bowed to him.

By the time Justin Gilead was twenty-six years old, he had
learned every lesson but one.
In that year, he learned how to kill.

.CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The dreams had grown worse.

Through each step of Justin's development, the strange yet
familiar face of the man he had come to know as the Prince of
Death had entered Justin's world as he slept, bringing with
him the destruction of Justin's life. He told Tagore about the
dreams, of the fire and destruction he saw, of his own death
and burial But Tagore told him only that the will of Brahma
would prevail and that dreams were only dreams.

"But I've seen other things. The tree. I knew about the
Wearer of the Blue Hat. You believed me then."

"Yes," Tagore had said, and dismissed him.

But the old man had taken the diamond left to Justin and
buried it deep within the walls of the Great Mali of Rashimpur.
"This is yours," he said. "If you leave this place, you must
take the diamond with you. Break it into small pieces and sell
them. The diamond will keep you until you are able to return
here."

Justin watched sadly as the old monk sealed the stone into
the wall. "My dreams are true. aren't they," he said.

"I do not know. Only the Wearer of the Blue Hat can
know."

The dreams weighed more heavily on Justin than did the
rocks he carried as a boy. At first, the Prince of Death had
visited him rarely. Each time, it had taken Justin days to
recover. But now the dreams recurred every night. Every
night the man whose features he knew by heart appeared,
bringing with him the soft, gray curling smoke of endless

116

Nichevo                    117

pain. Before, he had come alone; but recently the man in
Justin's dreams was led by a woman. She was beautiful and
ageless, robed in crimson, with jewels in her black hair. She,
too, was someone Justin had seen before. The Doric Pagma,
abbess of the Yamdrok Lake monastery in Tibet, me one
called Varja, the goddess. In the dreams Varja pointed the
way to Rashimpur, for the Prince of Death to walk forth.

He stopped sleeping. The nights came and went, each spent
looking out the narrow slotted window of his cell. After a
week, he wrapped himself in a woolen cloak and spent the
cold nights outdoors, keeping vigil on the rock face of Amne
Xachim.

Tagore went to him.

"He is coming," Justin said. "You do not believe me, but
I know this. The abbess, the one you call Varja, has shown
him the way."

Tagore did not answer for a long moment- "I believe
you," he said at last. "I have always believed you."

Justin turned his blue-circled eyes from the darkness of the
mountains to me old man.

"Sadika, your predecessor, prophesied it himself." Tagore
said quietly. "You are to be the last Wearer of the Blue Hat.
The ages of Rashimpur are to end with you. I could not tell
you earlier, because it would have frightened you. Forgive
me, Patanjali."

Justin stared, stupefied. "That can't be true," he said.

"Long before your birth, Sadika told of the trials we would
all face after his death." He wrapped his cloak around him
tighter. "He, too, saw the flames of destruction that were to
engulf Rashimpur," Tagore sighed. "And he, too, saw the
figure of Varja leading the way."

"Then why did you invite her here?" Justin asked, the
despair in him welling. "Why didn't you kill her before she
started?"

"My son, Varja already knew of Rashimpur- And we do
not kill out of fear. That is for the weak. Such an act would
have destroyed us far more completely than it would have
hurt her. No, Justin Varja has her destiny, just as you have
yours."

"And the man? The Prince of Death?"

"He, too, must live out his life according to Brahma's
great plan."

118 GRANDMASTER

Austin spoke bitteriy. "The great plan to kill us all."
There was silence. "Not all," Tagore said softly. Then he
asked the drawn young man next to him, "What is karma?"

Justin thought. Karma, he knew, was everything. Good
and evil, incarnation after incarnation, it was a man's spirit,
created by his actions- The obstacles and joys he experiences
in a present lifetime, carved inexorably from the previous
one. Karma was destiny, at once fixed and changeable.
understandable, yet beyond reach. The beginning and the
end. Past and future, together in the present.

Justin struggled with the answer. At last he said, "Karma
is the circle."

Tagore nodded slowly. "You must allow the circle to
complete itself."

"I don't understand." Justin said.

"The man, the one you call the Prince of Death, is as
much a part of your life as I am. As necessary to you as the
air you breathe. You can no more deny yourself the pain he
brings than you can the peace brought by Amne Xachim. I
told you once that your life would be me most difficult of
mortal lives. I have tried to train you here to prepare you for
that life, for it has not yet begun. It is your karma to meet mis
man. As it is your karma to vanquish him or be vanquished
by him."

"I will kill him me moment I see him."

"You are forbidden by ancient law to kill except in defense
of a life in immediate danger. If you kill this man now, you
will break the circle of your karma. And the snake within
your circle, whose power rests in the amulet you carry, will
remain forever coiled. It is not time yet."

"Should I let him destroy us first?" Justin said with a cruel
edge to his voice.

"You will not decide the matter," Tagore said.

Justin looked deeply into the old teacher's eyes. "Tagore,"
he said, "you have been more than a father to me. 1 respect
you above all men, and I love you. But this time you are
wrong. I rule over Rashimpur, and I will decide. The man
will die."

"When it is time."

"And when will it be time?" Justin asked angrily.

"You will know. Until then you are forbidden."

Nichevo                    119

Justin turned away from him and sat once again facing the
black night mountains.

"It is not I who forbid you," Tagore said, rising- "It is the
karma of Patanjali, and the will of Brahma."

Justin did not answer.

"Farewell, my son," Tagore said, and left,

The next morning, just after dawn, a procession of soldiers
appeared on the narrow footpath at ihe base of Amne Xachim.
Justin watched them in silence for a moment. Then, checking
to make sure that he wasn't seen by the other monks at
Rashimpur, he stole away, alone, scaling down the cliffside
to wait for them among the rocks.

Too far away for the untrained eyes of the marching men to
see him, Justin stole toward the group, watching as they made
their slow progress up the mountain. They climbed along the
narrow mountain route as Justin had as a boy—wearily, with
painstaking effort. The first time Justin walked to Rashimpur,
the journey had taken four days. Now he could run it easily in
less than six hours.

The men were more than a day's journey from Rashimpur
when Justin reached them, careful to conceal his movements
and stay out of their sight. There were twelve of them,
dressed in some sort of military uniform, their long overcoats
crusted with dirt from what had obviously been a long over-
land journey through the mountain passes on foot- Justin
studied them carefully, searching for the face he had seen so
often in his dreams. But none resembled the familiar stranger
who had come to him night after tortured night since childhood.

The soldiers stopped for food and rest at high noon, laying
down the heavy backpacks and weapons they carried. They
spoke in Russian, but what they said puzzled Justin.

One of them complained about the endless journey, and
others Joined in, calling their group the losers in a wager.
Even when the leader of the group demanded silence, he did
so in a halfhearted way, his disgust at his position clear.

Justin watched the men for some time. A couple of the
soldiers dozed. Without a sound, Justin made his move,
bursting into the small encampment and removing their weap-
ons in one swift, continuous motion. A young soldier scram-
bled for his rifle. Effortlessly, Justin kicked it out of his

120 GRANDMASTER

hands as he reached for the leader of the troop and pinned
him to the ground.

"Where is he?" Justin shouted, sickened at his own actions.
His karma, he knew, was already lost. By attacking first, he
had violated the most basic laws of his people. But Rashimpur
would not be destroyed. He vowed it, and if that vow meant
the loss of his soul, then so be it. "Where is the one who
leads you?"

No one answered. Two of the soldiers looked at each other,
apparently surprised that the young monk with his shaved
head and flowing yellow robes could speak Russian. The
officer in Justin's arms struggled to free himself. He yanked
the man's arm harder, and the officer yelped.

"Where?" he demanded. "I swear before you that 1 will
kill every one of you if you keep your silence."

The soldiers stood in awed bewilderment. Most of them
were young, Justin noticed, still young enough to be called
boys. They shivered as they watched him, their eyes round
and frightened. One of them, the youngest-looking member
of the group, glanced upward, behind Justin toward the pla"
teau where Rashimpur stood. He swallowed hard and blinked.

Justin didn't move. Something was wrong, he knew it-
Very wrong.

"You will not decide," Tagore had said of the destruction
of their home. And then the machine-gun fire came from
overhead, punctuating the still air from the cliff face of
Rashimpur. The guns, mixed with the screams and wails of
the dying, the terrible noise, sending down fumes of acrid
smoke. The boy whose eyes Justin had followed were down-
cast in shame.

Justin whirled, the soidier still locked in his grip, and he
saw it. Thick gray curls of smoke were pouring out of the
doorway leading to the Great Hall. The vision had come to
pass, after all- Rashimpur was burning.             .

"No!" he shouted, tossing the soldier away like a rag and
darting at full speed up the stony mountainside. Shots were
fired behind him, but he paid no attention to the soldiers
below now. The only thought in his mind was to reach the
monastery before it was too late. To reach Rashimpur and to
find the Prince of Death.

The hours of running up the colossal steepness of Amne

Nichevo                   121

Xachim seemed like days. His heart pounding, he forced his
legs harder, willing himself upward.

The Prince of Death would not escape him. He would be
there, waiting, and Justin would see that he died for daring to
invade the monastery. He hoped that the other monks had not
already killed him- For he would be there, Justin knew. He
felt the presence of the man as surely as if he were standing in
front of him.

He approached by the small lake to the east of the cliff face
and dived into the water. He scaled the final cliff of the
ascent in bounds, thrusting his hands into the rock and pulling
himself up, choking on the heat and smoke that poured out of
the rock face above, his ears ringing with the cries that faded
into a silence that was even more pernicious than the sounds
of death.

At last he stood on the plateau. His teeth clenched, tasting
the bitterness in his throat, he made his way silently through
the rank smoke to the doorway. His face collapsed as he took
in the most horrifying spectacle of his life.

The walls were lined with soldiers, their weapons in firing
position. On the floor of the Great Hall were strewn the
bodies of the dead monks, their yellow robes stained dark
with blood. The air was filled with the acrid stench of spent
gunfire. The hall was utterly sitenf.

He took in the sight, unbelieving, his eyes wandering from
one end of the desecrated halt to the other. And then he saw
the Tree of the Thousand Wisdoms. Burning. Smoke bil-
lowed out of the ancient tree, its leaves blackened and fallen
in clumps of ash. The shock took Justin like a wave- He
groaned and felt something in his chest turn to water.

Tied to the tree was the charred and mutilated body of
Tagore.

He walked toward it hesitantly, as if in a dream. It was the
dream, come hideously to life. Flames licked around the
massive tree's trunk, lapping onto the frail legs of the old
man. He had been stripped naked, and his chest had been
punctured. His skin was blistered and blackened. Dried blood
was splashed around his shattered knees.

"Tagore," he said softly, approaching the body. The old
man was tied to the tree with steel wire, which had sawn his
wrists to the bone. With a snap, Justin broke the wires and
held the limp form of his teacher in his arms.

122 GRANDMASTER

The features of the old face were composed. There was no
torture in it. It had taken all his strength, Justin understood,
just to die at peace.

Slowly Justin's sadness solidified into something hard and
alien within him.

Hate.

He stood in front of me smoldering tree with Tagore in his
arms. turning to face each of the dozens of soldiers flanking
him, their bayonets fixed on him. "Where is he who leads
you?" he screamed, anguished. "Show your face to me!"

One man moved. He stepped from the shadows at the far
end of me hall, near the doorway. His steps were measured,
careful. He walked with perfect authority. As he drew near,
Justin saw his face. With sickening gratification, he recog-
nized the man.

The Prince of Death had come at last.

The two men stared at each other for a long moment. The
man's impassive face betrayed nothing. He wore his blond
hair short, like a brush, and although he was young, it had
already begun tp gray. He was not a big man, but the set of
his shoulders beneath his uniform showed a power of will rare
even among the disciplined monks of Rashimpur. His weath-
ered face held the beginnings of furrows from his nose to his
chin, lines that would deepen with age.

But it was his eyes that most held Justin's attention. They
were a colorless green-gray, shallow-set and heavy-lidded,
burning with deep intelligence. They were reptile's eyes,
spilling out of the expressionless face to take in everything
around him at a glance, eyes that judged instantly and without
emotion. Cold eyes, unburdened by arrogance, unfettered by
passion, as if they saw all things before them as equal, and
equally disposable. The eyes suited the Prince of Death. They
were exactly as Justin remembered them from his dream.

The Russian spoke first, in a quiet, cultivated voice. "I am
Lieutenant Alexander Zharkov of the Army of the Union of
Soviet Socialist Republics," he said. "I require the use of
this building." There was no challenge in his words, no
unspoken threat. It occurred to Justin that the mass murder of
every living being at Rashimpur meant nothing to this man.
The monks had been destroyed because they had been in the
way.

"This is not your land," Justin answered, trembling. "Your

Nichevo                   123

government does not rule this area, and no one rules
Rashimpur."

Zharkov hesitated for the briefest moment. "The building
is mine," he said softly.

Slowly Justin lowered the body of his dead teacher to the
floor, his eyes never leaving those of the quiet, intense man
who stood before him. "It is not yours." The menace be-
tween them was palpable.

Zharkov made a swift, jutting motion with his chin, and the
soldiers moved instantly out of their formation. Bul before
they could reach him, Juslin was in the air, the power of his
legs striking out with every muscle in his body focused. With
awkward slowness, Zharkov whirled away. a flash in the
lizard's eyes betraying sudden fear. Justin's foot struck the
man's shoulder, snapping it with a loud crack. Zharkov fell to
the ground with a rush of breath.

Justin prepared for a new attack, but it was already too
late. He felt the bayonet tip enter his back, below his last rib-
As he acknowledged the pain. he saw the blood-smeared shaft
emerge from the front of his body and recede again.

He gasped, watching the blood pump out of his belly in
rhythmic spurts as the stee! spear tore through him again.

And again.

With a shudder, he fell- His legs splayed apart, twitching
uncontrollably. He struggled for air. At last he lay back, his
hand covering the wound in his side, the gush of blood
subsiding between his fingers.

He looked up. The last sight he had was of the Prince of
Death who stood over him, his face twisted in a pained
grimace, while soft gray edges of smoke curled around him
like a shroud.

-CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Water

It was alt around him, cold and soothing, its blue clarity
marbled with threads of dark blood seeping from his wounds
Justm's eyes opened slowly He realized that he had automati-
cally suspended his breathing

In the stillness of the water, he heard his own heart beating
in a rhythm so slow that it seemed to have no rhythm at all
This remarkable ability, drilled into Justin every day since
childhood until his body could perform it without thought,
had saved his life Silently he thanked Tagore for the arduous
training He would need it all now

The calm of the water was shattered by something of great
weight falling into it near Justin Bubbles frothed above a
sudden gush of mud When the water cleared, he saw the
floating yellow robes of one of the monks, sinking, then
rising slowly to the surface There was another splash, and
the face he saw stared into the depths of the water with
sightless eyes He must be in the small lake near Rashimpur,
he thought numbly The soldiers were dumping the bodies of
the dead into the water

Justm's injuries were too severe for him to move, so he
remained motionless, rocking with the impact of each yellow-
robed body that was thrown into the lake, focusing his will on
the broken blood vessels in his side There was no time for
sorrow He had to direct every fiber of his body and spirit
toward his own healing The sorrow would remain, he knew
The horror would last forever

124

Nichevo                    125

Concentrating, he willed his heart to beat even more slowly
The water felt warmer so he knew his temperature was
falling The blood from his side thinned to a tnckle His
thoughts narrowed to a white dot of light that he willed in
front of him He had no consciousness of Anything outside the
white light He grasped it with his mind and brought it closer
Then when the dot of light was large enough for him to
enter he v illed a dot of black light inside the white, and
withdrew himself even farther When the black dot revealed
yet a third light, he was in the trance slate o! deep conscious-
ness where he knew he had to be in order for his body to
heal He rested inside the small white light until his eyes
opened again The water was dark now Outside, it would be
night

Like a snake—semiconscious, his limbs blue from the
cold. his mind clouded—he slithered onto the shore of the
lake and lay beneath the rhododendron bushes The blossoms
were trampled and muddy from the boots of the soldiers
Overhead hung a thin moon, dim and shrouded by misi The
monastery ol Rashimpur was invisible and silent, but the
lingering stench from the Hre remained Slowly Justin deep-
ened his breathing The new oxygen made him dizzy at first,
then filled him with energy He sal up, then stood His heart
sped up to his normal waking rate Tearing a strip of cloth
from his robe. he tied a crude bandage over his wounds

He tested it with a slap The pain \^as bad, but the bandage
would hold He clenched a fist. his fingers worked Good, he
thought He would need his hands

He was ready

Two sentries guarded either Mde of the plateau where
Rashimpur stood Justin edged silently up the cliffside behind
the left guard and waited for him to mark his paces When the
sentry approached the far end of the plateau, out of sight of
the other guard, Justin wound his forearm around the man's
neck A low gurgling sound issued from me man's throat as
his arms windmilled in panic

You are forbidden to kill Tagore's voice rang out in the
hale-filled recesses of Justin's mind He had never killed
before The man's flesh was clammy, and he stank of fear
Lice crawled in his filthy hair This is a man who bore me no
ill. Justin thought He has endured hardship and loneliness
and has gone unclean m service to another He lives only to

126 GRANDMASTER

do another's bidding. He is a soldier, not a leader. The
rationality of his years of tutoring came back to him: The
taking of life is wrong, rarely justified.

Your karma will be destroyed, Tagore's voice echoed. But
Justin's karma was a foreign thing now, burned in the fire of
Rashimpur, as dead as his soul.

Forgive me. all the wise and holy who have gone before
me. The hate inside me is too great.

He broke the man's neck.

The second time, the killing was easier. The sentry died
quickly under Justin's hands, soiled now with the sweat of his
first kill. Then he made his way inside, where the soldiers lay
sleeping on the floor of the Great Hall. Tagore's body was
gone- He lay. Justin knew, at the bottom of me lake with the
others.

His movements were soundless. He had learned to walk
with such stillness that even the air around him was not
disturbed. He was carefu! to strike each blow with such speed
that the soldiers would make no noise to awaken the others as
they died- There was no more hesitation in his attack. Reason
had no place in his thoughts. He felt no pity. It was only his
hate that Justin was feeding now, and the hunger in him grew
with each death. It would not be satisfied until the last man
had died by his hand. He would make sure that the last man
was Zharkov himself.

Zharkov would not die silently. Justin wanted to see him
suffer, watch him in the extremities of his agony, hear his
pleas for mercy. He wanted to look into the composed lizard's
eyes at me moment when the life in them was extinguished.
Only then would he begin to sorrow for the lost love of
Tagore, for he would allow himself no rest until then. He
would see his eyes. For that, the loss of his immortal soul,
doomed to wander the earth for endless ages of suffering, was
not too high a price to pay.

One last perfect moment with the Prince of Death.

In minutes, the Great Hall had become a massive crypt for
the second time. The soldiers lay in their bedrolls, undis-
turbed except for their bloodless, fatal wounds. Zharkov was
not among them.

Justin paused after his work to breathe in the air, thick with
death. Death was his karma now. his essence. He understood

Nichevo                    127

it in the depth of his heart. Death was all he wanted, first
Zharkov's and then his own. He himself needed Zharkov's
death; the spirit of Tagore, now desecrated by Juslin's actions.
would require Juslin's death.

He pitched his hearing iow. All life, he was taught, carried
sound. Even the growth of plant could be heard by ears
sensitive enough to perceive it. He listened now, in the
death-tilled stillness, for the sound- Because Zharkov was
alive.

It came from the monastery's kitchen. He followed it through
the dark corridors, the torches on the walls now extinguished
forever. His heightened hearing picked up the low wail of the
wind behmd the rock facade of Rashimpur. and the scurrying
of a thousand invisible night creatures. But behind them was
another sound, one thai Justin would never forget.

The sound of fire.

Zharkov sat al the stone cook's table, facing the doorway-
He was bent over scrolls containing maps of the area. Occa-
sionally he marked the maps, writing notes along the edges.
Behind him. in a stone grotto, burned a small cooking fire,
which cast huge shadows tinged with gold.

Zharkov's jacket was open. Strapped to his chest was a
pistol in its shoulder holster.

"i remember you," Justin said.

Zharkov grabbed for the gun, but Justin was prepared this
time. He swung his arm downward and knocked the weapon
out of Zharkov's hand. It clattered to the floor. With his eyes
on Zharkov. he picked it up and threw it through the narrow
slot opening of the kitchen window, justin could hear it strike
the ground outside and tumble down the cliff face.

"Your men are dead."

The reptilian eyes wandered slowly in the direction of the
Great Hall. He was listening. At last-he said, "You couldn't
have reached me if they weren't."

Justin marveled at the coldness of the man. There was not a
flicker of panic on Zharkov's face. No surprise that a man he
had watched die was standing in front of him. Not the slight-
est pity for the soldiers who he surely knew were lying,
lifeless, outside the room.

Zharkov spoke again. "I remember you as well. The chess
match in Paris." He spoke quietly, without a trace ofemolion-
"You beat me then."

128 GRANDMASTER

"I will beat you again." Justin said

Zharkov shrugged slightly "I presume the old man lied to
me. I asked who the leader of your sect was. He said it was
he who ruled the monastery."

"You killed the wrong man," Justin said.

"I guessed as much. He spoke through an interpreter. He
did not know my language. I understood that the Wearer of
the Blue Hat was educated to speak many tongues."

Justin tried to conceal his shock as the man continued.
"Also, you wear the amuiet of the coiled snake. You are the
leader."

Then Justin understood. The vision in his dreams had been
real. "Varia," he said. "The woman led you here."

Zharkov's eyes remained locked into Justin's. "Then you
understand why all had to die. I knew of their skill in combat.
I could not risk my men so early."

"It is loo late now." Justin said coidly-

There was silence. "I have been instructed to occupy this
building. If 1 do not take it, then others who come after me
will."

"Let them come. You will be long dead."

Zharkov did not flinch as Justin inched closer to him, his
footsteps as silent as dead air. Justin's heartbeat quickened;

the moment he had given his soul for had come. He would
see those lizard eyes roll into a nightmare death.

At that moment, Zharkov drew back and kicked him in his
wounded side with the heel of his boot. Justin reeled backward,
the unexpected pain ripping through him. As he staggered
away, Zharkov's hand snaked out to tear the amulet from
Justin's neck and throw it into the fire. White Justin was
recovering from the blow, Zharkov pulled a short knife from
his belt and lunged at him.

Nauseated with pain, Justin lurched forward and grasped
the knife by the blade. The exercise of crumpling and smooth-
ing the rice paper for three years had made his palms as hard
and unyielding as slate. He twisted the knife away. Then,
swiftly, he yanked Zharkov by the hair and dragged him over
to the fireplace. With one hand he reached into the fiames to
find the amulet.

Zharkov struck out blindly. Justin was surprised at the
man's strength, but his struggle fired Justin's hate. He slammed
Zharkov's head into the stones of the grotto. The distance was

Nichevo                   129

only a few inches, not enough to kill. but the force of the
blow. undirected, unfocused, fiiled Justin with shame. He did
not want to bludgeon his enemy to death like a terrified
barbarian.

Zharkov moaned. His legs skittered in place for a moment.
then stopped. The hooded eyes fluttered open briefly and then
closed as Zharkov fell limp. his short hair bristling through
Justin's fingers.

This was not how it was supposed to be. Justin thought.
anguished, as he watched the inert form beside him. Zharkov
was unconscious, the pulse in his neck stiti throbbing
rhythmically. For the Pnnce of Death simply to die, unaware
and painlessly, was not enough.

Tagore had been right. It was not yet time. One did not
answer meaningless deaths with more meaningless deaths.

Justin retrieved the amulet from the fire It had already
begun to melt. The coiled snake had tost its intricately carved
scales, and a drop of molten gold rested on the base of the
disc.

Zharkov came to groggily. the lizard eyes unfocused. Jus-
tin held him fast.

"1 cannot kill you yet." Justin said. "It is not time. But
we wilt meet again." He pressed the fire-hot amulet into
Zharkov's neck. The Russian screamed and bucked, trying lo
get away. but Justin's arm around his throat was like iron

The skin on the soldier's neck smoldered and blackened.
and once again the terrible stench of burning flesh filled the
air. When Justin drew back. the imprint of the coiled snake.
raw and blistered, remained.

"Remember me," Justin said.

He relumed late the next night. Zharkov was gone. The
bodies of his soldiers still lay on the floor where Justin had
killed them.

He removed the heavy stone from the wall and took out the
diamond that had been kepi for him there. The Great Hall wa.s
in ruins. Its gold-covered walls were blackened with smoke.
and the tree—the sacred Tree of the Thousand Wisdoms,
which had healed him and taught him to see through new
eyes—now stood leafless and broken, a charred hulk.

"Tagore said nothing could destroy you." he said bitterly

He gathered a handful of ash from the base of the tree and

130 GRANDMASTER

walked outside to the edge of the plateau where Rashimpur
stood. The wind whistled in tuneless mourning through the
silent mountains.

Justin wanted to pray for the souls of the dead, but he knew
he was no longer fit to pray. He had destroyed his karma and
had gone against the will of Brahma. Worst of alt, he had not
been able to save a single life except his own and that of the
man he hated more than anything on earth. They would both
have to live now.

"Weep, sacred mountain," he said- "Weep the tears I
have no right to shed." He opened his hands. The ashes were
swept upward in the wind, flying into the silent night.

-CHAPTER FIFTEEN

In Havana, the sun is hot . . .

An image of improbably colored palm trees swirled through
Andrew Starcher's mind. In Havana, the sun was hot. It hung
in the sky, bright and dangerous, a drop of molten gold at its
base, and the coiled snake inside it darted out and wound
itself around Starcher's heart, squeezing, killing him . . .

He sat up with a start. The pain was excruciating. The
intravenous tubing in his arms stabbed him. and the ball of
muscle inside his chest seemed about to burst. Monitors
above his head squealed in protest. Their smooth waves
peaked into jagged irregularity. Within seconds, a team of
nurses was hovering nearby, forcing him back down in the
bed, covering his face with a plastic oxygen mask.

"Don't sit up like that." one of them barked in Russian.
"Can you hear me? Blink if you can hear me."

With an effort, Starcher squeezed his eyes shut. The sweat
on his forehead ran in thin streams down his temples.

It had done this to him. The medallion. The touch of it had
been enough to stop his heart. No one would ever believe
him, but it was true. The coiled snake possessed the same
power its owner had, the same electric quality Starcher had
noticed when he'd first met the young man named Justin
Gilead.

Staroher remembered the day well because he had JUS!
gotten word that he was going to be reassigned back to
Europe. For a year, since taking the bullet in Berlin, he had
been working unwillingly as a trainer for new CIA recruits at

131

132 GRANDMASTER

the complex in Langley, Virginia. Nursemaiding a bunch of
twenty-one-year-old Yalies was a long step down from the
feverish excitement of cold war Europe, and he wanted to get
back. It was 1970.

There was a man at Langley then. not a recruit, but a
prisoner. Langley always had its share of weirdos storming
the doors and demanding to become spies for the U.S.
government. Everyone from shopping bag ladies to seedy
degenerates in their sixties, it seemed, had bought the James
Bond myth of glamour and adventure in the espionage trade
and wanted to be a part of it. These were almost invariably
turned away at the first guard station, but the young man being
held in isolation was not one of these.

Gilead had come in three days before, without the knowl-
edge of any of the security guards. This in itself was ade-
quately alarming to have him questioned. Starcher, because
of his long background in Europe, was told to talk to him.
"Something's going on here," the operations chief told him,
"so find out what's going on. I think the Russians sent this

guy-"

"Not your usual way of infiltrating the enemy," Starcher
said dryly and went to a guarded room where the intruder was
being held.

His first reaction to the young man was wonder at the
man's ice blue eyes, and then surprise at his youth. He could
not be older than his mid-twenties. His shirt was open; a
golden snake amulet hung at his throat.

"I've come to talk to you," Starcher said.

"I'm used to it by now." The voice was soft but pitched
deep. He spoke evenly, although he must have been tired of
repeating his story to everyone who came to the room.

"My name is Justin Gilead. I want to work for you people-
1 ask no salary. Someday I will want a favor."

"What kind of favor?"

"I can't tell you specifically. It won't be illegal; it'll just
be a piece of information I need."

"Can't teli me specifically or won't tell me?" Starcher
asked.

"Either way," young Gilead said- His accent was American,
although he could produce neither passport nor identification -

Starcher sat on a chair at the small desk in the room while
Gilead stood with his back to him, looking out a barred

Nichevo                    133

window. The CIA man opened the folder he had brought with
him and glanced at its contents.

Justin Gilead was twenty-six. He had been bom in New
York City and spoke a dozen languages. He did not know
how to drive a car. He had no living relatives. He said that
his occupation was chess player. He had spent his childhood
being raised by monks in India. As a reference, he gave the
name of a professor at Columbia University in New York,
Anna Tauber.

Starcher talked to him for two hours, and Gilead neither
changed his story nor betrayed by any slip of word or fact that
he was anything other than what he pretended to be.

He said that he was going to begin playing international
chess. With that as a cover and an entree into various countries.
he would be able to do a great deal of work for the CIA. He
insisted that all he wanted in return was someday a favor—"a
piece of information," he repeated.

Starcher got up to leave the room, more confused than he
was when he entered.

"How long will I be staying here?" Giiead asked him.

"I don't know."

"You seem like a reasonable man, Mr. Starcher. Do you
think I have any chance of getting my request granted to serve
with you people?"

"Honestly, I think you have two chances: slim and none."

"I've come around to that way of thinking myself. I guess
I'll be leaving here, then."

"They might want you to stay."

"What they might want and what I do arc two different
things," Gilead said. He smiled at Starcher, but it was a cold
smile, without humor or mirth. A mouse might see a cat
smile that way.

"What do you think?" Harry Kael asked Starcher after he
came out of the isolation room. Kael was chief of security at
the time.

Starcher shook his head. "I don't know what to think. I
don't think he's a Russian agent, if that's what you mean. If
the Russians wanted to plant somebody in here, they would
have prepared him. They wouldn't have just had him march
in."

"1 never trusted chess players," Kael said. "Every one of
them I ever see in the papers has got a sneaky, devious,

134 GRANDMASTER

pinched little face." Kael's face was as open as a Boston
saloon at high noon.

"Is he a chess player, then?" Starcher asked.

"That part checks out. There actually was a Justin Gilead.
a kid who was born in New York when this guy says he was.
He was a chess player. A child whatchamacallil."

"Prodigy?" Starcher suggested.

"Right. His old man was some kind of hot-shot writer or
something Got murdered in Paris in '54. Went by the name
of Leviathan. The boy was with him when he bought it.
Police assumed the kid got hit. too, although they never
found the body. Made all the papers."

"I remember now. The boy was a chess genius."

"A master at the age of ten. You play chess?"

"No," Starcher said.

"It's a tough game. Maybe that's what pinches their faces.
You play for years, maybe you get a little better. Then once
in a while a kid like that one comes along. Takes all the
marbles before he's out of diapers. Master at ten. that's
nothing to sneeze at- I just wish I knew what he was up to."

"Maybe he's telling the truth," Starcher said

"Come on. Andy. There's nobody like who this guy says
he is."

"Have you checked out th? college professor?"

"Who? Oh. her. Wrote her a letter. She doesn't have a
phone. Didn't get an answer yet. Let's face it. This kid's a
spy or a nut. We can't use him either way."

"I didn't think nuttiness was a drawback in our kind of
work," Starcher said, and both men laughed.

Starcher thought that, back in the old days of the OSS, a
man of Gilead's apparent intelligence and abilities wouldn't
have been pigeonholed as a lunatic without first checking his
background with some thoroughness. But then. you took
chances in the old days. You looked for the exceptional man,
not the one whose graph matched the standard agent's profile.
Starcher thought that maybe age was making him sentimental.
Even in the old days, Gilead's story would have been hard to
swallow. Which was exactly why he wanted it to be true.

The next day Gitead was gone from the isolation room.

"I can't understand it," Kael told the men who had assem-
bled in the empty chamber. Two guards on duty all night, no
tools inside, the window's not broken . - -"He pointed to the

Nichevo                    135

small glass block high up on the wall. "He must have gotten
out through the heating duct, but he couldn't have breathed in
there. Ten to one he's dead in the system somewhere." Kael
said with a disgusted sigh. "I'll call in a cleanup crew."

The crew found nothing but dust clumps. Justin Gilead had
vanished.

.CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Starcher had two weeks to kill betore he was due to report to
his new post in Pans and decided to spend the time in New
York City But the theater and the opera seemed flat and
bonng to him, his thoughts wandered too often to the strange
young man, Justin Gilead

The decade of the seventies, Starcher felt. would see deep
changes in the way America and Russia faced each other in
the world In the generation since the end of World War II,
the two superpowers had squared off like street gangs m a
lire-iron fight, scrapping for every advantage, every inch of
turf But now the national borders were set, spheres of mrlu
ence had been long since established The spy business would
become less confrontational and more subtle, the battles of
the next generation would not be overtly for space and power,
but more often to win the minds of men and women It would
require a different kind of spy operation, and perhaps a
different kind of spy

One afternoon, he took a taxicab to Columbia University
and found the office of Professor Anna Tauber. who taught
Eastern religions at the university's Department of Asian
Studies

"Ah, yes My friendly neighborhood CIA." Dr Tauber
said amiably from behind a desk crowded with papers, books.
bits of discarded sandwiches, moldenng tea bags and un-
opened mail "I read your letter Unfortunately. I haven't had
a chance to answer it yet '

136

Nichevo                    137

"I didn't write the letter so I don't know what's in it
Slarcher admitted

"The usual bullying government pap Wanted to know
about Justin Turn over any records on him, blah, biah ' She
pursed her lips and emitted a sound that clearly expressed her
views of the Central Intelligence Agency "What'd you say
your name was7"

"Starcher Andrew Starcher "

"You're southern Any relation to the Virginia horse-trading
Starchers7"

"That's my clan, ' he said with a smile
'Met some of them when I worked on Johnson's Human
Rights Commission Big family Nice You must be the black
sheep "

She spoke without a trace of humor Starcher couldn't help
liking her, with her steel-wool hair and rubbery lips and
old-fashioned two-toned glasses that left red welts on the
bndge of her nose "I'm afraid so," he said "My family
was very disappointed when I didn't grow up to be a planta-
tion boss "

"Well, you're here on business, and I've got a class in
forty minutes, so start talking Hold it ' She slammed two
fungus-encrusted coffee cups on the desk in front of him
"Go nnse these out at the water fountain down the hall "
With surprising agility, she swiveled her chair around and
plugged in a plastic teapot sitting on the windowsill Starcher
noticed that there was a small tear in her dress Just below the
armpit "The water'H be hot by the time you get back "

He obeyed When he returned, Dr Tauber had tossed over
a fresh tea bag and a copy of Alan Watts's The Way of Zen
for him to use as a coaster "AH right What do you want to
know9" Suddenly her face broke into a wide smile "That's a
hell of a thing to ask the CIA, isn't it7"

"Before we go any further," Starcher said, "I ought to tell
you that I'm not here for the CIA The ClA's forgotten about
Justin Gilead "

' And you haven't7" she asked

"No "

"Why not7"

Starcher faltered a moment "He's kind of hard to forget "

"He is that, isn't he7" Dr Tauber said with a gnn "Will
you be able to use him in your work7"

138 GRANDMASTER

"1 don't know Maybe The world's changing "

"That's CIA double talk Tell me the truth You folks
think he's some kind of foreign spy or something '

"I don't." Starcher said. but she ignored his answer

"I told him you would " She banged her fist down on the
desk, causing a pile of mimeographed papers to cascade ott
the side "He wouldn't believe me These kids all have stars
up their ass Oh. they have their little protests, but underneath
it all, they think old Uncle Sam's on their side "

"I believe the same thing. Dr Tauber "

"Bullshit Right now. at this moment, you're probably
thinking I'm a Red. too "

Starcher blinked She had read his mind

"Well, I'm not I've voted in every election since I was
twenty-one years old I've served under three presidents in
one capacity or another " She lowered her eyes "And I lost
both my sons in the damn war "

"I'ITI sorry," Starcher said

"It's past.' Dr Tauber said quietly "While Mama was
marching and picketing and talking at antiwar dinners her
two kids were getting poured into plastic bags They believed
There was a long silence "And Justm believes, too " Her
features softened "So how do you stop the young trom
believing there's a difference between the good guys and the
bad guys'"

"You don't,' Starcher said. sipping his tea He knew
Tauber was no Soviet sympathizer She was just an old lady
who'd had to bury her children "Mr Gilead claims that
you're the only person he knows in this country "

"Could be," she said without surprise "He sure didn't
know anyone when I met him "

"Where was that. Dr Tauber'"

"At the boat I've got this ratty old houseboat dt the
Seventy-ninth Street Boat Basin Call it Rook's Tour '

"You play chess9"

"Got a nineteen hundred rating," she said proudly "That
ranks me near expert Which doesn't mean doodly-squat.
since master's the only rank that counts in serious chess, and
that begins at twenty-two hundred Anyway. Justin 1 was out
on deck one Saturday this past summer, playing against myself
I remember I was setting up a Sicilian defense     a dragon
variation Well, never mind that, you're not interested And I

Nichevo                   139

see this skinny kid dressed in rags about four sizes too small
for him Italian "

"Gilead7" Starcher asked

"No, Starcher. not him The clothes He said he bought
them from one of the crew on an Italian steamer he bought
passage on Illegal, of course Didn't have a passport Hell,
he didn't even have a wal!et " She laughed

"What kind of currency did he have on him7" Starcher
asked

She sat back silently, studying him "AH right He wouldn't
have gone to you people if he'd had anything to hide He had
a pocketful of diamonds ''
Diamonds9'

"You heard me But I'm getting ahead of myself As 1 was
saying. I was playing against myself, and kind of absorbed in
the play, when I noticed Juslin standing on the pier I asked
him what the hell he wanted And you know what he said'7"
She laughed uproariously "He said, 'I want you to move the
bishop to king four ' "

"Yes7" Starcher asked impatiently

"Welt, it opened up a whole new defense I could follow it
for five or six moves, but then I lost the line, so I told him to
play it out with me He beat me vs\ twelve moves Never saw
a strategy like that in my life I knew then I'd found a
genius "

"About the diamonds. Dr Tauber

"I don't know where he gol them 1 didn't ask All I knew
was that he was hungry and dirty, and the best damn chess
player I ever met We played four more games, and then I
gave him a sandwich He took aH the lunch meat out of it, I
remember that Ate the bread Then I let him take a shower
and bunk on the boat overnight I half expected to find my
radio gone with him the next day, but he was still there He
tned to give me a diamond, but I wouldn't take it Hell, I
said, I ought to pay you for showing me that defense "

Starcher glanced at his watch He wanted the woman to
take her time with her story, to remember everything she
could, but her forty minutes was running out "He said
nothing about the diamonds7"

"I told you. I didn't ask," she said vehemently "Oh. heil
I did ask "

Starcher waited

140 GRANDMASTER

"He didn't steal them. I'd bet my life on that You see
How much has he told you about himsetP"

"He told a rather bizarre story about living in the Hima-
layas," Starcher said flatty

"Then you know." she said with some relief "That's
true '

Starcher stared at her

"The region around Amne Xachim near the Tibetan border
has been of interest to scholars for centuries because of the
Patan)ah legend " She looked up 'Do you know what I'm
talking about9"

Starcher said he didn't She glanced around. annoyed
'Then how do you expect to know anything about him'' What
time is it9"

"Three forty-five "

"I've got to get to my class " She raised herself out of the
chair with some effort and lumbered over to the three book-
cases that lined three walls of her office, picking out an
armload of books "You'd better read fast," she said. thrust
ing the books toward Starcher "I want those back by tonight "
She gave him the address of her apartment on West Eighty-
sixth Street "Now. out You can read in the library "

Starcher read until his eyes were bleary, comprehending
next to nothing about the strange customs and religions in the
ancient lands that came to be known as India, Nepal. Burma.
and Tibet He had nearly decided that Anna Tauber was a
well-meaning but shaggy-minded academic when he turned a
page and saw a drawing of the revered medallion bearing the
image of the coiled snake, owned by the monks of Rashimpur
and prized as the most sacred amulet of the sect

"The drawing is based on verbal testimony," the text
explained "No contemporary Westerner has ever seen the
medallion or. for that matter, Rashimpur itself All that is
known about the monastery is that it stands somewhere in the
vicinity of Amne Xachim, a mountain that is held to be
sacred by both Brahmans and Buddhists "

Was the golden medallion the same one he had seen around
the neck of the young man in the isolation room at Langley9
Of course not, Starcher told himself A cheap imitation pur-
chased at a flea market in Katmandu Or New York City. tor
that matter

The text went on According to legend, the high pnest of

Nn hevo                   141

the Rashimpur sect is the direct reincarnation of Patanjali (and
thence Brahma) himself, and is selected at the moment of his
birth by his predecessor At the time of the priest's death, the
monks of Rashimpur set out to find the successor according to
the directions of their dying leader

"There is evidence that the leaders chosen often hail from
far distant lands, and themselves have no knowledge of their
place in the ancient ntes until their arrival at the monastery
In 1653, a twenty-one-year-old Swiss clerk named Karl
Behnnann disappeared from his native village of Dorhoffbatten,
leaving his young wife and two sons Sixty years later, when
Behnnann lay on his deathbed, he composed a letter to his
sons outlining his strange adventure on the other side of the
world Although Behrmann did not disclose the location of
the monastery, he described its "golden wonders and immor-
tal delights." including a tree that grew in the center of the
edifice with neither light nor water In the letter, which was
preserved by the Behrmann family until 1879. when it was
destroyed by fire, Behrmann admonished his now elderly
sons 'not to mourn my absence nor hold my memory in
bitterness, for 1 was called to fulfill a destiny so removed
from the ken of mortal men that none but the past keepers ot
the medallion and the Eye of Rashimpur can know my heart '

"The reference to the Eye of Rashimpur is obscure, but
some scholars believe it to signify the legendary diamond
revered by the monks of the sect and held by its priest, along
with the coiled snake medallion, as symbols of his office "

Starcher closed the books and went to Dr Tauber's
apartment When she opened the door. he handed her the
books

"Do you expect me to believe this9' he asked the professor

She took the books from him 'I don't expect you people
to betieve anything It was my obligation to show you the
truth, even if it doesn't mean anything to you The curse of
the educator ''

Starcher stood silently in the foyer of the apartment crammed
with Far Eastern artifacts "I'd stilt like to ask you some
more questions "

Tauber laughed "So you're not as closed-minded as you're
supposed to be, after all " She walked away from him, into
the apartment "Come in Sit down Coffee9"

He shook his head She poured him some anyway

142

GRANDMASTER

"Dr. Tauber. I'd better explain to you now that if you're
involved with this man in any sort of activity subversive to
the United States or its intelligence services, the consequences
are going to be unpleasant."

"Here they come. The threats. Cream and sugar?"

"You don't seem to understand. I was thinking of using
this man with the Central Intelligence Agency. I'm not about
to accept a bunch of hocus-pocus as adequate background."

"You're the one who doesn't understand, Mr- Starcher.
Justin Gilead is probably the most unusual man in the world.
He speaks twelve languages. He can run twenty miles without
breaking a sweat, for God's sake- He can swim more than a
mile underwater." She was shouting. "You want the truth
about him? I wish I could give it to you. I know that when
Rook's Tour sprung a leak, he dived down under it and stayed
there twenty minutes and patched it. And he wasn't wearing
air tanks. You want the truth? I don't know. Everything he's
told me about Rashimpur checks out with what little I know,
and his knowledge of the area, in which I do have some
expertise, is far too accurate to be extracted from books.
Aside from that, he's twenty-six years old. He might be
lying, but in my opinion, no one could know as much as he
does without firsthand experience."

"He said he'd work for us for nothing, but that he'd want a
favor someday," Starcher said.
Dr. Tauber shrugged.
"What's the favor?" Starcher asked.
"Damned if I know," she said.
"Do you know where Gilead is now?"
She was silent.
"I should have guessed." Starcher said.

Rook's Tour was a dilapidated houseboat whose blue and
white paint was peeling off in strips.

"Justin Gilead," Starcher called from the pier.

After a few moments the young man he had talked with at
Langley appeared. He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt. Over
the shirt hung the gold coiled snake medallion.

"I'm Andrew Starcher. I met you at Langley." He ex-
tended his hand. Gilead refused it.

"Yes. You were the last of the pests," he said coldly.
"Did you think of more questions?"

Nichevo                    143

"The same one I asked before. What favor will you want?"

"Same answer as before." Gilead said. "I can't tell you
specifically."

"Tell me generally."

"Why should I?" Gilead asked.

"Because I'm going back to Europe in a few days. Be-
cause if what you've told us is true. 1 could probably use
you."

"Where in Europe?" Gilead asked. His eyes had not left
Starcher's throughout the entire conversation. He hadn't seemed
to blink.

"I'm going back to Paris. After that. I should be assigned
to Moscow." Starcher said.

"Russia," Gilead said. "All right. There's a Russian named
Alexander Zharkov. Do you know who he is?"

"Yes." Starcher said, trying to disguise his surprise. "Do
you?"

"Yes. He is the son of Vassily Zharkov who is the head of
Nichevo. He'll take over when his father dies."

"What do you know about Nichevo?" Starcher asked.

"Not as much as you do." Gilead said. "But 1 know what
it is and what it does."

"And what's this favor you're agoing to want?" Starcher
asked.

"Someday I'm going to have to kill Alexander Zharkov."
Gilead said. "When that day comes. I'll want you to tell me
where to find him."

"That's it?" Starcher said. "That's the favor?"

"Yes."

"You won't want any help?"

"No," Gilead said. "1 won't need any help."

"What do you have against Alexander Zharkov?" Starcher
asked.

"He stole something that belonged to me," Gilead said.

"What?"

"My life." He fingered the medallion around his neck.

"Is that the real coiled snake of Rashimpur?" Starcher
asked.

"Yes," Gilead said.

"I don't know whether 1 believe you or not," Starcher
said.

"You will," Justin Gilead said.

144 GRANDMASTER

Before going to France, Starcher returned to Langley to
find something out, and the next day he went again to see
Gilead on Rook's Tour.

"Bad news," he said. "I'm afraid our deal's off."

"Why is that?" Gilead asked. He was busy on the deck of
the boat splicing rope, his back to Starcher.

"Alexander Zharkov," Starcher said and got a moment's
satisfaction when he saw Gilead's back stiffen and the young
man turn toward him, fixing him with his cold blue eyes,
"He's probably dead," Slarcher quickly added.

"Oh?" Gitead said blandly. "Who told you that?" Starcher
could have swom that he had seen the young man sigh in
relief.

"I just came back from Langley. Zharkov was out on some
kind of secret army patrol in India about eight months ago.
Some border problem. The whole patrol vanished. Everyone's
presumed dead."

"Zharkov's alive," Gilead said.

"You don't seem to understand," Starcher said. "The
whole patrol, Zharkov included, vanished. Not a word from
them for eight months."

"You don't seem to understand," Gilead said. "The patrol
is dead. But Zharkov's aiive."

"How do you know that?" Starcher snapped. Gilead's
patronizing attitude was beginning to annoy him, "How do
you know the patrol's dead? How do you know Zharkov's
alive, when he's been lost in the damned mountains for eight
months?''

"I know the patrol's dead because I killed them," Gilead
said simply.

For a moment. Starcher was stunned speechless. Then he
said, "And Zharkov?"

"I didn't kill him," Gilead said. "1 let him live."

"Why?"

Gilead turned back to the large coils of rope on the deck of
the houseboat, and bent down to resume his work- He spoke
quietly, almost as if to himself, but Starcher heard every
chilling word clearly.

"Because it isn't time yet." he said.

.CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Starcher had almost forgotten about Justin Gilead. He had
been five months at his post in Paris, the first in what he
knew would be a long career-concluding series of desk jobs,
and he hated it. Of course the work was important. Coordinat-
ing European activities of the C1A and "friendlies"—pro-
Western nations—was critical to maintain the West's position
in the world, particularly with Nichevo roaming about, but
still Starcher longed to be in the field again.

He kept filing routine requests, for reassignment, which
were routinely rejected. Then one gray wintry afternoon, his
deputy came into his office in the American embassy and put
a single piece of pink paper on his desk-

"One of our analysts just put this together," he said. "I
figured you'd be interested."

The brief report had been culled from Soviet publications.
internal information, and hints picked up by men in the field-
Alexander Zharkov was alive. According to the memo,
Zharkov had shown up in Moscow and reported that he and
his entire patrol had been ambushed by hostile tribesmen
while on secret duty in Indh a year earlier. Zharkov had been
injured and had suffered amnesia. For a year, not knowing
who he was, he was cared for by the monks at a small
monastery in the Himalayas. Then his memory returned.
Before leaving the monastery—because he did not know what
he might have told the monks while an amnesiac—he
"eliminated" the monks. There was a possibility, the report

145

146 GRANDMASTER

said, that Zharkov would be presented with a medal for his
"bravery and heroism."

"Thanks," Slarcher said and dismissed his deputy with a
nod. When the young man left. Slarcher read the report
again. He didn't believe Zharkov's story for a moment, bul
there seemed no doubt that the young Russian was alive. And
Justin Gilead had known.

How?

Had his story been true?

Had Giiead himself siain the entire patrol and let Zharkov
go free? If that was true, where had Zharkov been for the past
year?

Justin Gilead showed up at the office that day, and Starcher
had a chance to ask him those questions. But to Starcher's
announcement that Alexander Zharkov was alive, Gilead only
said, "I told you that. Don't give me facts I already know.
That's not our deal."

The CIA chiefs attempts to get any more information out
of Gilead were exasperatingly fruitless. Finally, Starcher said,
"Where have you been?" He noted that despite the chill
weather, Gilead was wearing only a suit jacket. His shirt was
open at the throat; the snake amulet hung around his neck.

"I've been playing chess," Gilead said. "I had to get my
grandmaster ranking, so I could play anywhere. I'm ready to
work now."

"Just like that?" Starcher said. "You think it's all that
easy? You haven't been trained."

"In what?"

"Self-defense. Weapons. Codes. Tradecraft. How to know
you're being followed. What to do about it. So many things."

"Those are ail fine for your employees, Mr. Starcher,"
Gilead said calmly. "But I'm not one of your employees. I'm
a chess player." He reached into his jacket pocket, extracted
a slip of paper, and handed it to Starcher.

"That's a list of the tournaments I'll be playing in for the
next six months," Gilead said. "I'll keep in touch. If there's
anything you want done near any of those cities, you just let
me know. If it helps to disrupt anything Nichevo's doing, so
much the better." He smiled; it was a rich smile that involved
his entire face, and it warmed Starcher as much as Gilead's
ice blue eyes usually chilled him. "Don't worry so much. I'll
be all right," Gilead said.

Nichevo                   147

"You'll be a piece of meat that 1 throw to the dogs."
Starcher grumbled.

Gilead answered, "Some meat's poison, and some dogs
die." He rose from his chair, and Starcher said, "Wait. We
haven't talked about anything yet. Expenses. Salary. Anything."

"I don't need any money. Mr. Starcher," Gilead said as he
walked toward the door. "I }ust want to work, and I want you
to live up to your end of the bargain."

Starcher nodded and rose from behind his desk- He picked
up the one-page memorandum on Zharkov and walked across
the room to hand it to Justin. "1 thought you might want to
see this." he said.

Giiead read it quickly, his face impassive, then handed it
back. "The part about killing a monastery of monks is true."
he said. "The rest is alt lies."

"They're giving him a medal," Starcher said.

Gilead again fingered the amulet around his neck. He said,
"I've already given him a medal to wear. He has it on his
throat."

When Gilead left, Starcher went back to his desk, opened
its bottom left drawer and took out a file folder. Inside it, he
put Justin Gilead's tournament schedule, but before he re-
turned it to the drawer, he penned across the top: "The
Grandmaster."

That was 1971. Justin Gilead, at twenty-seven, was to be
Starcher's best field agent.

At first, Starcher used Gilead very sparingly, and on only
the smallest and safest of projects. Pick up a document in one
country and deliver it to another; interview someone who
claimed to know about some internal frictions in one of the
Soviet Union's satellite slates.

Starcher ran these operations privately, keeping Gilead's
involvement secret even from his superiors at Langley. Time.
Starcher knew, was on his side. The world of intelligence and
espionage was passing from its monopoly by paid, salaried
agents, into a freebooling world of informers, dissidents.
interested citizens, and ideological volunteers. The day was
not long off when a Justin Gilead would not be dismissed out of
hand by the CIA, but welcomed to work with them.

Meanwhile, Giiead was handling all his assignments from
Starcher with efficiency and quiet competence. The big break

148 GRANDMASTER

came in 1972 when President Nixon was planning to visit
Communist China The CIA was quaking, knowing beyond a
doubt that Russia would be planning something to prevent the
two other superpowers from forging any kind of alliance, so
Langley put out a nervous call to its administrative personnel
all over the world to report any contacts they might have with
anyone who lived in China, worked there, visited there, who
might have heard rumors about what was being planned
Starcher sent in the name of Justin Gilead

At the last minute, on the eve of Nixon's flight, the CIA
got word from an informer network that Chinese assassins on
Nichevo's payroll were standing by in Hong Kong, ready to
kill the American president Langley flooded the area with
personnel, looking for the killers Andrew Starcher made a
quiet call to Justin Gilead, who was playing in Hong Kong in
a Far East chess open tournament The would-be assassins
vanished, as if they had slipped off the edge of the earth
When the smoke of confusion had cleared away, it was
obvious even to Langiey that Justin Gilead had somehow
been responsible

Starcher was called back to CIA headquarters to discuss the
matter He acknowledged that he had been using Giledd on
small missions for over a year "I was testing him," he
explained

"Where did he come from^" the director of operations
said

"He came here one day to sign up, but it didn't work
Later on. he looked me up in France, and I thought it was
worth a try He globe-trots around, and being a chess player
is a great cover "

The meeting ended with Starcher being commended wryly
for his wonderful way with recruitment and being told not to
keep Justin Gilead to himself "If he's that good, let's all use
him," the chief of operations said

"It's okay by me," Starcher said

But it wasn't okay by Gilead The Grandmaster himself
told that to the first CIA official who came to talk to him "I
work only for Starcher." Gilead said

"Why's that'' We're all on the same side," the CIA offi
cial said

And Gilead, who did not want to tell anyone at Langley

Nichevo                    149

that he and Starcher had made a deal for Alexander Zharkov,
said simply, "I trust him I don't trust any of you "

So Gilead's assignments continued to come from Starcher.
but now, more often than not, they were given to Starcher by
the operations desk in Langley

There was the Russian spy ring in Canada, the Nichevo
agent in Indonesia, the Panama Canal, the South African
arms supply tine Gilead was on the scene when Frank Riesling
was almost caught in East Germany, and somehow the
Grandmaster got him out, leaving Riesling babbling about
somebody who npped his way through the steel walls of a
building

Throughout the CIA, the legend of the Grandmaster grew
Starcher was, at first, proud of it But then he grew fearfui If
Justin Gilead's work for the Company was made known, he
would become a prime target for the KGB Or for Nichevo,
whose plans he seemed most often to thwart

Gilead was playing in a tournament in Belgrade when there
was an explosion and fire in the hotel he was staying in
Gilead's room had seemed to be the center of the b!ast and
was literally blown apart No sign of his body could be
found

Starcher put in a nervous twenty-four hours before Gilead
showed up at his office in Pans

"I thought you were dead." Starcher said

"Obviously not "

"But they tried to kill you^" Starcher asked

Gilead nodded

"Justin, this is getting too dangerous I think it's time you
retired You're not getting paid to do this "

Gilead shook his head "It wasn't the first time they tned
to kill me," he said

Starcher sal back heavily in his chair "It's happened
before^"

"A half-dozen times." Gilead said "Don't worry about it
I don't "

"How the hell can you sit there and tell me you're not
concerned about the Russians trying to kill you six, seven
times r'

"Because they can't do it," Gitead said He rose from his
chair "Stop looking so worried," he said, then told Starcher
that he was taking the next few weeks off and would be in

150 GRANDMASTER

Pans "My chess game needs work If you need me. I'll be at
the Strand Hotel "

The next day, Starcher got word that Vassily Zharkov had
died and his son Alexander had been named to head Nichevo
He went to the Strand to meet Gilead and told him the news
in the cocktail lounge

Gilead nodded "Good." he said

His lime was coming He went back to his room and his
chessboard

-CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

It took Starcher a moment to realize where he was

He saw the American guard standing near the door of the
Moscow hospital room The fever had broken He felt cold
and wondered if he was dying For nearly twenty years he
had harbored a secret fear that there might be a God and that
if there was. he would not approve of Starcher's way of life
He had even, in his less coherent moments beginning with
that day at Langley in 1970, speculated that on his day of
judgment he would be forced to confront not Jehovah but
Justin Gilead

It must be close now. he thought Death's embrace must be
terribly close to bring the Grandmaster into his thoughts with
such insistence

He should have objected to Gilead's being used so frequently
If he had not permitted the CIA to run him so often, the boy
might have had a chance to live a little longer

Wait a minute, he thought, trying to organize his confused
thoughts Gilead was alive Riesling had said so

But that couldn't be true He had seen the burial pictures
himself, courtesy of Nichevo

Starcher lay there in the dark, remembering Outside, he
could hear the rough voices of nurses speaking Russian in the
hospital corridor

Justin Gilead But his death hadn't been the ClA's fault It
had been Starcher's His fault      his responsibility that
Gilead had died so young

It was May of 1980 Alexander Zharkov had been head of

151

152 GRANDMASTER

Nichevo for one year Starcher had mel Gilead in a shabby
dpanment on the Bahnhofstrasse in West Berlin There had
been little communication between them in the past three
months, a fact for which Starcher was grateful Gilead had
been run too often, too hard by the CIA By now, his hte was
constantly in danger Starcher knew all that, but he also knew
he owed Gilead this assignment

"You're going into Poland." Starcher said without pre-
liminaries There was no point in offering Gilead a dnnk or
engaging in casual conversation with the man Gitead was as
asocial as an automaton and seemed to find vaguely distaste-
ful any activity-or avenue ot thought not related to his work
or to chess It was. Starcher thought at the time, as if Giledd
were driven by a personal demon that helped him to endure
the Agency's cavalier treatment of his life

"You'll travel toGorhtz in southern West Germany tonight
It's only a few miles from there to the Polish border "

"What's the border like7" Justm asked

"Mountains." Slarcher said with some embarrassment
"Three hundred miles of them "

'The entire southern border." Justm said

"That's right," Starcher said "Let me tell you what's
happening Since the 1968 uprising m Czechoslovakia, there's
been a big underground movement there They hide. they
wait, they disrupt, and then they hide again A couple of
months ago. a third of the Czech government was ousted on
orders of the Soviet Central Committee "

"What's that got to do with Poland''" Gilead asked • You
said I was going to Poland "

"I'm coming to that There's a movement growing now in
Poland, mostly among the laboring groups With the food
shortages, a rebellion's a real possibility They're talking
about it openly up in Gdansk in the North Now what's
happening is that some Czechs are making it across the
Carpathian Mountains into Poland, and they're trying to spread
the word in the cultural centers like Krakow and Warsaw that
it the two countries unite, they can kick the Russians out

"And the Russians7" Gilead dsked "Do they take this
seriously7"

"They've sent troops and tanks We don't know how
many, and the men we send in there just don't come back

Nichevo                   153

That's your job Travel through the Carpathians. estimate the
troops, what kind of hardware they've got and so on "

Justm looked at him steadily They both knew that Gilead
had never received that kind of training and probably could
not bring back much information about Soviet weapons in the
area

"I'm not qualified." Justm said

"I know that, Justin You've got every nght to turn down
this assignment But you asked if the Russians are taking this
seriously I know that Alexander Zharkov himself is in the
area now Nichevo's there That's how seriously the Russians
are taking it "

"I'll go," Gilead said immediately "I can live in the
mountains, and I speak Polish "

"Good luck," Starcher said "And good hunting "

Starcher lay in the dark of the hospital room, his open eyes
fixed on the gray ceiling Justin Gilead went to Poland
for one specific purpose, to find Zharkov And in the
cruelest of ironies, he found him Zharkov's face, in fact,
was probably the last sight the Grandmaster saw before he
died

A frown furrowed deep into his brow Riesling said Justin
Gilead was still alive How could that be7 He had seen the
pictures The Grandmaster was dead

If he was alive, where would he be7 What would he be
doing7 Why hadn't he come forward, at least to spit in
Starcher's eye for conning him into doing a job he was utterly
unprepared to perform7

Oh. what did it matter anymore'' Starcher thought Nichevo 9
as the Russians were so fond of saying Who cares7 What can
anyone do9 Why bother7 Nothing would ever remove the
stain of guilt from Starcher's past All Starcher remembered
now was that he had never spoken with Gilead the way he'd
wanted to, had never laughed with him or tried to comfort
him in his deep and inexplicable sorrow In the end, he'd
helped to kill him

He sighed, closed his eyes, and tned to sleep

Nichevo7

Book Four

THE GRANDMASTER

-CHAPTER NINETEEN

POLAND, 1980

Justin Gilead crouched in a narrow mountain path- Fruit
trees were in blossom, showering their fragrant petals in
blizzards of color. In the distant valley, a small village with
its central wooden church looked as if it had been preserved,
intact, since medieval times. Ahead of him, the bodies of five
men hung by their necks from a line of tall spruce trees.

They were all young, their clothes ragged. One was cov-
ered with biood: He had been shot before he was hanged-
Nearby. a group of Russian soldiers sal talking beside a
modem army tank. They were passing around a bottle of
vodka, apparently oblivious to the swinging bodies.

Gilead had seen much the same sight many times over the
past 150 miles. He had followed the foothills of the Carpathian
Mountains on foot, watching the young Czechs as they made
their way over the treacherous, waterlogged passes into Poland.
Sometimes he helped them to safety in the tiny, welcoming
villages of the goral highlands on their way toward Krakow
and Warsaw, but more often he just watched them go the way
these five had gone. The Russian patrol of the mountain
border was scant, but effective enough to handle the few
Czechs brave or crazy enough to cross over. Tanks were
stationed every five miles or so. with jeeps running constantly
between the postings. Along the length of the newly rein-
forced border were hanged bodies, some of them women.
some so young they had not reached their full height. They

157

158 GRANDMASTER

waited in warning for those who would try to follow them,
their bulging eyes open to the high spring wind. Gilead
thought bitterly that the Russians were always predictable.
Faced with a crisis, they always reverted to barbarism as a
response.

A jeep buzzed in the distance, growing louder. It was
coming from the village, loaded with embroidered blankets
and food. It was a common enough sight these days- The
soldiers stayed near the forest at the base of the mountains
while their C.O. ventured into the villages to take supplies
and liquor for his men and interrogate the residents about any
foreigners who might have passed through on their way north.

The gorat were mountain' people. They cared little for
politics. They didn't participate in counterre volutions. They
disliked strangers. But they were still Poles, and Poles were
not Russians. When someone broke a law, the goral did not
denounce the offender to state authorities. More likely, they
sent him to the village pastor for a public beating, to which
the villagers would bring food and musical instruments. After
the whipping, if the lawbreaker was one of their own. he
would be forgiven and invited to join the festivities- If he was
a stranger, he would be expelled in a shower of stones before
the feast began. But no goral would volunteer any informa-
tion about criminals to the Russians, no matter how serious
the crime.

Occasionally, the border guards found Czech troublemak-
ers hiding in goral homes. When this occurred, the entire
village was razed to the ground. Word traveled fast in the
mountain villages; no strangers had been found for several
weeks. Even when Justin, with his fluent Polish, ventured
into the villages, he was treated with suspicious silence.

He kept to the forest. Although the soil in the region was
poor for farming, there was plenty of food among the dense
trees. He lived on tender new spruce shoots, on sorrel, thistle,
and nettle. It felt good to be outdoors again, after the years of
sitting in tight little rooms staring at chess pieces. He was still
marking time, waiting for a message he hoped would soon
come, but here, at least, he could breathe clean air. Some-
times he could aid the Czech travelers, finding food for them
and directing them past the Russian troops. They often asked
him to work for them against the Russians by poisoning the

The Grandmaster               159

water supplies in the tanks, but he refused. He had killed
enough.

At night, he would search for the dead left behind by the
Russians and bury them. Then, pressing the gold coiled snake
medallion to his chest, he would pray, as he had prayed every
night since he left Rashimpur. for the sign from Tagore.

It is not time. the old man had said. Everything in Justin's
life had been destroyed, and still it was not time. He had let
Zharkov, the Prince of Death, escape, and until he found him
again, Justin knew, all the deaths at Rashimpur would have
been for nothing. He waited only for the sign, but there was
no sign. Tagore was as dead as the Tree of the Thousand
Wisdoms, the tree that Tagore had sworn nothing could kill.

He had been dreaming again. The dreams had stopped after
the destruction of the monastery, but now, in the forest, the
recurring dream of being buried alive had returned. It was
always the same: Justin lay in a grave, hearing the birds sing
overhead, unable to cry out as clods of earth fell upon him,
suffocating him. And nearby, so near that Justin could fee!
the man's energy, stood Zharkov, watching. '

The jeep drove up to the soldiers, who quickly hid the
bottle of vodka. If the officer in the jeep had been their
regular commander, they might have offered him a drink. But
not this officer, not this colonel. Rumor had it that he was
some high muckamuck from Moscow and the man solely in
charge of preventing Czech incursions into Poland. The sol-
diers didn't know him, and they did not trust him.

The colonel, his hat perched squarely on his head, got out
and motioned to the others to unload the supplies. Standing
apart from the men, he looked for a long moment at the
hanging bodies-

"Cut them down," he ordered finally. "They've served
their purpose." He turned away and took off his hat, and in
that instant, Justin froze.

Zharkov.

The Prince of Death had returned.
• Justin rose shakily. "Zharkov," he called. Then, louder,
"Zharkov!"

All five soldiers looked up. "It came from up there," one
of them said. But Zharkov did not move, did not speak. He
scanned the forest like a machine, his gaze shirting slowly
from one side to the other. Finally, his Tokarev drawn, he

160 GRANDMASTER

moved cautiously up the hill "Follow me," he ordered his
men

Zharkov moved through the woods as if drawn by a magnet
Justin stayed ahead of him, tantalizing him with sound, mov-
ing swiftly and without disturbing the forest floor when the
soldiers came too close

It was almost delicious One more murder and Justin could
at last prepare himself for death Zharkov had for so long
been the only thing Justm had to live for With Zharkov's last
breath, the circle of karma would be almost complete
Afterward. it would require only Justin's own suicide That
would be all the penance Justm could give Tagore

"Do you remember Rashimpur7" Justm hissed "I told
you we would meet again

A volley of machine-gun fire splattered off some rocks
above Justin A shower of earth trickled down the side of the
mountain

Justin climbed higher, out of the woods, to where the
vegetation was sparse and the earth slippery with loose shale
His feet skidded. sending up a cloud of dust

"There he is'" someone called There was another burst of
gunfire, sinking very near Justin darted upward, throwing
himself behind a cluster of large rocks The bullets pinged off
them Above him, a ledge of shale trembled

"Hold your fire," Zharkov shouted The gunfire stopped
"Who are you^"

"The Wearer of the Blue Hat The one you failed to kill
during the massacre of Rashimpur " Justin stood up in full
view of the soldiers "Will you fight me now7 Alone7 Or will
you use your dogs on me again9''

"You have no weapon," Zharkov called "Come down
peaceabfy, and you won't be hurt "

Justm laughed coldly, "Is that what you told those five
men in the forest7"

Zharkov moved closer "I will fight you alone," he said

"Without your gun "

Zharkov's hooded reptihan eyes met those of his soldiers
He tossed the Tokarev to the ground "Lead 1 will follow "

After a moment, Justin nodded Then he turned and ran up
the mountainside

"Now," Zharkov shouted, dropping to the ground The
soldiers opened fire

The Grandmaster               161

Justin groaned as d bullet caught him in the right calf As
he fell, the ledge of slate above him toppled raining rock

"it'^. going to go. Colonel," one of the soldiers shouted

"Clear out'" Zharkov yelled, shielding his head from the
falling shale as he snatched up his pistol and crawled toward
Justin

"Colonel' '

•I said clear out " He sktdded and clipped up the melting
hillside to where Justm lay, his trouser leg soaked with blood
"You swine," Zharkov whispered and yanked Justm up by
his collar The young man's eyes opened groggity "You ask
if i remember Rashimpur " He raised Justin as high as he
could, then sent him crashing to the ground with a shnek of
pain "i remember You gave me something that would never
let me forget you "

He clasped the medallion around Justin's neck. ready to
yank it off The touch of it was terrifying, electric He
released it. cursing ' Bijad'

Zharkov got to his feet and stood over Justin ds the young
American groaned He pointed the Tokarev at Gilead's head
"Your time has come." he said coldly. "Grandmaster ' The
name dripped with contempt

But even as he began to squeeze the trigger, the mountain
rumbled like thunder Huge chunks of earth crashed around
the two men A rock fell and struck Zhdrkov's right arm,
knocking loose the pistol and shattering his elbow

The Russian looked skyward and saw the rocks coming
down toward them He swore again, stepped forward, and
kicked Juslm's injured leg More rocks hit near them Zharkov
turned and fled

He ran. fell, then rolled down the moving earth One of the
soldiers came out of safety to help him When Zhdrkov
reached the base of the mountain, he turned and saw Justin's
arms shoot upward, as if to ward off the avalanche One wrist
snapped backward under the weight of a flying rock Then,
with d terrible din, the whole side of the mountain seemed to
slide off enveloping the soldiers in choking dust

Zharkov stood watching, the lapels of his coat pulled over
his face so that he could breathe, until the mountain settled
The others stood with him, exchanging glances among one
another The eyes of their commander were fixed on the
earth-covered spot where the strange young man had lam

162 GRANDMASTER

One of the soldiers spoke. "Shall 1 take the jeep for
reconnaissance, sir?"

"Stay where you arc." Zharkov climbed to the place where
Justin Gilead had been, and shifted the earth around with his

feet. "Dig him out."

"But . . ." The soldiers looked at him incredulously, "We

have no tools."

"Get some from the village. Use your hands, damn you!"

It took hours to dig the body out of ihe deep rubble. "Get a
doctor," Zharkov said.

While the envoy was gone, Zharkov took a camera from
the tank and snapped pictures of Gilead from all directions.

"Is he important, sir?" one of the soldiers asked.

"Only to me." Zharkov said,

The doctor, a frightened old man. looked at the body and
then at Zharkov. "But he's dead," he said quietly-

"Check, fool. Be sure."

The doctor knelt down, placing an ancient stethoscope in
his ears. He frowned, listened, checked the body's reflexes.
pulled open the eyelids, listened again to Justin's chest-

"He's dead," he said. "When did the"—he stumbled over
the word—"accident occur?"

"More than three hours ago. He was buried under the

rock."

"Ah." The doctor put his few instruments away. "Quite
dead. I'm afraid. No one could live without air for that length
of time." He looked around sheepishly. "I'm sorry . - ."

Zharkov waved him away. The old man stumbled through
the forest, walking nearly a half-mile out of his way to avoid
passing the five hanged bodies.

Zharkov prodded the body with his toe. "It was easy to kill
you. after all." he said softly. "She had told me it would be
difficult, but you were easy."

"Sir?"

Zharkov looked at the soldier sharply. "Dig a grave- Bury

him here."
"But—"

"That's an order!" Zharkov snapped.
"Sir, he's wearing some kind of necklace. It looks like real

gold."

"Leave it." Zharkov said. "I want it to die with him. Take

The Grandmaster               163

photographs of the corpse after it's in the ground. Then we'll
move on."

The grave was dug. Two soldiers grabbed Gilead's body as
if it were an old carpet, ready to toss him into the hole.

"With care," Zharkov barked.

"He won't mind, sir. Dead men rarely do," one of the
soldiers said with a querulous attempt at a smile. It slithered
off his face at a glance from Zharkov.

"You swine," he croaked. "You cannot even recognize a
god in your filthy presence."

In the late afternoon sun, the birds overhead sang violently.
It was a song heard long ago, in a child's dream.

The water. Dark water. Swiriing yellow robes of drowned
men. Can't breathe, can't breathe . . .

Justin came to consciousness in panic. Water again, suffo-
cation . . . Was he back at Rashimpur? Had the nightmare
never ended? For a moment, he saw the future: He would
emerge from the dark water of the lake. bind his wounds, go
to the monastery. He would find the Tree of the Thousand
Wisdoms burned, the monks dead. He would kill for the first
time and for the second, would wallow in an orgy of death,
and meet its prince-
But what surrounded him was not water. From a slight
motion of his fingers, he could feel something damp and
gritty. Earth. He had been buried alive. The dream had been
complete.

The Prince of Death had triumphed.

There was nothing to do now. His body had automatically
slowed itself to keep him alive, just as it had before. But
before, he had bad a reason to bring himself back to life.
There was no Rashimpur anymore, no precious home. Even
Tagore, whom he had thought would live forever, was dead.
Justin stilled the panic of death inside him. and prepared to
die.

"It is not time," a voice called. It was a sound out of
space and time. Tagore's voice.

It is time! Justin wanted to scream- It's time for me to die.
I've failed in every way. Leave me alone!

But the voice would not be silent. Instead, it was joined by
a thousand others, the wails of the dead calling to him.

"Hail to thee. 0 Wearer of the Blue Hat," they chanted.

164 GRANDMASTER

"Hail to thee. Patanjali!"
And through the deep earth, the scent of almonds came to

him.

His fingers moved. Almost against his will, his muscles
strained. Above him, the ground heaved. He was traveling
up, out of the void of death into the place of penance. He
would not, he knew, be allowed to rest. The pain he felt was
agonizing, the shock of movement horrible. Some of his
bones were broken. When he lay beneath the ground near
death, the pain had disappeared, but now each movement
intensified it.

This was his punishment, he thought. His karma had been
broken; as penance, he would not be allowed to die until he
had made it whole again.

The suffocating heat was replaced by cool air. He crawled
out of the hole in the ground that had accepted him so
willingly, only to spit him out again. The dead did not want
him among them. He was soiled. He was unfit to join them.

Above him shone pinpricks of light. Stars, he thought. I'm
free.

Free to die again.

How many times must he die before he could rest?

He lay near the grave, exhausted, and slept.

-CHAPTER TWENTY

He awoke in hot sun, sweating. His hands and clothes were
filthy. His left wrist was swollen to twice its normal size. He
wore only one shoe, and his right leg was bleeding. Beside
him was a deep hole cut into a hillside. Below him was a
forest. In the distance, through the trees, he could see a small
village. He had no idea where he was, who he was, where he
had been, or what he was doing atone on the side of a
mountain. His thoughts came scattered, in pieces. They formed
themselves in a dozen different languages, then fled before he
could capture them.

He staggered to his feet, fainted, pulled himself up again.
The medallion around his neck glinted in the sun. What was
it, he wondered. A snake? Was he a rich man to wear gold as
an ornament?

Outside the village, a farmer and his family were picking
stones out of a hard, barren field, preparing for the spring
sowing. The wife—a thin, wizened woman with a face carved
in sharp planes—stood up as Justin limped toward them, her
hands on her back.

She watched him for a moment, then flew at him angrily.
"Get out of here! We don't want trouble. The Russians are
near. Find another way to where you're going. Shoo!"

Justin looked at her uncomprehendingiy. His head was
swimming. The woman was no more than a blurred form. her
voice a distant sound, growing fainter. He weaved where he
stood, trying to focus his vision.

"What's wrong with him?" the fanner asked.

165

166 GRANDMASTER

"Been shot, from the looks of that leg My guess is the
Russians already had him Look at his feet He's only got one
shoe " She walked bnskly toward Justm "Go." she said,
pointing emphatically westward "Do you understand7" She
shook her head "Stupid Czech He doesn't know a word I'm
spying "

Justm held out a hand to the woman She backed away
Unable to stand any longer, he shuddered, tried to walk. and
fell

The man bent to see the wound on Justin's leg "He's been
hurt pretty badly His eyes are in fever "

"We can't keep him here," the woman said "The Rus-
sians will bum everything we have "

The man threw his cap to the ground "The Russians, the
Russians," he said hoarsely "We are not Russians This
man is dying, and we will help him, by Chnst "

He picked Justm up in his powerful arms

"All right, then," the woman shouted after him angrily
"But take him to the village Don't keep him here "

The villagers were already celebrating the departure of the
Russians The bell of the small, carved church rang jubilantly.
and the dirt streets were filled, the inhabitants relieved to be
able to leave their homes without fear of being stopped by
soldiers

"Franek'" someone shouted to the farmer, waving a bottle
"Look' Now we know it's a special day Even old Franek has
come into town What have you brought us7"

The farmer prodded his horse along in silence to the doctor's
house

"What's the matter, Franek9 Is someone sick9 Where's
your wife9" A few people gathered around the cart as Franek
tied his horse Sighing, he uncovered the man lying in the
back

"A Czech," someone gasped

"Arc you crazy9 Get him out of here "

"He will see the doctor before he leaves," Franek said
obstinately, lifting Justm out of the cart

"We will all bum," a woman whispered "It is a bad
omen "

Franek pounded on the door, drowning the woman out
The doctor came out. pulling his wire eyeglasses over his

The Grandmaster               167

ears In his hand he still clutched a dinner napkin "What is
it7 What's the commotion9"

"He's got a Czech," someone called

"Oh. Franek.' the doctor said dispiritedly, looking at the
man in his arms His hdnds went to Ihe man's dirty face. then
pulled back abruptly

"What's wrong9" the farmer asked

"This man    I saw him yesterday He was
'He was what9"

"Dead," the doctor whispered "1 was sure of it "

A murmur rose in the crowd The villagers crossed
themselves Others came to see what was going on

"He was with the Russian division The soldiers were
concerned "

"A Russian9" Franek asked incredulously

"Bring him in," the doctor said "Quickly "

The big farmer laid the unconscious man on the road
"No " He stepped back and folded his arms "As a Christian,
I couldn't let the man die on my land But by God, I'll go no
farther than this for a Russian "

The crowd became noisy The little doctor tried to lift
Justm under the arms, but he was pushed away

"Stone him'" someone shouted

"Kill the Russian'"

The sound of horse's hooves galloping down the narrow
street sent the crowd into shrieks of fear But it was only a
small boy, Franek's son "Father' Father'" he called

"Dimitn9"

The fanner pushed through the growing mob as the boy
dismounted

"Mother made me come," he said breathlessly "I went to
the mountain to see where the stranger came from There was
a hole there A grave, it looked like I found this inside " He
produced a shoe

Women wailed Instinctively, the doctor crossed himself
Franek took the shoe from the boy's hands and threw it into
the street The people stepped aside, as if the shoe were some
evil talisman

"Risen from the dead." someone whispered

"He is the Undead One "

The crowd backed off. leaving a circle of space around
Justm

168 GRANDMASTER

"Look He wakes "

Justin blinked He propped himself up on one elbow hold-
ing his hand lo his forehead Then he looked, surprised, at the
mass of people gathered around him His face was strained,
uncomprehendi ng

Franek's son, standing in the inner nng of the circle,
picked up a small stone and hurled it at Justin It struck him
in the forehead, leaving a bright gash The little doctor ran to
stop the boy, but others had already picked up rocks and
thrown them Justm rolled onto his side. trying to shield
himself from the attack

"Stop it'" the doctor yelled "You're killing him. can't
you see1'"

"Get out of the way'' Someone knocked the doctor to the
ground, while the rocks continued to thump against the
stranger's huddled body

Suddenly a young woman dressed in gray rags rushed into
the clearing, picking up stones and hurling them into the
crowd

"That's for you, scum-eating bastards'" she shrieked, oblivi-
ous to the shower of stones directed now at her as well as the
fallen man beside her

"Stop. stop," a voice called from the outer ring of the
crowd The mob parted as a fat, balding man wearing d
dene's collar bustled forward

The woman in the clearing flung back her arm to take aim
at the pastor, then stopped Instead, she dropped the rock in
her hand and spat on the ground

"The witch," someone said "Come to take her own "

The pastor held up his hand "What's this9" he asked
sternly

"Ask them," the woman said contemptuously She stooped
to wrap Justin's arm around her shoulders She was small, not
much over five feet, but the sinews in her neck and forearms
attested to a life of hard work She got him into a standing
position "Let me pass." she said

"Who are you. child9" the pastor asked

"Don't go near her," someone said

"Better listen to him." the woman said nastily "! might
turn you into a frog "

The pastor stepped back. shocked, as the woman shoved
past him The doctor came up to explain

The Grandmaiier               169

"She means no harm. Father "

"Is she from around here9 I've never seen her before "

"Her name is Yva Pradziad She lives in the hills east of
here Keeps to herself, mostly The villagers here say she's a
witch, but there's nothing to that She makes some herbal
medicines and occasionally delivers babies for the hill people
I don't think she can help him, though "

"Leave him. my son," the pnest said "Whether he's a
Russian or a Czech, it is better that he is with her than here m
the village We cannot put the lives of all our people in danger
because of one stranger "

The doctor nodded "It's funny, though I was sure he was
the one the Russians called me to see yesterday ''

"And9"

"And he was dead "

The pnest pulled himself up to full height "Don't speak
heresy, my son '

"But they found his shoe in an open grave." a woman
whispered, moving in between the two men "And he wore a
snake, the symbol of the Devil, on his breast "

"Whoever he is, he did not nse from the grave," the pnest
said loudly "And anyone who says so will be punished both
in heaven and here on earth By Jne Those who wish may
come with me to the church, to light a candle for the soul of
this man "

The villagers followed meekly, whispering among them-
selves Only Franek and his son left The doctor stayed
behind, feeling ashamed He should never have spoken The
villagers were good people, but the strain of superstition in
them was strong They would never, he knew, beheve that
the poor, wounded stranger was anything but a living spirit of
evil, just as they would never forgive Yva Pradziad the sin of
living without a husband and family Such a woman woutd,
in their eyes, always be a witch, and the doctor was too much
of a gentleman to explain to them how he knew she wasn't

The first and only time Yva had come to see him was
nearly three years before, when she was only sixteen She
was a scrawny thing, as bedraggled as d stray cat, carrying in
her arms a baby already blue and stiff

She had been expelled by her family when they discovered
she was pregnant Alone, she built a shack for herself in the
rocky hills where the soil was too poor to farm anything but

170 GRANDMASTER

roots. The work must have been too hard; she'd had no milk.
and the baby took sick within two days after its birth. It was
already dead by the time she reached the doctor.

Her reaction to the infant's death was stoic, but when he
suggested that she see the pastor about burial, she turned on
him violently.

"They'll never let me bury my child here." she spat.
"They'll say he was conceived in sin. My parents told me."

The doctor could not think of anything to say. He offered
her a tonic for herself, but she refused. She snatched up the
tiny body of her dead son and left. She never came to him
again. Occasionally, he saw her in the village, trading turnips
for lye to make soap, but she never spoke to him or anyone
else. Yva had her own world, spare, hard, and independent.
She earned some food by nursing the isolated mountain peo-
ple who distrusted doctors, with her medicines and poultices,
but for the most part she lived on the animals she killed in the
traps around her house and the food she could find in the
forest. She had managed to live a solitary life in a hostile
climate, among neighbors who despised her, and for that, he
admired her.

Perhaps the stranger would live. It would give her some
company, at least for a while. He hoped, for her sake, that
her medicines were adequate.

"Hey. Doc," someone whispered nearby, startling the
doctor.

The surprise quickly turned to disappointment. The man
beside him was J6zek Szulc. J6zek was one of those men
whom the doctor had come to realize were a necessary evil
in any country occupied by a foreign power. Owning no land,
J6zek nevertheless always had a supply of ready cash from
the sale of black market goods, Russian products, amiy supplies,
and food. In a land perennially short of even the meanest food
supplies. J6zek would regularly come into town with whole
calves for sale at exorbitant prices. He was gone frequently
and never disclosed the destination of his travels, but he
usually came back with treasures considered priceless by the
austere goral people: nails, salt, tea, insecticide, cotton cloth,
dyes, paraffin for canning, boots, tires, and, most valued of
all, meat.

If others believed, as the doctor did, that J6zek was a thief
and a conniver, they took pains not to let J6zek see their

The Grandmaster               171

disdain. The doctor himself had relied on J6zek more than
once for urgently needed supplies of penicillin and antiseptic.

"Yes, J6zek?" the doctor said blandly.

"You saw him up close, didn't you? The Undead One?"

The doctor sighed. "He's just an ordinary man."

"That's not what I heard. Did you get a look at the
medallion around his neck?"

"It was a necklace of some kind."

"Of pure gold, I hear. Forged in the furnaces of hell."

"Oh, come now, J6zek . . ."

The wiry little man laughed. "I don't believe those fairy
tales, either," he said. "These fools say anything. That's
why I'm checking with you. Was it gold?"

The doctor blinked exasperatedly. "I really don't know. It
could have been."

J6zek sucked on his tooth, his eyes squinting into the sun.
"Think he's going to live?"

"I can't tell you that, either," the doctor said sharply.

J6zek shrugged- "Just asking- The medallion won't be any
use to him if he dies."

The doctor excused himself and went inside, siamming the
door behind him.

-CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Yva Pradziad's house was surrounded by animal traps. Before
she began to set them, the local children amused themselves
by breaking the oilskin windows and throwing piles of horse
dung inside. After a rash of scraped ankles and broken toes,
they left her alone. She hadn't been bothered in more than'a
year.

The house was no more than a crude shack, with a small
garden carved out of the rocky, uneven ground behind the
traps. Inside, the only furnishings were a large wooden table,
a broken chair, splinted and tied, set in front of the stone
fireplace, in which hung a kettle and an old iron frying pan, and
the straw bed where Justin lay.

He had walked, mute and uncomplaining, from the village
with her, but as soon as he entered the house he had fallen
unconscious. Working only with some boiled rags and a sharp
green stick, Yva probed the wound in his leg. The bullet had
passed through, but she reopened the wound and cauterized it
with a hot poker. She bound the leg, put a splint on his
broken wrist, cleaned the caked mud off the stranger, pressed
his face with coid cloths, and, for good measure, wrapped a
poultice around his chest. That was the extent of her knowledge.

The stranger slept all night without waking. By morning,
his fever still hadn't broken. There were medicines, Yva
knew, that could help him. She had nursed fevers before, and
wounds, but nothing as serious as this.

By night, the fever was worse. The stranger lay soaked in

i72

The Grandmaster               173

his own sweat, the straw beneath him hot. She smoothed his
forehead; strands of his black hair stuck to her fingers.

She sat back on the broken chair and looked at him. Even
in fever, with perspiration pouring from him. he was beautiful.
His face was smooth and chiseled as if by an angeiic sculptor,
and his bare body was lean and hard. It had never occurred to
her before that men could be beautiful; she had thought
beauty was the special possession of women, like the women
she saw sometimes on a Sunday morning on their way tt>
church, their faces glistening, their hair shining. But this man
was beautiful, too, and his beauty was all the more powerful
to her for reason of having been so unexpected.

She took a cupful of broth from the large black kettle
hanging at the fireplace and, when it had cooled somewhat,
pressed it to Gilead's mouth. She opened his lips with her
fingers and allowed some of the broth to dribble in. but it
only rolled out the side of his mouth. He would die, she
knew, without food and without medicine. And he was just
too beautiful to let die.

Yva reached into an old jug in the comer of the room.
Inside was a scrap of cloth tied around some money. There
were only a few ziotys; not enough for a doctor, and a doctor
was what the man desperately needed. Even if the doctor in
the village did not fear Yva as a witch, he was still one of
them. And she would not ask one of them for a favor. She
would have to pay.

"Yva! Yva Pradziad!" a voice called from the bottom of
the hill below her house.

Recognizing it. she picked up a rock as she stepped out the
door and hurled it at Jozek. "Can't you leave me alone,
scum?" she screamed.

"Hold it. Yva! I only want to talk. But I don't want to get
caught in your traps."

"Then talk from down there. Russian ass-kisser."

Jozek spread his arms wide. "Now, is that any way to
talk?"

"I'm only saying the truth. Everyone knows you make
money from the Russians, only they're all too gutless to say
so. They're afraid you won't sell them your precious Russian
luxuries. Well, there's nothing 1 need from you." She spat
elaborately.

174 GRANDMASTER

"I'm not here to sell. I'm here to buy." Jozek said
pleasantly.

Yva cocked her head. "Buy? Buy what?"

"Your friend inside." He thrust his chin toward the house-
"Is he dead yet?"

Her face pinched into a grimace. She picked up another
rock and threw it expertly, striking Jozek on the shoulder.
"Get out of here!"

"Wait, Yva. Wait." He held his shoulder with his hand.
"I want to buy the medallion around his neck. Even if he's
not dead. he won't miss it." He ventured a step forward.
"I'm offering you a lot of money for it, Yva. Three hundred
ziotys. More than you'd get anywhere else. even in Krakow."

"It's not mine to sell," Yva said.

"Think about it. Aren't you taking care of him? Maybe
he's a Czech, a renegade. Then you're risking your own life
to save his skin, aren't you? Ask him. He'd be the first to tell
you he owes you something."

"He can't talk," Yva said. "He's stiil in fever."

"Welt," Jozek said with satisfaction, "then some money
for food will do him more good than a silly necklace, won't
it?"

Yva stood in the doorway for a long time, looking from
Jozek's mocking figure at the foot of the hill to the sick man
lying on the straw. Finally she walked over to Justin and
unclasped the medallion's chain. It fell hot to her touch.
She wrapped it in a scrap of cloth and then picked her way
between the familiar animal traps to Jozek.

"Where's the money?" she asked sullenly. Jozek produced
a crisp roll of bills.

"Now, was that so hard?" he asked, smiling.

"Get out of here."

Justin awoke two days later. The damp straw beneath him
hurt his skin. He was in a strange place, a country shack.
Vaguely, he remembered walking here, but he did not recog-
nize the young woman who bent near the fireplace on the
other side of the room. Was he supposed to know her?

He strained to see, craning his neck with exhausting effort
to see her face. She turned, still squatting, saw him, covered
her mouth with her hand in disbelief. She came over to him,
speaking words his mind could not yet follow, and held a cup

The Grandmaster               175

of cool water to his lips. For the first time he noticed a plaster
cast on his left wrist.

By nightfall, he could sit up. The evening breeze felt cool-
The woman he did not know fed him some soup. It was
delicious. He ventured toward the open door, but the woman
stopped him, cautioning him with gestures and the peculiar
language he did not understand-

Little by little, the words began to make sense, although
Justin still did not speak. Several days after he first came to
consciousness in the straw bed. he was well enough to walk
outdoors. He found the woman in her garden, pulling weeds.
He stooped beside her.

"So. my handsome simpleton has come to help me, has
he?" she said, rumpling his coal-colored hair. She demon-
strated how to pull the weeds from the earth.

The earth. Touching it, he felt again the nightmare sensa-
tion of earth weighing down on him, suffocatiflg him. Of
clods of earth falling on him as birds sang and a man watched
overhead, the Prince of Death with a face Justin could not
remember . - -

"What's the matter, bored already?" the woman said
teasingly.

Across the valley, past the distant forest, in the mountains.
Over there the Prince of Death waited, faceless and patient,
over there, and Justin had to reach him or his karma would
not be complete, but it was not time . . . was not time; the
Tree of the Thousand Wisdoms burned, and so the time was
past, come and gone, and his soul was in damnation, and stil!
the Prince of Death waited for him . . .

He ran.

"Stop!" Yva called, rushing after him. "The traps! You'll
be hurt!"

Justin howled as the trap closed over his ankle. Yva knelt
beside him, straining to open it. "Stupid!" she shouted.
"Don't you know anything?"

He moved her hand away, grasped the trap by both of its
rusty sides, and pulied it apart, sending the spring mechanism
flying.

Yva checked the wound on Justin's bare foot, then exam-
ined the broken trap. "Dumb as a beetle, but with the strength
of an ox," she said. "Even with a broken wrist. Well, that's
something, anyway!" Scolding, she led him back to the

176 GRANDMASTER

house and handed him a broom "Sweep up," she said,
showing him how "As long as you're healthy enough lo run.
you might as well make yourself useful "

The straw bed was split into two parts, but Justin dban
doned it At night, he slept outdoors, where the sight of the
stars brought back distant memories of high mountain passes
above a lake surrounded by flowers, of a gold-domed hall
where a tree stood, a tree with a bark of iron that fell at his
feet, of an old man who handed him a diamond and a gold
snake enclosed in a circle

The snake obsessed him At times, it was no more than a
feeling, but sometimes he could picture tt as clearly as if it
were a real thing, gleaming, powerful, with a drop of molten
gold at the base

Two weeks later, the woman who had become a constant in
his life was gone all morning When she returned, she was
smiling Under her arm was a board of some kind, warped
with water and time It was marked with a checkerboard She
set it in front of him

"You leave this alone, now. understand^" She took his
hand. pulled it near the board, then slapped it away "Don't
touch," she said, shaking a finger at him He nodded in
understanding A few minutes later, she returned with an
apronful of wood chips Some were dark and some were
light She placed them carefully on the three end rows on
each side on the black squares "This is a game even you can
play," she said, moving her light piece diagonally onto an-
other black square "It's called checkers Go ahead Do the
same thing I've done on your side " She pointed encourag-
ingly toward his hand, then tapped the square he was to move
to

Justin looked at the Board, feeling something awaken inside
him He moved the center left piece in the front row two
spaces forward

"No, no. you can't move that way I showed you where to
put it "

Justin looked at her uncomprehendingly

Her face softened "Oh, that's all right I got the board for
free, anyway You can play whatever crazy way you want "
She left him with the board and the blocks of wood

Justin stared at the board for hours Invisible lines of force
seemed to connect the pieces on the checkered background,

The Grandmaster               177

but there were not enough pieces He went to the woodpile
and returned with thirty two more scraps of light and dark
wood

"Don't you bring a big mess in here," Yva shouted, but
she didn't try to stop him

He placed the pieces side by side on both sections of the
board Now the lines of force worked They were aligned
now, at rest He moved while's center right piece forward
two squares Then he opened black's game by moving the
queen bishop pawn forward by two Already the lines of force
stretched into possibility

You are the game

As he shifted the shapeless pieces of wood over the board,
the mush of unrelated information in his mind receded What
was past and unknowable for him no longer mattered Here
was a world of logic and order, and he had found his way to
it again He was home

He didn't sleep that night Instead, he took Yva's skinning
knife and whittled the pieces into recognizable shapes a
horse's head, d castle tower, the bland, faceless soldiers of the
front rank     Chess The game was called chess, and in it
were hidden the secrets of thought and power

Things came to him like a barrage of bullets A game long
ago with a small boy, ashamed of a radio transmitter under
his sleeve, the yellow robes swirling around him in a dark
alley, the scent of almonds, the music, the coiled make

Instinctively, his hand slapped against his chest There was
nothing there Was it imagined, the coiled snake in the circle,
the center of his life9 What did all those memories mean9

He ran to the fireplace and pulled out a piece of blackened
wood No, it could not be imaginary, because he could see it
clearly Sweeping the chess pieces off the table, he set the
charcoal on it and began to draw First, the eyeless head. with
its tongue darting, then the coiled body, only occasionally
dotted with scales, then the circle around it, the circle of
destiny, of karma, closed, with a molten drop of gold

"What have you done'7" Yva screamed behind him He
looked over his shoulder, startled back into reality Yva was
angry, her features pinched She was pointing to the drawing
"You've ruined my table'" she shouted "Look, I can'i even
get it out You've dug into the wood " She slapped a wet rag
on top of the design "It'll never come out. you worthless

178

GRANDMASTER

dummy!" She picked up his whittlings and threw them across
the room. "You're good for nothing, like your toys."

Justin backed away. feeling whatever thoughts had briefly
possessed him recede into blankness again-

He ran to the forest, and spent the rest of the day and night
sitting, waiting for the precious thoughts that had left him to
come back. They were his past. the elements that made him
something besides a stranger locked in the present. He had to

find them again.

The days passed without notice. One day he removed the
cast from his wrist. His leg no longer hurt. Justin walked and
ate from the woods, and found contentment. By sunrise of a
day when the breeze blew warm and he could smell the scent
of wheat from the nearby farms, he found a small stream. In
its center was a rock so large that the water eddied around it.
He picked it up. "In a hundred years, the rock will have
disappeared," he said out loud. His words were in English,
and behind them, he could hear the soft, remembered voice of
Tagore. He said the words again in Hindustani, German,
Russian. He repeated them in Polish.

Polish is what I've been hearing here, he decided. I'm in
Poland. Poland. Think. Why Poland? Where did I come

from?

Suddenly he thought of the woman who had been looking
after him. Since he'd first awakened in the tumbledown shack,
he'd taken her for granted as a presence, chattering, scoldiiig,
feeding- She was the mother he had needed, and like a child,
he had accepted her without question. But she was not his
mother. She was young and almost pretty and, except for
him, it seemed, entirely aione.

He retraced his steps back to her. He did not remember
how long he had been away, and did not know if she would
permit him to return. But she was his only link to his own

past, and he had to find her.

Yva was seated at the big table still marked by Justin's
drawing. Always working, she had a scrap of sewing on her
lap as she ate from a bowl. She sat bent over her food like an
old woman. Justin knocked on the door frame.

"It's you," she said breathlessly, rising- Her face bright-
ened visibly in front of his eyes. She was pretty, like a cut
Stone, her sharp edges giving her distinction. Hers was the
face of one who had suffered and survived.

The Grandmaster               179

"I have your toys," she said quickly, bringing over a box
filled with Justin's whittled chess pieces. "You see, I wasn't
realty mad at you. I knew you didn't know better, but see?"
She pressed them into Justin's hands. "Oh, how I wish you
could understand me, even just a little."

Justin held his hand out to her and touched her cheek.
"Thank you." he said siowly, "for all you've done."

"You can taik!" she gasped.

"I couldn't until now. I didn't remember. Something
happened, and - - ,"

"But you're speaking Polish," she marveled. "Then you're
not a Czech after all."

"I don't know. I speak other languages, too. I don't know
which is my own. There are so many things I don't remember."
He looked into the box, with its small figurines. "This game
is called chess," he said, trying to think. "And there's a wise
man named Tagore, and the Prince of Death is somewhere
beyond the woods ... It all sounds so crazy."

"No, no. it's wonderful. Come. Eat." She led him to the
table. He saw the mark on it and rushed to it.

"And this," he said. tracing the drawing with his fingers.
"I see this ail the time. It's something terribly important to
me. I know, but I can't remember yhat it is. Have you seen
this before?"

She lobked down. "It's just a picture," she said.

"No. It's something else. Something powerful, part of me.
But what could a coiled snake mean?"

Wordlessly, Yva brought him a bowl of soup.

That night, as Justin lay outside beneath the stars, Yva
came to him. Her head was covered with a cloth, as if she
were in church. "There is something I must tell you," she
said.

He sat up. In the moonlight, her rough features softened.

"The coiled snake was on a gold medallion you wore
around your neck," she said. "I sold it to buy food and
medicine."

He stared at her.

"I sold it. Do you understand? While you were sick."

"Where did you sell it?"

"A man came. Jozek, from the village. But you can't go
there. The villagers think you're the Devil."

And so I may be. Justin thought. All he had known since

180 GRANDMASTER

he first came to consciousness here were voices and images
outside human experience. "Why?" he asked.

She shrugged. "I don't know. They say you rose from the
grave. Some think you're a Russian. But of course, you
couldn't speak then—"

"A Russian?"

"The doctor saw you with the Russian soldiers in the
mountains. Don't you even remember that?"

"I remember . . . strange things," he said. "But the snake
... It was a necklace?"

"Yes. I'll get it back for you, I swear it. Please forgive
me. if you can." She rose quickly.

He touched her long skirt- "Don't go." he said.

"What's wrong?"

He swallowed. "I don't know. I'm so confused. The snake
. . . everything seems jumbled together. I'm not sure what
anything is. 1 don't even know my own name."

She sat beside him, her strong hands holding his. "It will
come back," she said. "When I get me snake back for you, it
wHf come back." She stroked his hair. "My name is Yva."

"Yva." he repeated softly.

"It was the name given to me first woman, in the Bible.
She and her husband. Adam, lived in Paradise until she found
the snake." She laughed. "You see, just like yours."

"And after?"

"Well," she went on as if she were telling a bedtime story
to a child, "then they ate an apple because the snake told
them to. The apple was knowledge that they were forbidden
to have."

"The secrets of thought and power," Justin said, remem-
bering the tines of force on the chessboard.

"That's very good. You get smarter every day. Anyway.
after they listened to the snake, who was the Devil, and ate
from the Tree of Knowledge, God was displeased with them.
As their punishment, they had to leave the beautiful garden
where they lived, to wander and toil on the earth for the rest
of their lives."

"Did you take me from the village, Yva?"

She smiled. "Yes. Yes. I did. They were cruel to you
there."

"Why did you save me?"

The Grandmaster               181

She looked down at the ground. "Because you were so
beautiful," she said.

Justin stared at her questioningly, and finally she raised her
face and then kissed him. He was afraid at first. Something
inside him feared the lips of women.

But this was no fearsome experience. Yva was a simple
girl, and he felt nothing but softness and warmth.

"Perhaps you are the first woman I ever kissed," he said
sincerely.

She laughed. "I doubt that." She put her arms around him
and pulled him down to the ground with her, and he buried his
face in her hair.

She had said something that stirred uneasily in the far
reaches of his memory. Had there been other women? Or just
one? And why did the trace memory fill him with both joy
and loathing?

It had all been so long ago ... so long ago . . .

.CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

In Justin's sixteenth year, Tagore sent him to the palace of the
abbess Varja to leam the ways of women and pleasure.

"But we do not need women here, my teacher," he said,
"and my pleasure comes from learning the ways of Rashimpur."

The old man smiled. "The pleasure you will find with
Varja's acolytes is of a different character, k is a pleasure of
the senses, of the body."

Justin made a face. "But they're nuns," he said guiltily.

"Not as you know them, my son. The abbess finds her
acolytes as young children, and then trains them in the ways
of sensual expression. This does not displease the spirits," he
added. "Brahma, Siva, and Vishnu—the creative, transcen-
dental, and preserving powers of the universe—recognize the
female force as both necessary and magical. The enjoyment
of the senses is as meaningful to them as the denial of those
same pleasures, for without enjoyment, there can be no
sacrifice."

"Then why aren't there women at Rashimpur?"

"It is the main denial of our sect. Patanjali. The monks
here seek all their lives to attain spiritual purity. This is not to
say that women are impure, but only thai their company is so
intoxicating that to give in to a life lived with women would
deter us from our chosen path. Do you understand?"

"I guess so." In fact, Justin didn't understand at all- The
life he led at Rashimpur was orderly and full. There were
classes, devotions, and work. There was Tagore, the greatest
of all men, to guide him. And most important, there was the

182

The Grandmaster               183

discipline of yoga, in which Justin learned every day to
accompiish things he had always believed to be impossible.
What would women be tike in such a place?

He remembered girls he had known at the various schools
he'd attended. They were tolerable but useless; not one of
them could even climb the rope in gym class to the top. His
Uncle Sid's wife Arlene had walked around in nightgowns
most of the time, smoking cigarettes and painting her
fingernails. She had hair the color of Mercurochrome. and it
never moved, even in the highest breeze. That would be no
sort of person to have at Rashimpur.

"1 don't see why 1 have to do this," Justin grumbled.

"You will do it because it is necessary for you and because
Varja herself has offered to initiate you in your first rites."
With a flick of his eyelids, he dismissed the subject. "I have
explained the route to Varja's palace to you. Can you find it
alone?"

"Yes," Justin said. resigned to his fate.

As wa& his custom, the old man bowed to him, and Justin
returned the gesture.

"Remember that you are the son of Brahma. Do not dis-
please him with unseemly conduct. Be a welcome guest in the
great house of Varia, for she is powerful beyond your
knowledge. But keep the preserving spirit of Patanjali within
you."

Varia's palace was small in comparison with the monastery
at Rashimpur, but it was exquisite. Constructed of ancient
rock in the Indian style, its low, domed roof of black iron
gleamed in the sun-

Justin stood in an open field near the front entrance, shiver-
ing with apprehension. What was he supposed to do in there?
He would be the only male among a hundred women. Would
they try to harm him? Would they make fun of him and laugh
behind their painted fingernails?

A young woman came out of the building. She was small
and heavily veiled. On her feet were satin slippers that curled
fancifully at the toes. She fell to her knees in front of him and
bowed, touching her forehead to the ground.

"Welcome to the dwelling of the great goddess," she said.

"It is the honor of my brothers and their ancestors that I be
permitted into the presence of the abbess and her acolytes,"

184 GRANDMASTER

he answered formally m the arcane Hindi dialed he had
learned JUSI for this occasion

She rose Behind the thick white veil she wore. the girl's
features showed fleetingly Justin couldn't see all her face at
one time. but he saw enough to know that she didn't look
anything like the woman he'd expected She was not a female
version of the monks al Rdshimpur For one thing, she was
nearly as tall as Justin, and he towered over the other men in
the monastery Her skin was very light, and, though her hair
and eyes were dark, her hands, covered with jewelry not only
on the fingers but up to the wrists, were pale and blue-veined.
like his own

Her coloring shocked Justin He didn't think anyone in this
strange part of the world looked like him He longed to ask
her where she came from, but restrained himself He did not
wish to appear rude and overly inquisitive before he even
entered the palace

'She moved aside and gestured for him to walk ahead of her
into the palace The path led through a magnificent ornamen-
tal garden, replete with curved stone bridges over streams that
must have been created artificially Low, spreading trees shaded
small stone benches, and huge goldfish swam in a shallow
pond Everywhere, flowers blossomed in a profusion of color
and sweet perfume Beside it, the bare, wmdswept peaks
around Rashimpur seemed bleak and desolate It was hard for
Justin not to linger in the garden, breathing in its lush fra-
grance and succumbing to its visual perfection, but he made
himself keep the pace he had set It would not do for the giri to
think him weak.

She led him into an unoccupied room lit by spade-shaped
brass oil lamps The walls were covered with silk that bil-
lowed with the breeze from the garden, causing the pale
colors of the fabric to shine in the light More than a dozen
huge cushions, covered with gold and silver brocade, were
arranged on the floor around a pastel rug intricately woven
into fluid designs The ceiling was of hammered silver It was
the most opulent room Justin had ever seen Even the Great
Hall of Rdshimpur with its magnificent Tree of the Thousand
Wisdoms paled beside it

The girl bowed again, and disappeared Within a few
minutes, a line of young women filed in through the mosaic
doorway with its onion-shaped arch Some of the women

The Grandmaster               185

earned strange-looking musical instruments Others brought
with them books, clothing, pallettes. clay, and armloads of
bright flowers They came in silently, smiling but keeping
their eyes averted, and arranged themselves on the cushions
After the last one had entered, the veiled girl came in and led
Justin to the corner, where he would be flanked by the
women, and gestured for him to sit down on the largest and
most comfortable cushion

"The goddess Vaqa accepts your most honored presence."
the girl said softly, assuming an attitude of prayer as she knelt
al his feet

"Is she coming here7" Justin asked hesitantly

The girls giggled "No." the veiled one said "This place
is for your welcome We hope to make you comfortable and
easeful here so that you may be initiated into the ntes of love
in the proper state of mind ''

The proper state of mind'7 Justin wondered How hard was
this going to be. anyway^

One of the girls began to play In her lap she held a
seven-stnnged instrument, gourds served as sounding boards
at each end of the fretted fingerboard, which extended down-
ward in a curve to the floor The music it made was droning
and soft To Justm's ears, which-had never heard anything
but Western music, the sounds struck him as discordant, but
he smiled anyway, lest he offend the musician

"This is Rakhta who plays the viiw," the veiled girl said
"It is a sacred instrument, formed in the shape of a woman
Its music is the sound of darkness and the sea, where the
female spirit ongmated " She pointed out another young
woman of sinking beauty who was arranging heaps of orchids
in translucent pastel bowls "Dakmi arranges the flowers from
our garden Flower arranging, like music, is one of the
womanly arts So are poetry, sculpture, disguise, and many
others "

"Do you have to leam them aH7"

"Yes We must master sixty-four arts, including dancing,
writing, painting, reading, perfumery, gardening, languages,
carpentry, chemistry, logic     Many "

"Which languages do you speak^" Justin asked, hoping to
team more about the strange-looking Caucasian girl

"Here we learn all the dialects of the region, plus the
ancient languages of religious ntes

186 GRANDMASTER

"Do you speak English?"

The giri bowed her head. "Yes." she said. "It is under-
stood that English is your language. For this reason, 1 have
been selected as your companion, if I do not offend you too
severely."

Justin grinned. "It will be a pleasure to speak my native
tongue again."

One of the women added a final dab of ink to a drawing,
blew on it for a moment, then presented it to Justin, bowing
low as she offered it.

Justin took it from her, then uttered an involuntary gasp as
he noticed the subject of her art. The drawing depicted a man
and a woman, dressed in ornate finery from the waist up. bul
utterly naked below. Their feel were joined at the soles, and
their hands rested on their bent knees. At the center of the
picture, the man's penis fully penetrated the woman.

Justin felt himself flushing deeply. He swallowed and forced
himself to look at the young woman who had given him the
drawing. She was very pretty, and no more than twelve years
old. with the soft, rounded cheeks of childhood still accentuat-
ing her oval face.

"This is Saraha," Justin's guide said. "She is our best
artist."

The young girl smiled shyly.

"Yes, it's . . . wonderful," Justin said, hearing his voice
crack and feeling horribly ashamed by it. If the girls heard
him, they made no show of noticing- The veiled girl took the
picture and set it aside.

"And what is your name?" Justin asked.

"My name is Duma, but it will be difficult for you to
remember us all." she said. "But we have another name.
Saraswati is the name given to the feminine counterpart of
Brahma. Here, we are ail Saraswati. Whatever you wish,
Saraswati will provide it."

"Is that what you call Varia, too?"

"The goddess Varja is only Varia." she corrected quickly.
"The spirit of Saraswati is within her, but Varja cannot be
interchanged with any ordinary woman."

"But no one can be interchanged . . ." Justin began, but
Duma's stiffening posture made him drop the subject. He
didn't understand why the tall girl's approval was so impor-
tant to him. but it was Duma he sought to please more than

The Grandmaster               187

the mysterious abbess who owned the palace. "I'd like to cat!
you Duma." he said tamely.

"As you wish."

"Why are you the only one wearing a veil?"

She hesitated for a long moment, dropping her head.
"Because I am too ugly to be presented to your sight," she
said softly. Then she rose. The movement was so quick that
she seemed to float off the ground. She ran to the garden.

"Don't go," Justin called, going after her. She stopped at
his command. "I'm sorry if I offended you," Justin blurted.
"My teacher has told me that, to the eyes of seeing men,
even the grossest disfigurements are invisible. Brahma knows
only what is inside a person's soul."

Duma lowered her head. Maybe women were different, he
thought. Sid's wife Arlene seemed to be a lot more concerned
with how she looked on the outside than how much she
understood about life. Maybe to a woman, an ugly face was
the end of the world.

"Please come back," he said. He felt his face reddening.
"I'm—I'm not comfortable in there alone."

"But you are not alone," she said. astonished. "The women
will be with you to pleasure you and prepare you for Varja. I
am not permitted to participate inlhose rituals."

"Then why are you here?"

Duma hesitated, seeming not to know what to say for a
moment. Finally she said, "I was told that you possessed the
curious mind of the Westerner. Since I, too, am a foreigner, I
was selected to act as your guide. It is a great honor, consider-
ing the unpleasantness of my appearance."

"But why are you in this place at all?" Justin persisted.
The folds of her white veil trembled in the breeze. "The
goddess Varja rules over time," she explained. "Next to the
creative force of Brahma himself, mere is nothing more pow-
erful than time. The goddess knows our destinies, because
she understands time."

"You mean she can foretell the future?"

"Yes. There is one in time to come who will possess me.
One whose destiny will be entwined with mine. He will
desire me. despite my ugliness. It is for him that I was
brought here."

"Where'd you come from?" Justin asked.

She shook her head. "I have already spoken too much."

188 GRANDMASTER

She put her hand gently on his shoulder. "Come. You
must begin what you were sent to accomplish."

She led him back to the harem. At the doorway, she knelt.
"I will remain here, if you wish."

Justin nodded and walked desultorily inside.

The girl named Saraha, who had given him the drawing,
came forward and knelt before him. In the background, the
droning instrument played on, while a third girl. also very
young, rose and glided in a sensuous, swaying motion to the
middle of the floor. She was dressed in a brassiere of chained
silver, which left her nipples exposed, and a loose silk skirt
that hung low on her hips. Flowers were in her hair. and she
wore a wide silver collar, She began to sway, finding rhythms
in the tuneless music that was so alien to Justin.

Justin glanced at the doorway. Duma sat, as she had
promised, the veil and the light from the garden behind her
completely obscuring her features. She was a shadow of
reality in this bizarre place where Justin felt more frightened
than he had been even on the night his father was killed.

The dancer whirled, her perfumed skirts rising higher until
Justin could see her thighs and, beyond, the mound of flesh
downed with short pubic hair. He gulped, ashamed of looking.
but unable to take his eyes away from the undulating female
body in front of him. He was so transfixed that he didn't
notice when two more women came to sit on either side of
him, until they began to unfasten his garment- Involuntarily;

he reached up to swat at the intruding hands. The women
drew back with curious glances at each other. To Justin's
astonishment, he saw that they were completely naked.

One was small, with breasts still budding and tender; the
other was fully developed. The place between her tegs was
dark with long silky hair dappled with moisture. Gently, she
took Justin's hand, questioning him first with her eyes for
permission- Frantic, Justin looked for Duma. When she caught
sight of him glancing nervously at her above the heads of the
other girls, she nodded slowly.

The mature girl slid his finger aiong the cleft of her sex.
When she maneuvered herself to let it penetrate her. Justin
felt an aching in his groin that he thought would make his
heart stop. He had experienced erections before—once when
he had seen a pair of rutting mountain goats, he had nearly
exploded with his own excitement—but he had never permit-

The Grandmaster               189

led himself to spend his seed. Tagore had told him that to
fondle one's genitals was contrary to the discipline of yoga.
Sexual pleasure was something that a man could enjoy only
with a woman, and he was taught to curb his instincts.

Until now. Apparently it was all right for him to have an
erection in this place. The deeper he probed into the dark,
wet crevice, the more out of control he felt. His penis
seemed to take on a life of its own, growing huge beneath his
wraps, embarrassing him wildly. What if the women should
see it? What if it just exploded, right here on the cushions?

The other girl leaned forward, almost across him, and
nibbed her nipples across his lips. They were swollen with
her first flush of womanhood and felt to Justin like wisps of
air. His lips parted. Experimentally, he touched one of the
nipples with the tip of his tongue. A thrill like a faint electric
shock coursed through him. He opened his mouth wider and
took the soft, soft disc into it until he could suck it. From
deep in her chest, the girl moaned.

His breath came fast and hot. He could feel perspiration
beading on his forehead and upper lip. A woman's body was
a powerful thing.

He permitted the women to remove his robe. They were all
over him, fluttering, caressing his chest, his neck, his buttocks,
teasing him softly with their fingernails and teeth, using their
longues to stimulate him in areas where he had never thought
to seek pleasure. The musician slowed her rhythm to a
persistent, steady beat; the dancer followed suit. Undulating
so that her belly heaved with each thrust of her hips, she spun
slowiy, unclasping her skin as she turned. When she faced
him again, moving as sinuously as a snake, she wore only the
silver hatter and a girdle of silver chains high on her hips. She
bent backward, nearly touching her head to the floor, while
her hips continued to push. The exposed vulva was glistening
with wetness, and gave off a faint odor that affected Justin
like a drug.

Saraha. at his feet, turned to face him. With her small
hands, she spread his thighs apart.

What's she going to do? Justin thought, panicking. Not
with her mouth!

She took him easily, her practiced tongue flicking, then
holding lightly as he slid into her up to the hilt. She squeezed
him with muscles at the back of her throat. The pleasure was

190 GRANDMASTER

so exquisite thai il was a hair's breadth away from pain. His
eyes were heavy; he wanted to sink into the cushions of silk
and flesh around him and cry out with his ecstasy.

But instead, his gaze wandered toward the shadowy figure
in the doorway. Duma sat, unmoving, veiled, and tense as a
statue. He could not see her eyes, but he knew she was
watching him. And for a reason he did not comprehend, he
felt a great sadness coming from her. Duma was the only one
of all the women around him who was not a complete stranger;

and yet his pleasure excluded her. It was not that the women
did not please him; there was something else, something
about the lonely figure in the doorway that drained his plea-
sure as soon as he saw her. Because, for all the skills the
women possessed, something was missing, an essential he
could not name, and the sight of her reminded him of it. He
felt lonely.

"I'm sorry," he said, getting clumsily to his feet. The
women whispered, shocked, among themselves. He strode
toward the garden.

Duma leaped up and hurried toward him. "What is wrong?"
she asked anxiously.

"It's nothing." Justin said, brushing past her. It was diffi-
cult for him to walk. His betly ached. His senses, still filled
with the tastes and scents and sensations of the harem, reeled-
He sat down on a stone bench, wrapping his robe around him.
He buried his face in his hands.

"They—they did not piease you?" It was Duma, standing
a few feet away- Her hands were clasped in front of her.

Justin looked up, but unable to speak, he covered his face

again.

"It was my presence," she whispered. "My spirit de-
stroyed the love force."

"No," Justin said with an effort. "It wasn't you. It was
me. Something was missing."

"Perhaps if they were to try again . . ."

"No!" He hadn't meant to shout. But the girl bowed to
him and left. He was relieved. He didn't understand his own
feelings, let alone hers.

Inside the harem, the women were chattering in a fury. He
had doubtless offended them all, Justin thought. He would be
considered not only a coward but a boor as well. Tagore
would not be pleased. At the moment before completion, he

The Grandmaster               191

had failed. But why? Perhaps he was not Patanjali after all.
Perhaps he was not even worthy to become a man. The
monks had made a terrible mistake, selecting as their leader
a boy who was afraid of women.

He stayed in the garden, alone, until long after dark. The
sound of soft, feminine voices stilled. When he was sure the
harem was empty, he went inside.

Duma was wailing for him.

"I have prepared a sleeping pallet for you," she said.

"You shouldn't have stayed awake on my account."

"It is my duty," she said softly. She bowed again to him,
then rose.

"Wait," he called. She turned around. For a moment, he
longed to tear the shapeless veil from her face, see whatever
scars or deformities it hid, shame her with her own ugliness.
He wanted to blame her for his failure. It would take some of
the sting away. But he knew that she had done nothing, that
the fault was his alone.

"I'll leave tomorrow," he said at last.

"But the goddess Varja will not receive you for many days
to come," she explained, her voice strained.

He could not offend the goddess with so grave an insult.
There was nothing to do but bear^the derision of the women
for however long it took the abbess to meet him. Tagore
would stili be displeased with his performance, but at least he
could not accuse Justin of endangering Rashimpur by his rude
behavior.

He nodded to her. "All right."

She took a tentative step nearer. "Would you like me to
send someone to share your pallet for the night?" she asked
hopefully.

Justin laughed bitterly. "No. No, thank you- 1 prefer to
sleep alone."

He stayed awake, his thoughts a jumble of fear and self-
reproach, until the first gray streaks of light appeared in the
sky.

He didn't want to sleep. He didn't want to be in this place,
this playpen full of girls. He had no desire to meet the terrible
Varja, whom the legends said could eat a man whole and spit
out his skeleton. He wanted to talk with Tagore, not with the
deformed young girl who talked from behind a veil.

But mostly, he wanted lo see Duma's face

192 GRANDMASTER

He got up slowly and walked to the inner entrance to the
harem. He made no sound, although his heart was pumping
furiously. What if Varia caught him? He had seen no men,
but Tagore had said that the goddess ruled over both sexes.
Were the men invisible? Anything was possible in this place.
Had she eaten them whole? Would Justin's own skeleton be
spat out in some desolate place with the others?

To his right was a room. It was little more than a tiny
enclave, with no door. Inside, a plump young woman slept-

Beyond it was another room. He recognized the occupant
as Saraha.

The sleeping rooms. She's in one of these. He moved
swiftly, checking each room. When he reached the end of the
hallway without finding Duma, lie reproached himself angrily
for his childish curiosity-                       ^

What difference does it make what she looks like? he asked
himself. There's nothing special about her anyway, except
that she goes around al! covered up while the others live as
naked as jaybirds.

Nevertheless, he turned around, walked back the entire
length of the hall, and searched the other side.

What if she's so horrible that I turn to stone just looking at
her? he thought, seized with sudden fear. That would really
shame Tagore. Taking a deep breath, he stepped back a pace.

He turned to go back into the harem. But before he could
take the first step back to reason, he glanced over his shoulder
at the corridor of silent rooms. Duma was inside one of them.
And suddenly, he didn't care if she was ugly or not. She was
his friend, his first and only friend, and he had to see her-

His mind shut off like a machine. His reason was gone.
There was no fear of Varja now, no self-recrimination, no
struggle with his better judgment. He wanted to look at her,
just look at her, just once.

He would never mention it to her or to anyone else. he
decided as he raced down the hall, checking every room.
Rakhta's vina was propped in the comer of one; books and
scrolls were stacked neatly in the comer of another. And then
he saw it. Hanging on the wall like part of a bride's trousseau
was the long white veil.

His breath caught. Trembling, he moved silently inside the
room. She was sleeping on a mat on the floor, her long brown
hair streaming out behind her- She was turned away from

The Grandmaster               193

him. She was wearing a white cotton shift, and in her hands—
they really were pretty hands, he thought, regardless of what
the rest of her might look like—she clutched a thin sheet of
pink silk.

He tiptoed toward the other side of the mat, the thrill of
adventure rising in him. He had never been disobedient to the
monks at Rashimpur; he hadn't dared. But here, so far from
home, alone, with no restraints ... He was supposed to be
learning how to be a man, after all. Wasn't a man supposed
to be independent, especially around women?

Just as he bolstered his confidence sufficiently to reach the
foot of Duma's mat. the unthinkable happened. His toe caught
on the comer of her pallet, throwing him off balance. My toe!
he cried inwardly in the half-second before he fell. To look
on the forbidden face was bad enough, but to betray himself
by his own clumsiness was a shame too great to bear. It was
the end. He would have to run back to Rashimpur and beg the
monks to accept him into the lowest beginning classes. He
landed on his hands with a thud.

Duma woke immediately, sitting bolt upright. "What . . .
what? It's you." she said, aghast.

Justin's hoarse intake of breath was louder than the sound
he made hitting the ground-
She was beautiful!

She blinked, rubbing her eyes with the backs of her hands.
Her skin was white as alabaster, making her large, dark eyes
even more striking than they would have been on an olive-
skinned girl like the others of the harem. Her nose was long
and delicate, its tip chiseled. Her mouth was larger man the
other girls', the lower lip thick and full.

"I've never seen a face like yours before," he whispered.

As soon as he spoke, Duma's eyes darted toward the veil
hanging on the wall. She pulled the sheet over her head.

He knelt beside her and lowered her hands forcibly with his
own. "No . . . don't cover your face. Your beauty pleases
me," he said in formal Hindi.

She stared at him in bewilderment.

"Will you come to the garden with me, Just for a little
while?" he asked. She didn't respond. Her features remained
fixed in an expression of stunned suspicion.

"Oh, God, I'm so dumb," Justin said in English. "I forgot

194 GRANDMASTER

the lateness of the hour. Please forgive me for intruding on
you." He bowed and backed away.

"I'll come with you," she said.

"You will?" He felt he was grinning like a baboon, but he
couldn't stop himself.

She smiled back. It was a brief, tentative thing, as if she
were unused to happiness. Then she rose, put on a wrapper of
bright blue silk, and reached for the veil.

"Leave this," he said, taking it from her.

She watched him replace her covering on its hook, then
bowed her head and nodded slowly. Justin thought he saw the
trace of a smile on her tips again.

"Why do they consider you ugly?" Justin asked. The sky «
was glowing pink with the dawn. Fat droplets of dew gath-
ered on the clusters of small, hardy orchids that grew only in
the garden of Varja's palace. The ground was veiled in thick
mist.

"It is obvious," Duma said. "My nose is as long as an
elephant's trunk. My mouth is targe and coarse. My skin is
white."

"So is mine."

"It is different with me," Duma said cryptically.

Justin didn't understand how it would be different, but
then, he thought, women were strange people with odd values.
"I think you're the prettiest one here," he said.

"You are kind," she answered, clearly not believing him.
"Perhaps the one I am fated for will be as kind."

"How can you be so sure this—this person will turn up?
Nobody can read the future."

"Varja can." Duma's eyes grew wide. "She can foretell
incredible events- She predicted the downfall of the monaster-
ies that were destroyed by the soldiers. She says there is more
destruction to come."

"Has she warned them?"

Duma looked surprised. "Of course not. Varja is not con-
cerned with mortals. She is a goddess."

"Doesn't she care?"

Duma shrugged. "The lives of ordinary people are too
short to warrant Varja's time."

"But if she's immortal, she has all the time in the world."

She screwed her face into a grimace. "I don't understand

The Grandmaster               195

these things," she said. "Anyway, the people who die don't
mind. The monks of every monastery that's been ruined have
sent the goddess their most precious relics as parting gifts."

"Why would they do that?"

Duma looked at him as if he were a small child. "She is a
goddess. They worship her, as everyone does."

Justin frowned. The monks at Rashimpur did not worship
Varja. They didn't even call her a goddess. And Tagore had
said that Var|a's immortality was a legend. Nobody had even
mentioned that she could see the future-

"What does she do with them?"

"She keeps the relics in the Sacred Chamber, her special
room. You will see it during your rite of passage."

A sudden fear crept over Justin. "What's she going to do
to me?" he asked.

Duma smiled. "Do not fear. It is a great honor to pleasure
the goddess. She herself will initiate you into the Well of
Love. This is very rare. It is because you arc to head the
monastery at Rashimpur that she accords this honor to you."

"You mean I'm going to have to . . ." He remembered the
bizarre drawing of the two figures sitting on each other's
backsides- "How will she do it?"

"Oh, the usual way," Duma said offhandedly.

Justin looked down.

"It's very simple. The woman lies on the bottom, and the
man gets on top of her."

"But how does it feel?"

Duma stared at him for a moment, then turned her eyes
away, embarrassed. "I don't know," she said quietly. "I've
never done it either."

He brightened. "You haven't?"

"But I've watched. It looks easy, and the partners always
seem to enjoy themselves."

"Well, I don't know . . . How old is Varja?"

"She is as old as the forests and the sea, as old as the
world, the heavens, and Brahma himself."

Justin raised his eyebrows. He wasn't sure he wanted to
assume the ridiculous posture in the drawing with a woman
who was even older than Tagore.

"It's getting to be light," Duma said. "I must return."

Justin stayed in the garden, endlessly watching the tangerine-
colored fish swim circles in the little pool. Spending more

196 GRANDMASTER

time in the palace of Varja no longer seemed like a terrible
ordeal. In fact, he began to wonder what the time without
Duma would be like.

She was the first friend he'd ever had. As a child, being
shifted around from one relative to another during his father's
long absences, he'd had no opportunity to be close to anyone
his age. Even the other boys he met at the occasional chess
tournaments he played in were opponents, not friends. There
was usually little socializing during the tournaments, anyway.
At Rashimpur, there were others of his age, but there had
been too many difficulties. In the first place, Justin had spent
the past five years just learning to speak the languages the
monks used- No one in the monastery, with the exception of
Tagore, spoke English, and Tagore had curtailed their Englisif
conversations as soon as Justin had learned an elementary
vocabulary in Hindi. But the major obstacle with the other
chela at the monastery was that Justin was set apart by his
position. He was Patanjali, the Wearer of the Blue Hat, and
the other young boys were not willing to risk the wrath of
Justin's dormant spirit by accidentally offending him. They
treated him with courtesy and deference, but never with
intimacy. The short time he spent in the garden with Duma
was his first real conversation with someone his own age.

After I leave this place, I'll never see Duma again, he
thought, and the thought made him sad. She was so like him,
and yet so different. And she was beautiful, no matter what
she thought of herself.

When daylight broke fully, the women brought him baskets
of succulent fruits, a bowl of nce, some smoked fish, some
odd pickled vegetables, and a dish of spicy chutney. He ate,
but he was preoccupied. He was looking for Duma, waiting
for her to awaken. When she finally came into the room,
again draped in her heavy veil, he nearly ran to her.

"Will you join me for breakfast?" he asked.

The room fell into an immediate silence. "It would not be
proper," Duma whispered.

"Why not?"

"Because I am unpresentable. Please pick one of the others."

"I don't want to eat with any of the others. I want you.
And can't you take that thing off?"

There was a low murmur in the room, and he heard a few

The Grandmaster               197

giggles. Saraha, who had placed herself next to Justin, moved
to make space for Duma.

"AH right," Duma said. "If you insist. But 1 must not
remove the veil."

He accepted her condition. For the moment. He had a plan.
"Duma, you've got to get more confidence in yourself," he
said as he took the first bite out of a pear.

"How is that possible?"

"I'm going to teach you. Is the garden always deserted? I
haven't seen anyone in it besides us since I got here."

"It is more seemly for women to remain indoors," Duma
said formally. "But since you are our honored guest, we will
accompany you to the garden if it is your wish."

"It is my wish," Justin said. "But not everyone. Just
you."

Duma bowed slightly in acquiescence, then followed him
out.

Near the farthest comer of the garden, where the others
could not see them, Justin took Duma by both shoulders and
sat her down on a bench beside a huge white azalea bush in
full bloom. "Now," he said, "I've been thinking about this
for a long time, and I think it'll work. But first, you've got to
get rid of this." He lifted her veil. ^

"No, you mustn't . . ."

"No one will see," Justin assured her. "Besides, if 1 don't
think you're ugly, then what's the harm?"

"It is only your strange eyes that find beauty where there is
none."

"That's not true. My eyes are as good as anyone's. It's
your eyes that don't see what's really there. Now, look into
my eyes."

"Why?" she asked, smiling shyly.

"Just do it. Okay, what do you see?"

"I see myself," Duma said.

"Keep looking. And say, 'She's beautiful.' "

"Who is?"

"The girl in my eyes."

"But I can't. That would be a dreadful lie."

"Do you dare to call your honored guest ugly?"

"Oh, no," she said, confused. "That's not what I meant."

"Your reflection's in my eyes, isn't it? It's part of me. So
say it."

198 GRANDMASTER

Duma peered guiltily into the turquoise eyes. "She is
beautiful," she said softly. She looked miserable.

"Say it again. I command it."

Duma hesitated. "She is beautiful," she said finally.

"Once more."

"She is . . ." She stepped back. "I don't look so different
from you, after all."

"Except for one thing. You're more beautiful." Duma
could see from his face that he meant it. He plucked a sprig
of blossoms from the bush and eased them into her hair
behind her ear- "Now come with me," he said gently.

He led her by the hand to the goldfish pond and made her
bend over it. "Now what do you see?*'

The swimming fish caused the surface of the water to
ripple, but he waited with her. Softly he placed his hand
around her waist. Duma was a giantess compared with the
other women, but in his arms she felt small and fragile. She
made a point of not looking at him, but he could feel her
trembling.

"There." he said. "The water's still."

For a moment, Duma's face shimmered in the water. With
the white flowers next to her skin, she looked like some sort
of forest sprite. Then a fat, shiny fish leaped in an arc out of
the water, and Duma's reflection disappeared-

She straightened up slowly. When she did, Justin was
facing her. "She's beautiful," he whispered, raising her chin
and kissing her on the mouth.

There was a rush of activity from the harem. When Duma
turned to took, five or six women had gathered at the doorway.

"Oh, no!" she gasped. "I forgot to replace the veil."
Amid the women's exclamations, she pulled the veil over her
face and ran toward the palace. But before she reached the
doorway, she turned to face Justin once more. Then slowly,
deliberately, she raised the veil once more from her face.

And Justin knew what it was that he had missed so much.

The days passed quickly, and they were filled with Duma:

She was constantly with him, and he was never bored. She
taught him the basics of painting and sculpture, and per-
suaded Rakhta to show him some chords on her vina, al-
though Justin never did accustom himself to the sound. In
time, the other girls became used to the young man who had

The Grandmaster               199

spumed their advances, and accepted him as part of the
household. Justin gardened, filling the harem with huge bou-
quets of flowers. He delighted the women, and himself, with
displays of strength learned during his six years at Rashimpur.
He read the books of poetry that the women studied, and kept
them spellbound at night with the stories and legends Tagore
had told him.

And always there was Duma. She refused to wear her veil
any longer, and, to her surprise, none of the others objected.
Wherever Justin was, she was at his side, and together they
filled the pa!a(e with laughter.

She was changed. She took his hand easily, smiled often;

the weight of a hundred years seemed to lift off her shoulders
along with the ungainly veil. But the one unspoken question
remained hanging like a cloud over them all: What will
happen when he leaves?

"Patanjaii, are there no women at Rashimpur?" Saraha
asked, her fat cheeks dimpling-

"No, tittle one, there are none at all," Justin said.

"Then will you take us with you?" She looked despondent
as some of the older girls giggled. "He is the only one who
has not required us to give our bodies," she exclaimed to
them angrily.

Duma stopped her. "It is an honor to give pleasure to those
whom Varja deems worthy of us."

Saraha made a face. "I still don't like it- They never even
talk to us. Patanjaii is different. Oh, will you take me with
you?" she asked eagerly.

Justin touched her hair. "This is not in my power," he said
softly.

Saraha's eyes moistened. Thrusting out her lower lip to
control her tears, she left the room. An uncomfortable silence
settled in the air.

But no more than two hours later, the plump little giri was
back, her chubby face radiant. "I have asked her," she
announced breathlessly.

"Asked whom, Saraha?" Duma asked.

"Varja. I have gone to Varja herself!" The girt practically
squealed with excitement.

Duma blanched. "Saraha. you should not have done that.
It is forbidden to disturb the goddess before one is called."

"It was all right," she reassured the group. "I asked her if

200 GRANDMASTER

we could all go to Rashimpur one day for a visit. Then we
can see Patanjali again!"

"And she said yes?" Duma asked.

"Almost. She told me to visit her in the Sacred Chamber
tomorrow to receive her answer."

The girls clapped their hands over their mouths.

"It is a miracle," one of them said.

Duma explained to Justin. "We have never left this place,
not even for a day. We have been here since we were
children. These palace walls are all most of us remember."

Justin looked around at the women, as if for the first time.
"How did you all get here?"

Duma lowered her eyes. "For many of us, like Saraha. the
selection to serve in the palace of Varja was an honor for the
entire village of the girl's birth. Saraha was picked because
she has no marks. She is perfect," Duma said proudly.

Saraha hugged her. "Oh, Duma, you're perfect, too. You're
the smartest of all of us, and the nicest. What does it matter
that you were ..." Her eyes slid guiltily toward Justin.

"It's all right," Duma said gently. She held up her head
and looked Justin square in the eye. "I was sold by my
family to Varja when I was five years old," she said. "This
was not my doing, and so I feel no shame."

"Where are you from?" Justin asked-

"A cold country; I remember little about it. But it-is^the
same place where the man I will be given to now lives."

Justin felt a stab of jealousy. "You should be allowed to
choose your own mates," he said.

"Oh, we don't mate," Saraha said. "Only Duma. She's
special. The rest of us—"

"Silence!" Duma snapped.

Her anger surprised Justin. Then he looked at the women.
"You're all young," he said with wonder. "If you don't
mate, then what happens to you when you get old?"

Saraha blinked, thinking. *'I don't know. Do you know,
Duma?"

A sound rose in Duma's throat. With a choked sob, she ran
into the garden.

"Duma," Justin called, going after her.

"Leave me alone!" she cried.

The other women left. Justin said good night to Saraha. He
spent the rest of the night alone. It was not until late the next

The Grandmaster              201

morning, after they heard the scream, that Justin began to
understand Varja.

The doors of the Sacred Chamber, usually locked, were
flung wide. Rakhta was the first to pass it, the first to see the
white-draped bier in the center of the room. On top of the
bier, high above the heads of the observers who rushed in
after Rakhta's warning, lay Saraha. She was dressed in a sari
of white brocade. Her hair had been combed into a formal
style, with silver ornaments. She was not breathing.

Justin stood staring in horrified silence until Duma gently
took his arm. "We shall go now," she said.

"Did Varja kill heff" Justin asked when they left the
Sacred Chamber.

"It is not death." Duma said fiercely. "It is life-in-death."

Justin was puzzled. Life-in-death? That was what the monks
practiced. It was the state in which he had first seen Sadika,
before the old leader permitted his spirit to leave and his body
to crumble to ash But only the most experienced practitioners
of yoga could accomplish the feat of stilling the life processes
for more than a week. Saraha was twelve.

"But life-in-death is a voluntary process," he said. "It
could not have happened to her against her wilt."

Duma turned to him quickly. Her eyes were red-rimmed
and feverish. "It is not we who practice life-in-death," she
choked. "This is Varja's punishment on Saraha for wanting
to leave the palace."

"But how . . ."

"You wanted to know what happens to us when we grow
old?" she raged. "You have seen it! And there is more.
There is much, much . . ." She sobbed.

Justin put his arms around her. For a moment she sank
against him with relief, but she pulled herself back. "No. Do
not touch me. Varja is a jealous goddess. There is danger for
both of us. For all of us, now."

"Duma . . ." He looked at the somber faces of the women.
They seemed to edge away from him in a group. "Please tell
me. What do you call life-in-death?"

After a silence, one of the older women spoke. "It is the
way Varja keeps us eternally beautiful," she said evenly. "We
are made to sleep. And when Varja determines that we sleep
no longer, we wake."

"And we are always beautiful," another girl said.

202- GRANDMASTER

"I don't think that's true," Justin said simply.

"It is! There have been those among us who have been
restored after life-in-death. When they awaken, they arc no
longer wicked. They are obedient to Varja. They carry her
magic with them."

"Who among you?"

"They are not permitted to remain after they are brought
back," Duma said.

Justin had no more to say. The women had seen the victim
of an irrational vengeance, yet they accepted and defended
Varja.

"Soon the night of your rite of passage will arrive," Duma
said.

On the thirtieth day of his visit, Justin was escorted at
sunset into the Sacred Chamber of Varja.

He had been permitted no food or drink that day, and the
hunger and thirst accentuated his fear of the goddess.

His preparations had begun at dawn, when Duma came to
wake him. She was again wearing the heavy veil, and her
movements were stiff and formal.

"Our sister Saraha has been removed from the Sacred
Chamber." she said.

Saraha's body had remained on view for three days, since
the morning when the lifeless young girl was found. Justin
had watched the body many times, looking for the inevitable
decomposition of death. But there was none. The girl had
remained as fresh and lifelike as she had been when she was
living among them.

"What has Varja done with her?" he asked.

Duma shrugged. "We do not see the punished ones. But it
is said that sometimes the goddess prepares the minds of
those who live in death to assume a new life outside this
place."

"How does she prepare their minds?"

"We are mortals, Patanjali- Perhaps you, as the son of
Creation, can understand how the goddess transfers her thoughts
to another, but I cannot. All we know here is that the unfortu-
nate ones who have displeased Varja appear to die, but do not
die. They remain forever young; that is all we know."

"But what happens when the women here grow older?"
Justin asked.

The Grandmaster               203

Duma turned her head. "No one grows old here," she said
quietly. "Saraha's turn came early, butcher fate would have
been the same ten years from now."

Justin could hardly believe his ears. "You—you alt . . ."
He couldn't bring himself to finish the thought.

She took his hand. "It is not painful. No one has ever cried
out. There are no marks. And perhaps there is another life,
after the time of life-in-death, as the stories say-"

"I won't let her do that to you," Justin said.

Duma smiled. "It will not happen to me- I am not worthy
of life-in-death. Because of my ugliness, I will be the first
among us in the palace to leave."

"To whore for some man you don't even know," Justin said
with disgust.

Duma's eyes were level. "If that is Varja's wish," she said
softly. She got to her feet. "Come. The ritual of your man-
hood will begin tonight. This is your last day with us."

Justin was stunned. "My last . . . How do you know?"

"The goddess Varja sent for me. She is pleased that you
have refused to take other women into your bed. So she will
be the first," Duma said dully.

"But I want you to be the first! I've been waiting for
you!"

"It was not to be," Duma said. She spoke breathlessly,
whispering over the catch in her throat. "You were sent not
for me, but for Varia. When this night is over, you will return
to your life, and I to mine. Nothing will have changed. Our
destinies are not to meet."

"No, Duma," he said, clasping her tightly by her shoulders-
"It was always you. I stayed only because of you. I wanted
so much for you to like me . . ."

"Stop," she gasped. She pried his hands loose. "You will
not look on me again. It is best." She left the room quickly.

Duma alone was absent from the Sacred Chamber as Justin
arrived. The other women stood with their backs against all
four walls. Each was dressed in her finest clothes and wore a
small transparent veil over the lower half of her face. In the
center of the room, where Saraha's funeral bier had been,'
now stood a huge cube of white silk that billowed with the
softest breeze.

When the room was utterly still, two of the women drew

204 GRANDMASTER

apart the thick flowing fabric of the enormous cube in the
middle of the room, facing Justin. Behind it was a bed of
embroidered silk pillows, heavily scented. A woman lay in
the center of it. Justin had no doubt about who it was. He was
seeing the goddess at last, and the sight filled him with
disgust-

Varja was painted like a ceremonial doll. Her face and
body were covered with intricate patterns in red and black.
Small gemstones swirled in lines from her chin to her temples.
In the center of her forehead was painted a realistic third eye,
unblinking and terrifying. Not an inch of bare skin surface
showed.

The terrifying abbess he had seen for the first time at his
own investiture had been breathtaking; now Justin realized
that her beauty had come from her externals—the shimmering
jeweled robe of crimson, the palanquin in which she rode,
which was worthy of a goddess. But up close, was she a
beauty? He could not tell because the artful painting hid her
face and body from his eyes.

The cushions she lay on were supported by a large, flat,
black-lacquered platform. On it, around the edges of the bed,
was a collection of artifacts—polished bronze bottles, jade
and silver bowls, golden statuettes.

As the curtains parted, the women lining the walls dropped
to their knees, their heads bowed almost to the ground. Justin
stared at her sullenly, refusing to kneel to Saraha's killer. The
moment was tense. Varja, in her submissive position, edged
upward slightly, her painted eyes narrowed. The women along
the walls tensed, shifting their heads to look at the boy who
defied the goddess.

Justin swallowed, feeling his face flush, but he did not
move. Varja was no deity as far as he was concerned. She
was an obscene, painted grotesquerie who lay exposed in
front of him like the cheapest harlot, and he would not bow to
her.

Then he felt a soft brush of fabric behind him, and a scent
he recognized, sweet and gentle as spring. He didn't have to
turn around to know it was Duma. Her long fingers rested on
his shoulders with gentle authority, and when they pressed
him downward, he did not resist- The goddess Varia was a
slut, not worthy of even his attention; but for Duma, he

The Grandmaster              205

would do anything. He knelt, but his eyes never lowered, and
never lost the look of contempt they held.

Her pride satisfied, Varja lay back down on the mounds of
silken pillows and gave a signal with a flick of her two-inch-
long fingernails to the woman closest to her. The woman was
the oldest of the group. She acquiesced with a bow, then
reached into the folds of the cloth surrounding the bed to
extract a bowl of gleaming gold. Handling it carefully, she
passed the bowl to the next in line, and so it progressed until
it reached Justin. He stared at the bowl for a moment; then his
gaze shifted disdainfully back to Varja.

Duma accepted the bowl. "You must drink this," she
whispered.

"What is it?" Justin growled, his eyes never leaving Varja.

"It is the cup. It is part of the ritual."

"What's in it?"

Duma sighed. "I do not know. But it is very important. If
you do not drink, it will offend the goddess."

"She offends me," he said.

"Please, Patanjali." Her face was covered, but the pres-
sure of her hand around his expressed her urgency. "If you
displease the goddess, she will punish us all."

He turned to face Duma. "Tell her I'll drink if you can
remove your veil."

A small gasp escaped Duma's lips. "Patanjali I cannot..."

Before she could finish. Justin took hold of the veil himself
and raised it. "So that the beauty of all incarnations of
Saraswati may please Brahma," he said formally.

Varja's eyes flashed with an evil glance at Duma's face,
but she said nothing. Then Justin nodded curtly and drank a
small sip from the golden bowl.

The taste of the milky liquid was bitter and pungent. He
swallowed it with difficulty. As he gave the bowl back to
Duma, Varja smiled. It was a tight, evil expression, her jaws
strained and her eyes hard. She nodded once, slowly, and the
women began to leave, bowing as they rose.

"Not you," Justin said, taking Duma's hand.

"Patanjali, I cannot . . ."

He didn't hear the rest of what she said. He was reeling,
stumbling to remain on his feet. His vision blurred. The
drink. Whatever was in it was having a powerful effect. He
clasped Duma's hand more tightly. "She stays," he said,

206 GRANDMASTER

forcing himself to speak Hindi. The volume of his words
surprised him. He could not control his voice.

Varia took her eyes off him and shifted them toward the
girl. There was malice in them, but she said nothing. Instead,
staring intently at Duma, her tight-lipped smile like a cat's,
the goddess pulled aside the silk covering over her lap and
spread her thighs wide.

Duma lowered her head. She was shaking. On the inside of
VarJa's thighs were painted a hundred figures depicting cou-
ples engaged in sexual acts. Justin felt a shudder of revulsion.

"Very well,'* Varia said at last. "She may stay." They
were the first words Justin had heard her speak, and they
were filled with a perverse triumph. "Come," she commanded.

Justin looked at Duma, trying hard to focus on the girl. The
room was swimming around him. "Please do as she says,"
Duma whispered. With some difficulty, Justin mounted the
bed.

The cup. Swimming around the soup of disjointed images
in his head was the cup Tagore had given him to present to
Varja. It sat on the low ledge that surrounded the bed, along
with many other artifacts, some very old—a staff, jeweled
and gilded, and a rock that glittered ... the stone of Dinrath.
It had belonged to the monastery at Labrang. Tagore had told
Justin that the monastery had burned to the ground. Soldiers,
he said. Fire.

Mixed with the swirling, vague sights in the room was a
sudden remembrance of a dream. A dream of fire, burning
the Tree of the Thousand Wisdoms, burning it all to the
ground . . .

But fire melted gold- The stone of Dinrath should have
vanished in the flames.

They give their relics to Varja. They worship her.

Something was wrong, very wrong. The monks at Labrang
did not worship Varja any more than those at Rashimpur did.
Tagore had told Justin that the stone had been stolen.

Stolen?

"Show me your manhood," Varia commanded-

Justin looked down, confused, at his limp member. The
stone of Dinrath. Fire. Something in the drink. Fire to come.
He gasped involuntarily as he spotted another relic on the
ledge. It was a golden vessel from the monastery at Pemiongchi.
Also burned.

The Grandmaster              207

"You stole them," Justin said groggily. "You led the
soldiers to the monasteries to destroy them. You took the
relics from their rightful place."

Varja ignored him, looking with contempt at his groin.
With a flick of her hand, she commanded Duma to prepare
him.

He felt the girl's slender, trembling fingers untie the cord at
his waist, then touch his bare skin.

"Duma," he said softly. "Duma." He felt himself harden
at her touch. It was all so confusing. There was a woman in
front of him, tattooed and leering, her legs opened in invitation.
There were the relics of the tost holy places surrounding the
ugly, wanton thing, focused, it seemed, around the unblink-
ing third eye in the center of her forehead. There was the
misty unreality of the chamber, and a feeling of nausea in
Justin's stomach.

Tagore should never have sent me to this place, he thought.
The monks didn't know. Varja is evil, a ragged, smelly,
contemptible thing.

And then there were the soft white hands on him, hands
that smelled of kindness and desire. Duma was touching him,
and Duma became all there was in the strange, convoluted
world of the milky white liquid he had been made to drink.
Duma, I have always wanted you. I will always be yours. The
man you were promised/or will never own you, I promise. I
will kill to prevent it, if I have to: I will even leave Rashimpur.
But I will never let you go because I love you as I have never
loved anything. I love you. Duma.

"Come to me." The woman's voice was deep and passion-
ate and wet with experience.

The tumescence between his legs was unbearable. He leaned
forward, searching. "Duma," he sighed. "Duma, it was
always you." He opened his eyes. And there, in front of him,
lay a three-eyed monster with foul breath and paint melting
from the sweat on her face.

Then Duma screamed, and Justin saw the knife at his
throat. One of Varia's hands was clasping the amulet around
his neck while the other brought down a razor-sharp blade.

In an instant Justin was m the air, not fully realizing what
was happening, his mind still murky from the drug, but
following the instinctive commands of his body. He had been
trained to respond quickly, without thought, at a sign of

208 GRANDMASTER

danger. In that blinding moment when he saw the three-eyed
woman lunge for his throat with the jeweled blade glittering
in her hand, he ceased to remember that she was a goddess,
or that he was in her presence at the request of his mentor, or
that the knife might be a painless part of the ritual. All he
knew was that someone was trying to kill him. He responded
by first knocking the blade out of Varja's hand, sending it
clattering to the floor while the goddess watched its trajectory
with amazement, and then slapping Vaija hard across her face
with the back of his hand. She reeled as she let go of the
medallion around Justin's neck.

Duma propelled herself backward, aghast. She struck the
wall behind her. Her face was ashen, and the fingers she
raised to her mouth were shaking with fright.

Biting the inside of his cheeks to stay alert, he grasped her
by the arm and forced her toward the doorway.

"Leave. Now," he said.

"I cannot," Duma answered breathlessly. "You struck the
goddess ..."

"Your goddess tried to kill me for my amulet, and she
won't think anything about killing you."

"Patanjati ..."

He threw her bodily into the hall. In the same motion, he
whirled around to return to the bed where Varja still lay,
stunned, the paint on her face smeared. He picked up the
bowl of milky liquid that he had been made to drink. There
was still some of the concoction left in the bottom. With a
sound of utter disdain, he flung the liquid in Varja's face.

"You're no goddess," he said with disgust- "You're noth-
ing more than a pillager of monasteries and a killer of men
and women." His anger had cleared his head. Every other
emotion had been replaced by a searing rage. He pulled back
his arm to strike her again, then let it go. No violence would
bring back Saraha. No matter how strong his hatred was, it
would never restore the monasteries that Varja had looted and
destroyed. All he could do now was to save Duma, because
she would surely be Varja's next victim.

Duma was sprawled on the floor in the corridor outside the
Sacred Chamber. "I'm sorry," Justin said, picking her up as
deftly as he could manage. "Let's get out of here."

"But the others. My home—"

"1 will tell the monks at Rashimpur. They will help the

The Grandmaster               209

others. But your home is with me." He pulled her through
the garden and out into the open fields.

The night sky was swirling with stars. Despite his fear and
concern for Duma, he could hardly keep his eyes open. He
tripped over a stone, landing painfully on his face. "So
clumsy," he said, struggling to right himself.

"Even Patanjali is not completely immune to life-in-death.
But he is very strong." She stroked his face with her long
fingers. "I suspected that Varja meant to kill you with the drink
she offered, but I could not believe she would do such a
thing. Now I believe. Oh, Patanjali, will you ever forgive
me? I should have known."

Justin smiled. "How could you have known? I didn't know

myself."

"The drink. It was the same as one I remembered."

Justin was startled to alertness. "She gave it to you?"

"Not me. Another." Duma put her arm beneath Justin's to
help him walk- "When I was quite young, perhaps six or
seven, I tried to escape from this place. There is something
evil in Varja's palace. I could almost smell it. 1 cried myself
to sleep every night after I was brought here. Then one day a
friend—an older girl who was kind to me despite my ugliness—
ran away, through the garden, just as we came. 1 begged her
to let me come with her, and she allowed me."

"Where did you go?"

"Far away. To the west, it seemed. We traveled for many
days. But Vaija found us."

"How?"

"She has men. They live beneath the palace. They are"—
she choked—"they are vile men who live like beasts.
Varia lets them use us whenever they want. We were not
permitted to speak of them to outsiders, but they are always
in the palace. They'll come looking for us soon." She pointed
into the distance. "There is a small cave nearby. My friend
and 1 passed it when we escaped, but we did not stop there."

"What happened when Varja's men found you?" Justin
asked, trying to keep himself awake by talking. "Were you
punished?"

"I was made to wear the veil from that day. Varja said that
my ugliness would someday be known to all the world. But I
was very young, and the goddess had plans for me."

210 GRANDMASTER

"You don't have to worry about those plans anymore,
Duma.''

Duma slowed. "Varja's plans arc always fulfilled," she
said softly. "My friend was not so fortunate. She was given
the bowl to drink, as you were. I was made to watch her. Her
punishment was life-in-death."

"Like Saraha."

Duma nodded. "And like Saraha, she never returned. The
others speak of those who return after life-in-death, but I
don't believe the legends are true. My friend is dead. And
Saraha is dead."

They walked in silence to a cave in the foothills of the
great Himalayan peaks that surrounded them.

"They will not find us here," Duma said. "It is dark, and
they will walk beyond this place, to where my friend and I
escaped before- You can steep here, PatanjaU."

"No, I mustn't—"

"It's all right. You will not succumb to life-in-death now.
You are only tired."

Justin felt himself sinking into the cold earth of the cave
floor. "But I should watch ... for you ..."

Duma smiled. "I will watch. Patanjali. There is no danger
now."

"Duma," Justin whispered, taking her hand. The stillness
of the cave enveloped them like a womb. "Will you stay with
me forever?"

Duma lowered her head. "I cannot stay with you at
Rashimpur."

"Then we will leave Rashimpur."

"But you are the leader of the monastery. You are Patanjali."

"And you are the woman I love. I did not choose to be
Patanjali. I don't even know if I am what the monks say I am.
But I know what you are." He caressed her face. "And 1
choose to be with you. if you'll have me."

Duma looked at him with sad eyes. "We cannot chart our
own destinies," she said at last. "If we are meant to be as
one, then we shall be. But if we are not ... if anything
should happen ... I will always remember, Patanjali. I will
always love you- I will save my heart for you."

"Do you promise?"

"I promise."

"Then I do, too- Duma, I will have no woman but you."

The Grandmaster               211

Then he touched her, and she held him, and he loved her in
the quiet cave, feeling the pain of her first experience, enter-
ing her darkness, exploding with joy, and he was glad he had
waited for her, and he knew that if he'd had to wait forever,
he would have waited, because no other love was possible for
him. And wrapped in the warm smoothness of her flesh,
feeling her beating heart next to his own, Justin slept.

Rough hands awoke him, yanking his head backward,
dragging him out from the cave into a night bright with fire.

Duma was gone. In the distance, in front of a huge bonfire,
wavered the shapeless forms of women whose screams pierced
the stillness of the mountain night.

"Duma!" Justin shouted, but there was too much noise
and confusion for him to hear even his own voice m the
sudden din. Big men with black-painted faces held him down
as his wrists and ankles were tied.

"Patanjali!" someone called from the distance. It was not
Duma's voice, but one he recognized from among the women
at the palace. As his eyes adjusted to the sudden brightness of
the fire, he saw that the women were bound together in a
circle surrounding the fire. He searched for Duma, but could
not see her.

"What do you want with me?" he shouted.

The men didn't answer. Then, from the directions of Varja's
palace came the jeweled palanquin of the goddess, borne by
four men. When it approached Justin, the silk curtains of the
carrier parted, and Vaija, again resplendent in floor-length
robes, stepped out.

"What have you done with her?" Justin rasped.

"Your accomplice will serve you no longer," she said.
Her face held a look of malicious victory.

"You've killed her, you filthy whore!"

Varja raised her hand. "Ah. but you underestimate me,
Patanjali. Killing is far too easy. Killing her, or kilting you.
No, my young fool. You shall live. For now."

She took a black cloth bag from a cord tied around her
waist and poured the contents into her hand. It looked like
black soot. She sprinkled the powder over Justin's face and
body.

"And this shall be your destiny," she intoned in the forma!
dialect of her sect. "To live with such suffering that you
yourself will seek death. To die with each breath of life. To

212 GRANDMASTER

be betrayed by all the gods. To be trusted by no one. To find
no shelter from pain and sorrow throughout all your days. To
see that which you love wither and die and be turned to dust.
To be betrayed by your own heart. This to you, Patanjali, is
the blessing of Varia and all the power at her command. And
then, on the day that 1 will it, you will die and be no more."

Then she raised her hands high. and the men who served
her left Justin to form an outer circle around the women.
Justin watched, horrified, as they drew long sabers and held
them aloft.

"What are they doing?" Justin asked, stunned. Surely . . .
Not the women . . .

She lowered her arms. It was a definite, unmistakable
command. And as Justin screamed with horror at the realiza-
tion of what was about to happen, the guards hacked the
heads off the women, one by one, and kicked the bodies into
the flames.

"This is the beginning," Varia said softly as she mounted
her palanquin. Her eyes gleamed. She was smiling.

At daybreak, after the men were gone, when the fire had
settled to smoldering ashes and the stench of burning flesh
had disappeared, Justin was able to release himself from the
thick bonds that tied him. He walked to the site of the fire,
feeling as if he had died along with the women.

There was nothing of Duma. A few bones and undistinguish-
able shapes—burned meat—rested among the coals. Nothing
else remained. Nearby, he could hear the shuffling of hyenas
coming to feast on the dead, to lick the charred bones of his
!ove.

Using his hands, Justin covered the pit with earth, then
walked back to the monastery at Rashimpur.

Varja's curse had already come to pass, he thought. He
would seek his own death, and welcome it when it came.

The sooner the better.

.CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

There was a noise from the base of the hill in front of Yva's
small house. Justin sat boll upright.

"Yva!" a voice rang out. "I have to talk to you now, Yva.
It's important."

"It's Jozek," Yva said, scrambling to her feet. She pressed
her fingers to her lips and gestured for Justin to stay down.
Hurriedly, she put on her dress and called, "What is it?" as
she picked her way down the hillside among the traps-

J6zek was visibly nervous, hisJhin fingers twitching. "The
medallion," he said without preamble. His eyes darted in alt
directions. "I—I sold it to a Russian soldier."

"Pig!" she began.

"There isn't much time. Listen to me," J6zek said, shak-
ing her, his voice hushed and irritated. "That was a week
ago. I went to Krakow and sold it to a soldier there. Today
they came—to my house—to take me back to Krakow. There
was this big-shot officer from Moscow. He had the medallion,
and wanted to know where I got it. They kept me for six
hours. I had no water; I was terrified."

"And so you told him," Yva said simply.

"I gave him the long route, through Lubsana. They won't
be here for a while- Yva, you have to get that man out of
your house, out of the area. He's wanted, a criminal maybe.
If the soldiers find him here, they'll destroy everyone in the
village. As it is, they'll know I led them on a goose chase
around Czeskow."

213

214 GRANDMASTER

Yva stuck out her chin. "Why should I believe you? You
don't care anything about the village. And neither do I."

J6zek hung his head. "They brought the doctor along,
too," he said. "They wanted to know if it was the same man
he'd looked after before. This man rose from the dead, Yva.
There's something terrible about him." He shook his head.
Spittle formed in the comer of his mouth. "The Russians
want him bad. He must be a big underground leader or
something. The doctor told me to warn you. He's in the
village now, telling everybody to bury their valuables in case
of fire." He scanned the dark house on top of the hill. "We
have to move fast. I'll help you cany him out- Can he move
at all?"

"Don't come," she said, pushing him back. "He can
move. He's—he's already gone."

"Well, all right," J6zek said uncertainly. "I'm not going
to stick around to find out if you're telling me the truth or
not. I only came because the doctor's a good man. But don't
let the Russians find your pretty boy here."

Yva ran up the hill without another word.

"You have to leave," she whispered to Justin. "Now.
There's no time to explain, but get out. Get as far away as
possible for the next few days." She spoke while she gath-
ered some dried fruit and a jug of water.

"Are you in danger? I'll wait nearby, where I can watch."

"No! The soldiers are looking for you. If they find you
here, they'll kill you, and me, and everyone else for miles
around. Just listen to me, and don't argue." She thrust the
parcels at him and pushed him toward the door. "They'll be
coming from Lubsana, to the west. So head east, and keep
moving. Things ought to be clear in a day or so."

Justin felt helpless. Why was he running again? "I don't
know any soldiers," he said. "What do they want me for?"

"They say you rose from the dead. What difference does it
make? Don't waste time thinking. Just go." She shoved him
into the darkness-

The jeep came within twenty minutes. To Yva's surprise,
there was only one man inside, a Russian colonel.

Yva rushed outside. "What's your business?" She shouted.

"I am Colonel Alexander Zharkov. 1 am looking for a man
named Justin Gilead. An American."

An American! In her wildest dreams, Yva had not imagined

The Grandmaster              215

that the beautiful boy with no memory was an American. She
wondered if Justin even knew it himself. "There is no -one
here except me," she said.

Zharkov got out of the jeep. "I'll see for myself, if you
don't mind."

"Wait," she said, picking her way among the hidden
traps- "I'll bring you up." The traps were her only weapon.
It would be wise, she knew, not to show her hand too
quickly.

Zharkov scanned the inside of the house cursorily, kicking
the straw of the bed. flinging Yva's few articles of clothing to
the floor. At last, he came to the large wooden table covered
with sewing materials. He swept them away with one arm.
Beneath, etched into the grain of the wood, was Justin's
drawing of the coiled snake.

Zharkov looked at her levelly. Slowly he took out his
pistol. "Where is he?"

Yva swallowed. "I never knew his name. He left several
days ago. I took his medallion as payment for looking after
him. I was going to turn him over to the authorities when he
was well . . ."

"How many days?"

"Three," she said without hesitation. "He was sick until
then."

"What did he tell you about himself?"

"Nothing. He couldn't talk."

Something in the fireplace caught Zharkov's eye. He walked
over to it, keeping the Tokarev trained on the woman- Reach-
ing into the flames with a poker, he pushed out the charred
comer of a checkerboard.

"You're lying," he said evenly. He threw the board at her
feet. "I'll be back."

After he left, Yva sat down, shaking. The danger was
momentarily past, but he would come back with his men.
That was a certainty. They would comb the woods for a man
traveling on foot. They would guess his direction once
they realized that J6zek had given them the wrong route.
They would alert the other villages to look for Justin. And
Czeskow . . .

There was a cry and a thump from in front of the house.
For the first time since she'd buried her dead child, Yva
crossed herself. The Russian officer had found the traps.

216 GRANDMASTER

Peering out the door cautiously, she watched for movement.
Zharkov lay on the slope, his arms flung wide, his head
bleeding against a rock.

Yva scrambled down the hill to him. First, she picked up
the Russian's gun, which was lying a few feet from his right
hand, and threw it as far as she could into the shadows. Then
she searched the unconscious man for the medallion.

She found it in the inside pocket of his uniform jacket, still
wrapped in the piece of dirty cloth she had put it in. She
opened the cloth to be sure. The medallion was the same, and
again it felt warm in her hand.

"It is not yours," she mumbled softly to the unconscious
Russian officer. "Not yours."

She slipped away quietly and moved, with unerring instinct,
down the hill to the base of a large tree. Using a rock for a
tool, she dug a hole by the tree and buried the medallion.
Then she placed the rock over the hole as a marker.

Done. Now, whatever they did to her or to her house, the
medallion would be safe for Justin- She said his name aloud.
"Justin Gilead. An American." The thought of the strange
young man's powerful body, his tender yet strong arms,
made her heart beat faster.

She scooped dirt into her apron until it was full, then,
laboriously, handful by handful, pushed it all into the gas
^•mk of the jeep.

It was more than six miles to the village. Yva ran the
whole distance, planning, praying, regretting that she hadn't
shot the Russian officer with his own gun while she'd had the
chance.

But maybe things would be all right anyway. The Russian
would find his way back to his troops in time, she knew. but
that time might be enough for Justin to get away.

She found the doctor, rushing from one house to another.
warning the inhabitants about the approaching destruction.

"I need to speak to you," she said.

The doctor, exhausted and hoarse, took her arm. "Have
they come?"

She nodded. "One. But the rest will come. He knows the
stranger was there. There were things I couldn't hide."

The doctor sighed. "Then at least we have warning. Many
have fled already. Thank you for your concern."

"My concern isn't for you, or these people," Yva said

The Grandmaster               217

flatly, "1 want you to give the stranger a message if you see
him again. I ... may not."

"Nonsense, dear. You'll come with my family."

"No!" Yva shouted. "That would be suicide. The Russian
officer will be looking for me. I'll be safer in the woods. But
I want you to tell the stranger, if he comes back, that the
medallion is at the bottom of the hill, by the tree. He'll
understand."

"All right," the doctor said, "But you—"

"That message is only for him, understand? No one else.
No one. In exchange for this message, I'm warning you to get
whoever you care to out of Czeskow."

She walked back to the cabin. It was nearing dawn. She
longed for sleep, but there was still much to do. Zharkov
would be back with his men in a few hours. It was enough
time to pack some provisions and a blanket before she set out
to find Justin in the forest, but not enough time to hesitate,
even for a moment.

She stopped at the bottom of the hill, near the tree where
the coiled snake medallion was buried. The rock marker had
not been disturbed. The jeep, useless now, remained where
the officer had left it. Zharkov himself was gone, the trap
sprung, as she had expected.

But a faint, shadowy glow shone behind the brown oilskin
windows. A lamp. Had Justin returned already? Had he been
tricked by the calm into believing that nothing would happen?

She rushed up the hill. "Justin?"

"Yva."

"What are you doing here? What—"

The Tokarev was pointed directly at her face.

Zharkov grabbed the shoulder of her dress and pulled her
into the room. "Where's the medallion?" It was a command.

"It's—" She looked around. There was no place for her to
go now. "It's in Czechoslovakia by now."

Zharkov'sjaw clenched. "Where did you meet him?"

"Why should I tell you? Filthy Russian pig. It wasn't
yours."

"Tell me where he's gone!" Zharkov's voice was strangled.
He grabbed the girl by the neck and slammed her against the
wall, jamming the Tokarev into her temple. "Where?"

Yva's heart pounded. Her eyes unwillingly welled with
tears.

218 GRANDMASTER

"Where?" Zharkov repeated, pounding her skull against
the wood. She was his, he thought, the Grandmaster's woman,
and it gave him satisfaction to hurt her. "Is this how he takes
care of you? Is this how he looks after you?"

She managed to turn her head slightly. The round, fright-
ened face gathered into a mask of hatred. In one last, defiant
gesture, she spat in his face.

Zharkov fired the Tokarev.

The man who did not know his name was Justin Gilead
returned to the house the following night. There were soldiers
in the woods, heading east; they would long ago have passed
Yva Pradziad's house.

There seemed to be light everywhere, light and sound and
excitement. The lights usually visible from the village were
oddly extinguished, but there were other lights from the
roadways, and the sounds of horses and cattle carried from
isolated places on the wind.

He walked around the house silently, watching, listening.
No sound. No-light. Had she left? No soldiers. He entered
quietly, surprised to find that he could move without disturb-
ing even the pebbles under his feet. He had to have learned
that somewhere. Perhaps in the place where he'd gotten the

medallion.

"Yva," he whispered. Eve, the first woman. His mother,
his teacher, his friend.

He found her, bloody and decapitated. What remained of
her face was splattered over the fireplace. A box had been
tossed into the new ashes. Across her body were strewn its
contents; the chess pieces Justin had whittled from scrap
wood.

Justin moaned. A vision of a mutilated old man tied to a
burning tree came to him, followed by a nightmare sequence
of stilt photographs: bodies in a lake, a golden hall filled with
dead soldiers, a ring of headless women around a bonfire.
And now there was yet another picture. Once again, someone
who loved him had died in his place. Once again, the Prince
of Death had triumphed.

The sound stopped in his throat. In the distance, through
the numb, senseless blackness, he saw the village ofCzeskow
burning.

There was nothing left.

-CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Starcher squinted at the figure coming toward him through the
door to his hospital room. It was a fat man, young, from his
gait. His face was obscured, but the overhead fluorescent
lights shone through the mass of fuzzy hair on his head. The
man spoke softly to the American guard in the room, and the
guard left.

"Corfus," Starcher said. He had not spoken in so long that
his throat was unused to producing sound.

"Shhh. I had to get special dispensation to come here. Any
plumbers come around?" He smiled broadly at his own joke.
The KGB was famous for stashing surveillance devices in the
most unlikely places, on the off chance that the subject in
question would do or say something for the hugely overstaffed
secret police to dissect and analyze.

"I don't remember. You'd better take a look around."

Corfus searched the small curtained area around Starcher's
bed, pausing when a sullen nurse entered for a spot check.
After a long, cold look at Corfus, she left, and Corfus pulled
a small disc of plastic the size of a button off the electronic
buzzer attached to Starcher's bed.

"Thar she blows." the young man said, grinding the but-
ton under his heel. "There's probably more. Hold on." He
took a portable tape player from his pocket and turned on
loud rock music.

"They never stop, do they?" Starcher said.

Corfus leaned over the bed and spoke softly in Starcher's
ear. "You're being flown back to HQ."

219

220 GRANDMASTER

"When?"

"As soon as you're stable. They're afraid the goon squad'tl
put a bomb in your bedpan to make you talk."

Starcher exhaled. He seemed to disappear into the folds of
the sheets. "I guess this is it, then."

"Hey," Corfus said, pushing the old man's hair out of his
eyes. "You'll be back."

"Like hell," Slarcher said mildly. "Not at my age!"

There was a long and awkward silence. Corfus put his
hands in his pockets and shuffled his feet, then leaned for-
ward again. "Andy," he said quietly, "I don't know if
you're still interested in the Riesling business, but I think I've got
something."

Starcher eased himself up. "What is it?"

"The stuff in his pockets. Remember those fake passports?
He was trying to get someone—two people, a man and a
woman—out of the country."

"And?"

"And what he said to me. The stuff about Havana. I think
it might tie in."

"A code?" Starcher asked.

"Maybe. The thing that kept sticking in my head was
Havana. Why Havana? And then I read today in Pravda that
there's going to be a chess challenge match in Havana in a
couple of months. U.S. versus U.S.S-R. I don't know. It
might just be a red herring."

Starcher thought. "Riesling never operated in Cuba."

"Okay," Corfus said with a nod. "But just for argument's
sake, let's say he couldn't get Mr. and Mrs. X out of Moscow,
or wherever they are. Maybe he turned his stuff over to me so
that someone else could get them out."

Starcher blinked.

"And then I started to think about who would want to
defect. It wouldn't be anyone military, because Riesling dealt
with civilians, am I right? Scientists, that kind of thing. So
when I read the piece in Pravda—"

"A chess player."

"Bingo. So I started going over some past issues to see if I
could rout out anything about the big-deal chess players over
here. Any problems. What I came up with was this." He
leaned back to hand Starcher a Russian newspaper clipping.
The date, October 5, was scribbled over the top:

The Grandmaster

221

Toss

HELSINKI—The International Consortium of Pediatricians
convened early today at the Privm Hotel in Helsinki,
Finland. The main event of the day will be a symposium
on the relation between prenatal care and birth defects.
The symposium will be conducted by Dr. Lena Kutsenko,
chief pediatrician at Moscow University Medical Center.

"Ring a bell?" Corfus asked.

"Not Ivan Kutsenko," Starcher whispered incredulously.

"The same. Her husband's the world chess champion. Pride
and joy of Mother Russia."

"Riesling's cover was as a journalist for Associated Press
in Helsinki. And he started his last run the day after this
clipping."

"It fits. Andy. She could have approached him. I don't
know chess from dominoes, but I've heard rumors that
Kutsenko's awful nervous about the Havana match. There's
some talk out that if the team doesn't win, he may follow
Boris Spassky to the land of nonpersons. Russian chess champs
aren't allowed to lose."

"Well," Starcher said, "it's a good theory . . . but
Kutsenko."

"There's something else. I tried to get hold of Lena Kutsenko
at Moscow University Medical Center. Guess who's out of a
job."

"They fired her?"

Corfus shrugged. "She's not there. They said she left
because of ill health, but they wouldn't say when. It makes
me wonder if it isn't tied in somehow with the incident at the
Samarkand."

Starcher snorted. "1 wouldn't be surprised. Damn, I wish
I weren't out of this. Grabbing Kutsenko would at least give
some credibility to this travesty we're running over here. The
KGB boys practically laugh in my face as it is. They've got
God knows how many thousands of agents operating in the
States, while all we've got is an embassy and a handful of
. . . hell, they might as well be commandos for all the cover
they've got."

He was breathing heavily under the strain of his anger.
"The balls of them, shooting Riesling in a public place-

222 GRANDMASTER

Arrogant bastards And it's not just us. The West in general is
about as threatening to them as a Chiclet. Remember Ben
Barnes?"

Corfus said he'd read about the case. The Agency had
come out of that one looking like the fool of the Western
Hemisphere. After an espionage ring in New York was
uncovered, seven highly placed Soviet agents including a
Russian mole named Morody Gotst, who went under the
name Ben Barnes, were arrested. The Soviets agreed to a
trade, but there were so few Western spies in Russia that the
Soviets could only produce one prisoner in exchange for the
seven convicted Soviet spies, and the prisoner they did have
was no more than a low-level intermediary—utterly out of
Barnes's league. It was a bad trade, but the best the Western
powers could manage. After the incident, there was a flurry
of arbitrary arrests of Western tourists in Moscow. These
innocent people were offered, in what Starcher considered an
act of brazen arrogance, as trades for convicted Soviet espio-
nage agents incarcerated in the United States and Western
Europe.                                                ,

"They've got alt the latitude," Corfus said. "They can sit
in on sessions of Congress, go through the CIA files ..."

"We're a joke to them. But with Kutsenko . . ." He
curled his hand into a fist and laughed out loud, then lowered
his voice again while the rock music tape blared on. "Mike,
see that whoever replaces me follows through on this, will
you? I'd give my arm to see the faces in the Politburo if
Kutsenko ducked out."

"1*11 see to it, boss," Corfus said, smiting.

Starcher nodded. "I guess this is good-bye, then."

"I guess so. You'll be going home soon. I've turned in all
the paperwork."

"Good," Starcher said. "You've done well, Mike. Maybe
I'll see you again."

Corfus took his hand. "I hope so." He clicked off the tape
playing rock music and the room was marvelously silent.

But as Corfus lumbered away, Starcher knew he would
never see him again. American spies didn't have reunions the
way the Brits did, with their toasts and honors to their secret
heroes of yesteryear. There was something ludicrous in the
practice anyway, Starcher thought, as if a charade of

The Grandmaster

223

camaraderie could dispel the truth that intelligence agents
were as disposable as Kleenex. They functioned while they
could, and then they disappeared. No good-byes, no gold
watches. A short silence, pemaps, before the quiet walk
down the road to where death waited.

.CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The snow was swirling into whirlpools as Corfus walked
toward the metro on Ulyanovskaya Street. The old ladies with
their brooms were out in force, but they seemed more to
chase the turbulent snow than to sweep it as the wind hurled
itself against their stocky, heavily-clothed bodies.

Corfus never could get used to the sight of women laborers.
Moscow, even in winter, offered a panorama of sexual equality,
from the women who poured pitch into the potholes, to the
old babushkas who cleaned the streets. The Soviet ideology
had triumphed; wherever there was work to be done, there
were women to perform the lowest, dirtiest tasks. Corfus
remembered an old Joke about two Russians swilling vodka
and playing cards. A third entered, asking where their wives
were. "The masses," came the reply, "are in the fields."

Up ahead, a woman swathed in sable stepped from a silver
Mereedes 450. The top of her fur hat bobbed up and down
comically as she walked around the car as if surveying a lot
for a subdivision.

"Excuse me," she shouted above the wind to passersby.
"Could you . . ." Her accent was atrocious, very Western.
Probably American, Corfus thought, dressed in her new Rus-
sian sable white the Russians could hardly keep themselves
warm. No wonder they hate us, he said to himself.

The people on the street gawked disdainfully at her expen-
sive trappings and moved on. "Oh, Christ," she finally
shouted in despair. "Doesn't anyone in this godforsaken
country speak English?"

224

The Grandmaster              225

"That's my cue," Corfus said, striding up alongside the
car. "Michael Corfus, American embassy, at your service."
He gave an elaborate bow.

"Thank heaven," the woman said with a desperate relief in
her broad New England finishing school tones. "You can't
imagine how awful it is being stranded out here in this
horrible weather among these rude people. No one even
slopped to ask what the problem was."

Corfus laughed. "As far as the average Muscovite's
concerned, anybody with a fur coal and a Mereedes doesn't
have any problems."

"And as far as you're concerned?" she said.

"Your only problem is that you're stuck in a snowbank.
You back out and I'll push."

A moment later, the woman's car was back out in the
snow-slicked street.

"Marvetous," she said. "Thank you so much. You said
your name was ..."

"Corfus. Mike Corfus."

"Beatrice Kane. Can 1 give you a lift?"

"No, that's all right."

"I insist. Actually, I'd prefer it if someone else drove for a
while. I've had just about all I can stand of Moscow winter
traffic. Or Moscow, for that matter."

She slid over into the passenger seat, and Corfus got
behind the wheel. He had never driven a Mereedes. "Are you
a tourist?" he asked.

"In a way. My husband's a furrier here on business. This
is his idea of a vacation for the two of us."

"The garden spot of the totalitarian bloc," Corfus said,
craning his neck to see above the snarled traffic. "Where are
you from?"

"Boston originally. Now I live in Los Angeles."

"I thought Califomians all had tans."

"I detest the sun," she said wearily. "How long are we
going to be tied up here?"

The steam of cars inched forward.

"Your guess is as good as mine." He checked his watch:

4:45. There was no point in returning to the embassy now.

"Mike, I wonder if I might ask you a favor, as one
American to another?" She looked up at him appealingly.

She was a beauty, Corfus thought. A hothouse Stateside

226 GRANDMASTER

flower, princessus americanus, pampered and coddled into a
state of perennial youth. "Do you want me to drive you
home?"

"I can't tell you how much I'd appreciate it. John and I are
staying with some friends of my husband's outside the city.
They're very rich, I think, although no one around here will
admit to that. Zak works for the Kremlin."

"Zak?"

"My husband's friend. I couldn't begin to pronounce the
last name. But I'm sure he's important. The house has twelve
bedrooms and an indoor swimming pool. Too bad they're
such dreary people. They've all gone off to spend the day at a
mink farm somewhere in the hinterlands. I opted to go
shopping. What a waste."

"I suppose the government stores are a far cry from Rodeo
Drive," Corfus said.

"Never again. If I need clothes while I'm here, I'm going
to have them imported. Anyway, if you'd be kind enough to
get me out of this swamp, I'll see that you get home
comfortably. They took Zak's driver with them, but they,
ought to be back by now. You can stay for dinner and meet
everyone. Oh, please."

Corfus almost laughed out loud. The idea of a CIA agent
having dinner at the illegal mansion of a high-level Kremlin
employee was too good to resist- "Madam, I see my mission,
and will not fait," he said.

"Good," she said softly. She placed her hand on his knee.
It was a fine, manicured hand with a huge diamond on its
third finger. It rested on his thigh, weightless, for a moment,
then began almost imperceptibly to move upward. Astonished,
he looked over to her face. The fur of her hat was dappled
with melted snow. Beneath it, she smiled at him with waiting
copper-colored eyes. "Good."

He edged out of the traffic and onto the Moscow Ring
Road, trying to ignore the advances of Mrs. Kane. The boys
at Langley would never believe this, he thought giddily.
Corfus had always been the lump, the joker, the one girls
sought as a "friend," the extra man at dinner. His work at
school had been excellent, and he'd distinguished himself
sufficiently at Langley to be sent, at the age of twenty-five, to
Moscow. But the bald fact of being unattractive to women
had bothered him like a sore tooth since high school. The

The Grandmaster              227

biggest compliment he'd ever received from a girl was that he
bore a resemblance to the conductor of the Metropolitan
Opera. And now he was sitting next to a gorgeous woman of
obvious means who was trying everything short of rape to get
at him.

"My husband is a very successful man," she purred.
"Unfortunately, he has little time for anything except business."
Her free hand caressed his face and trailed down his chest.
Corfus sucked in his stomach. "And his mistresses," she
added.

"I'm sorry to hear that." he said. His voice came out an
octave lower than he'd intended.

"You're so proper," she said, unfastening his belt. "Don't
you find me attractive?"

"I find you distracting," he said, laughing excessively.

"The roads are clear now. You won't need all your
concentration. Turn right at the crossroads ahead."

He followed her directions onto a narrow uphill road that
the snowplows hadn't yet reached. "I don't think—"

"Pull over." She smiled. "I want to give you a present.
Come over here."

He slid over on the seat. "I don't believe this," he said
under his breath as she undid his fly expertly. He was so hard
he was beginning to ache. She stroked him with her slim
fingers until the pressure inside him was almost excruciating,
then touched him with her lips, teasing, enveloping him,
sucking him into her mouth until he was about to burst.

"Oh, God," he said. "I'm sorry . . ." He came in a
violent spasm, closing his eyes and seeing color, feeling a
pleasure so exquisite that it was nearly pain, and then it was
pain, something jabbing holly into his groin, and he cried out,
but it sounded so weak, so far away. He was aware that he
was losing consciousness fast. All he could focus on were his
own clenched hands grasping tufts of fur from the woman's
hat. They looked like an animal's paws.

Maria Lozovan opened the passenger door and tossed the
plastic hypodermic syringe outside. Some of the Thorazine
had seeped into the lining of her sleeve. She examined the
spot with annoyance as she got in behind the wheel. Corfus's
bulk was sprawled over the front seat. Using both legs, she
kicked him onto the floor-

"Disgusting ox," she said.

.CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

The woods around the cabin sixty mites outside Moscow were
quiet. The house had been a real dacha back in the days when
Zharkov's father had it built, with tidy lawns and flower
gardens where his mother planted pansies and marigolds.
Now the grass lay long and flat beneath the snow, and the
cabin itself was crumbled to disrepair.                   ,

There was a single light burning in the basement- Zharkov
could see its dull yellow glow behind the snowbanks. He
entered quickly, pushing back the cobwebs and making his
way down the rotting wooden stat stairs. The place stank of
urine. At the bottom he stopped, unable to believe what he
saw.

Corfus was tied, naked, to a metal chair. His shoulders
were covered with small dark circles which, on close inspection,
turned out to be bums dusted with gray ash. A pile of
lipstick-marked cigarette butts lay strewn on the floor beside
him. His head lolled forward. Zharkov raised it carefully. The
man's eyes were strapped with adhesive tape. He moaned.

"My God," Zharkov whispered. He released the head with
distaste. His hands were wet with sweat and oil, and there
was blood on them from Corfus's right ear, which was
streaming.

Behind him, he heard the clatter of shoes on the stairs.
Maria Lozovan smiled when she saw him. She was carrying a
tray with a large bottle of water and a gasoline funnel.

"What have you done?" Zharkov rasped- "When did you
bring him?"

228

The Grandmaster               229

"Yesterday," she said crisply. "There was no point in
your coming before now. These cases usually take a little
time before they're ready to answer questions." She winked,
as if she were giving advice on baking. The man's torture
seemed to have no effect on her whatever.

"Are you mad?" he asked. His voice was nearly inaudible.
She flushed, setting the tray down with a clatter. "Colonel
Zharkov, perhaps you failed to realize the gravity of your
crime when you had this person brought here. When we
discussed alternatives to handing him over to the authorities,

it seemed clear—''

"Not this!" He pointed his arms toward Corfus, his fingers
outstretched. "Look at him! This isn't war. Look at what
you've done to him! Pizda," he swore at her. "Xer tebe v
rot.''

"I did what was necessary," she said coldly, ignoring the
insults. "Surely you didn't believe that you'd get him to talk
just by asking him. That sort of naivete has no place in our
line of work."

"Our line of work?" Zharkov snapped. "Your line of
work is being a Committee whore. Your line of work and
mine arc not the same." Zharkov's arms were trembling. He
picked up the funnel. "What's this? Another one of your

'persuasive' tactics?"

She didn't answer. He grabbed her wrist roughly. "I asked
you what this was for." He thrust the funnel near her face.

"It's for water." she said, avoiding his eyes. "Sometimes
it's helpful if the prisoner . . ." She glanced at Zharkov. His
gray, hooded eyes were wide with rage. He held her wrist so
tightly that it shook. She spoke softly and quickly. "It helps
if the prisoner is interrogated with a full bladder."

With a sound like a wounded bull, he threw the funnel
against the wall.

Maria Lozovan backed away- "Comrade colonel, I assure
you there was no other way—"

In a fury, he flung his arm out toward her, cracking the
back of his hand against her face. She reeled backward,
gasping. "Get out," he said.

She crouched on the floor where she had fallen, her hand
held to her face. "You're the one who's mad, not me." she
hissed. "If you speak against me, the charges against you
will be doubted. You've broken international law and acted

230

GRANDMASTER

without the knowledge of your superiors, and I can prove
it. I've got proof that you came to my apartment, Zharkov,
and proof of what you wanted, so you can't do a thing
to me."

He picked her up bodily and threw her face down against
the stairs. "I totd you to get out," he said.

One of her front teeth was chipped. She pulled herself
slowly up the stairs, sobbing. When she reached the top, she
spat at him.

Zharkov raised the pitcher of water to Corfus's tips. He
began to untie the ropes around the prisoner's legs. The skin
on them was rubbed raw. "Bitch," he said as he freed one
leg. Corfus's toes were blue. Zharkov massaged the foot
gently- "Can you feel this?"

Corfus made a sound.

"What?"

"My eyes," he said in Russian.

Zharkov dropped the foot. The man spoke Russian, as he
suspected he would. He had understood the exchange be-
tween Zharkov and Maria Lozovan. Zharkov forced himself
to look at the creature trussed in front of him, naked, disfigured,
grotesque. In a pathetic gesture, CoiTus dragged his free leg
near the other to cover his privates.

It was not supposed to happen this way, Zharkov thought
with disgust. If Maria Lozovan had done what she had been
told and nothing more, Zharkov would have questioned Corfus,
teamed what he needed to know, and a few days later Corfus
would have wound up in a small Russian hospital, suffering
from a severe case of alcoholic delirium- After being sobered
up for a few days, he would be expelled by the Russians as
persona non grata.

Neat. simple, painless.

But not this way. Not this brutal torture of the American
spy. And he knew he shared some of the blame. He had
expected that Lozovan would do only what she had been told
to do. He should have considered that she would jump at the
chance to practice the brutal, stupid, mindless sadism she had
learned at all her KGB spy schools.

Too late now. Corfus spoke Russian, and he had heard
Zharkov's name, and now he could not go back to the Ameri-
cans under any circumstances.

The Grandmaster               231

He was a pawn, and sometimes pawns had to be sacrificed
to win the game.

Zharkov saw his hands near the man's leg, poised as if they
were still holding the foot. They looked suddenly to him like
killer's hands.

"How—" He swallowed. The question had come to him
so easily, despite the condition of his subject. He should untie
the man first. At least his legs. At least put a blanket around
him. At least let him piss into something besides his lap.
"How do you know Justin Gilead?" he asked-

"I'm cold."

"His code name is the Grandmaster."

"Please." He pressed his tips together and opened them.
Strands of saliva showed. "I don't understand."

"A CIA agent known to you gave you a medallion belong-
ing to the Grandmaster. What do you know about this man?"

"The medallion." His lips almost forced a smile. "Kiss of
death." His face contorted. He sobbed.

"What did he ... Listen to me." He tried to shout down
Corfus's uncontrollable weeping, but the American wasn't
paying attention. Lozovan had gone too far.

"What arc you doing with me?" Corfus screamed. "You're
breaking the law of every country in the world! For what? I'm
the fucking liaison officer, for Christ's sake. I can't mean
anything to you. What do you maniacs want, Zharkov?"

Zharkov slapped him across the face. Corfus's head reeled
back. "Tel! me about the Grandmaster."

"I don't know him. I never met him. He was dead—"

Zharkov slapped him again. "What do you know about the
Grandmaster?"

Corfus sighed, his breath ragged, his shoulders shaking.
"Fucking maniacs," he sobbed.

"What did the agent Frank Riesling tell you?"

"Reisling?" Corfus grew still. "The medallion."

"Justin Gilead's medallion," Zharkov said.

"Is that what you killed him for?"

Zharkov slapped him again. A thin stream of b!ood
trickled out the side of Corfus's mouth. "What did Riesling
say?"

Corfus was silent. Zharkov took his Tokarev from his
shoulder holster and held it to Corfus's temple. "What did he
say?" His voice was a whisper.

232

GRANDMASTER

"He said the Grandmaster was alive."

Zharkov swallowed. "Where?"

"I don't know."

Zharkov pressed the revolver hard against the man's head.
Corfus leaned back, his lips blubbering.

"I told you, I don't know! You're going to kill me anyway."
Mucus streamed from his nose. He tried to wipe his face on
his shoulder. "Cuba. Maybe Cuba."

"Cuba?" Zharkov pulled the gun away. "In the chess
tournament?"

Corfus nodded wearily.

Chess! Of course it would be chess. The plan was working.
Ivan Kutsenko, the Russian chess master, would be the pawn
to draw the white king out. "What is the recognition code?"

"It'll change."

"What is the code?"

"Go fuck yourself."

Zharkov kicked the chair across the room. Corfus landed
on his face, his legs splayed out beneath the chair.

"I asked you what the code is!" Zharkov shouted.      ,

"In Havana ..." A small pool of blood was forming on
the floor under Corfus's nose. Zharkov strained to hear him.
"In Havana ... I can't remember."

Zharkov kicked him in the stomach. Corfus retched, skitter-
ing along the cement floor with the chair on his back tike a
crab's shell. Its metal legs clanged when they struck the
cinder-block comer.

"The code, Mr. Corfus," Zharkov said quietly.

"The sun. In Havana, the sun is hot." Corfus tried to raise
himself up. His elbows, poised in push-up position, trembled
violently, then collapsed.

Zharkov stared at the inert form for several minutes, then
held the Tokarev out at arm's length and prepared to fire.

"My eyes," Corfus breathed. "My eyes hurt so much."
Zharkov dropped the gun at his side. "It'll be easier if I
don't remove the bandage," he said softly.
"I want to see you."

What accounts for the bravery of weak men at the moment
of death? Zharkov wondered. Would he, when his time came,
be as strong as this young man whose sole reason for dying
was that his life was inconvenient for one man?
Zharkov righted the chair and pulled the thick adhesive

The Grandmaster               233

tape off Corfus's eyes. The eyelids were raw and blistered.
On the floor were two small pads of cotton. Zharkov picked
them up and sniffed them. They had been soaked in some sort
of solution.

"Warts," Corfus said.

"What?"

"She told me the stuff on the bandage was used to take off
warts." He laughed, but tears were running down his face.
His eyes, swollen slabs of flesh around two narrow slits,
squinted to get a better look at Zharkov. "You know, 1 never
knew you existed until last week."

Zharkov nodded curtly, his Jaw clenched.

"Why are you doing this?" Corfus whispered.

Zharkov stared at the man. How could he explain? Who
among the mass of mortal men would understand the work-
ings of a world far beyond their ken?

"Because the golden snake must be killed," he said quietly.
Something—Corfus's pitiful condition, perhaps, or a vestigial
connection with humankind, long discarded—impelled Zharkov
to touch the man's savaged face.

Corfus wept silently.

He thinks I'm mad, Zharkov thought. He doesn't understand.
He can't.

Zharkov stepped behind the fat man and backed off a few
paces- He raised the Tokarev slowly, with the formality of an
execution. Corfus swallowed hard. He turned as much as he
could manage in this. the hour of his death, to face his killer.

For a moment, their eyes met and locked. Each saw noth-
ing but sadness in the other's. Then, shaking violently, Corfus
turned his head away, and Zharkov fired.

-CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

He took the body to a ravine in the woods. As a boy, Zharkov
had been cautioned against going near it. "In the snow, you
could lie there until you died, and no one would find you,"
his father had said. It was a deep, narrow chasm, damp with
rotting leaves in summer, deceptively shallow-looking when
filled with winter's snow. He dropped Corfus into it, and the
body sank. Only an arm and the sole of Corfus's foot showed.

The snow was coming down heavily; within an hour the
body would be completely buried. Zharkov searched for
some sticks and threw them on top to conceal the exposed
limbs. It looked like a grave-It looked like Poland, he
thought, except for the snow. Like Poland, with another
grave . . .

Stop it, he told himself, forcing his gaze away from the
ditch with itsgrisly buried treasure. He would have to leave,
return to Moscow, allow the snow to do its work, see Katarina.
He ached for her.

He walked slowly to his car, through the snowy, dense
woods. He never wanted to see the place again. He would sell
it.

But the body ...

And there was Lozovan. She had fled, frightened of
Zharkov's unaccustomed anger, but when she returned home
and stared in her many mirrors and saw the tooth Zharkov had
broken and remembered how he had called her a whore and
worse, that fright would turn to anger and to a passion for
revenge. He would have to deal with Lozovan.

234

The Grandmaster               235

Another to die.

He veered the car off to the side of the road and skidded to
a stop. He pressed the palms of his hands against his face.

Why was this so different? He had killed before. He was a
soldier, and in the line of duty he had ordered the massacre of
hundreds. With Nichevo, he had set plans in motion that
would kilt people by the thousands, and he had never felt
any remorse. The monks at Rashimpur had fallen beneath
the bullets of his patrol tike so many dominoes. He had
felt nothing then, when the yellow robes of the identical
little brown men had burst with red smears. Even when
the burned hall of the monastery had quietly filled with
his own dead, he had feared only that he might not escape,
might not live to fulfill his destiny.

As he had fled down the steep slope of Amne Xachim, he
had felt the throbbing humiliation of the coiled snake burned
into his flesh, but he had also felt the exhilaration of being alive.

Death was for enemies, not for him.

So why now? Why did he feel so sorrowful for having
killed Corfus?

Because, he realized, it had not been Justin Gilead against
whose head he had placed the muzzle of his pistol. Corfus
was only a pawn. Zharkov needed the white king.

Oh, Katarina. He needed her. He would go to Katarina and
use her body to squeeze the filth out of his.

In Moscow, he parked his car five blocks from Katarina's
home and walked. She was still awake, dressed in a bathrobe.
An ashtray spilling over with cigarette butts sat on the table
beside the telephone.

"Where have you been?" she asked frantically. "What's-
going on?"

"What's happened?" he asked.

"Ostrakov. About a half-hour ago. He came here. What
have you done?" Her face was pained. She picked a cigarette
from a pack, and as she lit it, she saw her hand tremble-
He nodded. So Lozovan had already contacted Ostrakov,
and the KGB general had instantly come looking for Zharkov.
He must feel that he was playing a very strong hand, if he had
had the nerve to come to Katarina's house looking for the
Nichevo chief.

"He knows, Alyosha. He knows everything about us. There
was a tape ..." Her face crumpled. She wiped her eyes with

236 GRANDMASTER

the back of her hand, her fingers still holding the trembling
cigarette.

"What tape?" Zharkov said. His voice was fiat, expression-
less.

"In the bedroom. He showed me." She waved vaguely
toward the wall. There was a hole beside Katarina's bed
where the forced-air register had been. "The landlord sent a
man to replaster the ceiling about a month ago- 1 had to go to
work, so I let him stay here after I left. I never thought ..."

Zharkov kicked fiercely at the hole. "That swine," he snarled.

"Why arc they doing this?" Katarina asked softly. Her
eyes were red, and her short hair stuck out in comical peaks.
She looked too young to smoke. "Are you in trouble?"

"No. It's Ostrakoy who's in trouble. 1 am finished tolerat-
ing his stupidity and his arrogance."

"Are you sure?" she asked.

"Very sure."

"I was frightened." she said softly, "but somehow I knew
that. I knew you would be all right."

As he turned to her, she was snuffing out her cigarette. He
reached for her and pulled her onto the bed, still conscious of
their violated privacy- He gently removed her clothes. The
touch of her, her smell, faint and sweet, filled him up and
enveloped him. She smelied as she had when he had first met
her, those many years ago. So many years . . .

Rashimpur had been destroyed. The monks were dead.
Only Justin Gilead had escaped, and Zharkov—alone, weary,
the burn throbbing on the skin of his throat—had begun the
long journey home. He was not sure of the direction he would
take among the endless snow-covered peaks and and bottom-
less chasms of the highest mountain range on earth, and he
hadn't brought many provisions with him.

On the fourth day, he realized that he was hopelessly tost.

On the sixth day, he ran out of food. He tried to forage for
something to eat. but there was little he could be certain was
edible among the sparse vegetation. He filled his belly with
water. And, afterward, with snow. Winter came early in the
mountains.

At night, when the cold rush of wind froze him to his
bones, he would huddle in his inadequate clothing, shivering

The Grandmaster               237

until he slept. When he awoke, his toes would be blue and
numb. His fingers would barely move.

He forced himself to walk. even though he had no idea
where he was. More than once he had cursed and then wept at
the sight of a familiar boulder or patch of scrub grass, be-
cause he knew he had spent the last of his energy traveling in
a circle.

On the twelfth day, he began to hallucinate. Crouching
behind a dry bush for a moment's rest. his arms wrapped
around himself for warmth, he thought he saw faces. Black-
painted faces belonging to men in strange garb. They skulked
in the darkness, these phantoms, their eyes glowing occasion-
ally from a ray of moonlight.

But unlike phantoms, he could hear them. too. They were
not like the silent monks of Rashimpur who walked like wisps
of air. These were men who ran awkwardly like other men,
who stood and watched the dying soldier and then hastened
away from him in his need-

So real did they appear that Zharkov called out to them for
help. He scrambled to his feet and tried to chase after one of
the elusive shadows, but they seemed to dodge him deliberately.

"Help me," he screamed. "Can't you see I'll die here?"

He thought he heard a faint laugh.

Exhausted, he leaned against a boulder and slid to the
ground, his feet splayed beneath him-

Around him was silence. So he had been alone, after all,
he thought. There had never been a horde of painted men. It
was cold. He tugged at his cuffs to cover his bare hands. The
fabric sprung from his fingers; he was too weak to close
them. He rested there, against the rock, until he no longer felt
the wind or the cold.

At least it would be an easy death, he told himself.

He closed his eyes and allowed himself to sleep, knowing
he would not awaken- But before he slept, he thought once
again that he heard the coarse laughter of men behind him.

Zharkov was wrong. He did awaken. He awakened scream-
ing.

He was bound and tied on a table in a filthy pit. Surround-
ing him were the grease-smeared men of his nightmare delusion.
But these men were real. Swarming around him like curious
dogs, they poked and prodded Zharkov with dirty hands while

238 GRANDMASTER

they shouted to one another in a strange guttural language he
did not understand.

He surmised from the seeping water and mildew on the
walls lit by primitive stone oil lamps that he was underground.
There were no windows, and the stench of crowded male
bodies was oppressive. On the wall opposite was a huge
fireplace in which the parts of some large animal were roasting.
As the fat dripped, sizzling, from the shanks of meat into the
flames, Zharkov realized that he had been aching with hunger
for days.

Had these strange men rescued him? Would they feed him?

Or was he there for another purpose?

The meat, he thought with a rising panic. Could they be
cannibals? Why else would they keep him tied and strapped?

One of the men walked toward him with a knife. Zharkov
screamed again. The man looked startled for a moment, then
looked at his knife and at Zharkov again, and laughed. The
others joined him, showing gaping mouths filled with rotten
teeth as the man teased Zharkov with the blade. But when the
laughter died down. the man merely cut the ropes binding
Zharkov's hands and feet.

Zharkov stared at his wrists for a moment. He was being
set free! But for what? He was too weak from hunger to survive
outside any longer- He tried to pull himself into a sitting
position, but even that was too much effort.

The man who had cut his bonds grunted and gestured with
his chin for Zharkov to move. Zharkov shook his head in
fatigue and desperation

The man raised his leg and kicked Zharkov off the table.

He landed on a bare earth floor crawling with cockroaches.
Slapping them away in disgust, he finally wobbled to his feet.
Then one of the men tossed something his way. It was greasy
and burning hot and, Zharkov realized after the initial shock
of catching it, aromatic. It was a shank of meat.

Zharkov dug into it savagely, tearing off slabs with his
teeth, feeling the warm, oily juice pouring down his chin. It
was delicious. He thought he could never get enough, until
the heavy lump in his stomach churned sickeningly. He turned
aside and vomited. The cockroaches covered the spill in a
swarm.

After that, he forced himself to eat sparingly. He remained
in the stinking underground hole for what seemed tike several

The Grandmaster              239

days. although he never saw sunlight. The men left him
alone. They gave him food—always meat—from time to
lime. but otherwise attempted no communication with him.
His questioning gestures were ignored.

In time. his questions stopped. He lived like an animal
scratching at the lice on his head, sleeping on the infested
floor with the rest of the men. At least, he thought, he was
gaining a little weight, and the paralyzing numbness in his
limbs had gone-
Then one day a crack of light appeared high overhead. The
men stopped their activity at once and looked up, squinting.
in silence. The light broadened.

A door. Zharkov's heart pumped wildly. The place he was
in was not a pit, after all. but a cellar of some building. But
there was no stairway leading to the high door. It seemed to
be cut out of the stone wall as an observation point.

Into the bright light of the doorway appeared the silhouette
of a small, bent figure. Like an insubstantial shadow, it
wavered in the light, turning its small head slowly right and
left, as if searching for someone. Then it seemed to find what
it wanted, and a thin arm rose and pointed at the mass of men
below.

Several hands shoved Zharkov forward. The dark figure in
the doorway nodded slowly in assent, then lowered a narrow
rope ladder into the pit.

When Zharkov reached the base of the rope, the figure on
high nodded again, and he climbed up, leaving the stink and
squalor of the black-painted men behind.

The individual at the top of the ladder was an Asian of
indeterminate sex. The head was shaved and the face
expressionless, but the eyes shone with what Zharkov could
only describe as malice. Although he could not understand
why, the whole bearing of the little creature unnerved him.

Zharkov was led first to a large, steaming bath chamber
where he washed gratefully and dressed in robes that had
been laid out for him. Then the androgynous guide took him
as far as the entrance to a large, dark room.

Even from outside, Zharkov could smell the strong incense.
The guide gestured for him to enter, but for some reason he
hesitated. Something frightening was inside that room. Zharkov
didn't know how he knew that, but he was certain. Something
frightening and deadly and almost unbearably compelling.

240

GRANDMASTER

He felt beads of sweat form on his brow. "What's in
there?" he asked, although he didn't expect an answer.

The guide answered in flawless Russian. "The goddess
Varja awaits. She has sent for you."

"Why?" Zharkov asked.

The guide's eyes again smiled malevolently. "She owns
you." Even the voice of the small, bent Asian was without
gender-

Zharkov contained his annoyance. "What about the men?

In the cellar."

".She owns them, too," the soft voice said.
Zharkov suppressed a shudder, then went inside. Those

steps into the woman's chamber changed his life forever.

He slept after their lovemaking. When he awoke, Varja
was gone. The androgynous gnome stood near him.

"Where is she?" Zharkov snapped.

"The goddess Varja commands you elsewhere."

"Commands?" He stared imperiously at the little guide.

"Commands," the Asian repeated with assurance, then
gestured toward the door.

Zharkov followed. He was taken to another room. It was
smaller and painted stark white. There were no furnishings in
it except for a large white dais in the shape of a cube. On top
of the cube, covered by many layers of white silk, rested a
long object.

He waited alone in the room for some time before Varja
entered. She was wearing a long gown of black brocade
studded with rubies, like a thousand red eyes that saw into his
soul. Zharkov trembled in her presence. As before, the very
sight of her mesmerized him and infused in him a sense of
utter, unquestioning obedience.

She held out her hand. Every finger on it was covered with
precious rings, and an enormous ruby bound her wrist. Zharkov
fell to one knee in front of her and kissed it-

"You have pleased me. my prince," she said. "As reward,
I have called you here to show you a gift that I will give you
in years to come."

"Whatever you have chosen to give me. goddess, when-
ever you choose for me to receive it, I wit! treasure."

She smiled. "You will most certainly treasure this," she
said. "It will be of great help to you later, and pleasure

The Grandmaster               241

beyond counting, it will be yours to use as you please, and
destroy when you choose."

He rose. "But I could never destroy a gift from you."

"Not now. perhaps, but someday. When you are truly my
disciple, when the suffering of men and the weakness of your
spirit and the need of your flesh no longer concern you, you
will destroy my gift. Then will you return to me. pure,
strong, complete. Then will you be my mate for all the ages
of evil to come."

She made a quick gesture, and the sexless gnome appeared
carrying an embroidered footstool. The Asian placed the stool
beside the dais, bowed once. and departed-

He climbed to the top of the cube and removed the thick
silk wrapper. Beneath it was a girl. no more than fourteen or
fifteen years old. tall and dark-haired and beautiful.

And dead.

"Her name is Duma. I have saved her for you," Varja
whispered. "Enter her."

Zharkov felt a knot in his stomach. The girl's skin was cold
as ice.

"Do not-disobey me!" the goddess shrieked, her eyes
Flashing.

He turned back to the body. Swallowing the lump of
nausea in his throat, he spread the-girl's stiff legs and opened
the robe he wore.

His organ was shriveled. Surely the goddess asked too
much. Surely he could never . . .

At first he thought the low hiss in the room was his
. imagination. But when he turned toward Varja. he understood
that in this place of magic, anything was possible.

Black smoke was issuing from the goddess's fingers like
serpents' tails. Her eyes were rolled back in her skull, expos-
ing only the whites, and from her mouth poured strange
sounds as ancient as the magic mountains themselves.

And as Zharkov breathed in the acrid smoke and his ears
filled with the droning, savage sounds of Varja's words, his
mind raced backward, back beyond memory, before his own
birth, through empty centuries to the time of his ancestors.
What he saw in his half-conscious state were only impressions.
brief pictures: a tree with a bark of iron ... a saber, flashing
with inner power . . . Black Hats, the mark of a magic long
buried ... an old man. a severed hand. a golden snake . . .

242 GRANDMASTER

"No!" Zharkov screamed.

A golden snake bearing death, death for ages, death forever.

"The Wearer of the Blue Hat has returned," Varja warned.

Zharkov clutched his forehead. It felt as if a dagger had
just pierced it. A dagger ... or a bite from a golden snake.

"He became the snake and destroyed our kind, but I have
kept our power alive." the goddess said. "This time. he must
die. He must die ... he must die ... he must die ... This
time you failed to kill him. The next time, you will not fail , - ."

Her voice receded in his mind, replaced by the thunder of
his own obsession. The golden snake! Like Jehovah destroy-
ing the kingdom of Edom, the golden snake had obliterated
the sacred cult of the Black Hats and the unbounded power
they possessed. Oniy if he killed the snake would his own
kind be permitted to thrive again. Thrive and rule, with
Zharkov himself, the Wearer of the Black Hat, to lead them . . .

His flesh quickened. He kissed the belly of the dead girl
beneath him, and her cold, lifeless body filled him with
aching desire. His hardness throbbed for her. With one deep
thrust he entered her, groaning in twisted pleasure. The room
was warming, Zharkov realized. And not just from the heat of
his own loins, but from the flesh beneath him as well. What
was once a cold slab of meat was emanating heat and lust and
the sweet fragrance of a woman.

The body was coming to life.

"Take her. Prince of Death," Varja said, her thousand red
eyes glowing. "Take her with your body now. Later you will
love her. And later stilt, you will kill her. For me."

"For you, my goddess," Zharkov said, closing his eyes to
the exquisite pleasure of the girl's awakening limbs. She
rolled her hips to his rhythm, raising her knees to let him
penetrate her more deeply. Her hands, once still, clawed at
his back like a cat's. She lifted her breasts to give him suck.
Then he galloped her, and she cried low in her throat, press-
ing him to her. At the moment when he burst, frenzied and
hard as iron inside her tight wetness, the girl's eyes fluttered
open.

They were blank eyes, neither worldly nor naive. There was
nothing behind them, no feeling, no fear, no joy, no
remembrance. They looked past Zharkov into space.

The smoke cleared away in an instant. Varja spoke. "You

The Grandmaster              243

have awakened from hfe-in-death to aid him who now con-
trols you."

"Yes. my goddess," Duma said. She still did not look at
Zharkov.

"You will be taught everything you need lo function in the
world of men. When you are prepared, you will be sent to
him-"

"I understand."

"Do you remember any of your life before the moment of
your awakening?"

"No. goddess."

"Whom do you serve?"

"I serve the great goddess Varja and those she selects to
carry out my destiny."

Varja smiled. "Then it begins." she said with satisfaction.
"Our time has come again at last."

On the dais, Duma looked into Zharkov's eyes for the first
time- He thought he saw something like disappointment regis-
ter in them fleetingly. but the reaction vanished as quickly as
it came. if it had come at all. The girl's face was as blank as a
mannequin's.

.CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

At seven-thirty in the morning, Zharkov went to Sergei
Ostrakov's office in full dress uniform. He waited in an
anteroom until Ostrakov arrived minutes later, smiling.

"My dear comrade, come in," he said. taking Zharkov's
arm. Zharkov brushed his hand away.

"Why did you place Katarina Velanova's apartment under
surveillance?" he asked bluntly.

"Alyosha." The general spread his arms and grinned broadly.
"It will all be explained to you soon. But I can tell you that
my orders originated from the highest sources. The highest,
you understand."

"And did these high sources order you to break into
Velanova's home in the middle of the night, too?"

Ostrakov made a disapproving noise with his mouth. "You
are so dramatic, Alyosha. There was no breaking in. Com-
rade Veianova invited us inside most graciously. She is a
charming woman, your friend. You ought to marry her."

"My private life is no concern of yours."

Ostrakov shrugged. "How much you have changed, Aiyosha.
I'm only suggesting that one could do worse than to marry a
beautiful woman who is also a loyal Party member. A very
loyal member."

"What you're suggesting is that she's working for you
against me. It won't work, Ostrakov. I've used the same ploy
myself."

"Alyosha! ! meant nothing of the kind." He smiled
mirthlessly. "Perhaps your position has made you suspicious."

244

The Grandmaster               245

"Bugging Katarina's apartment may have had something to
do with that. But. of course, what should one expect from
thugs?"

Ostrakov's face reddened with anger. "Nichevo is an insu-
lated pocket in the security system. It makes its own rules,
runs its own projects. Through the years, its director—first
your father, now you—has become nearly inviolate. Above
the law, as it were. Nichevo could become a dangerous
organization."

"I'm not here to discuss Nichevo- What did you want with
me last night?"

"Comrade, I came to bring you good news. Great news.
The hour was late, but I was sure my message would have
more than made up for the small inconvenience. Unfortunately,
you were nowhere to be found. Playing tricks on sweet Katarina
already, eh?" With his hands, he formed the exaggerated
shape of a woman in the air. Zharkov had to control an
impulse to hit the man.

"You know perfectly well where I was." he said, "since
the whore who works for you reported all to you. What did
you want?"

His voice was growing colder, and his lizard-lidded gray
eyes locked on Ostrakov's. forcing the KGB official to look
away.

"The premier wishes to see you," Ostrakov said.

"Kadar?"

"The vozhd," Ostrakov whispered. "He wants to see you.
Now."

The voikd, or great leader, had had no time for Zharkov
since his inauguration three months before. The only time
Zharkov had even met the man was at a formal reception
during the inaugural ceremonies. Kadar had been polite—part
of his new image, which was already being cultivated by a
staff of underlings for the selling of the premier to the world—
but the leader's ill feeling toward Zharkov had been evident
even then.

Konstandn Kadar had been head of the KGB since 1955, under
Premiers Malenkov, Bulganin, Khrushchev, Kosygin, Brezhnev,
and Andropov. Under his direction, the Soviet secret service
had become the largest and most powerful police organization
in the world. Kadar could, almost at will, execute nearly any
person in the world without reprisal, and frequently took that

246 GRANDMASTER

option The political prisoners at Lubyanka—some of whom
could not even recall their "cnmes" against the state, all ot
whom had been tried secretly—referred to Kadar as Little
Josef because of his Stahnesque methods Others had labeled
him more succinctly "the Butcher "

Everyone in Russia was answerable to Kadar. except the pre-
mier and Nichevo. which had been formed as an independent
organization before Kadar's rise to power Through the years.
Kadar had used every device available to obliterate Nichevo,
or at least bring it under the control of the KGB He had
gone to each of the six premiers he served and warned him
against Nichevo and its potential to overthrow the government.
the possibility that it was a hub of foreign espionage activity.
the foolishness of allowing an intellectual like Vassily Zharkov
to run such an autonomous operation as Nichevo, and the
consummate unwisdom of replacing Zharkov with his own
son after his death But none of the leaders had taken his
advice Not one

What at last became clear to Kadar, what only a handful of
people in the Soviet Union and absolutely no one outside it
knew. was that Nichevo—so secret, so special to those in
ultimate power—was the personal tool of the premier himself

"The czar's army," Kadar had called Nichevo during a
violent quarrel with Zharkov's father It was not far from the
truth Nichevo originated under Stdim. and Stalin was nothing
if not a czar

After the execution of Premier Aleksei Rykov in 1938 it
was evident that in a country with Russia's centunes-old
tradition of violence, even the head of state was not safe from
government factions vying for power V M Molotov nomi-
nally held the office of premier after Rykov, but the real
power was already in the hands of Stalin Stalin was not
about to permit the execution of another head of slate, particu-
larly if the head was his He formed Nichevo. drawing it like
a cloak around him, then fabricated the myth that the organiza-
tion was of no importance to him

The general populace of the intelligence community scoffed
at Nichevo from the beginning—at its thugs, its childish
projects, even its joking name The brighter ones wondered
aloud why a brilliant and acclaimed political scientist like
Vassily Zharkov would toy with such a ridiculous organization,
and so another myth was fabricated. Zharkov became Stalin's

The Grandmaster               247

"nephew " When they heard this new piece of manufactured
information, even the bright ones laughed To make it
legitimate, Zharkov was married off to one of Stalin's nieces

And then came the purges

First, Stalin wiped out the landowners and dissidents Next
came his enemies They fell by the thousands, and among
them were some of the highest members of government The
NKVD—the old name for the KGB before it accrued its
almost total power—was the instrument used to carry out the
murders Then, because the leaders of the NKVD knew too
much about his cnmes, Stalin ordered them removed, too

The order went to Vassily Zharkov. head of Nichevo, who
earned it out ruthlessly, implacably, quietly

Nichevo had come of age, and it was untouchable The
KGB had no control over it Nichevo belonged to the vozhd
alone and answered only to him

Now it belonged to Konstantin Kadar who hated it

And very shortly, Zharkov would give him even more
reason to hate it

"The vozhd wants to see you Immediately," Ostrakov
was saying He had a broad smile on his face

Zharkov nodded "When I am through with him," he said,
"I will have more to say to you " "

"We shall see." Ostrakov said

"Yes, we shall," said Zharkov

Zharkov waited in the Kremlin for three hours before he
was taken to the premier's opulent private library It was a
small room, once used as the personal retreat of Czar Nicho-
las I

Konstantin Kadar, seated behind an intricately carved rose-
wood desk, dominated the room He was a tall man. slim but
well muscled for his sixty-four years His head, elegant and
oval-shaped, looked more German than Russian, with its
fringe of silver-white hair, its long nose and tight lips It was
not the face of a policeman, Zharkov thought, except for the
eyes Behind their old-fashioned metal-framed glasses, Kadar's
eyes were as flat and dead as a shark's

"Sit down. Colonel Zharkov " When he spoke, nothing
moved but his lips He waited until Zharkov obeyed, not

248 GRANDMASTER

moving a muscle. Zharkov had the feeling of being in the
presence of a huge stone idol.

When Zharkov was sealed. Kadar arranged some papers
into a neat pile and laid them carefully on the desk in front of
him. "They call you a prince. Do you know that?"

"No. sir." Zharkov said.

'"A prince." Kadar repeated softly, leafing through the
papers in front of him. "A scholar, a soldier, a scientist. A
chess prodigy at the age of eight. The son of the illustrious
Vassily Zharkov." Kadar looked up as he spoke the name,
his thin tips wrapping around his teeth. "A chess master at
ten. Accepted into the university at fifteen. Honors in senior
levels in engineering and physics. Recruited into the intelli-
gence service at seventeen. 1 remember you. Colonel. You
didn't finish the program."

"I was removed to be enrolled at the Institute of Interna-
tional Relations."

"It was unnecessary. We would have used you in the
KGB. You were a bright boy- You would have made an
adequate analyst."

Exactly, Zharkov thought. Kadar would have liked nothing
better than to bury Vassily Zharkov's son in an intelligence
analyst's job for the rest of his life. Vassily had permitted the
boy to train for two of the three years required of the KGB
intelligence program—enough time to learn the basics of
tradecraft, without being slotted into a specialty.

"But why should I go at all?" young Zharkov had pro-
tested to his father. "Kadar hates you. He'll make my life
miserable."

"Because you must leam everything. For Nichevo, you
must know everything. Two years of personal unhappiness is
not too high a price to pay," the elder Zharkov said. "And he
will not dare to make your life too miserable."

Nichevo would be his destiny; both Zharkov and his father
had known that from the beginning. There was only one place
for a man like Alexander Zharkov in the Soviet Union, and
that was at the head of Nichevo. Not the KGB, with its
hundreds of thousands of agents enmired in a morass of
bureaucracy so deep that most of them spent their time either
duplicating the efforts of others or wastefully watching one
another. Not the Kremlin, where the gamesmanship of power
politics counted above ability. Certainly not in science or law

The Grandmaster               249

or economics, where only part of Zharkov's mind would be
put to use. and that part for projects not of his choosing. Only
two endeavors could lax a mind like his to its limits: Nichevo
and chess.

And Nichevo was chess. Smalt, independent, and deadly,
there was no room for mistakes in Nichevo, just as there was
no room for mistakes in the game. The wrong man at the
head of Nichevo could destroy it, and there was only one
right man, with his genius and careful education and his
father's formidable power behind him. For Zharkov, it was
always Nichevo, only Nichevo.

"Graduated from the institute at twenty-one," Kadar
continued, sounding bored. "Enlisted in the army. Attained
rank of full colonel"—he set down the papers—"when you
seized Nichevo at age thirty-five."

"1 was appointed to the position by Premier Brezhnev,"
Zharkov said flatly.

"Because your father left no records."

You ought to know, Zharkov said to himself. Kadar had
personalty raided Vassily Zharkov's office within an hour
after Zharkov was taken to the hospital. He found nothing.

"My father was very careful," Zharkov said. "Nichevo is,
after all, a secret organization."

Kadar clasped his hands together.-extending his index fingers,
and rested his chin on them. For the first time, the shark's
eyes registered a response, and Zharkov thought with some
amusement that the word "records" must be the most fright-
ening in the world for tyrants. It must haunt then- dreams, the
thought that someone, somewhere, was in possession of facts
and history that could be used to tell me world what kind of
men they were.

"It is now my secret organization," Kadar said. "It exists
for me. You are aware of that. aren't you?"

Zharkov nodded. "Under certain circumstances."

"Under any circumstances. I own Nichevo. I own you."

He waited, and Zharkov said, "Do you also own the
microphone that was planted illegally in my friend's apart-
ment?"

i For an instant, Kadar seemed shocked with Zharkov's
rudeness. The shark's eyes flashed briefly in anger, then
appeared to cloud over again as Kadar said, "Few things are
illegal when one is trying to uncover a traitor."

250 GRANDMASTER

"Traitor?" Zharkov asked-

"For instance, the evidence does not indicate that you have
a weakness for young men. So why did you wish to see this
Mr. Corfus alone?"

"For information," Zharkov said.

"And that was not an isolated instance of your seeking out
Americans," Kadar continued as if Zharkov had not spoken.

"What are you talking about. Premier?"

From the bottom of his pile of papers, Kadar took a
photograph- It was from the Samarkand Hotel, showing the
gold coiled snake medallion dangling from Frank Riesling's
shattered hand. "Look familiar?" Kadar asked.

"It once belonged to an agent." Zharkov said.

"An American agent. Colonel. One you have met several
times."

"We have met twice as adults. By coincidence."

"And is the mark on your neck a coincidence as well?"

Ostrakov, Zharkov thought. Lozovan had told all she knew
about Corfus to Ostrakov, and Ostrakov had taken it, and his
filthy tape recordings from Katarina's apartment, and ail he
knew about Zharkov and had laid them all on the premier's
desk. Kadar must now feel that he had a noose to put around
Zharkov's throat if he wished. The Nichevo head restrained a
smile. He wondered how far Kadar would go.

"I think the Tribunal would be most interested to see the
emblem you. carry. It is perhaps the same as this Justin
Gilead's?"

Zharkov was silent. Kadar dangled a green folder between
his fingers, toying with it like a boy about to tear the legs off
a fly- "It seems you have a lot in common with Mr. Gilead.
You even played chess together as children. A very early
association. Perhaps your father arranged it. Colonel. Since
he conveniently destroyed Nichevo's records before his death.
one has no way of knowing just how extensive are your
family's relationships with the CIA. Perhaps that is why you
told General Ostrakov to let the chess player Kutsenko go
when it is known he plans to defect?'^'

Zharkov was still silent, and finatiy Kadar snapped, "Have
you nothing to say?"       '

"I have a great deal to say. Premier. I thought you would
prefer my waiting until you ended this charade."

"Charade?" Kadar repeated incredulously.

The Grandmaster              251

"Yes. Charade," Zharkov said. "You know I'm no traitor."
He rose from his seat and stood behind the chair, his hands
gripping the top of the elaborately carved oak back.

Kadar fixed his dead, indifferent eyes on Zharkov's face.
"Explain yourself. Comrade Cotonei. I hope for your sake
that it is a good explanation."

"Certainly," Zharkov said. "First of all, I have always
known how you hated Nichevo- My father warned me about
you."

"No agency must be above the slate. That is what I
hated," Kadar said. He stopped as Zharkov raised a hand.

"What you mean is that no agency must be above you,
now that you are premier," Zharkov said. "Well, Nichevo is.
And will continue to be."

Kadar's lips tightened. "I suppose I should be impressed
by this display of authority."

"It is not a display," Zharkov said simply. "Only fact,"

Kadar half rose out of his chair. "I could press a button
now on my desk and you would be shot where you stand.
Without hesitation or question."

Zharkov picked a piece of lint off his jacket. "No man is
invulnerable to a stray bullet. Premier Kadar. Not even you."

Kadar flushed. "Are you saying that my personal guard
has been infiltrated by Nichevo?"

"I am saying that Nichevo will go on. As it always has."

Zharkov saw Kadar hesitate. The thought that his palace
guard might not be totally loyal to him had evidently never
crossed his mind before. He had not been premier for long-

"Say what you have to say," Kadar said finally.

"Thank you. First of all, my father was a very great man.
You hated him too much to realize that. It was your loss."

"He was an intellectual. He dabbled in the affairs that
some of us work at, day after day, year after year, for our
country," Kadar said.

"Did you ever wonder how this 'dabbler' managed to
survive through six different premiers?" Zharkov asked. He
answered his own question. "Because it suited him that you
and others should regard him as a dabbler. He told me once
that few things are more powerful than being regularly under-
estimated by your enemies. You proved the wisdom of that."

"I? How?"

"Many years ago, my father told me to watch out for you.

252 GRANDMASTER

He said that one day you would be premier and you would try
to destroy Nichevo and me. He told me what to do about it."

"And what was that?" Kadar said. with a small bemused
smile.

"You thought my father left no records." He took a mo-
ment to savor the quick twinge of alarm that registered in the
premier's eyes. "Actually, all the Nichevo records remain
intact. But they were not meant for you to find."

"Such as? What kind of records?"

Zharkov shrugged. "Which officials have money secretly
hidden in foreign bank accounts. Which ones have mistresses
and where they keep them. Who likes to sleep with young
boys. Whose drunken automobile accidents killed innocent
pedestrians but were covered up by the police. Did you ever
wonder why my father always seemed to prevail over you
when you sought to bring him up short in meetings of the
Committee? Because he never walked into that room without
having enough votes in his pocket to ensure victory. That was
another of his lessons: 'Never fight unless you are sure to
win.' "

"These records." Kadar said nervously. "Where are they?"

"They are not in Katarina Veianova's apartment," Zharkov
said sarcastically.

"I could arrange to get their location from you."

"Perhaps. And by that time, the records would be gone.
They would be in someone else's hands. Perhaps someone
not nearly so discreet as 1 am. As my father was before me."

Kadar wheeled in his chair, pressing the tips of his fingers
together, and looked out the inch-thick window that protected
him from the capital city of the nation he ruled. "And the file
on me?" he asked, his back to Zharkov.

"It is the largest of all."

The premier slapped his hands on the arms of his chair.
"What is it you want?"

"I told Ostrakov to leave Kutsenko alone and to make sure
his wife is reinstated in her post at the hospital. I want that
done. Kutsenko is just a pawn in a bigger game."

"What game?"

"1 saw to it that Dr. Lena Kutsenko went to Helsinki and
made contact with that CIA agent. Frank Riesling. The one
that Ostrakov's gorillas shot up like some Chicago massacre.
I ordered the extra patrols at the Finnish border to make sure

The Grandmaster               253

that Kutsenko could not get out along Riesling's regular
escape route. The chess player plans to defect during the
world challenge chess match in Havana three months from
now."

"And you will help him to defect, I suppose," the premier
said dryly.

Zharkov smiled. "To a point. Havana will be swarming
with CIA agents."

"And?"

"And the CIA will be blamed for the assassination of Fidel
Castro."

Kadar spun around in his chair. The shark eyes had come
to life.

"Don't sputter. Comrade Premier." Zharkov said. "1 know
it has been a plan of the KGB for the last three years to
eliminate Castro when it becomes possible to do so. Cuba
costs us too much, and it causes entirely too much trouble in
the world. It is unsettling, and Castro is unstable. Nichevo is
going to do for you what your own men were incapable of
doing."

Kadar rested his chin on his fist. His glance darted around
the ceiling in thought. "Why did you kidnap Corfus?"

"I needed to know the password by which the CIA contact
in Havana will identify himself to Kutsenko. He is the man on
whom we will blame the killing of Castro."

"You could not get that information and let Corfus live?"

"He was already dying when I saw him. Lozovan saw to
that. The American did not deserve the kind of death she
arranged. So I gave him an easier way to die."

Kadar looked down at the papers on his desk. "And this
Justin Gilead. Who is he?"

"He was an agent of the CIA. i thought I killed him in
Poland four years ago, but I have learned he is stilt alive. I
don't know where."

"Is he important? The Committee knows next to nothing
about him."

"The Committee has never known anything that requires
thought," Zharkov said. He saw Kadar bristle- "Important?
Justin Gilead is perhaps the most dangerous man on earth."

"Come, now," Kadar said with a forced urbanity. "No
man is so powerful as that."

Zharkov fixed him with a look that sent a shiver up the

254 GRANDMASTER

premier's neck. "There are things even the premier of the
Soviet Union cannot know about men. Or power," he said
finally.

Neither man spoke for several minutes as Kadar made a
show of riffling through the papers on his desk. Zharkov was
the first to break the silence. "He will be in Havana."

"Gilead? Is he a chess player, too?"

Zharkov nodded. "A grandmaster. The Grandmaster."

He rose, unasked.

"You have a great deal of confidence. Comrade Colonel,"
Kadar said. "No one else would have spoken to me the way
you did."

"And remained alive." Zharkov finished.

Kadar attempted a smile. "Times change."

"Nichevo does not change."

The premier rose. "We have never had this meeting," he
said. "1 know nothing of what Nichevo is doing, in Cuba or
elsewhere."

"That is correct," Zharkov said, and prepared to leave- He
stopped near the doorway. "One more thing. Did you autho-
rize Ostrakov to put a microphone in Comrade Velanova's
apartment?"

Kadar made a dismissive gesture. "Of course not. Ostrakov's
games do not concern me. Who is this woman to you?"

"A woman," Zharkov said. "If Ostrakov was acting on
his own, I will have to repay him for that particular *game.' "

"You are a chess player," Kadar said. the dead eyes
lighting with a hint of amusement. "What will be the nature
of your countennove?"

Zharkov deliberated for a moment, then said, "I will trade
queens," before walking out.

.CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Zharkov's instructions to Katarina were brief: "Leave the
office now. Buy some men's clothes that fit you and wait for
me at my apartment."

"What is going on?"

"I'll explain it all tater," he said as he hung up the
telephone in the street-comer booth.
1 He drove to one of the old districts of Moscow, a neighbor-
hood with a heavy concentration of Arabs, where young
Russian women with painted faces huddled from the cold in
doorways, occasionally calling out to passersby. Prostitution
was officially illegal and severely punished, but as long as the
activity remained confined to certain areas, the law managed
to look the other way.

From another street-comer telephone, he called his office.
Katarina had already left. and he spoke to one of his assistants.
"Velanova has been terminated." he said. "She will be
transferred for work on the Trans-Siberian railway. Prepare
the necessary documents at once and put them in her file."

He heard the man stammer. "To Siberia. Colonel?"

"Do what I tell you."

The young women were lined up in the identical doorways
of identical tumbledown buildings. With their bare knees
showing below their heavy winter coats, the girls looked like
worn, uncared-for dolls on a toymaker's shelf.

"Looking for some fun, mister?" one of them called. She
was squat and fat with yellow strawlike hair. Zharkov shook
his head and continued to move down the line of doorways.

255

256 GRANDMASTER

"You." he said, pointing to a tall, thin woman with a
cold-reddened nose. "Take off your hat."

"That'll be fifty kopeks," a fat blonde called from another
doorway, and two other women laughed. The tall girl stepped
forward warily and removed the brown knit turban she wore.
Her hair was dark and cut short like Katarina's.

"You'll do." He motioned her to f6liow him down the
street.

"He picked Galina," one of the girls whispered, giggling.
"Maybe he's short of cash."

In the fading light, Zharkov examined the woman's face
more carefully. "How old are you?"

"Twenty." She looked ten years older. "Do you want to
go to my apartment?"

"I have a car." He led her to the Chaika. She fingered the
leather seats as if they were made of gold. "You must be
very rich," she said admiringly, as she got into the passenger
seat.

He pressed the button that locked all four windows and
doors. "I am an official of the Committee for State Security,"
he said, unbuttoning his overcoat to show his uniform. "Hand
over your papers."

She threw herself against the door, banging futilely on the
closed windows.

"Be still," he snapped. "No one's going to hurt you.
Where are your papers?"

From her pocket she produced a grubby plastic wallet, but
even as she handed it to him, she was pleading. "Please.
Don't send me to prison. I won't do it anymore."

"All I want is for you to take a train ride." Zharkov said.

The girl's face froze. "Where to?"

"The north. For a real job."

The girl's face twisted in bewilderment for a moment, then
sank into blankness. "Siberia," she said. "You're sending
me to Siberia."

In the warmth of the car, Zharkov could smell the odor of
her fear.

"You'll have handsome wages. If you save your money,
when you come back you'll have enough to make yourself
beautiful, perhaps buy a nice apartment and a car."

"You're crazy," she said. "Let me out of here."

He took her wrist and held it firmly. "If I accuse you of

The Grandmaster               257

prostitution, you'll go to prison- If I accuse you of picking
my pocket, the term will be even longer. Suppose I say you
tried to steal my car. You will never gel out of prison. You
will do as I say."

The girl looked up at him miserably- "Why are you doing
this to me?" she squeaked, trying to hold back the tears.
"There were so many others."

Because you don't matter, Zharkov thought. Because no
one will miss you, no one will look for you, no one will care
when you disappear off the face of the earth. He started the
car. As he drove, he took a packet from his coat and handed
it to her. "These are your new papers," he said.

She looked at them suspiciously. "Katarina Velanova. Who's
she?"

"She is you, from now on." Zharkov said.

"I don't like this. I want to get out."

They were stopped for a traffic light and Zharkov turned
and stared at her icily. "Don't make me kill you." he said-
She lowered her eyes- "You people can do anything."

Zharkov pulled into the parking lot near the massive rail-
way station. The train carrying the Siberian work volunteers
was on a distant track. There were three cars, two for men
and one for women. There were rows of wooden benches
inside, but most of the passengers were crammed onto the
floor. They were rough-looking people, each with a personal
reason for volunteering to work in the hostile Siberian climate
under primitive conditions- Some were going for the high
wages, but an equal number were traveling to escape the law.
They went because virtually no questions were asked of the
volunteers.

In the women's car. the passengers sat sullenly, jockeying
for space on the seats and floor. The eyes of the women
turned silently toward the young woman as she and Zharkov
approached.

"I'm not going in there." the young whore told Zharkov.

He jerked her arm forward.

"This is some kind of fucking concentration camp!" She
swung at him- "I'm not going. I tell you. You're pulling
some kind of trick."

A uniformed soldier came over. His blue shoulder boards
indicated that he was a sergeant. "Anything wrong, Colonel?"
he asked politely.

258 GRANDMASTER

"This person has been reassigned to work on the railway,"
Zharkov said.

"I'll look after her personally, Comrade Colonel." the
sergeant said, saluting. He shoved Galina roughly into the
train car. The other women cursed and complained loudly as
the girl tumbled over them.

"You're a pig!" Galina screamed through the open car
door at Zharkov.

"Shut up," the sergeant said lazily. He was a young man,
but he had obviously heard last-minute pleas as desperate as
Galina's before- The women cackled.

When he turned away from the train, Zharkov noticed
four people standing far across the platform, watching
him. It was common for the worst criminals, who were
fleeing to Siberia, to wait until the final few minutes be-
fore jumping onto the train, just in case there was a last-
minute police search of the railroad cars for someone wanted
for a crime.

His attention was caught by one woman. She was probably
forty, but she looked sixty. Her face was ravaged by a long
badly healed knife scar, and her complexion was blotched,
red, and alcoholic.

But what he noticed was the back of her right hand
as she reached up to push back a tendril of dirty-looking
hair that had spilled from under her black cap onto her
face.

A word was tattooed across her knuckles. Zharkov recog-
nized the mark as the kind usually done in prison to prisoners
by other prisoners. Usually the tattoo spelled out the crime
the person had committed. It was the hardened criminal's
stupid, self-destructive way of thumbing his nose at society.

As Zharkov walked toward the group, the train's engines
rumbled to life and the four people started running toward the
railroad cars. Zharkov intercepted the woman and grabbed her
by the right arm. Even through her coat. her arm felt muscularly
stringy. He looked at her hand. The word tattooed across the
back of her hand was "Murderer."

"Going to Siberia?" Zharkov said.

"Yes."

"I suppose you will find the climate there much more
comfortable than here," he said.

"I just want to leave Moscow," she said.

The Grandmaster               259

"Before the police catch you?"

"I—" she started, but Zharkov interrupted her.

"Don't worry. Come over here. There is a favor i want
you to do."

A few moments later, he released the woman, who ran
toward the train. She just got into the women's car before the
army sergeant closed the doors.

As he walked back to the parking lot, Zharkov thought it
was a game of pawns after all. Every chess game was a game
of pawns, and no game was ever decided until many pawns
had fallen.

Katarina was waiting in his apartment. She was wearing
the men's clothes Zharkov had told her to buy, and she
looked like a slender, hairless youth.

"You make a handsome boy," Zharkov said with a smite.

"Alyosha. I've been sick with worry all day. What's going
on?"

"In the car," he said. "We're in a hurry."

Driving away, he told her about his meeting with Kadar.
She asked, "What does that mean, to trade queens?"

"It means that your life is vulnerable right now to Ostrakov's
hoodlums," Zharkov said. "That's why I'm getting you out
of here."

"Where will I go?"

"Officially, you've gone to Siberia. Didn't you always
want to be a railway worker?" He tried smiling at her. but
her face was glum and unhappy. "Anyway, here are your
new papers," he said. He handed her the cheap plastic packet
he had taken from Galina, the prostitute. Katarina did not
even look at them, but stuck them in her pocket.

After a moment she asked, "You're not really sending me
to Siberia, are you?"

Zharkov smiled. "No. You're going to Cuba."

"But why?"

"Because you'll be safe there." He was unable to keep the
exasperation from his voice-

"And you?"

"I will be safe," Zharkov said. "Kadar cannot move
against me without first finding my records, and he will never
find them."

260 GRANDMASTER

"How can you be so sure? He can tear this country apart.
He can find them."

"He can't find them," Zharieov insisted.

"Why not?" She was nearly shouting. "Atyosha—"

"He can't find them because they don't exist," Zharkov
said.

Katarina's eyes registered surprise, then amusement, then
admiration.

"It was my father's advice; 'What you never wish found,
commit only to your own memory.' " He pulled into a small
side street and stopped the car. He scanned the street and
said, "Good, here's my man."

A tall, thin man with an uncombed scraggly beard was
approaching the car. "That is Felix," Zharkov told Katarina.
"He will take you to Primorsk, and the two of you will get on
a trawler. At sea, you'll transfer to another ship, which will
take you to Cuba." At her worried look, he said, "Don't fret.
You'll be perfectly safe. Felix is Nichevo, and he's been in
Cuba many times."

Katarina's pertness had dissolved- She looked down at her
hands. "Why does it have lo be this way?" she said, choked.

He touched her face. "There is no answer that will make
this easier. But things will not always be this way. When I
have kept my promise to Varja, you will be at my side."

"When will I see you again?" she asked as she opened the
passenger door of the car.

"Soon- When I come to Cuba. Go now. There isn't much
time."

She threw her arms around him and kissed him until he
pushed her away. Then she stepped from the car, closed the
door quietly, and walked off with Felix toward a waiting car
down the street.

Maria Lozovan had not wasted any lime. Her broken front
tooth had already been repaired when she let Zharkov into her
apartment. She was dressed in fashionable Western-style pants
and a thin silk blouse through which he could see her bare
breasts.

She looked at him triumphantly and said, "I trust you've
come to apologize."

"I've come to do what the vozhd ordered me to do,"
Zharkov said.

The Grandmaster               261

"Good." she said with satisfaction. "It is good for a man
like you to crawl a little. It reminds you that you are human,
after all."

"Not here, though." Zharkov said.

She arched a penciled eyebrow. "Where, then?"

"Ostrakov's. I want a witness to my abject apology and
my admission of wrongdoing," Zharkov said.

He waited until she got a fur coat, then led her to his car. A
few minutes later, they were speeding toward the outskirts of
Moscow.

"This isn't the way to Ostrakov's," she said, an edge of
panic creeping into her voice.

"No. it isn't." Zharkov said, and when she turned to look
at him questioningly, he punched her jaw viciously and she
slumped unconscious against the passenger door.

Slow down.

The big Chaika almost skidded on the snow-slicked road.
Ahead, barely visible through the storm, stood the cabin and,
beyond it, the deep woods where Corfus's body iay in the
ravine.

Maria Lozovan had regained consciousness. She cringed in
terror as Zharkov dragged her roughly from the car and pulled
her through the snow toward the'ravine. He tossed her into
the snow. then took a long branch to brush snow away from
Corfus's already frozen body. "That's your work, bitch," he
snarled.

"What are we doing here? Where is Ostrakov?"
;      "I thought this would be cozier with Just the two of us."
,|    Zharkov said. "As to what we're doing, we're just taking a
;    quiet stroll in the country. No acid on the eyelids, no cigarette
bums to mar your well-oiied skin."

"I have always been loyal," she protested huskily. Tears
formed in her eyes as she rose to her knees.

"To yourself, Maria." He shrugged. "Unfortunately, that
is not enough. You betrayed me to Ostrakov. Later, if it is in
your interest, you will betray us both to the Americans."

"I wouldn't . . ."

"Who can foretell the future?" Zharkov said smoothly.
"Particularly when you have none."

She pressed her hands together in front of her, as if she
were in church, a supplicant to God.

262 GRANDMASTER

"Why are you doing this, Zharkov? Why?"

He liked looking at her. kneeling there before him thai
way- "You wouldn't understand." he said.

"I will. 1 will."

And because it amused him, he said. "All right- Forty-one
years ago, two boys were born. They shared the same birthdate.
but they were to face very different destinies."

She stared at him. Her face was expressionless, but she
nodded to urge him to continue.

"Because they were not simply boys. Each was the latest
in a line of ancestors that goes back centuries. One was to
become the Wearer of the Blue Hat; the other was to be the
Wearer of the Black Hat. Each was to serve a different god.
And they would battle, as all those who came before them
have battled through the centuries. The winner will possess
the world."

He stopped and waited. Finally. Maria Lozovan said. "Who?
Who are these two?"

"You know only one. I am the Wearer of the Black Hat.
and the world, will belong to me. When the Grandmaster is
dead."

She was weeping again, and suddenly her life no longer
mnused him.

"Look down there." he said. pointing toward the ravine.
"Look at your handiwork."

She turned and stared blankly down at Corfus's corpse,
Beside her. Zharkov drew the Tokarev from his coat and
waited. He waited to see her eyes. And when she looked up
at him finally and saw the barrel of the weapon inches from
her face, and a flash of terror and panic glazed the copper-
colored irises, Zharkov had what he wanted.

Feeling the satisfaction of justice, he fired. Her forehead
blew away, spattering two nearby trees with red-
He kicked her body into the ravine atop the American's and
brushed snow over both corpses. He turned and left without a
backward glance.

Sergei Ostrakov's voice was bluff and hearty as it sounded
over the telephone answering machine in Zharkov's apartment.

"Alyosha, this is Sergei. I don't know, but I think there
might be some misunderstanding between us. We've got to
get together to clear it up. Call me as soon as you get in."

The Grandmaster               263

And then, with a little trace of desperation, he added, "No
matter how late it is."

He was tired, and he thought of ignoring the call until the
next day, but finally he called Ostrakov's home and told the
KGB officer's aide that Ostrakov should come right over.

When Ostrakov arrived, Zharkov was sitting at the chess-
board in the dining room.

"Alyosha, how are you?" he began heartily.

Zharkov turned in his chair. "You have spoken to the
vozhd?" he asked.

Ostrakov nodded. "He wanted to be sure that you and
I—"

Zharkov interrupted him brusquely. "Have you brought the
tapes you made in Velanova's apartment?"

"Yes," Ostrakov said. There was a faint quaver in his
voice.

"Put them on the dining table."

Ostrakov took a small paper bag from the leather briefcase
he was carrying and placed it on the table. "They're in there.
All of them. And no copies were made. None. None at all."

"Ostrakov. if you ever try that with me again, you will be
a dead man," Zharkov said-

The KGB officer stood silently near the table.

"Is that clear?"

Ostrakov was silent for a moment, then nodded.

"Maria Lozovan is dead," Zharkov said.

"I guessed she would be."

"She knew too much about Corfus's disappearance,"
Zharkov said.

Ostrakov nodded. "She couldn't be trusted with that kind of
secret," he agreed.

"Anyone else who might talk about it will also be killed."
Zharkov said.

"No one else knows," Ostrakov said.

"Except you," Zharkov said. "Think about that for a
while." He turned away from the KGB officer and looked
again at the chessboard. "You'll forgive me for not offering
you a drink, but I'm busy." he said in dismissal.

A few moments later, he heard the door to his apartment
open. Then he heard a hiss from Ostrakov. "It's simple, isn't
it? Simple for all you smart people. I don't know how you got
away with it this time, Zharkov. But you won't always."

264 GRANDMASTER

"We'll see." Zharkov said without looking up

"Just one last thing. Colonel.' Ostrakov said "You might
think you were very smart in trying to gel Velanova out of
town

Zharkov paused He could feel himself holding his breath

"But she's dead. too "

Zharkov turned to stare at Ostrakov

There was a flicker of frightened triumph in the KGB
man's eyes "You didn't know that, did you' Well. she's
dead They found her body tonight alongside the railroad
tracks Someone stabbed her "

"Who did it9" Zharkov asked

"Who knows^ With a train full ot criminals, anyone could
have." Ostrakov sdid "You shouldn't have sent her to
Siberia "

Zharkov concentrated on looking sorrowful "1 thought
she'd be sate," he said

"You thought wrong " Ostrakov turned triumphantly and
walked out the door

Zharkov turned back to the chessboard where he stared
at the pieces, arranged in the play of Justin Gilead's fabt
game

It had all worked out tor the best, he thought His position
was stronger than ever Katanna was on her way to safety
The day would come, perhaps sooner than he could even
expect, when he would lead this giant nation And more.
perhaps Vaqa's power was unlimited He could set his sights
beyond Russia, beyond the East. if he wished

Oh, yes Beyond the East

But first there was the Grandmaster to finish off That was
next

Before he went to bed that night, Zharkov made three
telephone calls The next day there was a bnet item in
Izvettia

Boris Godorsky has been forced by illness lo withdraw
trom the Russian chess team. which will meet an Amen
can te?-n in a challenge match in Havana. Cuba. in sixty
days

His place will be taken by Army Colonel Alexander
Zharkov Zharkov is considered one of the Soviet Union's

The Grandmaster               265

finest players, and this match will mark his return to
top-level competition after an absence of many years

The Russian team will be headed by Ivan Kutsenko,
world chess champion

Zharkov read the news item in his office and smiled The
game had begun

Book Five

THE GAME

-CHAPTER THIRTY

Andrew Starcher felt like a very old man. lying in the same
bed he had slept in as a child. Except for the funereal array of
flowers sent by family friends—most of whom had never met
him and had no idea what he'd done with his sixty-six years
on earth—the room was exactly as it had been the day
Starcher left for boarding school- The cheerful biue and white
wallpaper, the cnsp white curtains, the tiny Heppfewhite
writing desk sitting beneath the Remington painting depicting
a scene from a buffalo hunt.

Below, at the bottom of the curving walnut staircase, the
beil was ringing again. More visitors. In a house with sixteen
permanent family residents, many of whom were involved
with the government in one quiet way or another, Starcher
and his convalescence were only a minor facet in the day-to-
day activities, a fact for which he was immensely grateful.
For a man who had lived almost the whole of his life in
secrecy, it was abhorrent to lie in this child's room in pajamas,
on display for anyone to see. He despised the cheerful intru-
sions of the well-wishers who cared even less than he did
about the physical condition of an old man come home to die.

As soon as he was able. he'd bribed the gardener to fit a
bolt onto the bedroom door so that he could lock out the
visitors, but his sister had gone on the warpath. Finally, she
agreed to keep people off the second floor until he was well
enough to move back into his own house.

It was the insignificant victory of an old man turned crotch-
ety with infirmity.

269

270 GRANDMASTER

He lay on the bed day after endless day, working cross-
word puzzles and reading magazines and wishing, now, that
even the unwanted visitors would reappear for a moment or
two

To amuse himself, he had copies of Izvestia delivered
daily, and he read carefully the growing crescendo of Russian
warnings to the American imperialists that Cuba was not to be
tampered with What was it all about9 Starcher wondered He
read The Washington Post and The New York Times every
day, too, but there were no reports of any unusual American
activity concerning Cuba

The more he thought about it, the more convinced he was
that the Russians were planning something, some kind of a
swindle He thought for a moment about calling Corfus in
Moscow, but he realized immediately that such an act was
ridiculous Corfus might not even be assigned to Moscow
anymore, and if he was. he certainly wouldn't tell Starcher
anything over an open transatlantic telephone line

In the fourth week of his convalescence, he read another
bitter Russian attack complaining about "growing evidence of
American provocation" against Cuba, and he realized that,
without his work, he was a useless thing

He got out of bed, dressed, stared at himself in the mirror
for several minutes, decided something was missing, and
stole a family car from the dnveway and smoked a cigar
clandestinely as he drove away from the house\It was a deep
and smoky Dutch Masters It made him feel better than the
gallons of medication the doctors had poured into him

And he decided not to go back to that child's room again

One of the guards at the entrance to the Langley complex
was an old-timer

"Well, well, Mr Starcher Long time no see "

Starcher puffed his cigar between his teeth "Just back for
d visit, I'm afraid '

The guard smiled sympathetically "I'm due to retire next
year myself The time sure goes fast " Starcher waved and
started to drive through the gate, but the guard stopped him
"I've got to ask you who you're coming to see, sir "

"Oh     of course " He was an outsider now No special
privileges Langley was no longer home, any more than his
family's house was "Harry Kael," he said. "director of
security "

The Game                271

"Director of operations now Is he expecting you r'

"No     wit! you buzz hurP" An appointment to see
Kaet, of all people The time sure did go fast

Kael was a little fatter, a little balder, but in general the
same fast-talking overgrown college boy he'd always been

"Starcher. you old fart   he said cheerfully   Didn t ex
pect to find you lurking around here for another six months
What'd you do, fire all your doctors1' And pul out thai cigar
It's not good for you "

"At my age, alt the things that are good for you are dis
gustmg,' Starcher said He gestured around the big office "So
when did this all happen9"

"Couple of months Just about when you got sick Going
pretty well "

"Need any help9"

Kael smiled and shook his head There was pily m his
eyes

I didn't think so How's Moscow9" Starcher asked

"Still not applying for statehood, if that's what you mean
New guy we sent over to replace you's gol his hands full
Rand You know Rand9 Hungary, 1956 "

Starcher nodded "He'll be all nght And Corfus is a good
number two "

Kael mumbled something and lit a cigarette

"What's the matter9 Anything wrong with Corfus9"

"Well    " He inhaled deeply "Forget it, Andy You
don't need to know this kind of shit anymore "

"If it's about the man I left in charge of my job, I want to
know about il What's happened to Corfus9"

Kael hesitated for a long moment "All nght." he said at
last "Corfus is missing Has been since before you left
Moscow The Russian police are looking for him That's the
official line "

"What's the unofficial line9"

"Classified "

"Well, maybe you'd better declassify it to me "

"You know I can't do that, Andy Even for you "

Starcher rose angrily "Don't give me that crap If Corfus
has been missing since I was in that Russian hospital, then he
never got the information about Cuba to this Rand fellow "

Kaei choked on his cigarette smoke "What about Cuba9"

"Maybe that's classified," Starcher said, and immediately

272 GRANDMASTER

fell childish "All nght Remember Frank Riesling, the agent
who was getting some Soviet bigwigs out through Finland9"

"The one who got blown away in the hotel9 How can I
forget9 The Reds called it a mugging If that was—"

Starcher waved him down "Never mind about that The
point is, Corfus figured out who Riesling was trying to get
out of Moscow that day We weren't sure, but it's very
possible that the man was Ivan Kutsenko "

Kael looked blank

"Kutsenko," Starcher repeated, searching for a reaction
"The world chess champion "

"Oh," Kael said finally, and stubbed out his cigdrette

" -Oh91 That's all9"

"What's the big deal about a chess player9"

"Jesus Christ," Starcher sighed "Don't you guys follow
anything but Monday night football9 In the Soviet bloc
countries, chess is the most prestigious peacetime confronta-
tion there is It's a very big deal And the best chess player in
the world might want to come over "

Kael said nothing

"If Kutsenko were a ballet dancer, you'd be jumping at the
chance." Starcher said grumpily

"It's not that     How do you know he wants to come
over9''

"Long story But before he died, Riesling said something
that we think was a recognition code 'In Havana, the sun is
hot, but it's good for the sugar crop ' The World Open Chess
Tournament's going to be held in Havana I think Kutsenko'll
be waiting for us An easy pickup, and a big slap in the face
for the Russians " He puffed mightily on his cigar It was
good to be in the thick of things again "So what do you
think9"

"Screw Kutsenko I'm not even going to take it up with
the director ''

"Why not9"

"Unreliable source "

"Who9 Me9 Riesling7 Corfus'"

"Corfus," Kael said quietly "See. the official line about
him being missing may not be accurate Hell. Andy, let's just
leave it at that, okay7"

"No," Starcher said "Don't do this to me. Harry I was
your senior officer when you came here, and I was Corfus's

The Game                273

immediate superior If something about Corfus is suspect, !
have the nght to know about it Hell. I might have started
it "

"All nght, all nght." Kael said "If it's senous. you'll
end up being involved, anyway The fact of the matter is. the
Russians have been acting funny about Cuba "

"I know I've been reading Izvestia," Starcher said

"Naturally, 1 should have known Anyway, the Rus-
sians have ships all around Cuba Not doing anything Just
sitting there in the water, waiting "

"For what9" Starcher asked "We haven't done d thing in
Cuba since 1962 besides lake in refugees they didn't want "

Kael said, "You really don't know what's going on, do
you9"

"Of course not," Starcher said "I've been sick Remem-
ber9"

Kael hesitated as if weighing some alternatives Finally, he
said. "Okay Your replacement. Rand, he got a phone call
from somebody saying that the Russians know we've got
something big planned in Cuba And that they got the informa-
tion from Corfus "

"Corfus9 This has got to be some kind of a tnck," Starcher
said

"Well, maybe Ever hear of somebody named Lars
Saannen9" He lit another cigarette, coughed, and put it out in
an overfilled ashtray that was still smoldering

"The name sounds familiar, but—"

"In connection with Frank Riesling," Kael said

"Oh, of course The ship captain He used to run Riesling
in and out of Russia Why9"

Kael took off his glasses, wiped them on a rumpled Klee-
nex lying amid the clutter on his desk, and replaced them
"Well, it seems that your man Corfus pulled some strings
with the Finns to get Saannen an exit visa to the States "

"Saannen isn't a Soviet He's a Finnish national A Finn
doesn't need special consideration to get to America." Starcher
said

"He does if he's in jail." Kael said "Saannen was picked
up for smuggling Corfus apparently got him off scot-free

"We!l, so what9" Starcher said "Saannen helped us
Why shouldn't we help him9"

274 GRANDMASTER

"How simple you make it all sound." Kael said. "Saarinen's
in Miami now. We've got him under surveillance."

"What the hell for?"

"Because he sailed his freaking boat across the Atlantic,"
Kael snapped. "Suppose Corfus was a double and working
for the Reds. Then maybe this goddamned Finnish fucking
pirate is a Russian spook, too. He's in Miami, dammit. He
could be in Cuba in a couple of hours if he wanted to be."

"That's a lot of ifs," Starcher said. "If Corfus is a spy. if
Saarinen's part of his network - - if. if, if ... and you still
don't know what the hell the Russians are doing in Cuba."

"Suppose there was something funny about Riesling, too,"
Kael said.

"Such as? The man was murdered by the KGB in front of
a hundred witnesses," Starcher said.

"Exactly. What was Riesling doing in Moscow?"

Starcher began to speak, but Kael stopped him.

"Riesling did small stuff, right? Scientists, writers, you
say maybe a chess player. Nothing big. No hardware, no
documents."

"No, nothing big. Only people," Starcher said, his lips
tight.

"You can can the humanistic slobber," Kael said irritably.
"The fact is he wasn't doing anything really big, but the
Russkies blew him away as if he'd just pissed on Lenin's
tomb."

"So what do you think happened?"

"Maybe the KGB was afraid that Riesling had found some-
thing out, like the fact that Corfus was a double. Maybe he
was going to tell somebody, and maybe they shot him up so
he couldn't."

"That still doesn't say what happened to Corfus." Starcher
said.

"He's probably living in some villa right now on the
Crimean, spilling his guts about CIA operations."

Starcher shook his head. "Everybody's a Red, I guess.
Corfus, Saarinen, Riesling. Me, too?"

"Andy, you know 1 don't think that. but 1 think maybe you
turned your operation into the freaking British Secret Service
with everybody on their honor and not a check on any one of
them. You remember? You even started using that chess
player who wasn't with us. What was his name, Gilead?"

The Game                275

"He was a Communist agent, too?" Starcher asked.

Kael shrugged- "Maybe. I don't think you'll like this. but
we're running a tighter ship in Moscow now. Andy.".

Starcher stared at him for long seconds. "Are you going to
tell the director about the possibility of Kulsenko wanting to
defect?" he asked.

"No. We've discussed Cuba. We're staying the hell away
from there. Let the Russians bluster and then wind up with
egg on their faces when nothing happens. We had a meeting
yesterday- We were almost going to stop the American chess
team from playing there, but what the hell trouble can chess
players cause?"

Oh, you fool. Starcher thought. He sat for a moment,
quietly angry. Corfus was missing. Kutsenko wanted to defect.
The head of Nichevo had joined the Russian chess team.

The Soviets were definitely planning something in Cuba.
And these idiots, Kael chief among them, were just sitting
still, doing nothing. The fools. Didn't they know? Didn't they
care?

But who was Andrew Starcher. anyway, he thought bitterly.
He could see the answer in Kael's patronizing glances toward
him. Just an old retired CIA man, sick, probably senile, his
head filled with old cold war plots. Kael would have a big
laugh with his buddies in the coffee shop when he told them
about Crazy Andy and all his worries.

He stood up stiffly and said, "Thanks for the time, Harry.
Sorry to bother you."

"No bother," Kae! said. "I'll give you a call sometime
when 1 get some free time. Maybe we can grab lunch when
you're feeiing better."

"I'm feeling fine now. Harry." Starcher said.

The younger man nodded and seemed ready to offer Starcher
his hand, but the white-haired Virginian turned away and
walked from the office.

He drove back to the house, smuggled his box of cigars
into his room, and sat there smoking until well past dark.

Something big, something important was going to happen
in Cuba, and the CIA didn't know about it and didn't care to
know about it. What to do? he asked himself. What to do?
The question hung in the darkness as he looked out over the
rolling Virginia hillside.

The genes of two centuries of Starchers who were Ameri-

.-&_

276 GRANDMASTER

can patriots, who had fought in every one of the nation's
wars, who had given their lives and their honor to their
country, answered him.

He would have to do something about it himself. And
maybe, just maybe, he wouid not have to do it alone.

He opened the top drawer of the small dresser and looked
inside it. In the back. he found, wrapped in a dirty piece of
paper, the medallion of the coiled snake.

He put it in his jacket pocket and left the room, the box of
cigars clutched tightly under his arm.

.CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

New York's Seventy-ninth Street Boat Basin was just as
Starcher remembered it, a mishmash of boats, dilapidated and
grand, jammed together beneath the hot sun of an unusually
warm November day. There was activity on the docks, pretty
girls in shorts, children, a lot of haggard-looking executive
types snarling at the attendants as if they were office boys.
Starcher walked past them to the dilapidated blue and white
houseboat where a stumpy old woman, her hair now com-
pletely white, sat reading a newspaper.

"Dr. Tauber?" he called from the pier.

She looked up, adjusted her glasses, rose-

"I'm Andrew Starcher, We met several years ago—"

"I know who you are." she growled. "And I'd appreciate
it if you'd get the hell out of my body bag. What gives you
jokers the right—"

"I don't work for the government anymore." he said
tersely.

She sat back down in her tattered plastic lawn chair with an
elaborate rustle of paper. "I'm not surprised," she grumbled.
"You're as old as the frigging hilis."

Starcher smiled. "So are you. So you must know how tired
I get standing out here. I've come a long way- I'd appreciate
a cup of coffee and a chair.''

Dr. Tauber pretended for a moment not to hear, then set
her newspaper under a rock with a great sigh of disgust.
"You Rhett Butler types never know when enough is enough,
do you? Well, gel aboard. I won't have it on my conscience

277

278 GRANDMASTER

that some old fool keeled over from a bum heart in front of
my boat. But no coffee." She poured him a martini from a
pitcher on the deck alongside her feet, "You coming from
Virginia?" Tauber asked. Starcher nodded, the glass to his
lips.

"What for?" She raised a finger directly iR front of his
eyes- "And don't tell me you're a tourist. You don't have the
eyes of a tourist."

"I'm here to find Justin Gilead." he said.

She snatched the glass from him. "That's what I thought.
Now you can kindly scuttle your butt out of here."

"Do you know where he is?"

"Maybe I do and maybe I don't. But you characters aren't
going to get your grubby hands on him again. Not this time.
Not after what you did."

Starcher felt his heart racing. "Then he is alive," he said.

"1 didn't say that."

"Listen to me." He clasped both her hands in his own. "I
have to talk to him. I've got to see him."

"No." She yanked her hands away. Her face was stony
and bitter. "Now you listen to me, mister, and listen good.
You're not talking to him; you're not taking him anywhere,
understand? He can't talk to you. He can't go anywhere.
thanks to you."

"I—I don't understand."

"Oh, no? I would have thought you understood better than
anybody. You did it to him."

"Did what? Dr. Tauber, you've got to believe me. Justin
Gilead was lost in Poland in 1980. He's officially dead. There
are pictures to prove it."

"You people think you can turn the whole world upside
down and inside out, don't you?"

"We people didn't do it. We had documented facts from
the Soviet government."

"And you took their word for it." she said. "Nobody
bothered lo look for himself. Nobody bothered to find out if
he was dead or not."

"That's what I'm doing now," Starcher pleaded. "I'm
retired, but I'm here looking for him. If he's alive . . ."

She burst out laughing, harsh and loud. "Alive? Alive?"
She slapped her hand on his back and pushed him. "I'll show
you how alive he is."

The Game                279

She opened a door with a key and shoved Starcher inside.

The room was nearly pitch dark, and it took Starcher a
moment to see at all. The portholes were covered with nailed
boards. There was a small cot inside, no other furnishings. In
the far corner crouched a figure, emaciated, withered, mute,
his pale eyes luminous in their sockets.

It was Justin Gilead.

"Maybe you'd like to give him your regards from the
CIA." Dr. Tauber said bitterly, closing the door behind
Starcher.

Starcher stood in the darkness for what seemed like an
eternity, staring at the remains of what had once been a man
of great promise. He was a dull, frightened creature now, his
thin arms encircling his knees, his hair long and untidy.
Gilead's fingernails, Starcher noticed, were as long as a
woman's. His face, once almost too beautiful, was drawn and
etched with deep lines around the slack mouth.

For a brief, crazy moment, Starcher wished that Riesling
had never spoken his last words. It would have spared him
this sight of the dead man who hadn't quite died, who had
lived on the fringes of death for four years -

"I'm sorry," he said hoarsely- He realized from Gilead's
expression that the words hadn't-registered. "Oh, my God,
I'm sorry- I'm sorry you didn't die." Starcher blew out a gust
of air and sat down on the small cot. He felt warm tears
streaming down his face. He tried to think of something to
say, but his brain would produce no words.

He stared at the ceiling, felt the blackness around him.
Oddly, the darkness seemed to impart a perverse kind of
comfort. Perhaps Justin Gilead had found that, too. Starcher
hoped so. Whatever had happened in Poland, it had been
enough to drive Gilead into this dark hole. He hoped that the
young man had found some comfort here.

He sat in silence for a long time, staring at the figure in the
comer, as still as a wood carving.

No words came. He had traveled all this distance to find
Justin Gilead, hoping that Riesling was right, that he was still
alive, and now the only thought in his mind was that death
would have been more merciful. Anything would have been
better than seeing this silent, mad stranger who occupied the
shell of the body that had once been the Grandmaster.

How could he apologize? What could he say? What words

280 GRANDMASTER

would give enough comfort to make up to Justm Gilead for
the toss of his sanity9 He had been a young man when
Starcher Idst saw him, and now there was only     only this
thing left

"I'm sorry, Juslin," he finally said "For both of us " He
got up and walked around the room Occasionally, a child's
shnek from outdoors broke the silence, otherwise there was
only the dull clunking of Starcher's footfalls on the wooden
floor and the droning of his voice, talking to a man who
wasn't listening

"I didn't really come to bother you." he apologized "I
thought I'd come here and recruit you all over again You and
me. off on a spy mission to Cuba, to save the world from
Zharkov and his men " He laughed bitterly "I should have
known it was JUSI an old man's dream I'm sorry I wasted
your time "

He turned toward the door. then slopped and pulled the
dirty brown paper from his jacket "I nearly forgot Here's
something that belongs to you " He held it out at arm's
length Justin made no move to take it Starcher unwrapped
the package gingerly and spilled the contents into Justm's lap
For the first time, Justm's head moved

He stared at the glittering thing nestled in the space be-
tween his chest and his indrawn legs Finally, his thin arms
moving as awkwardly as the wings of a newly hatched bird,
he picked it up and put the chain around his neck

"Well. that's something, anyhow," Starcher said "Good
luck to you. Justm " He closed the door behind him gently
and walked off the boat, nodding silently to Dr Tauber as he
passed

Justin Gilead coughed For a moment, the dim half-light
that had surrounded him for as long as he could remember
exploded in a frenzy of color and motion His breath came in
violent, ragged gasps Sweat poured off him, trembling at the
tips of his shaking fingers His eyes opened wide in horror
The pain was horrible, a searing, powerful force that hol-
lowed his body and set his senses on fire

Hail to thee, 0 Wearer of the Blue Hal

He was floating He was somewhere long ago. in a faraway
mountain lake, guided by a strong hand to a sacred mountain.

The Game                281

and in his soul surged the power of a thousand generations.
calling to him amid the sweet scent of almonds

Hail to Thee

0 Patanjali, the pain of this body is too great

Wearer of the Blue Hal

1 dm not worthy

Hail to thee

Not worthy

Not worthy

And past was present and present was future and what hdd
been Wds what now was and would always be The circle was
forming again, and Justin screamed with the agony of it

"Help me," he whispered

Hail to thee

"Help me, Tagore'"

/ warned you that you, above all others, would suffer.
came a voice from deep withm him Thai among all men.
only you would find no wlace in this world

"I am not the one you sought'" Justm cned out "I have
failed again and again I have destroyed myself and everyone
who was dear to me 1 have even killed you, my father " He
sobbed "I am finished I cannot live in this place Let me
die Let me go to the fires of hell, but let me die now "

You are not finished You have not yet begun, the voice
said Follow him who awakens you. for it is he who shows you
the path toward your destiny

"I have no destiny," Justin screamed "I have lost my
youth t have lost my health, my strength, my will I cannot
do anything now "

You have wailed, 0 Paianjali You have wailed for the
moment when you could face again the Prince of Death, for
the moment when you alone could save the world from hiv
evil

"i can save no one," Justin said weakly "It is too late for
me "

It is not loo late And then the voice came again, Tagore's
voice coming to him through the thick film of death and
despair

ft is not too late It is time

ft is time

It is time

282 GRANDMASTER

Justin became aware that his face was pressed to the wood
floor His fingernails, broken and bloody, left long streaks
where they had scrabbled in Justin's pain

Had he spoken9 Or was this just another madness in a life
filled with insanity'7

He sat up The darkness beckoned to him Ltke a woman
il caressed him in its soft. forgetful embrace

Come back, Jastm You re wfe here Pick up your terrors,
vour old friends, and come back

But he could never go back The scent of almonds was too
strong, and the medallion, burning like a sun against his
chest, filled him with light

Starcher turned when he heard the old woman scream

"Justm' Come back' Stop him. somebody He doesn't
know what he's doing'"

Starcher's face contorted in pity at the sight of Justin.
withered to skin and bone. walking stiff-legged and bent up
the pier Some men abandoned their work on their boats to
stop him

"Starcher." he shouted, his voice thin and weak

Starcher ran toward him "Leave him alone," he said,
disentangling Justin from strange hands that held him Or
Tauber came running forward, but Starcher silenced her with
a glance

•'What is it9" Starcher asked

Gilead struggled to speak "Take me with you " Painfully
he pulled himself up to his full height "You owe me a favor,
remember1'" His voice was soft. almost inaudible "I told
you long ago I would ask for it "

Starcher looked the man over From what he could see,
Gilead wouldn't last out the week But a promise was a
promise "Zharkov's going to Cuba to play chess," Starcher
said

A look of profound relief passed over Justin's face "So
am I "

Dr Tauber could restrain herself no longer She blurted
out, "But why, Justin9 It's been so long "

"Yes Why7" echoed Starcher

Justin Gilead raised his head slowly His face was far
older than its years, the skin ravaged and gray. the thick
black hair now matted and long and streaked with white at

The Game                283

the temples But the clear, cold ice eyes held Slarcher's
with the same inexplicable authority they had possessed a
decade and a half ago

"Because it is time," he said

.CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Starcher drove southward until the megalithic skyline of New
York City was wet! behind him before he spoke.

"We'll get you to a doctor."

The dirty, half-conscious passenger next to him lifted his
head weakly. "No doctor," Justin said.

"Don't be ridiculous. You need—"

"No doctor. You can get me ready."

Starcher took out a cigar. He smiled as he crackled the
cellophane wrapper between his fingers- "For what?"

"For Cuba."

"Now? In the condition you're in?" Starcher lit the cigar.
"You've got to be joking."

Justin leaned back in the seat. His eyes closed slowly, then
opened again. "Stop."

"What's the matter?" Starcher asked, pulling off the road
in a skid-

"I need water."

'^Oh, Jesus." Starcher sighed. "Look, just hold still, ail
right? I'll pull over at a gas station somewhere."

Justin wrapped his bony hand around Starcher's. "Here,"
he said quietly. He got out of the car and walked stiffly over a
debris-covered embankment toward a river.

Starcher puffed angrily on his cigar, thinking that Justin
would come back even filthier than he already was. He
checked his watch. It was 3:15. He found a station on the
radio that played big band music from the forties. Those were

284

The Game                285

the days. Before the infirmities of age and guilt. Before the
Grandmaster came into his life.

Justin Giiead had come back to Starcher. the son he had
fed to the dogs. He had come back to show Starcher what he
had done to him- He came back dead. in order to rot in Starcher's
arms. It al! ends badly, he thought. There's no good way to
gel old, any more than there's a good way to die. But at least
Kael and the other idiots at Langley didn't know of Justin,
couldn't arrest him as a Communist agent. "Ruby" was
playing on the radio, and Starcher closed his eyes and remem-
bered Jennifer Jones.

A hom blew, and a wave of thunder seemed to roll over
Starcher. He awoke, terrified, to see one sixteen-wheeler
passing another and blaring its hom in salute. "Ruby" was
no longer playing. He checked his watch. It was nearly 3:30.
Justin was nowhere near.

He got out of the car and walked hastily toward the river.
The embankment was a disgusting sight, with broken bottles
and scraps of paper and fly-covered food everywhere. The
river itself was a slick, filthy mess. its Plasticene surface
broken only by a few soda cans bobbing in me foamy scum
near the water's edge. Justin was nowhere in sight-

"Gilead!" he called. "Justin!" He walked downstream.
picking his way through the trash and the trees with their
blackened, soot-heavy leaves. "Justin."

There was no answer. It was 3:36.

Some children trying to set fire to some rags in a bottle
whispered excitedly to one another when he approached.

"Did you see another man come by here?" Starcher asked.
"Or in the water? Did you see anyone swimming?"

The boys quickly pulled down their pants, waved their
exposed cheeks, and darted off, giggling. One waited long
enough to say. "A man went in. But he didn't come out. I
watched."

It was 3:41.

Starcher felt his heart thumping. "Justin!" he shouted. But
he knew it was no use shouting anymore. The man had come
back to life only to drown before the day's end. Starcher
climbed, wheezing, back to the car, put on his hazard lights,
and waited for the police.

From the top of the embankment, he saw something emerge

286 GRANDMASTER

from the river. "Jesus Christ," he muttered and clambered
out of the car.

It was 3:47.

"Where in hell were you?" he shouted, stumbling toward
Gilead.

"I was underwater."

"For half a fucking hour?"

"Was it so long?" Justin smiled. "I missed it."

Starcher gaped. "You didn't stay under all that time." He
turned away. then turned back to face Justin. "Did you?"

Justin took a deep breath. His eyes were sparkling.

"What are you so happy about? I almost had heart failure
looking for you, you crazy middle-aged fool."

"I thought it was all gone." Justin said quietly.

"What was? What are you talking about?"

Justin looked at him for a moment as if appraising the old
man. Finally he picked up two rocks the size of baseballs and
held one in each hand. weighing them, flexing his fingers
around them.

"Come on, let's get back to me car," Starcher said. "We've
still got a long ..."

But Justin's eyes were turned inward. His breathing was
deep and fast. The rocks trembled in his hands.

"Justin . . ."

He brought his hands together. The motion was so swift
that a sound like a thunderclap issued from them. The cars on
the roadway slowed down. One swerved, grazed a guardrail,
and lumbered on.

As Justin released his hands, a fine spray of dust shot
upward into the air like a fountain.

Starcher's mouth hung open in astonishment.

"That's what I have inside me," Justin said.

Starcher tossed away his long-extinguished cigar. He felt as
if he were seeing Justin Gilead for the first time. "You did
stay underwater all that time."

"I did."

Starcher sighed and got into the car. "You're not anything
like the rest of us, arc you?"

Justin looked over. his eyes weary and sad. "No." he
said.

.CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

There were seven weeks till the chess match in Havana.

Justin's transformation began immediately. He exercised
from five in the morning until noon, ate ravenously, then ran.
Within two weeks, he increased his distance from a quarter-
miie to fifteen miles- In the evenings, he lifted weights in
Starcher's basement, devoured the books in Starcher's library,
and played chess until the small hours of the morning- He
slept little, and was up at five the next moming-

Starcher often watched him from the kitchen window. The
house was small, in contrast to his family's other holdings.
sparsely furnished and with the vaguely shabby air of a
bachelor's quarters. He had never thought of it as anything
but a place to sleep at night when he worked at Langley, but
now, with Justin's presence, things changed. The strange
young man who shared Starcher's days was inexplicably com-
ing to life again, like a dead plant suddenly blossoming
through its withered brown husk. Justin was still bone thin.
still uncommunicative and alien, but the bones were being
strapped over with hard flesh, and something inside him
seemed to be expanding, releasing, energizing.

Whai is he? Starcher wondered for the thousandth time.
The Company had missed the opportunity of a lifetime in not
training Gilead while he was still young- Even now, at forty-
one, after four full years of privation and suffering, he was
astonishing. The hollowed sockets around his joints had be-
gun to fill out, and the wasted appearance of his face had
changed, focused, intensified.

287

28«

GRANDMASTER

Maybe this is enough. Starcher thought. A man who had
been ready lo give in to whatever strange demons possessed
him was healthy again- This had been Starcher's gift to the
young man who had once come, earnest and gifted, to him,
and whom he had sent to be slaughtered in Poland-

Bul there was more. Justin Gilead was more of a man than
most, but somehow also less. He had no concept of casual
conversation. He evinced no desire to leave the small house
near Langley to seek more stimulating company. Yet he could
crush rocks in his bare hands. Starcher had seen him swim
underwater for thirty minutes without coming up for air. He
always slept out of doors, on a path of gravel. He could catch
butterflies in his hands. When he walked, he made no sound.

He was, Starcher imagined, like a sleeping giant now
awake, his body aged inexorably into middle age. but with
some extraordinary spirit within him just beginning to kindfe
to youthful tife.

And when that spark was in full blaze, Starcher knew. its
light would be dazzling.

Starcher got the impression that Gilead was merely tolerat-
ing him, putting up with him as a means to an end. That end
was Zharkov. Justin seemed to give his total attention to the
retired CIA officer only when they talked about the trip to
Cuba.

Gilead's air was cool. as if Starcher and not he were the
houseguest. and during their conversations Starcher usually
wound up displaying his annoyance.

"Have you figured out how I'm getting to Cuba?" Justin
asked matter-of-factly, as he did every morning.

"Have you figured out how you're getting on the American
chess team?" Starcher countered.

"Don't worry about that. I'll get on the team."

"Why aren't you doing anything about it now?" Starcher
asked.

"You know why. If 1 do anything too soon, your friends at
Langley will get wind of it and find out that I'm still alive.
Since they've decided that everybody who ever fived is a
Russian spy, they'd be coming after me with an armed posse.
I've got to do it at the last minute. How will 1 get into
Cuba?"

"I'M get you in. I'm more concerned with how you're
going to get out."

The Game                289

"After I do what I've gone there to do. 1 don't really care
if I get out or not," Justin said-

"Well, I do," Starcher snapped. Justin shrugged and left
the room to return to his exercise.

The next morning, he would reappear and ask. "Have you
figured out how I'm getting into Cuba?"

One day, Starcher handed Justin a list of four names.
"These are the American players who are making the trip."
he said.

Gilead looked at them and nodded. "Needham," he said
aloud- "That's good. He owes me a favor. I'll be going in his
place. Did you figure out how I'm getting into Cuba?"

"You know." Starcher said. "I've been reading a book. I
don't know anything about chess, but I've been reading
about the Fischer-Spassky match."

"A wonderful match," Gilead said.

"I couldn't tell if it was a wonderful match or a blowout."
Starcher said. "But Fischer had a second. Are you allowed to
have a second?"

"Of course," Gilead said.

"Good. Then we're both going to Cuba."

Gilead smiled, surprised. "When did you become inter-
ested in chess matches?"

"Forget chess. I'm interested in what Zharkov is doing in
Cuba. What he's got planned. And there's Kutsenko. If he
wants to defect. I want to get him out. Somehow, I don't
think you're going to concern yourself with either of those
things very much. That's why I'm going to go."

"It'll be dangerous," Gilead said. "Zharkov's going to try
to kill me. You're sixty ..."

"Sixty-six," Starcher snapped. "And still alive. If you're
worried about taking me along, those are all the credentials I
have to offer," His dark eyes were frosty and unyielding.

The Grandmaster nodded slowly. "They're enough."

"Good," Starcher said. still blustering. He lit a cigar.
blowing out an enormous, joyful cloud of smoke.

"Maybe you ought to figure out how we're going to get
into Cuba," Gilead said.

Starcher sat down and stretched his legs out in front of him
languidly, A big grin spread across his face, making him look
twenty years younger. "I have."

-CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Starcher permitted the bellhop to carry only one of his bags
up the sumptuous stairway of the Miami's Fontambleau Hotel
It was nearing Christmas, and the hotel was filled, mostly
with New Yorkers

"Pretty fancy," Justin said as Starcher tipped the bellhop
and closed the doors on the suite "Was that a ten you gave
him9"

"A hundred To come m before the maid in the mornings
and mess up the beds It's a weak alibi, but if we need an
alibi, it's better than nothing "

"What about your sister^ If the CIA gets wind of me and
comes sniffing around, she'll talk She knows I've been
staying with you "

Starcher laughed as he hung a few shirts in the closet
"She knows someone's been there, but she's too much the
lady to ask Probably thinks I've turned into an old queer
Wear this " He handed Justin a beige linen suit from Harrod's
"And go downstairs and get yourself a haircut and a manicure
I want you to reek of money "

"What for9" Justin asked, fitting the jacket

"For spending a hundred thousand dollars "

Justin laughed "What on9"

"A boat," Starcher said

"I don't know anything about boats "

"You don't have to ' He pulled from his jacket pocket a
neatly folded photograph from a magazine It pictured a

The Game                291

38-foot cruiser that looked as if it were flying "It's an
Aznnut Electron, Italian made Pay for it in cash "

"Where are we going to get that much cash9"

Starcher opened a suitcase It was filled with hundred
dollar bills "Here," he said

"Arc you paying for it yourselP"

Starcher smiled "You forget My family's wealthy And
this is the old age I've been saving up for," he said "Now
listen I want the boat to be painted black and towed thirty
miles offshore, directly south of Miami following the Keys.
within three days I'll find someone to drive it by then

"Painted black9 No boat dealer's going to—"

"Pay what you've got to Europeans have a healthy respect
for cash They'll do it Just stay with the boat, understand9"
He handed Justin the suitcase and sent him out

Next, he dressed himself in some threadbare clothes and
examined the stubble on his chin Not bad, he thought It
didn't take much to turn a wealthy old man into a derelict It
had been Riesling's favorite technique No one ever looked
too closely at seedy old vagabonds Besides, he was only
going to look for Saannen For the actual contact, he would
need a foolproof disguise

It took him nearly forty-eight hours to locate the black hulk
of the Kronen Couched among the sleek Posilhpos and Mag
nums and Couache Motor Yachts that dotted Miami's Bel-Air
harbor, the salt-encrusted fishing boat was as obvious as a
black eye on a Kabuki dancer

Starcher wandered near the manna, keeping his cap pulled
over his eyes, searching for the captain of the Kronen No one
seemed to be on board Starcher moved closer and knocked
on the portholes No one came Finally, he stepped aboard
the boat

"Hey'" someone called from atop the rigging on a nearby
sailboat "You, Mr Bum Get off my boat, okay9 Get out of
here "

Starcher looked up It was Saannen, a little leaner than
Starcher remembered him, but no older So he still owned the
Kronen

"Hey, I know you," the Finn said, scrambling down the
rigging

Starcher turned and walked quickly away

"Wait a minute," Saannen called, but Starcher was gone

292 GRANDMASTER

He could still lose himself in a crowd of five people,
Starcher thought with some gratification There were some
students footing around near the piers, and he moved in
among them, then led them all unconsciously near another
group, where he was safely out of sight It had always been
something he excelled at—a little thing, the by-product of his
work, the way a bank teller can count money with lightning
speed, or a librarian can pull out all sorts of trivial mforma
tion from a lifetime of insignificant research

The CIA men watching Saannen were all too easy to spot
A deck hand with eyes too wary, a casual stroller with rings
of perspiration on his shirt that could only come from hours in
the sun and humidity They were watchers, little men with
little jobs, like the KGB watchers who had stood so patiently
below his office window in Moscow They turned when
Saannen called out to him, but they, too, lost him in the
crowd Watchers were the youngsters, easy to dodge But if
they saw him again, they would report the sighting The
disguise for meeting Saannen head to head would have to be
perfect

It was nearly dusk by the time Saannen got off the gleam-
ing sailboat He whistled on his way back to the Kronen, his
steps light on the plank pier

"Good work," he said, clapping one of the ClA-watchers
on the back with his big gnme-blackened hands The watcher
pulled away from him indignantly, his flushed face betraying
his embarrassment Saannen laughed "My guardian angels,
ehf"

The agent walked away Saannen lumbered into the hold of
the Kronen and pulled a bottle of vodka from beneath the
galley sink Since his immigration to America, he'd switched
from Korskenkova to easily available Finlandia, but the effect
was the same—a wild. fiery nde down a gullet followed by
the warm, stomach-pncklmg glow that always preceded the
numb blankness of his nights

Spies Who needed them1' he thought as he straightened out
a sweat-stained Gitane and lit it with a new Amencan Bic
lighter He tilted his wooden chair so that it rested on its two
back legs and swung his feet up onto the table In his nght
hand was the bottle of vodka, in his left, the cigarette It was

The Game                293

me position he found best for thinking during what little time
he had before the Finlandia shut down his brain for the night

Spies in Finland Spies on Gogland Island In the Soviet
Union, there was at least one spy per family And now they
were in Miami, too, following him around the Land of the
Free

He belched "Fuck your mother," he said reflexively

If he went back to Finland, he'd be thrown in jail again Or
worse The KGB, very much a presence in Helsinki, had a
way of relocating local small-time enemy operatives like
Saannen to the morgue And the Amencans were no better
Shit' If he'd known the bones tossed to him by the CIA fat
cats would turn him into a Flying Dutchman, homeless and
running forever, he would have stuck to smuggling It was an
easier life Now, with no crew, no home, and no money to
pay for even minor repairs on the Kronen, he was as empty-
handed as he had been on the day he was born

He took a swig of the vodka Well, not completely empty-
handed, he thought At least there would be more Finlandia
waiting for him tomorrow After he was through cleaning Mr
Cohen's sloop Mr Cohen, who wouldn't know a nor'easter
from a fart

He smelled something acnd, -looked down, saw his shirt
was on fire, and slapped it out with a barrage of cursing and a
fountain of spilled vodka

"Fuck your mother'" he screamed "Fuck mv mother'"

There was a knock at the door

"And ruck you'" He threw a vicious kick at the wooden
door

The knocking persisted

He threw open the door "Goddamn your eyes'" he bel-
lowed before his visitor came into focus It was a woman,
built like the proverbial American bnck outhouse She was
weanng a nurse's cap and had breasts like melons

"Excuse me." she said throatily, "but I understand you
offer charter cruises ''

Saannen tore his eye& away from her chest, sputtered, then
took another belt of vodka "It's dark outside," he managed

"That's fine with my patient He can only go out when it's
dark Will you come with me, please9"

Wobbling slightly, he followed her back up to the deck,

294 GRANDMASTER

occasionally sliding his hand along the nurse's heart-shaped
backside, a gesture the woman didn't seem to notice

"He's over there," she said, pointing to a dark figure in a
wheelchair on the pier He looked like an old man, although
his face was almost completely swathed in gauze bandages
Only the tip of his nose showed beneath large dark glasses
and a wide-bnmmed fedora

"It's a man9 Arc you sure9" Saannen said The cigarette
burn on his chest was beginning to blister, and he'd left his
bottle down in the hold Even the nurse's heart-shaped rear
couldn't make up for the lack of Fmlandia

"We're from the clinic," she said pertly "The CPS9"

Sdannen stuck out his tongue and vibrated it toward her left
breast

"The Center for Plastic Surgery," she explained, gently
pushing him away Mr Steiner's had a face-lift, and he can't
be exposed to the sun, but he wants to go out on the ocean for
a couple of hours I'm trying to find an available boat and
captain who'll take him out alone Mr Steiner's very self-
conscious about his appearance just now "

The old man in the wheelchair gestured impatiently toward
Saannen "Pdh," the Finn said "I can see why Tell the old
turd it's loo late You come downstairs " He grabbed her
arm.

"I'm afraid not." she said prettily, unclasping his fingers
"Won't you come and talk to him9 He's such a sweet old
dear " She put her arm around Saannen and half led, half
walked him over to the man in the wheelchair

"So9" Saannen said "What do you want9"

The bandaged man opened his wallet slowly and took out a
hundred dollar bill He offered it to Saannen with shaking,
arthritic fingers

Saannen shook his head "It's too dark to go out to sea,"
he shouted, because he assumed the old man was deaf, and
also because he enjoyed shouting "There is nothing to see "

Mr Steiner proffered another hundred dollar bill

"I've been working all day I'm tired. Go home, under-
stand9"

For the third time the clawhke fingers fished into the
wallet This time they came up with three bills, which he added
to the other two The money fluttered in the faceless man's

The Game                295

outstretched hand for several seconds before Saannen snatched
it away

"Steiner, eh9 Rich old Jew, yes9"

The mummified head bobbed once, slowly

"Come on. then," Saannen said with a sigh "There's no
moon, but maybe your fnend will oblige us with a view " He
rubbed the nurse's thigh abstractedly She giggled and kicked
up the stop on Mr Steiner's wheelchair

"Can you lift him9"

Saannen made a disgusted sound and spat abundantly on
the pier before getting on board Then he reached down and
scooped the old man out of the chair "Someone your age
should not be concerned with a youthful face," Saannen
grumbled "Even if it gets you what you want, you wouldn't
know what to do with it "

He set the old man down and heaved the wheelchair on
board "Okay." he said, panting "Now you " He held out
his hand for the nurse

"Oh, I have to be back at work I'll meet you back here in
two hours All nght, Mr Steiner9"

The bandaged man nodded again

"Fuck your mother," Saannen muttered

He left Mr Steiner on the starboard side of the deck, in
utter darkness, as he polished off another half-bottle of Finlandia
at the helm while motoring out of the sheltered harbor After
twenty minutes, Saannen came outside There was no moon,
no stars "Beautiful night," he said "Lots to see, eh9"

"What direction are we traveling9" Mr Steiner asked It
was the first time Saannen had heard the man speak For
some reason, the voice surpnsed him He hadn't expected
normal mate sounds to issue from the decrepit old body and
the bandaged, featureless face

"North," Saannen said

"Change your course Head due south

"The view won't be any different " Saannen smiled, then
frowned "You are sick9 You wish to go back to the plastic
clinic? Here, 1 will help you to lie down " He slid his arms
around Mr Sterner The old man pushed him away

"Just change your course "

Saannen rushed to the helm, cursing the melon-breasted
nurse for refusing to come on board "1 will return with a

296 GRANDMASTER

corpse, and then the Americans will execute me for murder "

He poured some vodka down his throat ds the Kronen turned

dramatically in midocean to face the other direction

"Damn old Jew." he grumbled, coming back to Mr Steiner

"Are you dead yet7 We'll be back in Miami in twenty

minutes Unfortunately. I have no radio, but there will be

police " He added, "There always are "

"We won't be going back to Miami," Mr Steiner said He

removed his fedora A shock of wavy while hair gleamed

beneath it "Just south " He flexed his fingers They weren't

crippled, after all

"A tnck." Saannen raged, lifting the old man out of the

wheeichair by his lapels

"Put me down, you fool I'm not going to hurt you "
"No9 Then what is this for9" He pulled a Browning 38

from the man's Jacket

"Just take it easy. Saannen " He teld up both his hands.

palms out to show he was harmless, then began slowly to

unwrap the bandages from around his face

"How did you know my name7" Saannen seethed
"AH Finnish alcoholics in Miami are named Saannen

Didn't you know7" He removed the last strip of gauze
"OA," Saannen whispered "Bastard I should have known

from your big nose " He Jabbed the automatic into Starcher's

midsection "What are you and your dogs following me

for7"

"They're not mv men I'm retired "
Sdannen snorted "Retired from what7" he demanded
"I worked in Moscow With Frank Riesling And Corfus "
"Ah. yes Corfus Is your fat fnend retired, too)"
Starcher hesitated "I think Corfus is dead," he said quietly
Saannen sucked in his breath "Then the ones watching

me

"No, they're Amencans." Starcher said "Can we go

inside9 It's getting cold out here I'd like to explain some

things to you "

"Explain your balls." Saannen said, lumbenng down the

steps into the hold He stuck the automatic inside his belt "I

have seen nothing but trouble since 1 had the stupidity to get

involved with you dog fuckers " He reached under the sink

and pulled out another bottle of Fmlandia "What makes you

think Corfus is dead9"

The Game                297

Starcher sat at the small table and told him about the
strange disappearance of his assistant in Moscow, and the
ClA's suspicions that Corfus had gone over to the Soviets

"Corfus didn't work for the Russians," Saannen laughed.
tipping the bottle to his tips "He rescued me from them, for
God's sake "

"The CIA is citing his help to you as evidence that he was
a double," Starcher said

The Finn choked on his liquor "They think /    9 No
wonder they are watching me like owls after mice "

"It's all a lot of nonsense, but everyone's fnghtened The
Company's even accusing Riesling Just about everyone, in
fact, who ever worked for me "

"You, too7" Saannen's face was a caricature of surpnse
"Surely not

Starcher nodded "Probably me, too. if they get crazy
enough That's why I'm here I've got something to do that I
don't want them to know about "

Saannen lit one of his Gitanes, then went up to check on
the helm When he came back down, he was smiling

"So Now the grand old man himself has become an
outlaw," he said through a cloud of white smoke "And he
comes to the smuggler for help, yes9"

"That's about it," Starcher said"

"Well, I suppose it won't break Mr Cohen's heart if I
don't show up to finish cleaning his boat tomorrow Where
do you want to go7"

Starcher removed his Jacket He tore open a seam in the
back, reached inside the lining, and extracted a thick wad of
bills encircled by a rubber band He slipped the roll of money
on the table

Saannen lifted the pile, whistling low as he began to count

"Ten thousand," Starcher said

"A longjoumey, then Mexico7 Venezuela7"

Starcher took out a cigar, clipped the end, and puffed it to
life while the Finn waited "Cuba," he said softly

Sdannen towered himself onto one of the wooden galley
chairs, raising the bottle to his lips as he sat down "Fuck my
mother," he whispered "You are with the Russians "

"Don't be ridiculous," Starcher said, annoyed He thought
for a moment, then decided to level with Saannen "Listen to
me I think the Russians have something planned in Cuba for

298 GRANDMASTER

next week, something big that's going to hurt the United
States 1 can't convince the C1A about it. and I want to go
there and find out for myself "

"I don't believe this dogshit." Saannen said "The ClA's
not going to do anything, and an old foot like you is going
into Cuba to save the world ' He threw the money back on
the table "I've got news for you Mr Save-the-World-ror-
Democracy I can't get you into Cuba My boat s not fast
enough The Cubans have more fucking patrol boats than the
Spanish Armada "

"Don't forget the Russians," Starcher said with a small
grin

"That s right They're all over Havana Harbor At the
marina, there is talk of little else Go find yourself somebody
else to commit suicide " He took another hit from the vodka
bottle "Smuggle you into Cuba Dogshit "

"I don't want you to take me in I want you to take us
out "

"Us9 Who's us7" Saannen said

"Me A fnend Maybe two others "

"The Kronen still can't outrun a Communist patrol ship If
they arrest me again, they 11 hang my Finnish balls "

"No, not the Kronen " Starcher looked at his watch and
climbed the companionway to the deck The night was so
dark that Starcher bumped into his wheelchair "Do you have
searchlights9" he called

With d shrug, Saannen switched on the big floods that
illuminated strips of stark ocean "You are perhaps expecting
company1'" The Finn's eyes narrowed "Or maybe you have
given me this sad story to catch me off guard, to set me up
for your CIA dogs But remember, I still have the gun "

"Oh, stop," Starcher said weanly "Look, I can get an-
other sailor Ten thousand can buy most of the ship captains
in Miami for the night I chose you because of old ties,
nothing more Because Riesling always said you weren't
afraid of anything The money would be enough to get you
settled wherever you want And if I can pull anything at all
off in Havana, you won't have to worry about being followed
for the rest of your life So if you can't believe me, then just
turn the offer down " He looked down at the 38 "Hell, go
ahead and pull the trigger, if you're that crazy "

Saannen took a quick dnnk. his eyes and the barrel of the

The Game                299

Browning fixed on Starcher "Where in Cuba9" he asked at
last

Starcher smiled He held out his hand Reluctantly, Saannen
dropped the gun into it "There's a place between Mananao
and Guanajay, about thirty miles west of Havana We'd have
to get there at night to meet you ''

"Of course," Saannen said "You know the area9"

"Somewhat," Starcher said "I spent a year in Havana
dunng the fifties "

"So long ago " Saannen made a face

"This place will be the same It's a natural deep-water
dock, but because of the terrain, there won't be any other
ships "

"What about the terrain9 Trees can be cut, buildings can
be demolished The place could be crawling "

"Not trees A chff To go ashore, you've got to climb
almost straight up for a hundred feet or more ''

"I see," Saannen said "And you plan to climb down this
mountain and swim to meet me rt

"That'll be our problem," Starcher said He looked out to
the shafts of light on the water, and pointed westward "Do
you see something out there9"

"Pah, what could be out there9 Any ship would have its
own lights What about the Russian cruisers7"

"What9"

"In Havana Harbor The Kronen can't do twenty-five knots
If they find us, they kill us "

"If you're any good, they won't find us "

Saannen grunted "Ten thousand is not enough to nsk my
life "

Starcher grasped his arm absently "Over there." he
whispered, pointing into the darkness

Saannen looked Something dark appeared to be bobbing
on the surface of the water "You snake, you did trap me "
He rushed to the bndge, turned the Kronen around by ninety
degrees, and grabbed a pair of binoculars The forward
roodhghts of the Kronen rested on a sleek, powerful-looking
pleasure boat floating silently in the sea It was painted a dull
matte black, and would have been all but invisible without the
Kronen's floods trained on it The deck was deserted

"Mother of God," Saannen whispered, moving his boat
closer to the elegant black cruiser "What's that9"

300

GRANDMASTER

"That's how we're going to get out of Cuba." He reached
behind Saarinen and flashed the Kronen's floodlights once.
Immediately the other boat burst into light, its hull gleaming.
Then a solitary figure emerged from the bridge onto the deck-

"Who'sthat?"

"His name's justin Gilead."

"He's going to Cuba, too?"

Starcher nodded.

"And the boat? She's yours?"

"For the moment."

They pulled up directly alongside the magnificent new
boat, tied up, and climbed aboard. "What a beauty." Saarinen
said. running his hands along the rails. "How fast is she?"

"She'll average thirty-five knots," Justin said.

Saarinen looked up. "Your friend?" he asked.

Starcher nodded.

"A face like a movie star," the Finn said with some

disdain.

He squinted, moving closer to the younger man. "The
necklace," he said, his voice hushed. "It's the same."

Justin inhaled sharply, "The same as what?" Starcher

asked.

' 'The drop of gold at the bottom ... It must be the same.''
Tentativeiy. the Finn extended an index finger toward the
medallion. He gasped when he touched it. drawing away. "It
is' It is the one Riesling stole from me."

"Riesling stole it?"

Saarinen shrugged- "He paid a pittance. But he held me at
gunpoint during the transaction."

"And where did you get it?" Justin demanded.

Saarinen stared at him for a long time, then averted his
eyes, throwing up one hand with a shrug. "It was so long

ago ..."

"Where?" Justin rasped, grabbing the man by his shoulders.

"Justin, stop," Starcher said.

The Finn eyed Justin curiously. "The medallion, it has
perhaps more value than I thought. Riesling asked the same
questions." He saw Justin's ice blue eyes staring at him and
said quickly, "1 bought it in Poland. The man I got it from
said it belonged to the Undead One. He said it carries the
curse of death with it. Are you the Undead One?" he asked.

Justin turned and went below.

The Game                301

"What's wrong with him?" Saarinen asked.

"Bad memories," Starcher said. "Now, how about my
offer?"

Saarinen's expression immediately changed as he looked
over the sleek new boat. "Ten thousand plus her?"

"That's the deal."

"What about the Kronen? The authorities will look for her
when *Mr. Steiner* and the infamous Communist ship captain
do not return. If they find her abandoned, they will know."

"There are fires on board fishing boats with galleys,'*
Starcher offered. "Especially when the captain is known to
drink."

Saarinen's eyes widened in surprise. "Bum the Kronen?
But she is my child, my woman, my lover. 1 would sooner
burn the flesh off my arm."

"Then give me back the ten thousand," Starcher said
levelly.

"What?"

"I have the gun now. Don't make me use it."

Saarinen looked longingly at the battered old boat. "I
suppose a grease Hrc would do it," he said with a sigh.

Starcher smiled. "Have you got any matches?"

"Matches, yes," Saarinen mumbled huskily, turning to
board the Kronen. "But it will be'the soul of my soul that I
burn."

He was gone for several minutes. When he returned, he
carried under his arm a clutch of bottles filled with clear
liquid, and a faint orange glow appeared sporadically in the
entranceway to the Kronen's hold. Saarinen took the bottles
to the bridge. "Open one, please," he said to Starcher. "I'm
afraid I will need it."

He started the engine. "When will we have this glorious
Cuban holiday?''

Starcher handed him the bottle. "Next week."

As the Azimut sped northward, the Kronen burst into
tongues of high flame.

"Fuck all our mothers. Sometimes one must change to
live, yes?" Saarinen said brokenly.

"Spoken tike a true philosopher."

"And there is nothing to keep me from calling this new
beauty the Kronen also, yes?"

"Nothing whatever."

302 GRANDMASTER

Saarinen unscrewed the lid on a bottle of Finlandia. When
the fire reached the old boat's fuel tank. the Kronen exploded
in a blazing roar that tossed the newer craft like flotsam on
the churning waves.

Saarinen, his eyes moist, let loose with a howling whoop
of merriment. "That's how to go, girl!" he shouted, hoisting
the bottle high above his head in salute. "To tomorrow." He
leveled the bottle to his lips and drank a deep and long toast
to the destroyed boat.

Starcher, too, felt a vague elation at the destruction of the
craft. Death always provided the best oover. With the wheel-
chair on board, if anything was ever found, investigators
would assume that the captain and his passenger had perished
in the fire. But more than that, Saarinen had been right about
the way to go. Off in a blaze of glory, that was how to do it.
In his youth, part of his attraction to the dangerous and
unpredictable line of work he had chosen had been that he
had a good chance of dying well. As things turned out, he
would most likely be far removed from any semblance of
glory when his own time came: His destiny was to die
ignobly beneath the electric shocks of a cardiac team's defi-
brillators after his leaky valve finally gave out; of that he was
close to certain. But his old fantasies came to life again in the
tight of the burning ship. With the wind in his face, he felt
the heroics of the old fishing boat's death throes. Maybe
Cuba. Maybe he would die worthily there. It was not the
worst of ends.

On deck, Justin, too, watched the flames.

Always by fire. he thought. All I have ever loved has
perished in fire.

Come back, Justin, the voices in his head called- Come
back to your demons, your/ears. We wait for you, Justin.
We wait . . .

The wind blew the hot tears from his cheeks. He couldn't
go back. He had promised Tagore to follow the man who had
led him this far, and who would take him to the end.

Perhaps in the end. he himself would die by fire.

It didn't matter anymore. As long as it happened soon.

-CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Starcher and Justin Gilead sat at a small tile-topped table in
one of the cocktail lounges at Mexico City's sprawling airport,
with an hour to wait before boarding their flight to Cuba.

Starcher ordered a Bloody Mary, but the potion was so
hotly spiced as to be undrinkabte. Justin had no drink. He
looked out the window at the airport's crisscrossing of land-
ing strips, watching planes setting down every ninety seconds.
His quiet contemplation annoyed the old C1A man.

Gilead was an impossible human being. Waiting for a
plane was any gentleman's lifelong excuse to have a drink; for
Justin, it just meant waiting. If the waiter had put a glass of
water before him, unbidden, Justin might have sipped it, but
more likely he would just have let it sit there while he stared
at planes. He made no attempt at conversation. It was as if
there were only one thing allowed in his life at any given time
and anything else was an intrusion on that.

A totally impossible human being. Then Starcher thought
about Justin staying underwater for thirty minutes and crush-
ing stones to powder in his hands and coming back from a
Nichevo grave. An impossible human being. If he was a
human being.

For weeks now, Starcher had been thinking about Justin
Gilead, about just who and what the Grandmaster was. He
believed that he had spent his childhood raised by a group of
mystics in the Himalayas, and he believed that the golden
snake medallion Justin always wore around his neck was the

303

304 GRANDMASTER

sacred amulet of Rashimpur But what else did he know7
What else did he believe^ What was the truth7

Justin would tell him nothing Starcher finally did what a
lifetime in government had taught him to do with insoluble
problems He ignored it and tried to forget it

The change that six weeks had wrought in Justin had been
almost miraculous He had been a withered, dying wraith, but
now he looked again like the Justin Gilead whom Starcher
had known in Europe during the seventies His body was
filled out with muscular flesh The time spent exercising and
sleeping outdoors had tanned Justin's skin and suffused him
with the glow of health He had been virtually a corpse when
Starcher had found him on the houseboat, now he looked like
what he was. an unusually handsome forty-one-year-old man
who moved with the sensitive grace of a large cat

The eyes hdd not changed They never changed They were
what they had always been large, clear, as blue as mountain
ice in sunlight—and as cold Sometimes they, too, seemed
inhuman in their lack of expression, inhuman in their capacity
to fix on a person and make it impossible for him to turn his
giance away, as inhuman as if they were the only magnets in
a world of metal people Maybe not human, Starcher thought
Maybe God himself had eyes like that

Starcher stirred the Bloody Mary in the hope that the
bartender had put most of the spices on top and stirring would
weaken the fire, but he knew there was no chance when he
saw black pepper grains swirl up from the bottom of the dnnk
as he stirred Best to let the sediment settle If their plane was
a week late, the dnnk might finally be bearable

And Justin Gilead didn't care Starcher could sit there
drinking a Polynesian spectacular made of equal parts of rum,
arsenic, and prussic acid, and he could die writhing on the
table, and Gilead would care only if Starcher's dying might
somehow affect his plans for the tnp to Havana

Starcher cleared his throat Justin looked out at the planes

Starcher cleared his throat again, and Justin turned to him,
smiled vaguely, noncommittally, and looked back toward the
planes

Starcher said softly. "I think Pm going tojoin the Commu-
nist party "

Gilead stared straight ahead

The Game                305

"Then I'll become a go-go dancer I've always liked to
dance "

No response

"Sky-diving might be a good hobby for me to take up I'll
find out where you're living and crash through the roof Land
right on your chessboard Mix up the pieces so you can't
reconstruct the game "

Without looking away from the window, the Grandmaster
replied. JUSI as softly, "You're too old and homely to be a
go-go dancer, the Communist party won't have you, and I'm
never going to tell you where I live because I hate having
people drop in unannounced "

"Praised be God," Starcher said "It lives and it speaks "

"I'm sorry, Starcher." Gilead said, turning to look at the
white-haired CIA man with an apologetic gnn "I'm not
much of a traveling companion, am I9"

"I get wanner responses from my luggage," Starcher said
"From perfect strangers Even from the bartender At least he
cared enough to try to poison me " He rocked the red dnnk
from side to side in his hand and said, "I'm sorry, Justin I
guess you just make me feel guilty I think I should be
entertaining you or something, trying to make you happy
Can you be happy?"

"You don't understand, Starcher 1 am happy "

"Because you're finally going to kill Zharkov^ That's a
strange thing to be happy about ''

"Because finally the circle will be complete Because fi-
nally I'll have finished what I was bom to do "

"Bom to do     destiny     circle    karma," Starcher
sputtered "I've heard enough of that What the hell is it that
you were bom to do^ What's so damned important9"

"I can't tell you," Justin said honestly, with no embarrass-
ment

"But you wish you could," Starcher snapped bitterly

"No " Justin shook his head "I don't really wish I could "

"Alt right But just remember—before you go wandering
off on whatever mission of destiny is going to complete your
circle and round out your karma and iron your underwear or
whatever the hell it is that's driving you—remember You
promised that first we would get Kutsenko out of Havana and
try to stop whatever Nichevo is up to "

306 GRANDMASTER

"1 gave you my promise," Gilead said "You don't have
to remind me of it "

Starcher rose from the table "I'm going to make a phone
call," he said He didn't know if Gilead had even heard him
The Grandmaster was again stanng out the large observation
windows at the planes landing

Starcher's sister had told him, unable to keep the irritation
from her voice, that someone named Harry Kael had been
calling him for the last three days

"Really, Andrew, he is the rudest person I've ever spoken
to Where did you meet him9"

"We used to work together," Starcher said "I'll call
him "

"Are you alt nght9" his sister asked

"I'm feeling fine "

"You're taking your medicine9"

"Yes "

"Well, very good," she said in the somewhat skeptical
tone of a teacher whose dumbest student had just turned in a
perfect test paper She waited a few seconds, then hung up

Wonderful, thought Starcher My own sister can't make
small talk with me Maybe it's not Gilead Maybe it's me
Maybe 1 just lack the capacity to make friends Maybe I
became a spy because I knew that nobody in the real world
would ever talk to me

He tracked Harry Kael down through a string of telephone
answerers and secretaries until finally the CIA official's voice
crackled through the phone "Starcher, what the hell's going
on9"

"Hello, Harry Why don't we both start with hello7"

"Can that shit What's going on around here9"

"What are you talking about9" Starcher asked

"The goddamned New York Times Wait I've got it here "
Starcher heard rustling sounds in the background, then Kael
again "Yeah Here it is Last week " He was reading
" 'Because of illness. International Master Stanley Needham of
New York has withdrawn from the American chess team,
which is scheduled to play a match against a Soviet national
team next week in Havana The U S Chess Federation said
that Needham's place on the team will be taken by Justin
Gilead, an international grandmaster who has been in retire-

The Game                307

ment and not active in competition for the last five years '
What the hell's that al) about9"

"Seems pretty clear to me." Starcher said

"I thought Gilead was dead "

"Guess he's not "

"Thdt's it9 You guess he's not9 You saw the goddamned
pictures of him in some Polack grave, and you've been
screaming like a psychotic fruitcake about big problems in
Cuba and now suddenly Gilead shows up and he's going to
Cuba and you say that's it9 You've got your hand in this.
Starcher What the hell are you up to9 And while you're at it.
where the hell is Saannen9 That goddamned Scandinavian
pirate has disappeared You wouldn't know anything about
that. would you^"

"It's easy. Harry," Starcher said "You see, you were
nght alt along Gilead, Saannen, me    we're all Communists
We've been planning the glorious revolution for years, and
now our day is coming We're all fleeing the United States
We're going to annex Virginia to me U S S R We're putting
Langley up for sale Your new office will be behind a tailor
shop See^ You were nght all the time. Harry "

"Forget the sarcasm Just tell me what's going on "

"Harry, I'd love to stay and chat, but my plane is leaving
soon "

"Plane) Where are you9 Where are you going9 This con-
nection sucks "

"I'm going to Cuba "

There was d long silence before Kael said, "Andy, are you
really going there9"

"Yes "

"You're going with Gilead^"

"Yes "

"You think something's going to happen down there9"

"Yes, I do," Starcher said

"Your being there might make it worse," Kael said sourly

"If you had sent somebody else, I wouldn't be going,"
Starcher said "Remember9 I'm a senile old man "

"And now you're proving that I was nght," Kael said "I
could stop you, you know "

"You could if I were in the United States," Starcher said
"I have to go now "

"Andy, wait "

308 GRANDMASTER

"What7"

"I shouldn't do this," Kael said
"Don't," advised Starcher
"Is this line clear7" Kaei asked
"Yeah A pay phone at an airport "
"Okay A man named Pablo Olivares If he looks you up,
you might Tisten to him ''

"Thanks, Harry I know that was hard for you to do "

"Be careful," Kaei said

"I will "

"Don't embarrass the Company "

"I never have," Starcher said

The sprawling Jose Marti Hotel, like al! the beautiful build-
ings that remained in Havana since the graying of the sixties,
was a relic of Batista's regime Opulent and grand, with its
high archways and ceilings, its baroque splendor reeked of
privilege and the hint of banished decadence that gave it the
appeal of a royal palace, despite the omnipresent portraits of
Fidel Castro in uniform, the cheap new light fixtures that had
replaced the crystal art deco wall sconces, and the ugly, thick
industrial ropes corralling the long lines waiting for service at
the reception desk

Alexander Zharkov, too, waited in line Like the women in
the markets, he thought, waving their government-issued num-
bers in front of Havana's heavily guarded stores Number A-l
was permitted to shop on Tuesday The A-2s had to wail until
Wednesday, by which time most of the goods were already
gone

Zharkov lit one of his few cigarettes of the day, prompting
a woman in front of him to start complaining loudly in
Spanish But she stopped when a hotel executive came from
an office behind the desk and greeted Zharkov

"Senor Zharkov, you werepre-registered," he said "There
is no need for you to wait "

"Thank you," Zharkov said as he accepted a key from the
man

"You are in room three-seventeen If you will point out
your bags, 1 will have them sent up "

Zharkov nodded toward two leather bags near the bellhop's
stand, and the hotel official ironed over toward them Zharkov
stepped over the heavy rope that held the imes in order As he

The Game                309

did, me woman in front of him met his eyes, then lowered
hers automatically "Sorry, senor," she mumbled

Another wonderful classless society, Zharkov mused as he
walked toward the lobby's only working elevator Another
nation of people terrified at the thought that they might have
offended someone who had real power And still, on Sunday
nights, they would go to their village squares for the regular
indoctrination sessions and chant "All power to the people"
and somehow convince themselves that they believed it

The elevator was so slow in coming that the bellhop with
Zharkov's bags arrived alongside him Zharkov look the two
valises from him and rode up in the elevator alone

When he opened the door to room 317, a tall man with
Hispanic features rose from the bed He was deeply tanned,
muscular, and balding Although he would have looked at
home anywhere in Cuba, his name was Yun Durganiv

He was Nichevo's best marksman and a special favorite of
Zharkov, who had sent him to Cuba secretly two years before
just to have him in place when he was needed Durganiv was
from Leningrad He had studied ballet at the Kirov School
before growing too tall to be accepted into the company
Even now, at six feet four and two hundred twenty pounds,
he moved fluidly, smoothly, giving a sense of restrained
power ready to be released at any moment

After the door closed behind Zharkov and he dropped his
bags, the other man stepped forward and gripped him in a
powerful bear hug "Alyosha. how good to see you And
how good to speak Russian again "

There was no shortage of Russians in Havana, or anywhere
in Cuba, for that matter But Zharkov had sent Durganiv to
Havana in preparation for this assignment with orders to
speak only Spanish, to become Cuban, to take advantage of
his unusual skin coloration, and to vanish into the native
population He knew that Durganiv had obeyed his orders As
he would always

When Fidel Castro died, in four more nights, Durganiv
would be the man behind the gun

When the taller man released him, Zharkov stepped back
and looked into Durganiv's eyes Before he could speak, the
swarthy Russian smiled and said, "She's all nght She's
waiting for you ''

"Thank you," Zharkov said simply

310 GRANDMASTER

Five minutes later, after hanging up his clothes in the plain
room's unpamted closet, he left with Durganiv As they
walked through a side door of the hotel toward the parking
lot. Justin Gilead and Andrew Starcher came through the
main entrance doors to the Jose Marti

It was Idle afternoon, and the muted sun shone dully through
the dirt-streaked windows of the smalt apartment in the Old
Havana section A sharp triangle of light slashed across the
naked belly of Katanna Velanova as she iay in bed next to
Zharkov, smoking, staring at the ceiling

"I'm sorry you haven't liked it here," Zharkov said "But
I'm glad you're well "

"Yun sees to all my needs," Katanna said "And he has
gotten me all the necessary papers, but    " She hesitated
and blew a long plume of smoke toward the ceiling "I
haven't anyone to talk to I don't speak Spanish Half the
Russians here are KGB, and the other half want to be A
chance word, an unfortunate remark from me, and someone
might know that Galina Panova is really Katanna Velanova I
am afraid 1 may meet someone who might have seen me
before So I stay in my room and watch television They have
no Russian programs here, so I am reduced to watching
cartoons At least they have foreign bookstores in Havana ''

"It won't be for loo much longer," Zharkov said "When
I go back, I'm going to get nd of Ostrakov With him gone,
there's no reason you won't be able to come back "

"No9" she raised an eyebrow "What about the vozhd9"

"When this mission is done, I will own him," Zharkov
said "He will last in power only so long as I wish him to
And when he goes, 1 will succeed him "

"When this mission is done," she echoed There was a
faint tremble in her voice Zharkov knew she was worried
about the danger of this assignment He took the cigarette
from her hand and took a long puff before handing it back
Then he placed his hand on her bare breast, still looking at
the ceiling

During the few months she had been away. he had missed
her deeply He had even wondered, at times, if he had fallen
in love with her Was love possible for one such as he was7
He believed that she loved him, but was he able to return
love9

The Game               311

Lying here by her side, he realized that it might even be
more than love It was life Katanna Velanova was his
confidante, the only person to whom he could speak without
concealing his meanings The only one who knew his plans
and his dreams and his secret lusts She was a lover, yes But
more important, she was his friend His only fnend

"Don't worry," he said "This will go smoothly " And
with no change in his soft, bedroom-conversation tone, he
said, "Justin Gilead amves today "

Katanna sat up in the bed The ashtray slid from her belly
and overturned, fouling the sheet with ashes and cigarette
butts

"'Where is he9" she asked

"He'll be at the Jose Martf, where I'm staying "

She stared at the ceiling, biting her lip, deliberating Then
she spoke "Let me kill Justin Gilead for you "

Zharkov chuckled, surprised "Why9 You don't even know
him "

"I know what he means to you, to us And I can do it "

"He is not easily killed," Zharkov said

"Perhaps Perhaps not by you or by other men Perhaps he
is too wary, too much on his guard But I am a woman I
could move close to him m a receiving line somewhere and
quietly put a knife into his heart I'd be gone before anyone
found out Give me the knife, Alyosha I want to do it "

"Patience, little tigress," the Russian said

"I wilt do it," Katanna said "I will do it now " Her lips
were a tight line across the milky smoothness of her face

"I'm afraid not," Zharkov said "He has to live until
Fnday night, anyway And then I have other plans "

"Oh9" Her anxious face flicked into a smile "What
plans9"

"First, poor Justin Gilead, the deranged Amencan spy,
will be the one who kills that great people's leader, Fidel
Castro He will try to escape but, alas, a Russian bullet will
stop him " He smiled "A simple plan "

Katanna was silent She brushed the ashes and cigarette
butts from the bed into the cupped palm of one hand, put
them alt back in the ashtray, ill another cigarette, and lay
back down

"An audacious plan," she said softly "But if it fails, I am
going to kill the Grandmaster for you I hate Justin Gilead "

312 GRANDMASTER

Justin Gilead turned to look at Starcher, who was lying on
the bed in a pair of oversized boxer shorts His long socks
were held up by btack garters His undershirt was of thin
nbbed cotton

The room seemed to vibrate with the heavy periodic thud
of Latin music The room had lacked both television and
radio, but Starcher had earned a radio in his luggage The two
men played il to foil the listening devices they knew would be
concealed in the room

Slarcher rolled a cigar between his fingers, eyeing it as
lovingly as if he were a satyr and it a lifetime supply of the
world's most beautiful women

Justin sat on the edge of the bed and said softly, "Sure you
won't go, Starcher9"

"No I don't want to let our friend know I'm here yet He
might recognize me And don't call me that anymore Try
Andrew " Harry Andrew was the name on the old forged
CIA passport Starcher had used to enter Cuba

"All right, Andrew " Gilead was smiling

"You're looking forward to this, aren't you9" Starcher
asked

"Yes "

"Remember our deal You won't—"

"You don't have to remind me And tonight, if I get the
chance, I'll talk to Kutsenko "

Starcher lighted the cigar He nodded through the heavy
smoke, which seemed to settle around him instead of rising to
the ceiling

After Justin left, Starcher turned off the radio and lay back
on the bed Some of what he had lo!d Justin was true He did
not want to make an appearance just yet, for fear of being
recognized But he also wanted to stay m the room, just m
case Zharkov or his Nichevo henchmen had any idea of
planting a bomb in Justin's suitcase or poisoning his after-
shave lotion He didn't know the cause of the hatred that
Gilead felt for Zharkov, but if it was reciprocal, then Zlwkov
would unhesitatingly take the first chance to remove Gilead
The Russians had attempted to kill the Grandmaster in the
past, Starcher did not want them to succeed now

He smoked and thought and waited

The Game                313

The pre-toumament cocktail party was held where the games
would be played, in the towering main ballroom of the Jose
Marti Hotel A wide balcony ringed the room along its second-
floor level When Justin arrived, the room held a hundred
persons but still looked as deserted as a Kansas wheat field in
winter

There were only a handful of women, most of them wives
of competitors The rest were chess players, their seconds,
local Cuban officials, and members of the world press

Justin stopped inside the doorway and scanned the room,
but did not see the face he was looking for When he spied
Richard Carey, captain of the United States team, he walked
over to join his group

"Justin, good to see you again." Carey said gruffly "You
in shape to tangle with these Russian bears9"

Justin smiled and nodded as Carey pumped his hand
vigorously

The popular impression was that chess players were slim,
effete intellectuals who lived at the chessboard because they
were afraid of the real world But Carey was a bluff and
hearty man with the build and physical presence of a teamster
boss

He had big, strong hands, hardened by years of exposure to
me weather on the Vermont farm where he lived His robust
frame seemed to belie the quiet, subtle nature of his chess
game He was the highest ranked of all active American chess
players, his rating just a few points below that of Kutsenko
Many felt that he would be the next challenger for the world
championship Justin did not share that view In his mind,
Carey would not show well m match play—one player meet-
ing another over a long series of games—because of a basic
flaw in his game

Carey spent too much time ponng over positions, looking
into them for subleties that they just did not contain
Occasionally, a position was clear and simple, and the way to
exploit it was merely to play routine, basic chess grounded
firmly in sound general principles But Carey overestimated
his opponents and played as if every position were a mine
field and each move a life-and-death decision

All too often, this forced him into time trouble Without
enough time left on his clock, he sometimes had to make his

314 GRANDMASTER

final crucia! moves without fully examining positions that did
require careful analysis

In chess, the clock was merciless, the player's greatest
enemy The American Bobby Fischer, the one-time world
champion and great chess genius, was once asked how he
managed never to get into time trouble in a game He
responded, "When you're in time trouble, then it just isn't
chess anymore "

Justin did not think Carey would be able to beat Kutsenko
and the clock, too

The big American introduced Justin to the other members
of the American team and some of their seconds Gilead had
seen the two other members at tournaments before, but had
never spoken to them

"We were JUS! saying how glad we were that Washington
didn't put the kibosh on this tnp and stop us from coming."
Carey told Gilead "So where have you been, anyway9 You
kind of vanished there for a while ''

"1 was burned out," Gilead said "ljust needed some time
off and some rest''

"You're feeling ail right now7"

Gilead nodded, his eyes still searching the room, "I'm
sorry about Needham getting ill, but it's good to be here I'm
looking forward to playing again "

"You up to date on your theory7" Carey asked

"A little rusty, maybe "

"There've been a lot of changes," he said, and he began to
describe two new variations in the Caro-Kann defense, which
had been an opening Justin frequently used Carey's interpre-
tation immediately led to a dissent from another member of
the U S team, a tall, gangly midwestern youngster named
John Shinnick His viewpoint was in turn challenged by the
team's third member, a brooding and intense Synan-Amencan
named Yassir Gousen Justin took the opportunity to disen-
gage himself and walk away

He saw Ivan Kutsenko across the room, surrounded by a
large group of people, and wandered casually in that direction
Justin recognized Victor Kevenn, one of me members of the
Russian team At sixty, Kevenn was still a brilliant and
dangerous player, although he now lacked the physical stam-
ina to be a senous contender for the world championship
Alongside Kutsenko was a young man with brilliant, sad

The Game                315

eyes Justin guessed that he was the youngest member of the
Soviet team, Vyacheslav Ribitnov Justin had studied the
analyses of some of his games in Shakmami, the Russian
chess journal He was a sparkling young player of the kind
Russia seemed to produce year after year They would have
meteoric careers for a few years, and then, just as rapidly as
their lifiht had flared, it would sputter and die The contradic-
tions inherent in playing a game that required total intellectual
freedom in a regime thdt crushed intellectual freedom simply
became too much for most of them It was hard to be free at a
chessboard and then, moments after leaving the board, be-
come just another faceless number who was told where to go
and what to do and where to live and what to think and say

Most of them wound up either defecting or allowing their
chess skills to deteriorate The kind of Russian who usually
became world champion did not have the eyes that Ribitnov
had Russian chess champions were generally stolid, middle
of-the-road types with a large sense of humor who hdd made
alt the emotional adjustments that were necessary and counted
themselves lucky to have some measure of freedom, even if
only at the chessboard

The burnouts were those who thought they should be free
all the time Ribitnov was clearly one of those But so, too,
from his appearance, was Ivan Kutsenko His face had the
haunted look of a captured animal, and his eyes bumed with
the glazed, darting confusion of a mouse dropped into the
cage of a boa constrictor No wonder he was trying to defect
Given time, Russia would crush his spirit and destroy his
genius

Justin guessed that the woman at his side. a tiny bul
strong-looking brunette with severe upswept hair, was his
wife, the physician. Lena Kutsenko She nodded apprecia-
tively as Kutsenko spoke to several men holding pads and
pencils Behind the Russian champion was a wall of men who
were large, sullen, and not particularly bright looking

Many chess players dtd not look like chess players These
men did not look like chess players because they weren't
They were, Justin knew, KGB—the inevitable traveling com-
panions of any Russian artists or athletes who were allowed
out of their own country to compete They were there both as
bodyguards and as jailers Justin wondered how a Russian
ever managed to win a game. knowing that these grim-faced

316 GRANDMASTER

bears with guns in their armpits were standing around watch-
ing every gesture, trying to overhear every word.

As Justin walked forward, Kutsenko saw him and stepped
away from the crowd to greet him. They had never met
before, although Juslin had seen the young man's photographs.
His career was just beginning to soar when Justin went on his
ill-fated trip to Poland, and they had never played each other.
But Justin had studied the Russian champion's games care-
fully in the last few weeks. Kutsenko was a player without a
weakness; his strategies were subtle and far-reaching; his
tactics were precise and powerful, and his concentration was
impressive. Justin looked forward to playing him. He had not
realized until he saw Kutsenko's face how much he had
missed the game of chess, that solitary companion that had
been with him as a child and as a man.

"You are Justin Gilead," Kutsenko said. extending his
hand.

"Yes. It is a pleasure to meet you."

"The chess world has missed you very much," Kutsenko
said. "I have studied your games."

"And I yours." Justin said. As he spoke, Kutsenko, with
surprising poise for a man who appeared so reclusively shy,
took his elbow and moved back with him toward the group of
Russians.

He nodded to his companions, pointedly ignoring the KGB
men standing near, and said. "This is Justin Gilead, the most
brilliant American player ever."

"Thank you," Justin said. "Perhaps Fischer might have
something to say about that.''

"Ooof. Fischer. A patzer. You could give him pawn and
move," Kutsenko said, and he and Justin shared a smile over
the joke. Fischer's reputation as the greatest chess player the
world had ever produced was so solid and stable as to be
invulnerable. It could be joked about because it was beyond
argument.

"It is one of the losses of my life that I never played
Fischer," Justin said. "And yours too. 1 suppose."

Justin knew that the KGB men behind Kutsenko were
straining to catch the conversation. He mentioned casually
that he had just seen Kutsenko's latest proposals in the Semi-
Slav defense in Sfwkmatni.

As he expected, it touched off a spate of comments and

The Game                317

observations by the chess players and their seconds, each with
an opinion, each willing to express it loudly and at any
length. And because chess players used an algebraic notation
to describe the 64 squares on a chessboard, each square being
designated by a letter and number from A-1 in the lower left
comer of the board to H-8 at the upper right corner, the
conversation must have sounded like computer-generated mad-
ness to non-chess players.

"The correct move to maintain pressure on the center,"
Kutsenko said. "was bishop B-seven. It was all lost with
F-five because then knight G-five. H-six. rook E-four and
wins."

"Unless," said Ribitnov, the youngest Russian, "D-six.
D-six will hold the middle and force the exchange, and black
stands better.''

"No," Victor Keverin interjected. "D-six loses to D-four,
preparing E-five."

The conversation raged back and forth, and, as Justin had
expected it would, it soon bored the KGB men, who stepped
back from the little cluster of chess players and began talking
among themselves. Lena Kutsenko took her husband's glass
and walked over to a waiter to exchange it for a fresh glass of
bottled water.

Justin took a few steps away rrom the group. Kutsenko
stepped forward to speak to him.

"What do you think, Justin?" he asked.

"I think that in Havana, the sun is hot," the Grandmaster
said softly. He studied Kutsenko's face. He was about to
finish the identifying password when the Russian chess master's
face seemed to drain of color and his eyes became frightened-
He looked up at Justin imploringly, then away again. Justin
followed Kutsenko's gaze toward the ballroom's main entrance.

There stood Alexander Zharkov.

Justin felt his heart leap. His hands clenched into fists at
his sides. Zharkov had not changed. There might/have been a
little more gray in his hair, but he was still husky and
muscular, his face still young and unlined, the lizard-lidded
eyes still cold and murderous. The Russian's own face paled
when he saw Justin Gilead staring at him. Their eyes locked
for a frozen moment. Then Zharkov looked away and started
across the room.

Juslin felt Kutsenko move back slightly from him, as if to

318

GRANDMASTER

be nearer the other Russian players and seconds Perhaps only
a handful of people in Russia knew what Zharkov did, but
that he was a powerful man was evident The KGB body-
guards abruptly halted their bored conversation and moved
back up among the members of the Russian team One posi-
tioned himself between Gilead and Kutsenko The Russian
champion withdrew another half-step Justin wondered if
Kutsenko had understood Justin's message to him Did he
know that Justin was the man who would arrange his defec-
tion to the United States7 He looked at Kutsenko. but the man
was so obviously frightened by Zharkov that no emotion but
fear could be seen on his face Then Kutsenko turned back to
his wife and spoke to her, and Justin remembered what
Starcher had told him about Riesling's death and Corfus's
final conversation in the Moscow hospital It was only a
guess that the statement about Havana's weather and sugar
crop was a password to identify himself to a potential defector
Riesling had been dying when he said it It could have been
nothing but the delirious babbling of a dying man. meaning
nothing And Corfus's analysis might also have meant less
than nothing The fact was that no one knew for sure whether
Kutsenko was a potential defector or not

It was like so much of field intelligence work Guesses,
wishes, hopes No evidence No realities Only suppositions
and maybes and let's-give-it-a-tnes

As Zharkov walked toward the group, Justm's heart still
pounded At last, after all these years of waiting, his soul had
been freed He was allowed to kill this man who had killed so
much ofJustin's life The images flashed, unbidden, unwanted,
into his mind the once peaceful temple at Rashimpur, the great
tree charred and dead, Tagore bound to it by wires, dead, the
other monks dead He saw himself bayoneted and thrown into
the cold lake, dead He saw Yva, the Polish girl. her face
blown away, her village burning He saw himself in a Polish
grave, the earth suffocating him, clawing his way through the
cold damp soil like a mindless ammai of the night

Zharkov always walked with death He was the Pnnce of
Death, and even though, in his deepest heart, Justin did not
believe it, he accepted Tagore's word that somehow Zharkov
had been bom to inflict evil on the world and that Justin had
been bom to fight back

But he had lost his faith Perhaps once he had believed that

The Game                319

he was special, a man chosen by the gods, but not any longer
Now he wasjust a tired man, tired beyond his years, who still
remembered a few tncks of his childhood and hoped that they
would be enough to allow him to kill this lifelong enemy and
then to die himself

For a moment, as Zharkov approached, Justin thought of
waiting until the man came into reach, and then stretching out
his long, powerful fingers and tearing out Zharkov's throat It
woukt be easy And then he could die He could complete the
circle, and he could join Tagore and the others of Rashimpur
in death

They would know their mistake, they would not greet him
any longer as Patanjali, as the Wearer of the Blue Hat, but
they might greet him as a good man who had tried to do his
duty, and perhaps they could make room for him in that
far-off place in which their spirits dwelt

But there was duty Duty, as Andrew Starcher would have
it, with a capital letter, absolute and inviolate He had given
his word to Starcher He would keep it

There would be time to kill Zharkov There would be time
because Justin had now been freed, and the earth was too
small a place for one such as Zharkov to hide from him and
the vengeance he would exact

Zharkov passed him without a 'glance and stopped in front
of Kutsenko

The Russian champion said, "Good to see you. Colonel
We are pleased that you wilt be playing with us " Zharkov
grunted, and Kutsenko looked past him, toward Justin, and
said, "There is someone you should meet "

Zharkov turned and faced Gilead Even though Kutsenko
had taken his arm and was starting to move toward Justin,
Zharkov stood planted as firmly as an oak tree

"We have met already," he said coldly

"Yes," Justin said "Many times " His soft voice was
chilling "The colonel and I are old fnends "

There was a long silence When Kutsenko saw that neither
man would step forward to offer the other his hand, he
released his gnp on Zharkov's elbow "Have you two played
before'7" he asked timidly, speaking to a space between the
two of them

"Yes," said Gilead

"No," said Zharkov

320 GRANDMASTER

Justin smiled "Never a real game Until now This will be
the first, won't it. Colonel7"

"The first and the last," Zharkov said

Then he walked away to find a cocktail waiter, and Justin
relumed to the American contingent

Later, Justin found himself standing next to Lena Kutsenko
near a small podium from which the chairman of the Cuban
chess federation was reading the schedule of games for the
next four days Dr Kutsenko's husband was on the other side
of the room, surrounded by KGB men Zharkov had already
left

Justin learned that he would play Ribitnov, the young
Russian, the next day On Thursday, it would be Victor
Kevenn, and on Friday, Zharkov On Saturday, the final day
of the match, Justin would play Kutsenko

When Dr Kutsenko heard the pairings, she said to Gilead
with a warm smite, "They've obviously saved the best for
last My husband is a great admirer of yours ''

"Thank you," Justm responded in Russian "Is this your
first tnp to Havana7"

"Yes "

"How do you like it7" Justin asked

"Sunshine in January is delightful," she said "But I
suppose it is very hot in Havana in the summertime "

Justin leaned closer and responded, "But it's good for the
sugar crop ''

They had been standing side by side, politely watching the
bald sweating Cuban read from a long congratulatory message
on the match from various chess dignitaries Lena Kutsenko
turned quickly to look at Justin

"What did you say7" she asked, trying to keep her voice
casual

"I said, in Havana, the sun is hot, but it's good for the
sugar crop " Her eyes searched his face. and he nodded
slightly to her He saw one of the KGB men approaching
them and Kutsenko looking anxiously in their direction

"I'm your man," Justin said quickly and softly "We will
talk later "

She nodded and left a moment later with the KGB man
who steered her back to her husband and the rest of the
Russian contingent

After the announcements, Justin spent some time with the

The Game                321

other American team members, then walked up the stairs to
his second-floor room His first game was scheduled for 1 00
p M the next day

Zharkov answered the soft knock on his door One of the
Russians from the ballroom stood there He was a gonlla-
shouldered man with no discernible waistline In his light tan
suit, he had the configuration of a cardboard box He stepped
inside the room

"He has gone up to his room. Comrade Colonel "

"Whom did he talk to7"

"To Kutsenko earlier To Dr Kutsenko later tonight "

"Did you overhear what was said7"

"No ! could not get close enough But he said something
that seemed to surprise her I could tell by her face "

"Very good Tell your men to be very careful with the
Kutsenkos Keep a sharp eye on them ''

"Yes sir. Colonel "

"Gilead's second This Harry Andrew Was there any sign
of him7"

"No, sir," the KGB man said "Should we do anything
special with Gilead7"

"No I will take care of him "

When the man left, Zharkov returned to the small desk in
me room where he had been Jotting notes It had not been
necessary for him to be in the ballroom to hear the pairings,
because he already knew them He had arranged to play
Gilead on Friday, the match's third day That was the night
Castro would come to welcome the players officially, and
Zharkov knew that the Grandmaster, no matter what arrange-
ments were made with the Kutsenkos, would not leave before
he had met Zharkov across the chessboard And until Castro
came, Zharkov would make sure that the Kutsenkos were
guarded at all times so that Gilead could not attempt to spirit
them out of Cuba Then he would deal with Gilead

A good plan. he told himself It was neat, and it was
economical It would work

But who the hell was Harry Andrew7

"The place is crawling with KGB people," Justin said as
he turned on the radio loudly As he spoke, he removed his
tuxedo jacket, went to the wntmg table in the comer of the

322 GRANDMASTER

room, and scrawled on a piece of letter paper, "I made
contact with Lena Kutsenko "

Starcher read the noted, nodded, and handed it back "What
did you say9" he whispered

Justm wrote, "Gave password Said we'll talk later
Kutsenkos under close watch all evening "

Starcher took an ashtray from an end table and tore Justin's
note into confetti-size pieces When he was done. he rose,
went to the bathroom, and flushed the pieces of paper away
He came out and said, "You'd better get some rest You're
playing tomorrow7"

"Yes One o'clock "

"Who7"

"Ribitnov He's a very good young Russian 1 get Zharkov
on Friday and Kutsenko on Saturday "

"Maybe, Justm, we're going to win all our games," Starcher
said

"Only one of them matters to me," the Grandmaster said

Later, Starcher asked, "Did you see Zharkov tonight7"

"Yes "

"And7"

"I didn't kill him," Justm said

.CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Justm sensed that someone was watching him when he left
the second-floor room to go downstairs for a late breakfast

He let the stairwell door close behind him, then stopped
and waited A few seconds later, he heard a faint knocking
and opened the door carefully

A small, dark-haired man in a flowered shirt and Jeans was
standing in front of the door to his room His hands were
folded in front of him in the manner of someone praying in
church

The door opened, and the maiTsaid, "Domic esta Luis7"

Justin heard Starcher say, "Sorry, you've got the wrong
room " The door closed, and the man came down the hall-
way as Justm stepped into the hall The man was buttoning
his shirt

When he saw Justm, he seemed to hesitate for a split
second, then smiled casually m the manner of one stranger
passing another in a strange place

Justin smiled back, but when he drew abreast of the man,
he reached out his nght hand and grabbed the clump of
muscles between the man's neck and shoulder The man
groaned as Justm squeezed His knees buckled. Justin reached
his other hand around and tore the man's shirt open A smail
camera was attached to me man's chest with strips of adhe-
sive tape Justm npped the camera loose and pocketed it

"Tell your boss no pictures," he said coldly in Spanish
"Now,go "

The man ran off without argument and vanished into the

323

324 GRANDMASTER

stairwell When Justin let lumself into the room with a key,
Starcher was at the window, shaving while looking out over
Havana's broad boulevards He turned at the sound of Justin's
entrance

The Grandmaster tossed the camera onto the bed ' 'Zharkov's
apparently interested in you," he said

"Where'd you get that9"

"The man who JUSI came to the door had it I'm sure your
picture's on the film '

"Russians are nothing if not curious," Starcher said He
put down the razor and stepped outside into the hall with
Justin "I'll keep an eye out," he whispered, "but I'll be
gone most of the day "

"Where will you be7"

"I'm going to talk to Kael's man, see if he's heard
anything "

"All right Just be careful," Gilead said

"Youjust win," Starcher said

Walking downstairs, Justin thought that he had merely
delayed Zharkov's identification of Starcher The Russians
could easily get into their room, take fingerprints, and run
them through the KGB computers against the files of alt
known Western spies It would be only a matter of a few
hours

Justin hoped that Starcher would be able to come up with
something fast, find out what Zharkov, Nichevo, and the
other Russians were up to in Cuba He was worried about the
old man's health, and he wanted to get him and the Kutsenkos
aboard Saannen's boat as soon as he could

Because, right now, they were only distractions, keeping
him away from his main mission The killing of Alexander
Zharkov

The mission of his life

The meaning of his life

Justin arrived in the grand ballroom at 12 45 p M Ribitnov,
the young Soviet expert whom he would play that day, greeted
him warmly in halting English and seemed relieved when
Justin responded in fluent Russian

For the purposes of the chess match, the giant ballroom had
been divided into two halves In one half, folding chairs for
some five hundred spectators had been set up, and high on the

The Game                325

side walls were positioned giant diagrams of chessboards with
large magnetic chessmen Underneath were display boards for
writing each player's moves, so the spectators could follow
the games

The other half of the ballroom had a chess table and chairs
set up in each comer for the four games that would take place
at once In the center of that area, coffee and refreshments
were set up for the players and for the tournament officials

Justin saw Zharkov standing near the game table in the far
comer of the hall, but the Russian did not even glance in
Gilead's direction

With one of the Cuban chess officials on hand, Justin
picked up a black pawn and a white one, shuffled them
around while holding his hands behind his back, then clasped
one pawn in each closed hand and held his hands in front of
him

Ribitnov pointed to Justin s closed left hand Justin opened
it to show a white pawn Ribitnov had won the right to play
white, which always moved first in a chess game

Just before one o'clock, the two men took seats across
from each other at the square, cloth-covered table The chess
board in front of them was made of alternating inlaid squares
of wainut and ash, and the pieces were the classic Staunton
design, always used in senous "play The chessmen were
weighted with lead slugs for better balance, and their bottoms
were covered with felt so they would not scratch the highly
polished board

The official adjusted the chess clock and placed it on the
side of the table between the two men It was a clock with
two faces, and registered individually the time each player
took to move Players were required to make a minimum of
forty moves in two and a half hours, and if any player failed
to make his fortieth move before his 150 minutes had elapsed,
a red flag would drop on the face of his clock, and he would
lose the game by forfeit Each player also had a score sheet to
keep track of the moves of the games, but often, in time
pressure, a player would either forget or not have time to
record the game's moves, so the tournament officials assigned
to their game kept an extra score sheet, which would serve as
the official record of the game

At exactly 1 00 p M . the tournament official asked both
men if they were ready Both nodded, and the official pressed

326 GRANDMASTER

down the button on Justin's side of the chess clock Pressing
that button started the clock ticking on Ribitnov's side

The Russian instantly moved the center pawn in front of his
king forward two squares and pressed the button on his side
of the clock Justin responded immediately with an identical
move, hit the button on Ribitnov's clock The game had
begun

King knight to king bishop three Clock

Justin responded with queen knight to queen bishop three
square Clock

Bishop to knight five Ribitnov set ihe piece down and
instantly slapped the clock Often chess players, to save
fractions of a second that might be worth gold in the final
moves of a complicated game, will move the piece with the
right hand. holding ihe left hand above the clock As soon as
they have placed the piece and released it. the left hand will
slap down and start the opponent's clock immediately Justin
did not do this because he rarely found himself in time
trouble

Ribitnov had chosen the Ruy Lopez opening for the game
It was a fighting game that yielded white a small advantage
coming out of the opening The main lines of the game were
well known to all veteran chess players, but required constant
study because no chess opening was static Openings were
continuously being analyzed, and current thinking about the
strongest continuations was always being revised Sometimes
low-quality players—patzers, as they were termed—accidentally
stumbled on an interesting move that might come to the
attention of a master who would analyze it and discover a
playing fine that had eluded the attention and wits of thousands
of chess masters for generations

The great American attacking genius, Frank Marshall, once
developed a variation in the opening and, according to legend,
saved it for five years so he could spring it on an unsuspect-
ing Jose Capablanca, the Cuban world champion But when
he finally got his opportunity, Capablanca calmly crushed
Marshall's new vanation as if Marshall were a child

It proved that chess was the most difficult of games Playing
it well required an encyclopedic memory, the ability to pro-
cess vast amounts of new material and relate it to other
material already in memory storage, and the judgment to

The Game                327

know when to veer away from the traditional lines and stnke
off alone in a new direction

But there was another aspect of chess that had nothing to
do with brilliance or knowledge or judgment It was what
differentiated chess from any other game on earth It was the
factor that elevated it into the sphere of high art, and its best
players to the realm of genius

It was a mental condition that those of the West called
"flow"—an inexplicable release in the mind of the player,
when the game seemed to work itself out automatically,
without conscious thought It was a mental laser beam di-
rected exclusively at the chessboard, compressing the entire
universe into sixty-four squares

There was a story, allegedly true, that a fire once broke out
during a game between two grandmasters When the critical
positions had been reached and played through and the game's
outcome was no longer in doubt, the two chess players both
eased out of "flow" to see the puddles of water from the
firemen's hoses, the overturned furniture and scorched walls
Annoyed, one of the grandmasters complained, "Why is this
room so messy? How is somebody supposed to play chess in
a place that looks like this^"

At Rashimpur, Justin had developed the power to focus his
energy and concentration, blotting out all distractions and
interruptions, but "flow" was more than mere mental discipline
It came unbidden, and its dizzying flight was always unex-
pected

He did not yet feel comfortable at the chessboard !t was
the first time he had sat at a chess table across from a human
opponent in five years He forced himself to concentrate,
keeping his mind off Zharkov, thmking only of the chess
pieces, but he was not at ease

The players finished their twenty-fourth move Justm,
while not comfortable, had been playing very well, and
the small advantage that Ribttnov had earned through the
opening had disappeared Justin's pieces now controlled
the main lines that led to the young Russian's king For
the moment, the king was safe behind a wall of pawns,
but constant pressure could break even the strongest of
walls

Justin was calculating his options, playing methodically,

328 GRANDMASTER

when he felt it light and perfect as if a weight had been
suddenly lifted from him

It was the feeling he had first experienced as a child in the
chess match in Pans, when he met and conquered Zharkov
and the Russian chess masters who helped him Now, as
then, he accepted the surge of power that directed his moves

For Justin Gilead, the rest of the world ceased to exist All
that mattered now were the chessboard in front of him and the
tines of force that connected the pieces to one another with
dazzling clarity

There was nothing else Nothing intruded as he rested his
gray-streaked head on his left hand and studied the board
The position of the game exuded a kind of force field of its
own, and now his mind ranged freely into that web of energy,
feeling it. understanding the inherent logic and economy in
the movement of the game, the pressure of the moves, the
ebb and flow of the strategy

The "book" moves—those played by centuries of great
chess players—no longer counted The game with Ribitnov
had taken on its own dynamic As they played, Justin and
the Russian blazed new ground, carrying the game into direc-
tions where not a single game in history had ever been before

Eight moves later, Justin advanced his queen until -it stood
directly in front of the pawn wall that sealed Ribitnov s king
off from the rest of the battle going on before him

The queen, the most powerful fighting piece on the board,
could now be captured by a pawn, the lowliest piece As his
clock ticked away, Ribilnov stared at the position Was it
possible that Justin Gitead had blundered7 Had he sacrificed
his queen for nothing'' Was it possible that there was no
checkmate in sight for Gilead'' Was the move a colossal
mistake7

The Russian studied the position, reached out to take the
queen with a pawn withdrew his hand, then reached out
again But before he could touch the pawn the red flag on his
clock dropped

"Time," the tournament official called "The game to Mr
Gilead "

It took Justin a moment to remember where he was and
what had Just happened He rose to his feet

Ribitnov still stared at the position, then remembered his

The Game                329

manners and stood to shake Justm's hand But he did not
remove his gaze from the chessboard

"I still don't see it," he said "Is it there7"

Justm nodded and answered him in Russian 'The rooks
double and the bishop at A-six Another rook sacrifice and
it's over Thank you. Vyacbeslav You played a wonderful
game "

"Not wonderful enough," the young Russian responded
ruefully, then gnnned "I think I liked you better when you
were in retirement No wonder Ivan has been singing your
praises to everyone "

It was just after five o'clock Together, Justin and Ribitnov
went to the refreshment table in the middle of the floor to
look at the games of the other players Kutsenko had already
won by forcing a resignation on the twenty-third move of his
game with the young American, John Shinnick Kevenn, the
aged Russian genius, and Gousen. the fiery New Yorker on
the American team, had seen their game settle quickly into a
well-established situation in which neither side had an
advantage, and after only nineteen moves, both players had
agreed on a draw This allowed them both to conserve their
energy for games and positions from which they might be
able to extract a win, and spared them the ngors of spending
what often seemed like an eternity in a dull, empty position

The only game left was in the far comer of the room where
Zharkov and Carey, the American champion, were locked in
a complicated endgame Each had a king, a bishop, and three
pawns, but glancing at the board, Justin felt that Carey stood
better because of placement of his pawns He mentioned this
to Ribitnov, who agreed "Unless Zharkov can get his king in
front," he said

A wnter for a Bntish chess magazine asked Justin m
English for an interview "We'd like to know where you've
been, Mr Gilead What you've been doing "

"I'm sorry," Justin said "I haven't played in a very long
while, and I'm really quite tired Perhaps before the match is
over, we'll get a chance to talk "

The reporter nodded politely and drifted away Justin again
looked toward Zharkov's table He saw the Russian's thick
shoulders and bull neck hunched forward How easy. he
thought How easy to go forward and break that big neck
Kill him and be done with it

330 GRANDMASTER

But his word was his word

He turned away from the temptation, which was almost too
strong to resist, thanked Ribitnov again, and left the hall to
return to his room

Tomorrow was another game

In his room, Justin carefully touched his fingertips to the
Formica shelf next to the sink and feh a slight trace of
stickmess Fingerprint tape had been used to try to lift prints
from there And probably, he decided, throughout the rest of
the room, too By now, Zharkov would have copies of
Starcher's prints He would have to tell Starcher to be careful

Justin went down to the main dining room at eight o'clock,
hoping to meet Ivan or Lena Kutsenko, but apparently alt the
members of the Russian chess team and their entourage were
eating in their rooms Justin sat with the three other American
players

Zharkov had lost his game with Carey He had tried to
block the American's pawn advance with his king, but had
failed to protect his own pawns One of them had fallen, and,
faced with a clear pawn deficit and no way to prevent its
being promoted into a queen, Zharkov had resigned

The score stood in fdvor of the Americans two wins, one
ioss, one draw Five points for the United States, three points
for Russia

Justin waited late in the dining room, but the Kutsenkos did
not appear The Americans talked mainly about chess Carey
said he had figured out why all those Russian warships were
in the harbor

"If we win, they're going to blast the hotel." he said

Just after ten o'clock, Justin went back to his room Starcher
had not returned by eleven, and Justin felt a stab of anxiety
for the old man The number of KGB men traveling with the
Russian team had surprised Gilead He thought fleetingly that
if something had happened to Starcher, he would be free of
his promise Nothing would stop him from going after Zharkov
right now

.CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Starcher returned before breakfast the following niommg and
listened quietly as Justin told him of the traces of fingerprint
tape that he'd found in the bathroom Starcher turned the
radio on loudly before answering "Zharkov'll know who I
am, then." he said "If he doesn't already "

Justin did not like Starcher's attitude He had expected
Starcher to be concerned about his cover being blown so
thoroughly, so quickly, but instead, the veteran CIA man
seemed jaunty, almost happy

"You don't seem very worried^" the Grandmaster said

"In this business, you worry only about the things you can
do something about Leave the worrying to me I'm good at
it "

"Now you tell me," Justin said "I worried half the night
when you didn't come back "

"I met Kael's man "

"Who is he7"

"His name is Pabto Ohvarcs He owns a bar called the
Purple Shell on the wdterfront I spent the night there talking
to him "

"Whdt'd you find out9"

"Nothing," Starcher said "He's got one of the cleaner
waterfront bars, and a lot of the Russian sailors from those
warships go in there But they don't even know what they're
doing here Who tells enlisted men anything7"

Justin waited, and Starcher said. "The ships have been
there now for a couple of months, and all the while, there've

331

332 GRANDMASTER

been Russian threats about interventions in Cuba. But Olivares
hasn't heard a word."

"Is it possible that the Americans have something planned
here that you don't know anything about?" Justin asked.

"No." Starcher hesitated, then said again, more surely,
"No, I don't think so. When i was in Moscow, 1 would have
heard something. And since then . . . well, 1 just don't think
Harry Kael is smart enough to lie to me and gel away with it.
He said we don't have anything going for us here, and I
believe it."

Justin shrugged, went to the mirror, and knotted a tie
around his neck. Many chess players showed up at matches
looking as if they had just walked out of a service station
where they were pumping gas. But the Russians always dressed
like gentlemen, and Justin liked the tradition, so he always
dressed for a game. too.

Starcher perched on the edge of the dresser, talking in a
whisper. "Anyway," he said, "Olivares doesn't know
anything. And his girlfriend—she works for the director of
Castro's national police—she doesn't know anything either."

"This Olivares must be under deep cover to be able to
work for you and romance a secret police official, too,"
Justin said.

"He's a native. Been here all his life and is just sour on
Castro. I'm glad, by the way, that we set up that other pickup
point with Saarinen. The waterfront is crawling with Cuban
cops and agents. We'd have our hands full trying to get out of
Havana by sea. Did you talk to our friends again?"

"No. There's a guard on their door. and i think they're
taking meals in their room. I'll try today."

"Tell them they'll have to be ready to leave with no notice
at all. Saarinen's going to be in the pickup position between
eleven and one o'clock for the next three nights. It'll be one
of those limes."

"Suppose we don't find out what Zharkov's planning?"
Justin asked. "Suppose he has nothing planned?"

"He didn't come here just to play chess," Starcher said.
"Not the head of Nichevo. He's up to something."

"All right. Still, suppose we don't find out what?"

"You'll stil! take the Kutsenkos out," Starcher said.

"I noticed that 'you.' What about you?"

The Game                333

Starcher shrugged. "I don't know. We'll cross that bridge
when we come to it."

"Start thinking about crossing the bridge," Justin said. "I
want to know what and when. Remember, I have business
here, too," he said.

"I won't forget," Starcher said.

"And from now on, if you're going to be out. call me in
die evening between six-thirty and seven. Let me know you're
alive."

"Alt right," Starcher agreed with uncharacteristic meekness.

Zharkov walked impatiently to the telephone, dialed the
number of another room, and snapped quickly, "Any report
yet?"

His face illustrated the negative reply. "As soon as you get
something, bring it to me ... Yes. that's right . . . even
during the game."

He hung up the telephone wondering who Harry Andrew
was. Who was the Grandmaster's traveling companion?

Starcher decided that this day he would do something very
important: He would find a store and buy a box of Cuban
cigars-

Justin had been right. Starcher'was not at all worried that
Zharkov might by now know who he was. He welcomed the
possibility because he regarded it as his only chance of find-
ing out what Nichevo was up to. He was sure there was
something, and if it look making himself vulnerable to cap-
ture to find out what it was, then that was what he had
decided to do.

He was glad that Justin knew the pickup points and the
schedule for Saarinen's boat. If anything went wrong, the
Grandmaster would be able to get the Kutsenkos out of Cuba.

It' anything went wrong. In this business, something almost
always did.

Austin's second-round opponent was Victor Keverin. The
aging Russian had twice played for the world championship,
twice losing, both times to other Russians. There were rumors
that in the second match, Keverin. who was Jewish, had been
ordered to lose. Justin was inclined to believe the rumors,
because Keverin's play in that second match had been spotty

334

GRANDMASTER

and erratic, totally out of character for a man whose games
for almost forty years had been characterized by precise,
careful, methodical play.

Not for Keverin was the bold attacking stroke, the decisive
sacrifice, the sparkling combination that left an opponent
battered and reeling, and spectators applauding, instead, he
won chess games the way oysters create pearls—one small
layer after another, each layer apparently of no value in
itself—and then, late in the game, an opponent would take
stock and realize that the infinitesimal advantages, all added
together, had given Keverin an overwhelming positional
superiority. Justin had played him twice before. He had drawn
one game and lost the other when the old master had refuted
Justin's proposed bishop sacrifice by ignoring it and, instead,
continuing to push pawns down the-board. It was the way
Keverin won games.

Justin had no illusions about the quality of his own game.
He had played well yesterday, but the young Russian he had
beaten had not been sharp. And for this own part. Justin was
simply not tournament tough. It took a lot of play at the
highest levels, plus ongoing practice and analysis, to keep
one's game sharp, to save oneself from a suicidal lapse at the
table, to have one's mind so tuned to chess that one could
instantly disregard time-wasting possibilities on the board and
move into the flow of potential moves that bore with them
some hope of gaining an advantage. Justin simply was not
there yet. He made too many errors at the board.

There was a truism in chess that the winner of the game
was the player who made the next-to-last mistake. Justin was
still quite capable of making the last error and losing.

He had the white pieces today. He decided to move the
game away early from the established, carefully analyzed
lines in which Keverin was just too well read for Justin to
compete, opting instead for a tricky, trappy kind of contest
where, with good play and some luck, Justin might find some
kind of game-winning resource.

So he moved the pawn in front of his king bishop ahead
two squares. It was Bird's opening, popular at the end of the
nineteenth century, but rarely seen in serious chess anymore.
Keverin glanced at the bishop pawn for only a few seconds.
then smiled and played his own queen pawn forward two
squares.

The Game                335

Justin glanced away from the board and saw Zharkov's
burly back at the chess table and felt a wave of hatred wash
over him.

Why am I playing chess? he asked himself. Why is that
man still alive? Justin longed to end it all now, once and for
all, but he struggled to remind himself that he could not give
his attention to Zharkov and have any chance of winning
against Keverin. As he started to look back down toward the
board, he saw one of the KGB men, the big one in the light
tan suit, walk up to Zharkov and gesture to him.

The Russian left the table, and the KGB man whispered
something in his ear. Zharkov nodded. His face was turned in
profile to the Grandmaster, and Gilead saw it crease into a
small but real smile. Something had just pleased Zharkov.
What was it?

Zharkov whispered something to the KGB agent, and the
man nodded and walked away. Zharkov relumed to his seat at
the chess table and a moment later was leaning forward over
the board again, his concentration totally on the pieces and
the position.

Justin clenched his jaw. He understood what the exchange
between the two Russians had been about. He knows about
Starcher, Justin thought- He knows who Harry Andrew is.

Starcher knew the tail was on him only a few minutes after
leaving the coffee shop of the Jose Marti-

He had not told Justin Gilead, because he hadn't wanted to
worry him, but he had picked up a weapon the night before
from Pablo Otivares. It was a four-shot -22-caliber revolver,
as small as a derringer. Starcher now had it taped to the back
of his left ankle, under his sock-
He whistled as he strolled slowly toward the park- He
didn't want to lose the tail.

The game was virtually over.

Justin Gilead had come out of the opening with good
development and a toehold in the center of the board. He had
tried three different attacks on Keverin's position, but the
Russian chess master had repelled all of them, each time
gaining another slight edge in position over Justin.

As his small advantages grew into a large advantage, Keverin
had begun trading off pieces. Now the game had turned into

336 GRANDMASTER

Justin's king, rook, and three pawns against equal manpower
on Kevenn's side But Kevenn's pawns were placed better,
and it seemed to Justin inevitable that eventually the Russian
would move one of his pawns to the opposite end of the board
where it could be promoted to a queen That overwhelming
material superiority would guarantee Kevenn the win

Justin glanced at the clock As usual he had played quickly
Kevenn had JUSI completed his thirty-second move and had
about eighteen minutes left on his clock It was Justin's
move There were forty minutes left on his clock, but it was
ticking

He concentrated on the board, trying to find something p
the position, some hidden resource that could give him an edge,
or at least stop Kevenn's inexorable pawn march down the
board

As he often did, he looked up from the board, the position
fixed and clearly visualized in his mind, and gazed off into
the distance He found it a comfortable way to concentrate,
away from the disruptions and distractions of the real world
But no voice came as it had yesterday There was no magical
sense of entenng mto the world of the chess pieces, feeling
their power, and letting them direct the flow of the game

His eyes drifted casually around the room He saw Ivan
Kutsenko move a piece, hit his clock to start his Amencan
opponent's time running, and then walk toward the door that
led to the rest rooms

Justin noticed that for the first time Kutsenko had no KGB
guard trailing him He glanced around and saw no Russian
agents in the room at all When Zharkov whispered to the
KGB man, he must have sent them all on assignment Zharkov
was still across the room, bent over the chessboard

Justin rose from his seat and walked to the men's room

He and Kutsenko were atone

The Russian looked nervously about, then came close to
Justin and whispered

"My wife said you spoke to her "

"Yes~ I was a friend of Riesling's, the man you met in
Moscow I'm to help you get to the United States We have a
boat It'll be tonight, tomorrow, or the next night "

"What should we do9"

"Just be ready at a moment's notice If I can find out m
advance, I'll let you know If not, I'll probably JUSI come to

The Game                337

your room to get you, and we'll leave Be ready at all

times "

"There's always a guard on our room," Kutsenko said
"Don't worry about the guard," Justin said
"Do we have a chance'?" Kutsenko asked nervously
Justin put his strong hand on the frail man's shoulder

"More than a chance," he said "We'll get you out of here

That's a promise "

"I have so many questions to ask you," Kutsenko said
"On the boat going back." Justin said
"Have you done this before^ I have to know "
"Many times," Justin said "Don't worry, Ivan You and

your wife will be all nght "
The Russian searched Justin's eyes for reassurance beyond

his words, then nodded his agreement "I believe you. Justin "
"Now get back to your game I'll follow in a few minutes "

Alexander Zharkov pushed his chair back from the chess-
board, took a deep breath, and relaxed for the first time since
the game had started

Andrew Starcher

The old CIA chief from Moscow The Americans could not
have played into his hands more totally if they had all been on
Nichevo's payroll

What more perfect scapegoat to blame for the Castro assas-
sination than an Amencan ex-spymaster^ The murder would
have all the trappings of a CIA enterprise Starcher, their
chief of staff in Moscow, suddenly "retires " Then just as
suddenly, he surfaces in Cuba with an Amencan chess team
just before Castro is assassinated A CIA plot, pure and
simple, the kind of thing they did so often and usually
bungled so badly

He smiled as he thought of another benefit that came with
Slarcher's presence

It had rendered Justin Gilead expendable

As soon as he was sure that his men had captured Starcher,
Zharkov would send out the word Kill the Grandmaster

Kill him

Put bullets in his eyes and knives in his heart Kill him

For once and for all

Kil! him

Burn the body

338 GRANDMASTER

Kill him

Zharkov looked back at the chessboard His opponent, the
young American, had not yet moved, but the position was
hopeless With precise play, Zharkov knew that he would
force a resignation before the fortieth move so that the game
would not have to be recessed and concluded tomorrow He
had other plans for tomorrow

Maybe

The Grandmaster saw a glimmer of hope m his game
position, but it was a tncky maneuver, and he had to calculate
the consequences exactly

He was disappointed Yesterday, in his game against
Ribitnov, he had felt the power come on him, even if only
briefly When that happened, the moves came almost automat-
ically, but today that power had deserted him He had played
this game one move after another, logically and coldly, with
never a sense that he was becoming absorbed in the game
Yesterday, for a few minutes, he had soared into the mathe-
matical meanings of life and the universe, today, he was
adding up large columns of figures It was the difference
between art and craft, between creation and caretaking

^He ciosed his eyes and pictured the chessboard and the
position of the pieces

If he moved his king up behind his row of pawns. Kevenn
would surely move his king up to meet him, to prevent Justin
from moving ahead of his pawns It would be a very basic
defensive move by Kevenn, one that required no analysis or
thought

But then, if Justin sacrificed a pawn to Kevenn's king, and
then another pawn to one of Kevenn's pawns, then

Maybe

He glanced at Kevenn's clock The Russian had only six
minutes left for six more moves With time pressure, he
might not see through Justm's maneuver

Justin moved his king forward a square Kevenn thought
for a few seconds and did the same

Justin immediately pushed a pawn forward He wanted to
play quickly now so that Kevenn would have no chance to
analyze the position on Justin's time The Russian would
have to study for a while his own clock was running,

The Game                339

remorselessly ticking away the precious seconds that remained
before his red flag dropped and he lost to Justm on time

The old Russian was far too crafty, IH this winning position,
to let a game slip away because of the clock Justm counted
oo that

Kevenn made his decision With his right hand. he picked
up bis king and moved it forward to capture Justm's pawn
Then he immediately slapped down his clock with his left
hand, starting Justm's time Almost two full minutes gone
Four minutes left

The Grandmaster did not hesitate He pushed another pawn
forward a single square and said, "Check "

Kevenn's face clearly showed his annoyance Gilead should
have resigned In chess at this level, each player assumed that
his opponent, given a winning edge, would carry that edge
through mto a victory it was almost insulting to insist on
playing out a game that was cleariy lost

This time, Kevenn pondered for only a hatf-minule before
taking Justm's pawn with his own

Justin immediately moved his rook forward and checked
Kevenn's king The Russian saw what had happened

Done Too late It was over

On the one hand, if he took the rook with his king, Justin
would be in a position where he could not move without
moving his king into a check, onto a square where he could
be captured That would be an illegal move But because he
was safe on the square where his king now stood, the game
would be a draw It was a position called stalemate, and
neither side won

On the other hand, if the Russian refused to take the rook,
Justin could use it to capture one of Kevenn's pawns and
open a path for Justm's remaining pawn to move down the
board to its queening square He would be one move ahead of
Kevenn's pawns, would have his queen first, and with it, a
clear win

Kevenn looked at the board for two full minutes while his
clock ticked silently away Justin could see the Russian's face
reddening in anger at himself for blundenng away a win

He nodded in resignation, then sighed, looked up, and
smiled at Justin

"A draw7" he sa»d

Justin nodded "I'll be happy to take one against you "

340 GRANDMASTER

Keverin pushed the button on his side of the clock down
halfway. This stopped both clocks, and the two men rose and
shook hands.

"Beautifully done," Keverin said.

"A swindle," Justin responded. "It was all I had left since
you chopped my position up so badly."

"The older I get, the more I learn that the hardest thing to
do in chess is to win a won game," Keverin said graciously.
"Especially against a player like you. I had forgotten how
good you are."

"And i stili have never beaten you." Gilead responded.

"Go back into retirement before you have the chance
again," Keverin said.

Justin knew that the Russian was speaking with real warmth.
A player who had lost or been swindled out of a win first felt
anger and annoyance at himself, but then usually only admira-
tion for the player who had done it to him. Great players all
viewed chess as a life-or-death struggle, but it was a wonder-
ful kind of death because you sprang back to life as soon as
the pieces were again set up on the board for the next game.

Keverin clapped Giiead around the shoulders, and the two
men walked off to the tournament director to sign the official
score sheets. As he walked away, Justin felt Zharkov's eyes
burning into his back.

Three of them.        '

Starcher had spotted them while he was walking toward the
giant statue of Jose Marti, which loomed over the Plaza de
. la Revolucion- They were dressed tike Western businessmen
on their way to lunch, but their faces were either pale or
blotchy red, the faces of people not used to the sun. And they
had been too regular in changing their positions. One fol-
lowed him; another was amidships of him; the third was in
front of Starcher. But they rotated positions precisely every
five minutes, and while the rotation was the correct maneuver,
the rigid schedule was not.

Starcher was surprised mat they had not made a move
against him yet. It was late afternoon now. Were they waiting
for further word from Zharkov? Justin had told him that the
chess games must end no later than six o'clock each evening.
Would he have to wait until dark before these men picked
him up?

The Game                341

Starcher strolled right, down an uncrowded concrete path
bordered by bushes, toward the Avenida Ayestara. The park
had been emptying for the last hour. It had been filled mostly
with women, many with babies, but now they had left,
probably on their way home to prepare dinner.

He couldn't help feeling that it was good to be on the
street again, good to be an agent again. He had spent more
than three hours on the streets of Havana, most of it walking,
and his heart felt fine. Maybe there was still room in the C1A
for someone like him- He could be a courier, anything, just
something to do that didn't involve sitting behind a desk and
feeling miserable when young agents went out on missions
and never reported back. So he was old, but what was age
when you were good? And he was good-
He paused to light a cigar and aoticed the three men had come
together and were walking toward him. He cautioned himself
not to make it too easy for them- He took a puff on his cigar,
men walked briskly toward the street. He half expected to hear
the sound of running feet as the Russians closed on him, but
he didn't. He paused just before reaching the sidewalk and
glanced back again. The three men had gone, but as he turned
back, confused, a black car pulled up to the curb.

The rear door opened, and a dark-skinned man snapped in
English. "Get in." He held a gun aimed at Starcher's belly.
Should he run? Would it make his capture look more real?
Before he could decide, the three men who had been
following him emerged from the bushes on either side of the
concrete walkway, grabbed his arms, and pushed him easily
into the back seat of the car.

"What's going on here?" he snapped to the man holding
the gun on him. He was a big man, much bigger than the
usual Hispanic.

"This is your welcome to Havana, Mr. Starcher," the man
answered. "Please put your hands in your lap and do not
move them."

Wordlessly, Starcher did as he was told. He was glad they
had finally captured him-

Just before six o'clock, me young American resigned from
his clearly lost game with Zharkov. After a perfunctory
handshake, Zharkov went immediately to his room and dialed
a telephone number.

342 GRANDMASTER

"Do you have him7"

"Yes," said Yun Durganiv

"Is he giving you any trouble7"

"None al all He's too old for trouble," Durganiv said

"Fine Be careful of him He's got a bad heart, and I
wouldn't want anything to disturb him He's valuable "

"I understand," Durganiv said as Zharkov hung up

Success He had the CIA man, the man on whom he could
hang the blame for Castro's murder

And Justin Gilead was a dead man

The telephone was mounted on the bulkhead of a small
cabin cruiser anchored out in Havana harbor Yun Durganiv,
whiie talking to Zharkov, had stood in the doorway, aiming a
snub-nosed 38 revolver at Starcher, who sat on a col on the
other side of the cabin

Durganiv had made a mistake He thought that Starcher
could not speak Russian The American was too old to cause
trouble, Durganiv had said, and Starcher thought grimly, /
might just teach the wn of a bitch he's wrong

The Russian had made another mistake, too When he
searched Starcher he had done the cursory police search most
people used, patting down me inside and outside of both legs,
but ignoring the back of the legs With a little sense of
comfort, Starcher fen the weight of the small revolver still
taped to the back of his left ankle

Too old7 Starcher thought This Russian who looked like a
Cuban might team otherwise

After Slarcher found out what Zharkov was up to

The day's four chess games had been completed The
Russians had duplicated the American performance of the day
before two wins, a loss, and a draw The score at the end of
two days was the United States, eight points, the Soviet
Union, eight points

The players were advised that the next day's game would
start at ten o'clock instead of one The match chairman
announced that Fidel Castro would be al tomorrow night's
dinner to speak and to welcome the players, and the commit-
tee needed the extra time to prepare the ballroom for his
appearance

-CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

When he had received no message by eight o'clock, Justin
knew that Starcher was in trouble

The Grandmaster pushed aside the remnants of the salad
plate he had ordered from room service and closed the book
of chess openings he had been studying

He dressed m jeans and a sweat shirt and walked down the
steps from his room to the ornate gilded lobby of the sprawl-
ing old hotel

The telephone rang in Zharkov's room

"Yes7" he said

"He is leaving now," a voice said

"Make sure he does not return, ' Zharkov said

Starcher looked through the small window of the ship's
cabin in which he was locked Just a few yards away, he saw
a sloping gray wall, but as the cabin cruiser rocked backward
and he was able to glance up, he saw it was not a wall at all
but the hull of a giant Soviet cruiser From the other side of
the cabin, the view was much the same, but the Soviet
destroyer there was a hundred yards away and he could see its
outline clearly

Floating nearby were two small patrol craft, machine guns
mounted in their stems

He paused for a moment to consider his predicament He
was being heid captive on a boat, surrounded by warships of
the Soviet navy He might be able to use his gun to escape, to

343

344 GRANDMASTER

shoot his captor, but then what9 He knew nothing about
boats If he could get this one started, what then9 Would he
even be able to get it to shore9 Or would those Soviet patrol
boats overtake him and gun him down before he got a hun-
dred yards away7

By now, he knew Justin Gliead would be worried about
him because he had not called But Justin had no idea of
where he was, and unless he forced the information from
Zharkov, he would not be able to find him And Starcher still
had no idea what Nichevo's plans were

He finished the last of the large mug of coffee that Durgamv
had brought in to him, then lay down to rest on the narrow
wood-framed cot He would just have to wait He had al-
lowed himself to be captured to find out what Zharkov had
planned, and it was pointless to do anything now until he had
found that out

He would wait, and he would rest He would not act but
react

His eyes felt very heavy, and he realized how tired he was,
and as he fell asleep, he thought, Starcher, you're sixty-six
years old, and nght now you feel every minute of it

He touched the pistol taped to the back of his ankle For a
moment, it made him feel secure, but then he passed into a
deep sleep in which he felt nothing

From the outside, the Purple Shell looked seedy, the build-
ing needed painting, and the windows were dirty and fly-
specked But inside, the barroom was clean and neat, the
floor spread with sawdust At the end of the long bar was a
small dining room with four square tables

The bar was half filled by six men sitting on stools They
had the look of seamen, wearing rough sweaters and baseball
caps, and their clothes emitted the smell of fish

They talked jovially with the bartender, a tall, cadaverous
man with sad, droopy eyes He wore a white shirt and black
trousers, covered by a white apron His sleeves were rolled
halfway up his forearms, and on the back of his left wnst was
tattooed a purple seashell

The bar's customers turned to look at Justin as he entered
and walked lo the stool at the comer of the bar, away from
the main group of men When the bartender came, he ordered
a glass of red wine

The Game                345

Justin put a five dollar bill on the bar, and asked softly in
Spanish, "American money good9"

"Americans are running dogs. capitalistic imperialist war-
mongers who would enslave the minds of all freedom-loving
peoples everywhere," the bartender said "But in the inter-
ests of international harmony, I will take American money
As much as you have " He grinned a crooked smile "You
are American9"

Justin nodded The bartender said. "This is not a usual
stop for Americans visiting the Caribbean "

"I'm a chess player," Justin said "Are you Pablo
Olivares9"

At the term "chess player," the bartender stiffened
momentarily "Si," he said

"We have a mutual friend," Justin said "Harry Andrew9"

The bartender looked blank, and Justin leaned forward and
said, "Maybe you know his name as Starcher "

The bartender quickly shook his head "I know no one of
that name, senor "

He reached for the five dollar bill, but Justm took the
man's arm

"Amigo," he said, "I mean you no harm Starcher came
with me I also know Harry Kael, who is somebody else in
the United States that you know I'm looking now for Starcher
Do you know where he is9"

"I know no Starcher," Olivares insisted He pulled away
from Justin and made change at the register, then brought
back a few Cuban bills and put them on the bar Justin said,
"Stay and listen " When he noticed that the men at the end
of the bar were looking toward him, trying to overhear their
conversation, he stood and leaned close to Otivares

"Senor Olivares, you mean nothing to me Starcher is my
friend, but 1 have no reservations about calling the Cuban
secret police and telling them that you work for Harry Kael in
the CIA 1 won't mind telling them that your girlfriend is
involved, even if she isn't I won't mind telling them that you
were Andrew Starcher's contact when the CIA sent him to
Havana Senor, it doesn't mean anything to me, and if you do
not speak to me, with honesty in your heart and in your
words, I will do all those things "

The bartender's sad eyes grew sadder as he seemed to

346 GRANDMASTER

weigh his alternatives Then he said, "Let us talk in the back
There are too many open ears here " He turned away

"LUIS." he called out "Watch the bar My fnend and I
have to speak privately "

He led Justin through the empty dining room to a small
office in the rear of the low one-story building

"What is your name17" Olivares asked when he had closed
the door tightly behind them

"Juslin Gilead "

"You have identification7"

Gilead showed him his passport, and Olivares said, "You
look older "

"I feel older," Justin said

The Cuban had reached a decision, and he said. "Starcher
told me about you ''

"Then you know I'm his fnend and you can trust me He
was supposed to call me tonight, but he didn't I'm womed
about him He's old and not too well Do you know where he
is->"

"I'm sorry, senor He was here, and we talked much of the
night He is very tenacious, your Mr Starcher But I know of
nothing the Soviets have planned here I have heard nothing
from their sailors, even though many of them come here to
dnnk on shore leave, but I hear nothing My woman knows
nothing of what I do, nothing Mr Starcher—how do you say
it7—he picked at my brain alt night but we found nothing
there He left, telling me to notify him if I hear anything But
I have heard nothing "

"Did he say anything to you of his suspicions7" Justin
asked "Did he tell you where he might go or who else he
might speak to7"

"No " Olivares shook his head sadly He looked like a
basset hound who'd missed a meal "Apparently he told you
nothing, and he told me the same "

"Did he say he would come back here'7" Justin asked

"He wished me well, senor. and said that he would speak
highly of me to some friends of his I'm sorry I cannot be
more heip "

"Thank you, then I appreciate your kindness in talking to
me "

"One thing, Senor Gitead I gave Mr Starcher a gun that I
once took from a sailor He is not unarmed "

The Game                347

"Good," Justin said He walked toward the door "Do
taxicabs pass here7" he asked

"Taxicabs pass almost nowhere in Havana," Olivares said
"But if you walk two blocks away from the harbor, that is
Avenida de la Revolucion Sometimes one can find a taxicab
there " Justin nodded, and Olivares said, "I would be careful
wearing that golden medal around your neck so openly This
is not a peaceable area of the city "

"I am not a peaceable man," Justin said

When he walked out through the bar again, the stools were
all filled Justin left his change on the bar and went out into
the cool evening air

"Shouldn't you study for tomorrow's game7" Katanna
spooned a large serving of steamed fish and nce onto his plate
in the single room of her apartment

"No Studying is not necessary." he said

"Aren't you the cocky one7 Win one game and now you're
ready to conquer the world ''

"Do you know who I play tomorrow7" Zharkov asked

"Who7"

"The Grandmaster "

"Gilead," she said softly "Tel! me about him I've only
seen old pictures of him What does he look like now7" She
sat across the narrow table from him. her eyes intent

"He looks much older," Zharkov said "I don't know
where he's been me last four years, but wherever it was, it
was hard on him He is thinner and moves more stiffly Once
he moved like quicksilver He does not move like that now "

"Good," she snapped "I hope his every joint bleeds "

Zharkov smiled "Why do you hate him so7"

She looked at the floor for a moment, her face bewildered
"I    JUS! do I feel sometimes that 1 was bom hating him "
She laughed nervously "Of course, that's ridiculous, since I
can't    " Her voice trailed off in embarrassment

Suddenly Zharkov was filled with pity for her "You don't
remember being young at all, do you7 No childhood friends,
no first experiences "

She smiled, too brightly The tip of her nose was red
"You were my first experience," she said, and kissed him
"The rest doesn't matter If I was meant to forget, it was for
a reason "

348 GRANDMASTER

He stroked her hair. For a momenl. he felt an aching
tenderness for the woman with no past, the dead girl he had
brought to life with his passion.

"And if I was meant to hate Justin Gilead, that was for a
reason, too," she said.

There was no sentimentality to her, and he could not permit
any in himself. She was a gift, a gift he would one day have
to destroy. Those were the terms.

Zharkov withdrew his hand, bringing himself back under
control. "You will not need to hate him much longer," he
said. "I'm playing him at chess tomorrow."

"And?"

"He will not appear. He dies tonight."

She looked disappointed. "I wanted to kill him for you."
she said. "It would have been my gift to you."

He wanted to touch her again, feel her trusting warmth.
Would she love me so if she'd had a choice? he wondered.

He would never know. Katarina, in her way, was no more
human than a robot, a manufactured person created for his use.
It would be foolish to think she was something more. But.
oh, so easy.

"You are your gift to me," he said softly, and turned
away.

Ahead of him, Justin could see the broad palm-lined Avenida
de la Revolucion, but before he reached the comer, a taxi
came down the side street along which he was walking. It
stopped for traffic, and Justin whistled and waved to the
cabbie, who leaned out his window, looked nervously down
the block, then motioned for Justin to get into the cab.

Justin had decided- He would go back to the hotel and
squeeze out of Zharkov the whereabouts of Andrew Starcher.

He closed the cab door behind him. Another man, crouch-
ing in the front seat, rose and aimed a pistol at Justin.
"You'll sit very still." he said in halting English, then told
the driver to move on.

Justin recognized the man with the gun as one of the KGB
guards he had seen at the chess match. Headlights glared
through the rear window of the cab. Justin guessed there were
more KGB men in a trailing car, just to make sure that he
didn't try to escape.

"Where are we going?" he asked.

The Game                349

"For the ride. as you Americans say," the Russian said.
"Sit back and enjoy."

The locks on the back doors clicked automatically as the
driver engaged them from the front of the cab. He jerked
forward to move into traffic and sped down the highway away
from the heart of Havana. The headlights stayed in position
behind them.

With luck, Justin thought, they were taking him to where
Starcher was.

Yuri Durganiv pushed open the door to the cabin, saw
Starcher lying still on the cot. and stepped inside. He held his
revolver in his hand as he sat on a chair at the small table,
waiting for the American to waken from his sleep.

Starcher had been awake before he heard the key at the
door. He had slept soundly, but he opened his eyes with a
long, loud display of groaning and waking up, then looked
around as if he were frightened.

"Where am I? What is this place?" He wondered who this
man was. He spoke Russian fluently, but he looked Hispanic.
Any ideas Starcher had about overpowering him vanished
when Yuri Durganiv stood to his full six-feet-four-inch height.

"I came to see if you were hungry," Yuri said.

"Yes. I'm starved. Why am there?"

"All things in due time," Yuri said.                 ^

"I heard you on the phone before. Was that Russian you
were speaking?"

"Yes."

"You don't look like a Russian." Starcher said.

"And you don't look like an assassin. Or even like a big
spy for the CIA," Yuri said. He was smiling.

"An assassin? You've got the wrong man."

"No, Andrew Starcher, I've got the right man."

"Why am I here?"

"You will only be here for a while," Durganiv said.
"Then you have other places to go."

"Where is Zharkov?" Starcher asked.

"He is back in the city."

"Am I going to see him?"

"If he wishes. Perhaps. Perhaps not. He will let us know."

"You work for him?"

"Yes. There is food here. Sit at this table and eat."

350 GRANDMASTER

He locked the door, then changed places as Starcher sat at
the table before the platter of food Durganiv sat on the edge
of the cot, the gun still at the ready in his hand, watching
carefully

Starcher picked at a few mouthfuls. then asked, "Why did
you say I was an assassin''"

"Aren't you9"

"No "

"I don't think the world will believe that, Mr Starcher
Eat"

Starcher ate Things were going all right Durganiv was
still underestimating him If it became necessary, Starcher
had no doubt that he'd be able to get the gun from behind his
left ankle and put a bullet into the big man's eyes before he
knew what killed him

If he had to But first he would wait and see what happened

He ate

A half-hour out of Havana, the cab pulled to the side of the
wide highway -lustin was hustled at gunpoint into the trailing
car Two more of the KGB men he had seen at the Jose Marti
were in the car He was pushed into the back seat and covered
by guns from front and back The car sped off down the
highway, moving east away from Havana None of the men
spoke to Justm

Twenty miles farther down the road, the car turned off the
highway and through an opening m a long row of white fence
posts that stretched for miles in either direction

A hundred yards inside the fence posts, there was a tall
chain-link fence with barbed wire atop It bore the words
"Electric Fence Keep Out," in Spanish

The driver opened the gate with a key, drove through, and
then went back to retook the fence Neither of the other two
men moved to help, neither of them took his gun off Justm

"What is this place7" he asked in English

"A slaughterhouse," the man in the front seat answered
The man next to Justm said something in Russian, and all
three men laughed

Justm realized that the men did not know he spoke Russian

The man had said, "Yes A slaughterhouse for this one "

They planned to kill him "What kind of slaughterhouse7"
Justm asked innocently, again in English

The Game                351

"This is the Agrupacion Genetica de la Habana," the
driver said

"What is that7"

"A state-owned dairy and cattle farm They do animal
experiments here to improve meat and milk production Now
stop talking, you are talking too much "

"Why am I here7"

"Perhaps because you talk too much to the wrong people,"
the man next to Justm said

"1 don't understand what's going on I'm a chess player
Why are you holding guns on me^ What are you doing7"

"We're chess lovers We don't want you to play Zharkov
tomorrow You might win "

"Will Zharkov be here7" Justm asked

"No "

They were nding deeper into the country now, along a
narrow, well-paved road The driver turned sharply right His
tires spat gravel as he skidded

"Slow down We don't ail want to die," me man in the
front seat snapped in Russian

They drove toward the woods now, and the narrow road
became not much more than a path There was no light ahead
of them, only the funnel of light from the car's headlights

The car moved into a blacktopped clearing Justin could
see a connected series of low buildings m front of the car's
headlights

"You're very privileged, Mr Gilead," one of the Russians
said

"Oh7"

"You're going to be permitted to see one of the most secret
installations in the world "

"I don't know what I've done to deserve the honor,"
Justin said

"This is a Soviet testing center for bacteriological warfare,"
the man alongside him said He was obviously the senior
KGB agent, the others deferred to him

"I thought you said this was a dairy farm, a cattle ranch,"
Justm said

"It is And there is a lot of livestock here, and a targe
sealed area, and here, in these buildings arc tested new
poisons and gases on those dairy animals And sometimes

352 GRANDMASTER

other animals Far out of sight of people, and with no danger
to the peace-loving population of Free Democratic Cuba ''

One of the other men said in Russian, "And even if there
was an accident, what would we lose9 Only Cubans," and all
three laughed Justin pretended he did not understand

They parked the car As Justin got out, he felt the barrel of
the KGB's man's pistol pressed against the base of his spine

"What am I doing here9" Justin asked in English

"You're a spy. Gilead," the elder KGB man said "We
thought it would be instructive to give you a tour of this
secret installation "

"Is this where you brought Starcher9" Gilead said suddenly

"Starcher7 We don't know any Starcher "

"My second," Justin said "Where is he9"

"You ask far too many questions "

"Is Zharkov here9"

"No "

"Will he be9"

"We'll wait and see," the man said Then the man behind
Justin pushed him forward with the barrel of his gun toward a
door that the driver had just opened

A single light went on inside the low building, and when
he entered, Justin saw that a long comdor ran the length of
the building One side was flanked by offices, the other by a
senes of doors with inset windows The doors were heavy,
wooden, and reminded him of a butcher shop's freezer locker

The men pushed Justin at gunpoint down the hallway Was
Starcher here9 Justin doubted it now At first, he had thought
they would lake him wherever they had taken Starcher, if
they had him

At the end of the comdor, Justin saw a large computer
panel that covered an area five feet square It was filled with
gauges and dials, and as they came closer, he saw that the
dials were calibrated to measure blood pressure and pulse
rate Probably it was hooked up to all these small chambers
for whatever kind of animal tests they ran there to test poisons
and gases

The man who had been driving was standing before the last
cubicle As the other three men approached, he opened the
door, and the two men on either side of him jabbed Justin
with their guns and pushed him inside The heavy door
slammed behind him

The Game                353

He looked around quickly, trying to accustom his eyes to
the darkness, as an overhead light came on

Justin was in a room nine feet long by six feel wide The
walls and floor and ceiling were of thin sheet metal There
were microphones placed where the front wall met the ceiling,
and overhead was a small grate that covered an exhaust fan
Set into the metal wall was the heavy wooden door The
inside of the door was covered with metal, except for the
glass viewing window into the chamber There was no handle
to open the door, and the hinges were recessed into the wood,
inaccessible to his hands

He went to the viewing window and saw the senior Rus-
sian at the control panel

The Russian turned, and Justin heard his voice

"You wondered what you're doing here," the man said in
English His voice crackled from a loudspeaker overhead in
the small chamber "You've come here to die "

"I want to see Zharkov," Justin yelled

"No need to yell I can hear you very well Colonel
Zharkov will not be coming tonight "

"Where is my friend9 You're going to kill me anyway
Where is my fnend9"

"I'm sorry I don't know Jtiat is Colonel Zharkov's
business You are ours "

"You can't do this to me I'm an American citizen,"
Justin said

"This has been done to many American citizens, ' the
Russian said "To many spies Human research, after all, is
the best kind "

For the first time. Justin noticed that there was a little slot,
almost like a mail slot, in the metal over the doorway

"Do you have a preference9" the Russian said Justin
looked through the window again The agent had opened a
cabinet and was looking at vials holding various-colored
capsules

"Something esoteric perhaps." the Russian continued
"Something that paralyzes the nervous system You'll still be
able to see and to think, but you won't be able to move And
then, finally, your eyes and brain will close down, too Or
perhaps something painful This one causes agonizing spasms
I'm told that some people jerk around so violently that they
dislocate their own arms and legs " He looked over at Gilead's

354 GRANDMASTER

face, visible through the window, and smiled. "No, I sup-
pose we'll stick to the proven methods. Cyanide should do it
quite nicely."

Justin was testing the window. The glass was a half-inch
thick, and there were two layers of it, separated by a quarter-
inch of space, which was filled with a heavy steel grate-

The grate did not appear to be fastened just under the edges
of the window, but deep inside the door frame instead.

He watched the Russian pour some liquid into a thin glass
test tube and then drop in a dark-colored capsule. He quickly
put a stopper in me test tube, then walked toward the door.
His body covered the viewing window as he reached overhead. •
Justin moved away from the door, and then saw the slot over
the door open and the test tube thrown through it into the
small chamber.

It shattered as soon as it hit the metal floor. Instantly the
small room was filled with the bitter nutty smeli of cyanide.
A visible cloud of gas rose from the floor and began to fill the
chamber-

Justin moved to the far comer of the cell and sat down,
facing the wait- He wrapped his arms around his knees and
huddled forward.

The three Russians crowded together to look through the
window. The gas was filling the chamber now, clouding it,
and Justin's body was growing harder to see-
Then, as they watched, Justin's hands came free from his
legs, and he pitched backward, lying still on the floor, face
up. The three Russians looked at one another and nodded.

"We'll wait a few minutes and then call Zharkov," their
leader said.

Justin remembered. He was back in Rashimpur, twelve
years old again, and Tagore had not been happy.

The old man had reached into the water near the shore of
the sacred lake, grabbed Justin's neck, and yanked him,
sputtering and gagging, ashore.

"Breathing is all," Tagore said. "If you breathe not, you
live not."

"It's hard to think about breathing right when you're
drowning," Justin had complained, and Tagore had mumbled
something to the effect that some boys were untrainable.

The Gwie                  355

That night, Justin slept in the small grotto that had been
carved for him out of the rock of the mountain.

He woke when an unfamiliar smell curled into his nostrils.
He sat bolt upright on the thin fiber mat that covered the hard
stone floor. Smoke. His sleeping chamber was filling with
smoke. He looked around. A large stone had been rolled in
front of the chamber entrance, and Ihe smoke was pouring ia
from under one side of it.

The young Justin jumped to his feet and ran to the stone.
He began shouting: "Fire. Help me. Fire. Help. Help." But
no help came. He tried to roll the stone away, but his strength
was not enough to move it. The smoke poured in.

He moved to a far comer and watched as the smoke slowly
filled his sleeping chamber. It was wood smoke, bitter and
acrid, and it filled his lungs and made him cough.

A wood fire. There was no loose wood inside Rashimpur.
Someone had brought wood and set that fire outside his
chamber, then had rolled the rock into place. Someone was
trying to kill him.

And that someone was going to succeed. He coughed
again. Tears streamed down his face as his eyes flooded with
water.

He was going to die. He could not get out.

There was no escape.

He remembered Tagore's words of another day: "Escape
into yourself. There is always room there for you. Escape into
yourself.''

The young Justin lay down on the floor. For the first time,
he knew that his life depended on the skills that Tagore had
been teaching him, and he curled up in a fetal position, closed
his eyes, and concentrated on a black spot somewhere inside
his mind. The spot grew nearer, growing larger, and when it
filled his mind, he created a white spot in the center of it-
And then the white spot moved closer until it, too. filled his
mind. And in the center of the while spot, he created a dark
spot.

He did not think about the smoke- He thought of nothing
except his breathing. An inch at a time he felt his body
slowing down. His mind still worked; his senses still ninctioned;

but the body was drifting away from him. Was this death?

Or was it what Tagore had been teaching?

He sensed that he was out of his own body, floating in the

356 GRANDMASTER

air above it, looking down on the strange, frightened young

boy His body was safe there, he knew And above it all

soared his mind, watching, realizing that there was only

smoke, but no fire, if he did not breathe in poisons, he would

live Justin would survive

His mind had separated from his body and willed the body

now to go into deep rest Justin let it go wherever it chose
And then he felt no more He breathed no more
Yet in the morning he woke There was no smoke in the

cell The large rock that covered the entrance had been moved

away

Tagore appeared in the entranceway
"How did you sleep, young Patamah9" he asked
Justin thought for a moment, then said, "Very well, Tagore "
He thought he saw the old man smite before he turned

away to lead Justin to breakfast and then the day's lessons
The spirit floats and the body rests Breathing is all

Escape into yourself
Justin lay still in the small chamber As still as death as the

poison swirled about him

Zharkov slept

He had made love to Katanna many times before, but
never had it been so wild, so impassioned, so careemngly
breathtaking as it had been tonight It was as if me impending
death of the Grandmaster had caused her body to celebrate, to
break loose from some bond, however fragile it had been, and
open herself to him fully for the very first time

Zharkov woke as soon as the telephone rang

"Ola," he said softly

"He is dead," the KGB agent said

"Are you sure7"

"He has been there breathing cyanide fumes for three
hours He is dead "

Zharkov hunched over the telephone, shielding his voice
from Katanna "Make sure I want you to put bullets in his
brain In his heart Then take the body out into the woods and
bury it And bring me the medal he wears "

"As you wish. Comrade Colonel "

Zharkov replaced the telephone, took a cigarette from the
end table, and iit it He lay smoking in the dark Over, he
thought It was all over

The Game                357

The KGB agent hung up the telephone and said to the two
other men, "Zharkov must think-this one is superman "

"Why9"

"He wants us to put bullets in his brain and heart To make
sure he's dead, he says Dead' Lenin couldn't live through
that "

The small agent who had been driving me car shrugged
"If that's what Zharkov wants, I don't think it's wise to
disobey him What should we do with the body'"

"He says take it out and bury it in the woods "

"Digging I hate digging "

"Stop complaining Dig here or dig in Siberia on the
railway "

The chief agent looked at the control panel, and found a
string of twelve toggle switches in the upper right comer He
pressed the one for number twelve, and the faint whirring of a
fan sounded

"We'll have to clean the gas out first," he said "Then
we'll get nd of this superman, once and for all "

Starcher woke He could see the sky It would soon be
dawn

He had hoped that d night's rest would help him to mink
more clearly, but he could still see no solution to his
predicament Zharkov had not come, and there was JUSI no
way Starcher could get out of his floating prison Even if he
killed me tall Russian who looked like a Cuban, what would
he do then9 He was surrounded by Russian navy boats, and
there were two smali patrol vessels anchored near the cabin
cruiser If he tried to escape, he would be overtaken by the
Russian patrols, and if he tned to shoot his way out, they'd
probably blow him out of the water He was outnumbered and
outgunned There wasn't anything to do but wait for a chance

Breathing is all

Oxygen was returning to his system The poison that had
surrounded him like a mist had gone His mind was alert, his
body ready

But he did not move He lay deathly silent, still curled in
the same feta! position He waited

He heard the door to the chamber open

358 GRANDMASTER

"We!l, I might as wet! shoot him now," a voice said m
Russian

"Your ass," another Russian voice answered "Get blood
all over my suiP You put holes in him and he leaks Forget
it First we carry him to the woods Then we shoot him "

"AH right That makes sense "

"Of course, it does That is why the great Zharkov of the
great Socialist Republic has put me in charge of you two
idiots "

"It doesn't make that much sense "

The three men came into the room

"This smells awful You sure I'm not going to die in
here'»"

'Only from the neck down You've been dead from the
neck up ever since I've known you "

"1 wasn't the one who wanted to start the body teaking '*

"Shut up and carry "

Two men hoisted Justia Gilead by his legs and under his
shoulders

"He's light," one said

"Not so light that just us two are carrying him What the
hell are you doing''"

"Somebody has to hold the doors for you," the KGB
leader said

"From each according to his abilities    " the first man
said

Breathing is all He heard the words again

He felt himself being lifted and then earned from the room
He had never lost consciousness

He had closed down his body's internal systems without
eliminating his awareness of his surroundings Science said
that the brain needed oxygen to live, to think, to work, but
Tagore had shown him that the brain was the most efficient
cannibal Close down the rest of the body's systems Muscles
that did not move needed no oxygen, stomachs that did not
digest could stay, suspended, for hours or days, without
oxygen And from all those unused body organs, the brain
sucked away every last molecule of oxygen to keep itself
alive Because without his brain, man was less than man, and
might as well be dead

This Tagore had taught him, and he had taught him the

The Game                359

way to return from trance, without a telltale twitch or jerk of
the muscles, without a giveaway groan, without the languor-
ous stretching of a cat One moment he seemed unconscious,
the next he was fully alert, but to an observer, no difference
was detectable, until the Grandmaster chose to move

He kept his eyes closed He sensed that the men were tinng
because he felt their arms lowering They were holding him
so low now that his buttocks almost grazed the grass He
smetled the fresh mghttime air Oxygen washed through his
body

"Up ahead," the leader called His voice was fifty feet
away "Just a little more I see a spot "

Justin opened his eyes the narrowest crack It was a dark
night, the moon was hidden behind a heavy cover of clouds

"Damn, he's heavy," the man at his feet said "I thought
you said he was light "

"AH right, so he's heavy We'll dump him and then put
some lead in him to make him heavier At least we won't
have to carry him back He still smells of that poison "

"Where the heli'd our brilliant leader go7" the man at
Justin's feet said "I can't see a thing "

"I think he's behind those trees Let's hope he found a
hole to dump this one in I don't want to dig tonight "

The man holding his ankles juggled him for a moment,
trying to adjust his grip, and in that moment, Justin Gilead
lowered his leg, then bent his knee, and extended his leg
upward, with accelerating speed, like the snap of a whip, and
buned the toes of his shoe in the man's Adam's apple The
man dropped to the ground without a sound

Even before he did, Justm's feet were on the ground The
man behind him growled. "What—?" But before he could
move, Justin had wrenched his wnsts loose from the man's
hands

He spun The Russian reached for his jacket pocket, but
before his fingers touched fabric, the Grandmaster was behind
him His arms were locked around the man's neck, the heel
of his right hand pressing against the nght side of the man's
skull

Justin could feel vibrations under his left bleep as the man
struggled to call out. but the force of his hold had cut off his
air supply, and the man could only softly hiss His arms

360 GRANDMASTER

flayed in front of him, forgotten was his gun in his pocket
And then there was a snap as the neck broke

The man's hands froze in midair for a moment, men slowly
dropped in front of him Justm gently lowered him to the
ground

He turned toward the small stand of trees where the third
man, the head agent, had gone Even in the total darkness,
Justin could see better than normal men, and he saw a
movement He dropped to the ground as the Russian walked
out from behind the trees

"Come on, you two." the head agent called, then stopped
"Hey, where the hel! are you7 Come on This is no time to
be playing games I've found a hole up here Good for a
grave Anatoly9 Josef Where are you7" He stopped and
listened, but heard nothing except the sound of insects in the
Cuban night

Justm heard him walk back toward the spot where he and
the two other men lay on the ground

He was only ten feet away when he saw them "What the
hell is going on7" the man grumbled in annoyance Justm,
his eyes open only a small slit, saw him walking toward
them, taking his gun from a hip holster as he did

He was standing at Justm's feet, and then kneeling down
next to the man whose neck the Grandmaster had broken He
felt for a pulse, but there was none The man stood up and
looked around in confusion, seeking whoever had waylaid his
two men There was no one to see He finished a full turn, a
complete revolution with his body, and when he did, the
Grandmaster stood in front of him

The man recoiled in shock He remembered the gun in his
right hand and raised it toward Justm, but as he did, the
Grandmaster's left hand closed over the KGB man s right
hand The Russian's thumb was pressed down into the spot
between the hammer and the chamber When the hammer
dropped, it did not hit the back of one of the cartridges, but
instead slammed down into the fat part of the Russian's
thumb He howled from the pain Justm squeezed harder The
Russian could feel the bones of his nght hand snapping under
the pressure They sounded like dry twigs breaking under the
heavy tread of a careless hunter

The man screamed as the metacarpals across the back of

The Game                361

his hand separated Then Justm Gilead had the gun and was
pointing it at the Russian

"You     you should be dead,' the man said stupidly, his
Jaw slack

"I'm hard to kill Where is Andrew Starcher9"

"Starched" The Russian's eyes evaded Justm's

"That's mistake number one You're from Moscow You
know that Starcher was the CIA head in Russia Now he's
traveling with me Where is he9"

"I don't know "

"Number two You're lying," Justm said

He cocked the hammer on the revolver

The Russian agent said quickly, "It's true We followed
him yesterday, but one of Zharkov's men picked him up
Where he is 1 don't know

"All nght, ' Gitedd said "What is Zharkov domg here in
Cuba''"

"I don't know the answer to that," the man said He
nodded toward the two men on the ground behind Justm
"None of us did He told us nothing We were assigned as
guards and told to obey his instructions That's all "

"I believe you," Gilead said

The Russian raised his broken hand. paim out, to his face
"Don't kill me," he said His nose was running

"I killed them," Gilead said coldly

"I'm not fighting you It would be an execution Don't do
this, please I have a family

Justin lowered the pistol almost imperceptibly It was what
the Russian was waiting for

He stepped forward, past the pistol in Justm's left hand
His other hand had slipped into his pocket and emerged with
a long switchblade, which he snapped open even as he drove
it toward Justm's exposed belly

The knife stopped as if it had been pushed against a bnck
wall The Russian looked down and saw with horror that
Gilead's bare hand was wrapped around the blade of the
knife And the hand was not bleeding The Russian tried to
free the knife from Gilead's grasp but could not He looked
up with bewildered eyes at the taller American, then twisted
the knife loose and pulled it back

"That's three," Justin said, and fired the pistol into the

362 GRANDMASTER

man's heart. He felt no remorse as the man fell. and he
realized, sadly, that kilting had become commonplace in his
tarnished, pitted life.

He dragged the bodies off into the woods and put them into
a natural declivity in the earth, which he covered with branches
and leaves. While he worked, the sky grew noticeably brighter.
Dawn was breaking, quickly as it always did in the Caribbean,
and the first sliver of sun was appearing on the horizon when
he finished.

He went to the parking lot but could not find the keys for
the car. Instead of going back and searching through the dead
men's pockets for them, he turned and trotted off toward the
main road of the agricultural center several miles away.

So many deaths, he thought.

But only one more.

-CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

At precisely 10:00 A.M., the referee nodded to Alexander
Zharkov and pressed down the button atop Justin Gilead's
chess clock.

Zharkov played pawn to king 4, pressed the button on his
own side of the timer, and started Gilead's clock running.

Gilead was not at the table. Zharkov walked away to watch
the start of the day's other three games.

The spectator section was only half filled because of the
early hour. Many chess fans had found a way to take half a
day off from their jobs for the matches starting at one o'clock,
but getting off at ten required too much of an investment in
time.

One hour. When Justin Gilead did not show up by eleven
to make his first move, the referee would turn the clock off
and award the game to Zharkov by default.

Zharkov repressed a smile. Default. Death was a very good
reason for defaulting-

The American champion, Carey. was playing the old Rus-
sian master, Keverin. Tomorrow, Zharkov would play Carey.

He caught himself. But of course he would not. The match
would of course be canceled out of deference to the Cuban
people's great toss of their wonderful and charismatic leader,
Fide! Castro.

What a loss, Zharkov thought. Socialist peoples around the
world would mourn the martyr- A martyr for freedom. Gunned
down at the peak of his brilliance by a CIA operative who had
been cleared for the mission by a fake retirement a few

363

364 GRANDMASTER

months ago after a heart attack in Russia Zharkov reminded
himself to tel! Moscow to change Starcher's medical records
Let the official hospital records show that there was no evi-
dence of Starcher having suffered a heart attack In fact.
Soviet doctors thought that he had feigned the heart attack to
obtain some kind of pension or medical insurance fraud, but
were too diplomatic to say so

Poor Starcher Poor Fide! Castro Poor United States

The two youngest players, the American Shmnick and the
Russian Ribitnov, had just begun their game One would do
well to watch this young man, Zharkov told himself as he
looked at Ribitnov He is brilliant and unstable, his is the kind
of mind made for defection But Zharkov would make sure he
never had that opportunity It was odd. though, that Ivan
Kutsenko would take the chance Zharkov had always thought
of him as a mouse, afraid to come out of his hole even for a
world of cheese

He moved over to another corner of the room and stood
watching Kutsenko playing the Synan-Amencan, Gousen
Their opening was a rather stodgy variation of the queen's
gambit declined, and they were still moving through the book
lines, moving as rapidly as they could Each had moved eight
times, and neither had yet consumed a minute on his clock

Kulsenko met Zharkov's eyes, then looked down at the
board

Feeling guilty, friend7 Zharkov thought Don't worry, you
have served your purpose You brought Justin Gilead here,
and he has died You did even better Somehow you managed
to entice Andrew Starcher here For that, when you are
declared a nonperson after we return home to Russia, you
might get certain benefits that most nonpersons do not have
We might let you have a chess set Perhaps your wife. the
eminent physician, cap get a job cleaning bedpans in d hospital
We always look after our own, Kutsenko

Zharkov glanced back The referee was still standing near
his table The Cuban looked at his watch, and Zharkov
followed suit Fifteen minutes more Then Justin Giledd would
be disqualified

Zharkov would have won

Won the game

Won the world

The Grandmaster was dead

The Game                365

Zharkov stayed near Kutsenko's game because he knew his
presence made the world champion nervous He wants to
please me with his game, Zharkov thought Kutsenko was
playing well, he had a good chance of scoring highest in the
match Only the match would never be concluded Fidel Castro's
death tonight would see to that

He glanced at the large tournament clock on the wall
behind the speaker's podium Only a few minutes till eleven
He began to stroll back to his table to acknowledge the
referee's announcement of Gilead's disqualification

Ten feet from his table, he stopped cold, as if he had
walked into a wall

He could see only the back of the chess clock, but the
button was depressed on Gilead's side Zharkov's own clock
was running

HOW'' But

He walked to the table and saw that black's king pawn had
been moved two spaces forward until it faced Zharkov's in
the center of the board

His heart was beating like a pneumatic drill II burned him
to breathe He looked around, his eyes wild m his confusion

And there, leaning against a far wall. watching him, stood
the Grandmaster

Zharkov stared at Justin Gilead-in disbelief Justin Gilead
smiled back at him and pointed to the chessboard

Numbly. Zharkov moved into the chair behind the pieces
on his side He glanced at the clock Gilead's clock had
fifty-five minutes spent He had gotten to the table at only
five minutes to eleven, with only a few minutes to spare
before he would have lost the game

Zharkov moved his knight to the king bishop three square.
hit the clock, and looked up to see Justin Gilead stanng at
him from across the table

"Your men are dead," Gilead said quietly

Zharkov could not respond Words froze in his throat Alt
he could see was the golden coiled snake around the
Grandmaster's neck Gilead's hair was mussed and his hands
dirty, and his clothing was splattered with dirt and mud He
moved his queen knight to the bishop three square, and hit the
clock to start Zharkov's time running

Zharkov responded instantly with bishop to the queen knight
five square, gladly accepting the opportunity to slip easily

366

GRANDMASTER

into the prescribed moves of the Ruy Lopez opening, glad for
a few moments in which he did not have to think or react.

"Where is Starcher?" Gilead asked as he moved the pawn
in front of his queen rook forward one square, forcing Zharkov
to retreat his attacking bishop.

"Play the game. You'li find out soon enough," Zharkov
snapped.

"Maybe sooner than that, Zharkov."

He looked down at the handsome wooden chessboard and
realized, as they moved swiftly through their opening moves,
that they were playing exactly the same game they had played
when the two had first met each other thirty-one years before.
He glanced up at Zharkov. He could see from the Russian's
eyes that Zharkov, too, recognized the game.

Time, Zharkov thought. Time was the key. By arriving
late, Justin Gilead had given away fifty-five minutes of his
playing time. And on a chess clock, time, once lost, was
never regained. Zharkov would hoard his time, he would save
it, he would toss complications at Gilead that would force
him to study and ponder alternatives, and keep eating up the
time on his clock. Gilead had been away from the chessboard
for too long; he would not know the different variations that
had been studied since then; he would probably not know the
new recommendations for moves, the new traps that had been
found. Equally important as brilliance in chess was memory.
The ability to see a position on the board and to remember
having played it or seen it or read about it before, and to
remember not just that position but also the positions and the
threats that had grown out of it. That was how grandmaster
chess was won.

Zharkov remembered reading an account of an interview
with Bobby Fischer. The reporter had finally enticed Fischer
into playing a game against him. The reporter's moves took
two hours; Fischer's took two minutes- The reporter resigned
after twenty-five moves, and Fischer, who had little social
grace, did not even bother to compliment him on a surpris-
ingly strong game. Instead, with his one-track mind. he
launched into a critique of the game. The reporter was doing
fine, Fischer said, until his twentieth move. Fischer swept the
pieces off the board with his arm and then immediately set
them back up in the position they had obtained at the nine-
teenth move. "Now here," Fischer said, "you moved this

The Game                367

way, and I remembered that in 1901, Mieses versus Mason at
Monte Carlo, Mieses made this on move twenty. Your move
lost." Fischer said- "From then on in, the game was just
technique."

"You remembered?" the reporter asked Fischer. "You
remembered a game from 1901 ?" And Fischer had replied,
"Of course. It was a good game."

Memory was a key, but memory required working and
constant study. Unless Zharkov was very wrong, Gilead had
not had that kind of study or work available to him. He
would, in a sense, be reinventing the wheel at every move he
made, while Zharkov had spent untold hours at the chess-
board studying. He would make Gilead use his time. The
clock would destroy the Grandmaster.

The Grandmaster's head was bowed over the chessboard
now, studying the position white the clock silently ticked on.
Gilead moved a pawn. Zharkov saw that the move had gained
Gilead equality. Whenever the player of the black pieces
emerged from the opening with an equal position, it was a
plus for black. A victory. A small victory, like the victory
Gilead had gained over him in the children's chess game so
many years ago.

But, no, he toid himself. Gilead had not beaten him then.
Zharkov had not been allowed to play the game himself, and
while the disgrace of losing to the young American genius
had fallen on the young Zharkov, the responsibility was not
his. Instead, the onus should have fallen on the five Russian
masters who were seated in the back of the room, analyzing
the game and then signaling to Zharkov what moves he
should play. The loss was theirs, not his.

He had never tost to Giiead. Never. Rashimpur was
destroyed. The Polish woman had died. Yes, Gilead had
survived death, but how had he survived? What had he been
doing while Zharkov was marching onward, steadily consoli-
dating his power in the Soviet Union, regularly bringing new
people to his side should there ever be a power struggle?
Gilead had been lost to the world for four years. The victory
there was Zharkov's. Gilead had never beaten him in anything.

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

368

GRANDMASTER

recover from its roie 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 Gitead'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,

The Game                369

too much blood on his fingers. 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.

Then time to kill Zharkov. And himself.

The defense was feeble. Justin Gilead's attempts at defense
against him had always been feeble. Zharkov looked at me
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 me fall 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

370

GRANDMASTER

launch an irresistible attack He casually pressed down the
button atop the chess clock, and as he did, he thought of
Mana 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

He had no time His plan had not worked He had ne-
glected chess for five years, and his knowledge of recent
developments was too spotty

There was nothing left for him, Justin Gilead thought He
was going to lose

And then he realized thai he was wrong The greatest thing
of all still remained, and it was still on his side He heard the
voice inside him and it said You are she game

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 imes
that rendered at! the other factors in a chess game meaningless
There was the genius of survival, and there was the power of
life, and even as he thought that, Justin Gilead felt a warm
glow come over his body The short hair 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 a/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 Gilead His queen still lived Many smaller, less power-
ful 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

The Game                371

He no longer calculated, he no longer planned what re-
sponse 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 advanced 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 Justm'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 were invisible lines of power radiating out across the
board from his king, and he would trust the pieces to find
those lines and to march his army of men along them, and he

372

GRANDMASTER

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 pass-
ing on the clock

Justm 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 differ-
ence in material was too great to make up m 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 defensetess 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 Hardiy 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 hesi-
tated 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 fett 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 Game                373

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 Mysti-
cism 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 its job It had protected Justin Gilead's
king from Zharkov's attack, refusing to let the king fall
before the Russian onslaught

And now the rook, the voice said within him 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
me comer

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, Justm 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, Justm brought his rook back m front of
the queen 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, Justm 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 An-
other Russian piece had fallen

Too late, Zharkov saw what had happened Justm 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 a piece, until Zharkov was so far behind m
material that there was nothing left for him

The game was over He had lost Zharkov sat at the table,

374

GRANDMASTER

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 stili 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 Justm's hand. He pushed the
door open wide and stepped inside

The room was empty. Justm searched through Zharkov's
night stand 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 Justm 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. 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
375

376 GRANDMASTER

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 1 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-

"Senor Gilead, you are there?"

"Yes."

*'I don't know if this means anything, but maybe—"

"What is it?" Justin snapped.

The Game                377

"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 mat might mean anything."

"He doesn't know what the boat is doing there?" Justin
asked.

"No, senor- 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, Senor Olivares," Justin said.

"One more thing, Senor Gilead. The men riding in those
patrol boats. They are heavily armed, this drunken Russian
said."

"Thank you."

"Are you going out mere?" Olivares asked.

"Yes."

"You will probably be shot before your boat gets there."

"I'm not taking a boat," Justin said. "Thank you, senor."

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.

"And what am 1 supposed to be doing?" Starcher asked.
trying to sound casual.

"You can try to fool me into believing you are a nice
person," Durganiv said, "But I know you are a paid killer
for the reactionary American government and the murderous
provocateurs of the Central Intelligence Agency. That you
would stoop so low as to . - ." Durganiv shook his head. "I
never thought a civilized government would do such a thing.

378 GRANDMASTER

He thought this very funny and laughed so hard he choked,
spewing beer over the tabletop in the boat's small cabin

What the hell is he talking about7 Do what thing7 The
questions flashed through Starcher's mind, adding themselves
to all the other questions he had asked himself He had been
on the boat since yesterday, and he still knew nothing What
was happening to Juslin9 To the Kutsenkos7

He said, "I think I'll have that beer now, if you don't
mind "

"Of course not " Durgamv finished his bottle and took
two more from a small foam locker under the table He tossed
one across to Starcher who was sitting on his bunk "I think
I'll have one more, too,' Durgamv said "Did I say it's good
for the nerves9"

Starcher twisted off the cap and the shaken beer sprayed
into the air

"Maybe if you're drunk, that'll be an excuse," Durgamv
told him "They might take that into consideration If the
mob lets you live "

The son of a bitch is enjoying this, Starcher thought He's
getting off on taunting me I should take this gun out now and
blow his goddamned face away But then what do I have7
Nothing

He told himself he had to wait, but how much longer could
he wait9 Whatever Nichevo had planned, Starcher knew that
he was now part of it Had he fallen into Nichevo's hands like
a fool7 Was he going to take a Russian scheme and make it
worse by his presence in Cuba7 Maybe Harry Kael had been
right Maybe Starcher should be home in his blue pajamas,
sitting in his rocking chair looking at the stock exchange
tables in The Wall Street Journal and leaving the spy game to
people young enough to play it People with all their wits

"Are you a Russian7" Starcher asked

"Yes I know, I don't look like a Russian "

"You save me the trouble of saying it "

Durganiv finished that bottle of beer and opened another
"My mother was Spanish." he said "My father was the
direct descendant of a great cossack general Did you know I
was going to be a ballet dancer7 But I grew too big ''

"If you jumped in the air, you'd go right through the stage
when you landed," Starcher said

The Game                379

"I was a very good dancer But I was too big So I became
. well. what I became "

"What is that7"

Durganiv looked at him, sipped his beer, and winked slyly
"A lifelong enemy of the forces of slave-mongenng capitalist
oppression A man who fights the reactionary forces wherever
he finds them ''

"A spy for Zharkov and Nichevo," Starcher said

"Nichevo7 What's that7 And who's Zharkov7"

"Never mind Are you a killer, too7 As well as a frustrated
ballet dancer7''

"Only when I have to be Like tonight Tonight, for you I
will be a killer A very good killer Too bad no one else will
ever know ''

"Why not7" Starcher asked

"I am sharing credit When I danced, I would not do that
See7 I have mellowed as I have grown older Now I share
credit Tonight, all the credit for my triumph will go to you
It is a shame People will not point to me and say. There is
Yun Durgamv, the great killer of dictators No, they will say,
that poor dead body over there, that is Starcher The CIA
man They sent him here to kill    '' He stopped and drained
the bottle of beer "Enough talk There is much to do," he
said

Suddenly, Starcher knew what Nichevo had planned In a
flash, he saw how carefully Zharkov had calculated it and
what a fool Starcher had been to wind up their captive He
had made it easier for them, easier to destroy the image of the
United States around the rest of the world

It was time for the gun

He could kill Durganiv. Maybe he couldn't get out of here,
but at least Zharkov's plans would be set back

Starcher reclined on the bunk, his feet away from Durgamv
so that his hand could remove the 22-caliber pistol without
the Russian's seeing it

Then he heard the sound of a small powerboat pulling
alongside the cabin cruiser, and he quickly replaced the gun
The motors kept running Durganiv smiled, drained the last
drop from the beer bottle, and rose to his feet

"We're having company "

Maybe Zharkov, Starcher thought Good It would be worth
his own death to get Durganiv and Zharkov together Rum the

380 GRANDMASTER

plan and destroy the head of Nichevo, both at once His own
life would be a small price to pay for that He had devoted
that life to the service of his country, why not his death, too^

But it wasn't Zharkov who came through the door to the
small cabin It was. a thin, short Russian with dark hair,
wearing a blue serge suit Starcher could still hear the putting
of the motorboat engine outside

Durganiv rose and nodded to the new arrival He spoke to
him in Russian "This is Starcher You guard him until I call
The radiophone is on the bulkhead outside the door Bring
him when I tell you to I have to go now to do some work "

The man nodded, not taking his eyes off the American
Starcher wondered if he should shoot Durganiv now At least
stop that part of the plan His left hand moved toward his leg

Durganiv switched to English "Oh. another thing Starcher
has a gun strapped to the back of his leg But it has no bullets
in it, so don't be alarmed "

Starcher felt his heart stop for a beat He looked at the
swarthy Russian, who smiled and shrugged

"The coffee was drugged last night," he said "That is
why you slept so well I found the gun and took the bullets "

"Why9" Starcher asked weakly

"I figured you would cooperate better if you thought that
escape was possible Otherwise. I'd have to be watching you
all the time Behave yourself now, old man Georgi has not
my patience or my winning ways Don't hurt him. Georgi,'
he said "But tie him up if you have to And don't let him
dnnk any more I think he has a drinking problem ''

The dark-haired guard nodded, and as Durganiv left the
cabin, he was laughing A few moments later, Starcher heard
the small powerboat accelerate into life, and then its sound
moved away from the boat

He was trapped with no way to escape

The Grandmaster sat on the edge of the long string pier that
jutted out into Havana Harbor He had stashed his shoes
under a garbage pail, and he dangled his bare feet down
toward the water Behind him, fishermen unloaded the day's
catch Justm had been sitting there for five minutes, and now
no one noticed him He glanced back to be sure no one was
watching, then slid off the end of the pier and into the water
without a sound In the water, he again sighted out to where

The Game

381

the Russian naval vessels were at anchor, a thousand yards
from the shore He lined himself up with those ships, dropped
under the water, and swam toward them

Water had always seemed to bring him strength rather than
drain him of it He moved powerfully under the water, not
like a human, flailing with arms and legs, sapping the body of
energy, but like a fish, with a sinuous motion of his trunk
His arms were extended in front of him, primarily to control
his direction, but his movement through the water looked as if
a creature with the body of a man had been bred to swim
with the technique of a fish

He remembered the patient lessons of Tdgore sitting on the
lakeshore near Rashimpur, nodding as Justm crawled ashore,
and telling him, "Again "

And Justm would swim the lake again underwater, emerge
triumphant, cold, dripping wet, and Tagore would nod and
smile once more And say, "Again "

A small powerboat passed over his head, moving toward
shore Justm looked up and saw its V-shaped wake The boat
was not the cabin cruiser he sought, its wake was too small
for that ft was just a little runabout

He swam on He did not think of the time he had been m
the water or the distance he had traveled His body worked
independently of his mind Finally he saw a heavy mass in
the water ahead of him As he drew nearer, it loomed over
him as if he were a fish and had suddenly swum to the base of
Hoover Dam

He recognized it as the hull of the one of the Russian
warships, and he swam toward it, then moved upward to the
water line He broke water alongside the boat and saw the
small cabin cruiser fifty yards away Patrol boats lay on either
side of it, drifting casually around, gently circling The larger
Russian warships made a big, broken, irregular nng around
the small vessels The cabin cruiser looked tike a tone calf in
a large corral, being watched by two lazy sheepdogs On each
of the patrol boats, Justin could see a couple of sailors Each
boat had a machine gun mounted on the stem But the sailors
were bored with their duty On one boat, the two seamen
were arguing with each other, on the other, they played
matching coins

There were no signs of life from the cruiser Starcher, if

382 GRANDMASTER

he was there, was probably in the cabin amidships, Justin
thought.

He let himself down under the water and moved carefully
away from the side of the big Russian warship.

The Russian agent Georgi would not talk to Starcher. He
seemed content to sit at the table, his pistol near his hand,
staring at the American.

Starcher considered rushing him, but he knew it would
serve no purpose. Even if he was successful, which he doubted,
what would he do? He was an ex-CIA man, stuck on a boat,
surrounded by Russian warships in the middle of Havana
Harbor in Fidel Castro's Cuba.

And the Russians were going to kill Castro.

He knew it. Durganiv had teased and taunted him. but he
had finally said just too much. There were many people who
did that, who felt they had to say something, who had to
demonstrate their superiority and their greater knowledge.
And if you let them alone long enough, they would eventually
tell you more than they should.

So Castro was going to die at Russian hands, and Zharkov's
plan was to pin the killing on Starcher. But how had Zharkov
known that Starcher would be in Havana?

Starcher suddenly realized that Zharkov hadn't known.
Zharkov had learned that the Grandmaster was alive, and he
was planning to use Gilead as his scapegoat- And now that
Starcher had neatly and foolishly arranged his own capture by
the Nichevo men, that must have made Gilead expendable.
Was Justin still alive? Or had Zharkov already killed him?

If he was dead, Starcher would have no help. He'd have to
get free of Zharkov by himself, and he'd have to try to get the
Kutsenkos out of Havana by himself. A large assignment. His
own best chance to escape was probably on the boat. Once
back ashore, he would not know how many people might be
guarding him, how many guns might be pointed at him. He
studied the Russian agent. He was thirty years younger than
Starcher, no doubt in better physical condition, and he was
armed- Hell, maybe he had just had a heart attack, too,
Starcher thought bitterly- An even fight. First one to have
cardiac arrest loses.

He cast about for other possibilities. When the radiophonecall
came, the agent would have to go outside the cabin to answer

The Game

383

it. The phone was on the bulkhead a few feet outside die
door. If the agent closed the door. Starcher could hide behind
it and hit the Russian when he came back into the cabin. As
his weapon, he had already chosen a long piece of iron pipe
that was stuffed into a basket in the comer.

Suppose he did knock the agent out? What then? Swim-
ming to shore was out of the question. He couldn't swim
well, and the exertion alone would kilt him.

But he spoke Russian. Perhaps he could start this boat and
just wave to the Russian patrol boats and shout something
innocuous- "I'm leaving now. Have another vodka, men."

His white hair was a problem. The Russian agent had dark
hair. Starcher could put on the agent's suit jacket. Find some
oil and rub it into his white hair. Oil. Or gravy or shoe polish,
anything he could find.

He had to try it. It was his only chance. Maybe he even
had one small advantage. He had heard Durganiv tell the
agent not to hurt Starcher. They wanted him tonight alive and
well. It might give him a small edge in a quick surprise
attack.

As if on cue. there was a metallic buzzing from the radio-
phone outside the door.

The agent got up quickly, snatched up his gun, and waved
it at Starcher. "You stay there," he ordered gruffly in English.
His voice was raspy. He went outside and pulled the door
shut behind him.

Starcher ran to the metal can filled with bits of bamboo and
metal, apparently used for repairing fishing rods. He took out
the piece of pipe, heavy iron water pipe eighteen inches long.
It felt reassuringly meaty in Starcher's hand.

For the first time, he had a small hope that his plan might
succeed. He walked quietly across the floor to stand behind
the door, and strained to hear the agent say in Russian, "All
right. Room three-nineteen. Right away."

Starcher felt the thunk through the thin cabin bulkhead as
the radiophone was replaced on its wall mount. He pressed
himseif back against the wall. The doorknob turned. He
raised the pipe over his head.

The agent entered, and Starcher pushed the door away and
leaped forward, already swinging the heavy pipe down toward
the agent's head. But the Russian spun, ducked, and tossed
up his left ami for protection. The pipe crunched into the

384 GRANDMASTER

fat part of the man's forearm, and Starcher could tell by
the sound and feel that he had broken no bones Then the
Russian was rolling across the cabin floor • He came up in a
crouched position, with his pistol aimed at Slarcher's belly

"You American son of a bitch," he snarled m Russian
"The only thing keeping you alive is my orders "

Starcher lowered the ptpe, just as tow as his hopes of
escape "I was counting on that," he answered in Russian

"Don't count on it anymore Or on my good nature." the
agent said "The next time, I'll put a bullet between your
eyes I don't care who'll be disappointed Now, drop it "

Starcher let the pipe fall to the floor and walked back to the
cot

Too old But at least he got one lick in, he consoled
himself, as he watched the Russian rubbing his arm. "God
damn it," the agent snarled

"I'm sorry I didn't bash your thick Russian skull m,"
Starcher said

"And I'm sorry I didn't blow your brains out You're
making the trip fo shore tied up ''

As the agent lashed Starcher's wnsts behind him with a
length of rope he pulled from one of the cabin's lockers,
Starcher asked, "Arc you Nichevo too7"

"What's Nichevo9" the man answered much too casually

Starcher's last hope withered If Georgi hadn't been a
Nichevo man, perhaps Starcher might have been able to
shock him with the realization that Castro was going to be
assassinated by Russians, perhaps it could have confused him
enough to prompt him to speak to his superiors, perhaps the
result might have been countermanded orders or a delay Any
of those things might have worked in Starcher's favor But
those possibilities were gone now

The Russian roughly yanked Starcher's feet up behind him,
to tie his ankles to his wnsts A voice spoke in Russian

"Not too tight I'm Just going to have to untie him again "

Starcher snapped his head around, even as the Russian
wheeled away from him

It was the Grandmaster He stood only a few feet from the
Russian, his clothes pouring water onto the floor, his eyes
burning with the intensity of blue ice

The Russian snatched for the gun he had laid on the small

The Game                385

of Starcher's back, but as he raised the muzzle, the Grandmaster
attacked

The Russian's body shielded Gilead from Starcher's view,
but he saw Justin's nght ami move He heard a snap and then
another snap, and then Justm backed away and the Russian
sank to the deck of the cabin into a kneeling position, his
body twisted around so that Starcher could see his eyes They
were open wide, staring, but they expressed nothing, not even
shock They were dead man's eyes The agent pitched for-
ward onto the floor

Gilead stepped over him to undo the ropes around Starcher's
wnsts

"How'd you do that7" Starcher asked

"It's not important Arc you all nght9"

"I'm okay They're going to kill Fidel Castro," Starcher
said

"That's their plan9" The knots were tight on his wnsts
Starcher heard Justm sigh, and then felt the ropes snap

"Yeah," Starcher said

"Why not let them9 Castro's no friend of the United
States "

Starcher rolled over and removed the remnants of rope
from his wnsts The knots were intact The heavy tine had
just been pulled apart "How'd you do that9" Starcher asked,
holding up the ends of the rope

"Never mind," Gilead said "Why not let Castro die9"

"Because they're planning to blame the killing on the
United States That's why they've been holding me I was
their pnze exhibit Crazed CIA assassin "

Gilead said, "They didn't even know you were coming
They didn't know who you were "

Starcher rubbed his wnsts The tight knots had stopped the
circulation to his fingers

"I thought about that," he said "Zharkov must have been
planning to use you first When I came, he decided that I was
a better scapegoat ''

The Grandmaster nodded Soaking wet, his clothes stuck
tightly to his body, and Starcher was surprised to see how
much wiry muscle had grown on his thin frame He looked
nothing like the wreckage of a human being Starcher had
salvaged from the Rook's Tour     was it only two months
ago9

386 GRANDMASTER

"That explains why they Ined to kill me lasi night," Justin
said "They didn't need me anymore "

"I'm sorry, Justin I wish I could have let you know '

"Nothing to worry about." Justin said

"How'd you find me, anyway'7"

"Your friend at the waterfront bar heard about this boat
He told me It's one you people owe him Now, what's
nexP" Justin asked

"We could just leave Without you or me, the plan would
probably be canceled "

Gilead shook his head "There are three other American
chess players and their seconds Zharkov would probably just
grab one of them I'm sure he's got dossiers, and he'd be able
to phony something up When he was done, you'd think our
whole chess team was riddled with superspies "

Starcher was thinking "Besides,' Gilead said, "I can't
just go I promised the Kutsenkos we'd get them out And
I've got my business with Zharkov "

"This agent was on the phone I heard him say, 'Room
three-nine teen Right away ' ! imagine he was supposed to
take me there Probably at the Jose Marti I guess they were
going to set it up then "

"I think one of us should keep mat appointment," Justin
said

"Sure," Starcher answered "But how do we get out of
here'7 We're surrounded by the whole Russian navy How'd
you get here, anyway, with those patrol boats9"

"I swam You want to swim to shore'7" Gilead asked with
a smile

"I wouldn't make it fifty feet," Starcher said

"Then I guess we'll have to try something else "

Hair darkened by brown shoe polish and wearing the KGB
agent's blue suit jacket, Starcher stood at the boat's controls
on the stem deck, hitting the electric starter

The patrol boat to port was closest He waved to the men
and shouted in Russian, "Leaving now "

"Wait," one of me two men on the small boat yelled

"All nght," Gilead said softly from inside the small pas-
sageway that led to the cabin "Wave them over Since
they're coming anyway, let them think you want them to "

"I hope you know what you're doing "

The Game

387

"Just before they get here, go below Keep out of sight "

Starcher nodded, and Gilead, keeping his body low, out of
sight of the patrol boats, slithered to the stern of the boat and
slipped over the transom into the water

The patrol boat moved slowly toward the cruiser Starcher
turned his back as if concentrating on a malfunction with the
controls

When the boat was only ten feet away, Starcher. without
turning his head, ducked down into the small passageway He
stayed there, checking the dead agent's pistol, making sure
the safety was off and it was fully loaded

Then he heard two thumps and a voice calling softly,
"Starcher, hurry up "

The two Russian sailors had been tossed onto the deck like
beanbags Gilead was at the controls of the small outboard
patrol boat

"Come on aboard," he said

"What about these two^"

"They're not going anywhere," Justin said "Let's get out
of here "

He reached up to help Starcher into the patrol boat, but the
CIA man slapped his hand away in annoyance and, grunting
from the exertion, climbed down into the open boat

The sun was* setting, and the big Russian warships cast
long shadows over the water As soon as Starcher was seated,
Gilead pulled away from the cabin cruiser, keeping the cruiser
between himself and the other patrol boat Then he gave the
small craft an open throttle and sped toward shore

"Sit at that machine gun and let me know if they're
following us," Gilead said

Starcher watched, but the two men on the other boat obvi-
ously thought there was nothing peculiar about their partners
making a small run in to shore, and made no attempt to
follow them

"We're okay," Starcher called over the lawnmower clang-
ing of the small engine

"Good "

They tied up five minutes later at one of the small piers,
after Justin expertly nosed the boat in between two fishing
vessels whose crews had gone for the day He retrieved his
shoes from under the trash basket, then walked with Starcher
away from the harbor toward the streets of the city

388 GRANDMASTER

Behind them, the sun set dull and rusty over the Russian
ships anchored offshore. The two Americans walked through a
parking lot filled with old, battered American-made cars.
Justin looked inside each vehicle.

"You can forget finding a cab in this workers' paradise,"
he said- "Come on. Here's a car with a key in it. You
drive."

A few moments later, he and Starcher were on the main
road, heading back to the heart of the city and the Jose Marti
Hotel.

-CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

"You understand what to do?"

"Of course I do. I'm not stupid." Starcher snapped. "I
still don't like it. I want to be there."

" 'They also serve who only stand and wait.' It'll be better
this way. We'll have fewer people to get out of the hotel, and
you'll be able to shepherd the Kutsenkos."

"I'll be waiting," Starcher said glumly, "But I won't be
happy."

"That's odd, Starcher," said Justin. "I've always regarded
you as a man consumed with joy."

Starcher grumbled and stopped the ratty old car in front of
the Jose Marti, then drove off as Justin trotted up the steps
toward the group of uniformed Cuban soldiers who stood
security at the door.

Justin did not like the way Slarcher looked. He seemed to
be showing the strain of the last few days, and while Justin
would have welcomed help, he didn't want it from someone
who might collapse at any moment.

Two soldiers moved to block his way into the hotel.

"I'm Justin Gilead of the American chess team. I've got to
change for dinner. Has the premier arrived yet?"

One soldier said, "You have some identification?"

Justin took the water-soaked passport from his rear pocket
and held it out casually. "Sorry, I was fishing, and 1 fell
overboard."

The guard looked at the picture on the passport, then at
Justin and then checked his name on a list. Finally he re-

389

390 GRANDMASTER

turned the small blue passport folder "Go ahead, Senor
Gilead But hurry Fidel will be here within the hour "

Justin put a handkerchief over the mouthpiece of the tele-
phone in his room and dialed room 319 Starcher had told
him that the Russian agent talked with a deep, raspy voice,
and when the telephone was picked up, Justm spoke in a
gravelly whisper "Yun9"

"Da "

"I'm bringing him up "

"Hurry "

Justm walked the flight of steps up to the third floor Next
to the stairwell was an unmarked door to a utility room Next
to it was room 319

Justm knocked hard on the door, once, then held on to the
doorknob gently When he felt it turn and the lock release, he
slammed forward against the door with his shoulder

Durgamv, taken by surprise, was hammered back against
the wall Justm leaped into the room and slammed the door
shut behind him

The giant Russian recovered immediately and was on him,
wrapping his arms around Justin's chest and upper body
Gilead twisted his body partly to the side, then drove the side
of his nght foot up into Durgamv's kneecap The bigger man
screamed as his kneecap broke He released his hold and sank
toward the floor Justm lunged behind him and wrapped his
arms around Durgamv's throat

"What is the plan7" he barked m the Russian's ear

Durgamv did not speak, and Gilead applied more pressure
Durgamv could feel his neck stretching

"Who are you7" Durgamv managed to sputter

"Justin Gilead The plan " He squeezed again, and Durgamv
gasped, "The washroom next door I've cut into the wall to
get to the air-conditioning system There's a vent that looks
over the dining room I shoot from there ''

"Not anymore," Gilead said He yanked Yun's head back-
ward until the bones m his neck cracked The Russian's head
lolled forward onto his chest

Gilead dropped him and saw a high-powered nfle on the
bed

The utility room was locked, but Justm found the key in
me Russian's trousers He opened the door and then, moving
quickly while no one was in the corridor, earned Durganiv

The Game                391

and the rifle into the washroom and closed the door tightly
behind himself It was a small room To make space, he
pushed Durgamv's body into the big utility sink

Overhead, a piece of Masonile had been mounted on the
wall Justin drove his fingers through a comer of H and peeled
it away The plaster behind it had been cut away Justin saw a
large opening that led into a metal ventilator shaft He felt the
cold flow of air conditioning pounng through the hole and
into the small utility room

He hopped up onto the sink and hoisted himself through the
hole The ventilator shaft stretched out straight in front of
him, and he crawled along it to where the shaft ended at a
metal grate, two feet square Careful not to get too close,
Justin peered through

He had a view from over the balcony that encompassed the
giant banquet hall Most of the guests had already been
seated for dinner, and Justin could see them clearly at their
tables A dais had been erected at the far end of the room,
along with a lectern evidently set up for Castro Shooting him
from this distance would be child's play, Justin realized

Durganiv had planned to shoot Castro, then slide back out
of the shaft, stuff Starcher into it along with the gun, and then
make sure the American "assassin" was killed, either by
security troops or perhaps even by Durgattiv's own gun

"Good plan," Justm mumbled to himself as he slipped
back into the washroom He hoisted Durgamv's heavy body
up into the opening, then climbed in after it, carrying the nfle
with him Quietly, he pushed the Russian's body until his
head was just a foot away from the air-conditioning grate,
then carefully placed the nfle in the dead man's hands

He backed out of the shaft and dropped lightly to the floor
of the washroom Before leaving, he jammed the Masomte
panel back into the hole over the sink, then reached up and
removed the overhead light bulb Anyone looking into the
utility room by chance would not be likely in the darkness to
see the broken Masonite panel covenng the hole in the wall

Then the Grandmaster locked the door behind him and
walked down to his room to change for dinner

Yun was m place
Alexander Zharkov sat in the front of the ballroom at one

392 GRANDMASTER

of the small dinner tables reserved for players, their seconds,
their families, and their special guests

The rest of the room was packed with almost a thousand
guests, many of them members of the Cuban Chess Federation,
and a lot of them political social climbers who wanted to see
and be seen by Fide! Castro

Zharkov glanced at his watch Twenty minutes before Cas-
tro arrived, no more than thirty-five minutes to go before the
Cuban premier was dead

He had been watching the vent over the balcony that ringed
the hall Only a few minutes ago he had seen a shadow
moving inside it Now there was a dark clump barely visible
behind the ventilator grate, but it would take eyes that knew
what they were looking for to realize that it was a man hiding
in that shaft and not just an errant shadow

It was wonderful The balcony was packed with Cuban
soldiers, all carrying automatic weapons One of them was
stationed no more than five feet from the air-conditioning
grate The death shot would be fired past his head, so close
that his ears would nng for a week

Zharkov looked around at the four other tables in the front
line The Kutsenkos were sitting with the young American
player, Shinnick, and two American seconds at the table
nearest the ballroom's main entrance The tables were set in a
straight line, and at the other end of the line, farthest from the
main door, sat Kevenn, Ribitnov. one of their seconds, and
two empty seats Those would be for Gilead and his second,
"Harry Andrew "

Zharkov thought that Gilead might show up. if he wasn't
wandering all over Havana looking for Starcher But Starcher
was a dinner no-show By now he was already here, dead in
that ventilator shaft, a bullet in his brain, waiting in death for
his body to be shoved forward to take over the role of
assassin

Not too long to wan now

And if the Grandmaster did show up, Zharkov would deal
with Juslin Gilead when Castro was killed and Cuban troops
started firing into that ventilator shaft, nppmg apart the already-
dead Starcher's body Unconsciously, his hand strayed to his
jacket, and he made a show of removing his breast pocket
handkerchief and wiping his forehead But the heel of his

The Game                393

hand had felt the reassuring bulge of the Tokarev in the
shoulder holster under his jacket

He replaced his handkerchief and looked at his watch
again Only a few more minutes He glanced up casually
toward the air-conditioning grate above the balcony He imag-
ined that he could see Yun Durganiv lying there, the nf!e
cradled in his arm, his sharp killer's eyes watching the room
below and waiting for the appearance of his target

First, Castro

Then, back to Russia for Kadar Zharkov would own him

And after Kadar

After Kadar, anything Zharkov wanted

Anything

A Cuban chess official standing with the guards at the
ballroom door greeted Justm Gilead warmly "You're at table
five on the other side of the room," he said with a practiced,
gracious smile

"Thank you," Justm said He saw Zharkov sitting three
tables away with his back to him, and walked directly to the
first table where the Kutsenkos sat

He leaned over and spoke softly into the Russian champion's
ear

"Later, when you see me stand up, I want you and your
wife to leave the room Go out the back exit Across the
street, you'll see an old brown Plymouth parked The driver
will recognize you Get in and wait for me "

Without waiting for a response^he straightened up and
shook hands with Kutsenko and all the others at the table

"Good to see you all again," Justin said "I hope we can
talk later "

"A very good game today, Justin," Kutsenko said with a
smile and a slight nod

"Thank you, but the best is yet to come," Gilead said

"I hope not You're playing me tomorrow," Kutsenko
said

Justin smiled back and walked past Zharkov's table, ignor
ing the Russian and nodding to its other occupants, and sat in
one of the empty seats at table five

Kevenn greeted him and introduced him to the Russian
second The old Russian chess master nodded toward the
empty chair "Will your second be coming tonight^"

394 GRANDMASTER

Justin shook his head "I think he's off sight-seeing m
Havana," he said "I haven't been able to find him Maybe
too much rum "

"It's a curse, ail right." Kevenn said He sat back down
as Justin did

Gilead felt Zharkov staring at him from three tables away
but chose not to look in his direction

"A glorious win today," Kevenn said "I have not seen
that exact attack since Alekhine in 1939 "

"It was 1938," the Russian second said

"It was '39," Kevenn insisted "I was there I know He
played Euwe "

"You may have been there." the man insisted, "but it was
1938 And it wasn't Euwe, it was Kashdan The game opened
with a king's Indian

"Fantasy land," Kevenn snapped "No wonder you don't
know the year, because you don't know the game It was the
dragon vanation of the Sicilian and

Ribitnov joined in the argument at this point, and Justin let
the conversation flow around him Russians were contentious
chess players, arguing about dates and places and openings,
precisely because they were good chess players The essence
of chess was accuracy and perfection, and in a Russian chess
argument, everything had to be accurate and perfect One
incorrect point would demolish an otherwise perfectly sound
arguing position, just as one element wrong in a plan at the
chessboard could turn victory into defeat

His eyes dnfted around the room and met Zharkov's in-
tense stare The Russian's heavy-lidded eyes glared at him
malevolently, but there was a peculiar expression on his
mouth It took Justin a moment to identify it as self-satisfaction
Mischievously, Justin wanted to glance up at the ventilator
shaft from which the assassin's bullet was to be fired, but he
held the impulse in check Zharov's smile would be gone
soon enough

Soon enough

Justin heard sirens through the open doors of the ballroom
A few minutes later Fidel Castro, weanng his ever-present
combat fatigues, strode through the doorway as the small
band in the rear of the room played the Cuban national
anthem

The Game                395

Everyone rose as Castro walked to the front of the room
The Cuban premier was flanked by four uniformed guards
and trailed by another four men in business suits He smartly
saluted the Cuban flag and held the salute until the band had
finished

Ignonng his bodyguards, Castro pushed away from the dais
and walked over to the tables where the chess players sat
Like politicians everywhere, he began shaking hands while
flashbulbs popped

When he got to Gilead's table, all the men dt the table rose,
and Castro greeted each warmly Gilead had never seen him
before and was surpnsed to see how tall the Cuban leader
was His uniform was sharply pressed and starched, but there
was a hint of a middle-aged belly protruding above his belt
His handshake was firm, but his fingers were sweaty and
damp

"Buena suerte manana," Castro wished them all, after
shaking hands around the table Gilead noticed that he had
politician's eyes Even while he was shaking hands, they
were looking elsewhere It was common among politicians,
but with Castro, it showed something else, too Politicians
were looking for the next hand to shake, but Castro seemed
nervous, perhaps looking around to make sure he was among
friends Maybe they were the eye? of a dictator out among the
people, Gilead thought

Castro waved to the crowd, who applauded him again, and
walked to the speakers' table at the front of the room

The four men in suits sat down alongside the Cuban leader
on the raised platform One of them went to the microphone
Gilead recognized him as the president ot the Cuban Chess
Federation The man introduced himself and the other men in
suits who were also federation officers

He said that chess was not only a great international game,
but an international language as well All two men needed, no
matter what their nationalities or their politics, was a board
and thirty-two pieces They did not need language to
communicate, except perhaps to say "check" and "check-
mate " "And sometimes, *I lose ' " The crowd chuckled,
and the speaker seemed about to go on when Gilead saw
Castro reach over surreptitiously and tug at the man's jacket

Without pausing for breath, the man launched into his
prepared speech, explaining that it was an honor for him to

396 GRANDMASTER

introduce the premier of the host country for this great match.
a premier who was a chess player himself. "Ladies and
gentlemen," he finished, "I give you Fidel Castro."

The crowd rose in a standing ovation. Gilead glanced over
toward Zharkov who was on his feet with the rest, applauding
enthusiastically.

Obviously, there were stil! a few minutes to go before the
assassination.

Castro rose and spoke without notes. He was a practiced
and fluid speaker who knew how to pause and draw laughter
from a line and how to emphasize a point dramatically by the
pitch of his voice.

His remarks were well thought out and gracious. He
welcomed, both by nation and by name, all the players and
said how proud he was that Cuba, home of Jose Capablanca,
perhaps the greatest chess player who ever lived, could host
such an important match.

He went on to say that it was wonderful that men represent-
ing nations of conflicting ideologies and beliefs could meet in
peace in friendly competition, and he hoped that someday the
nations of the world could take a lesson from the world of
chess and meet openly in the intellectual field of battle to let
the better man and the better vision win-

Jutin thought the speech was fine but that it might have rung
more true if Castro had not spent the last decade sending
Cuban guerrillas to stir up trouble in Central and South
America and in Africa. And as for the free exchange of ideas,
a free Cuban press might be a start in mat direction. The man
was a politician, after all; he said one thing, but practiced
another.

Justin noticed Zharkov glance at his watch; then. under the
guise of turning in his chair to get a sip of water from the
glass behind him, he looked up toward the air-conditioning
vent at the back of the large ballroom.

Now, Justin thought.

He rose quietly and walked toward the far door where an
army contingent of a half-dozen men stood behind a security
captain in full dress uniform.

As he drew near the captain, Justin turned and saw Zharkov's
eyes trained on him. That was just what Justin had wanted.
Two tables behind Zharkov, the places of Ivan Kutsenko and

The Game                397

his wife were now empty. The world chess champion and his
wife had left the room already, and Zharkov had not noticed.

"Captain," Justin said to the security guard, "I think
there's trouble."

"Trouble, senor? What is that?"

Justin drew closer to the captain. "In the balcony at the
back of me room, there is a large air-conditioning vent.
There's a grate in front of it. I just saw a man climb into that
vent. He has a rifle in his hand."

The captain backed away from Justin and searched the
American's eyes for a moment.

"Es verdad," Justin said. "It is the truth- Look for yourself."

The captain looked back toward the vent, saw the shadow
inside it, and instantly stepped forward into the room. While
he snapped a walkie-talkie from his belt, he barked at me
guards behind Castro: "Protect the premier. Protect the
premier." The uniformed soldiers jumped forward, pulled Cas-
tro from the lectem, and shielded him with their bodies.

The captain barked orders into the walkie-talkie. As Justin
watched, two of the soldiers on the balcony ran over to the
air-conditioning vent. They raised their weapons and began
blasting bullets through the grate.

The crowd in the auditorium had been confused and hushed
when the captain had stepped forward into the room, shouting.
Now, as the shots sounded, some screamed. Most turned to
look for the source of the sound; many ducked under tables.

Justin Gilead looked across the room. Zharkov was standing.
From under his jacket, he pulled his Tokarev pistol and aimed
it at Justin.

The Grandmaster lightly saluted Zharkov with the tips of
his fingers, then moved behind the captain, through the door,
and out into the service hallway.

He ran back toward the rear exit of the building. Outside,
he walked slowly past the soldiers down the steps.

Across the street he saw Starcher waiting in the car. The
Kutsenkos were in the back seat.

Night had fallen on Havana.

-CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Despite Starcher's map and directions received at three differ-
ent service stations, they got lost twice before Justin found
the small dirt road that led from the smooth two-lane blacktop
highway off through a stand of scrub pine toward the ocean.

It was 10:45 P.M-

The road ended abruptly at a wall of trees- All four of them
got out of the car.

There were no houses in sight, and the night was clear and
dark, illuminated by a brilliant white moon. Starcber was
grumbling. He had hoped for rain, fog, an overcast night,
anything that would reduce visibility. In spite of his black-
painted boat, Saarinen would be as obvious out in the water
as a Roman candle in a coal mine.

If he even showed up. It had aH come down to mis,
Starcher thought ruefully. A lifelong career of service to the
United States, and now he was reduced to trying to flee Cuba
with his life in the hands of a renegade Finnish pirate who
would drink antifreeze if he had to and would do anything for
a dollar.

He hoped that Riesling had been right in his assessment of
the Finn. The dead agent had once said that Saarinen was
fearless and that his promise could be put in the bank and it
would draw interest.

At one of the service stations, they had purchased five
fifty-foot lengths of clothesline. They took them from the car
and plodded through the thick trees and brush toward the cliff
they hoped would be waiting beyond.

398

The Game                399

The Kutsenkos were silent. They had spoken little on the
flight from Havana, and Justin Gilead knew they were fright-
ened to the point of panic. If their escape attempt was not
successful, their lives were ruined, even if they lived. Prison,
or worse, awaited them if they were returned to Russia.

The chess champion and his wife had simply huddled
together in the back seat of the car, listening with Justin and
Starcher to the news bulletins on the Cuban station that the
automobile radio picked up.

The reports were sketchy but said that an unidentified
gunman had been shot and killed at the Jose Marti Hotel
where Premier Castro was delivering a speech to the players
in an international chess match. The gunman was shot by the
quick action of Cuban security guards. While he had not been
identified, the announcer left no doubt of who he thought was
responsible for the attack by stressing pointedly that one of
the teams playing in the match was from the United States.

Starcher cursed when he heard the announcer. Justin clapped
him on the knee. "Calm down," he said. "They'll get it ail
sorted out soon enough."

Although the moon was bright, the path through the trees
where they moved was as dark as if they were underground.
It was a relief to break through the brush onto a flat shelf of
rock overlooking the smooth waters of the Caribbean. The
table of rock was ringed in a semicircle by tall trees.

Looking seaward, Starcher glanced at his watch. "Ten
minutes," he said.

Justin went to the edge of the cliff and looked down. The
rock wall dropped straight to a sandy beach a hundred feet
below.

He lowered himself to his haunches on the cliff and lashed
three of the fifty-foot lengths of rope together. Then he tied
large, lumpy knots in the rope every five feet.

"What's that for?" Starcher asked.

"Just easier to hold on to. You can hang on to these knots
a lot more easily than on to a thin, smooth rope. Your feet
can even get a purchase on them if you have to."

"All right. I guess you know what you're doing," Starcher
said. He looked to the dark waves of the sea and then hissed,
"He's there."

Justin turned to see a yellow light flashing from about 150
yards off shore.

400 GRANDMASTER

Starcher counted the flashes. "Three . . . four . . . five.
Wait. One, two, three, four, five. That's him." He held up a
cigarette lighter, lit it, then used his hand to cover and
uncover it, to give the impression of four answering signals.
A rapid series of flashes came from the boat. "Okay,"
Starcher said. "Let's get this show on the road."

Justin pulled one end of the rope back to one of the largest
trees and wrapped it around the trunk twice before knotting it
tightly at the base of the tree.

He came back and tossed the rope over the cliff. It just
touched the sand below.

He tied the two remaining sections of rope into one long
iine, then knotted a large loop into one end of it.

"Saarinen'il bring an inflatable boat in," Starcher said.

The Kutsenkos had been watching from off to the side,
holding each other as if they were cold on this warm night.

"All right, Ivan," Justin said. "You'll go first. Hook this
rope under your arms." He helped Kutsenko slip the large
looped rope over his head and pulled it up tight under his
arms.

"Climb down the rope to the sand. I'll be up here holding
this other rope so I'll have most of your weight. You won't
fall. When you get to the bottom, slip out of this harness, and
I'll pull it back up and send your wife down."

"Can she manage to climlrdown?" Kutsenko asked. There
was doubt in his voice.

"She'll have this harness around her just as you. Don't
worry," Justin said.

The world chess champion took a deep, nervous breath.
"All right," he said. "Fine. Okay. I'm ready."

He took a firm grip on the long vertical rope, smiled wanly
at his wife, and started down the side of the cliff. Justin sat
atop the cliff, his legs braced against a large outcrop of rock.
He held the harness rope around his back, feeding it out a few
feet at a time. Starcher watched from the edge of the cliff.

"As smooth as glass," he called out approvingly. "He's
almost at the bottom."

Justin felt the weight release on the rope across his shoulders.

"He's there," Starcher said. "Bring the rope back up."

Justin quickly pulled the rope up and adjusted the chest
loop around the smaller Lena Kutsenko.

The Game

401

"No* don't be afraid," he told her. "You won't fall
because I've got your weight."

"Mr. Gilead," she said with a smile that shone brightly in
the moonlight, "before I decided to go to medical school. I
'   was a member of the Russian gymnastics team. If Ivan can
get down this cliff, I can do it with one hand."

"Use two hands and do it twice as fast," Justin said.

Dr. Kutsenko leaned forward and kissed him quickly on the
lips. "Thank you," she said. Then without hesitation she
grasped the lifeline and scrambled over the edge of the cliff.

There was not much difference between her weight and her
husband's, Justin thought, as he fed out the safety line. But
she was obviously more agile; she was pulling on the safety
line, and he had to feed it out faster to keep up with her
descent down the rock face.

He heard Starcher say, "Saarinen's coming. I see him."

The woman reached the sand at the bottom of the cliff,
waved up to him that she was all right, then slipped out of the
harness. As Justin hauled the rope in through the dark, he
could see the faint outline of an inflatable boat moving toward
the shore. The crafty Finn had outfitted the boat with a small
electric trolling motor which, while not powerful, ran almost
silently, emitting only the faint whirring sound of its propeller.

Justin stood up for a moment to stretch his legs, then said,
"Okay. Starcher, you're next."

But there was another answering voice, a voice that chilled
Justin's soul.

It said. "No one's next."

Twenty feet away, standing with his back to the wall of
trees, was Alexander Zharkov, pointing a pistol at the two
men.

A cloud crossed the moon, and the night went dark.

Starcher has a gun, too, Justin thought, the one he took
from the Russian agent on the cabin cruiser. He remembered
it as he found Starcher moving slowly away from him, sepa-
rating the two men to give Zharkov two more difficult targets.
It would be harder for the Russian to cover both men- If
Justin could get Zharkov's attention solely on him, Starcher
might be able to get to his gun and use it.

Starcher was talking to Zharkov while he continued to edge
slowly away from Justin. He was not moving smoothly be-

402 GRANDMASTER

cause Zharkov would immediately have noticed that Instead,
he was talking and taking steps as if to punctuate his
conversation

"Now, don't do anything rash, Zharkov,' said Stareher
"There isn t any need ' Step

"Shut up What do you know about my need'' '

"So your plan didn't work " Stareher heid his hand out in
front of him Another step "A lot of plans don t work They
won't blame you Try again some other day ' Another step

"I told you, shut up And stop moving "

The clouds grew thicker over the moon, and the night was
becoming steadily darker It was hard now for Justm to see
Zharkov's face. although the Russian was no more than twenty
feet away

Justin moved a step to his left, away from Stareher, and
dropped the rope he was holding At that moment, Stareher
reached behind him into his belt, pulled out the pistol and
dropped to the ground

A shot rang out

Justm lunged forward, covering the distance to Zharkov in
three long strides With one swipe of his hand, he knocked
the gun away into the heavy brush behind the Russian With
his left hand, he grabbed Zharkov's throat in a gnp of steel

He squeezed He could feel the muscles tighten in the
Russian's throat

He heard a groan and looked back Stareher lay on the
ground, on his back, his gun lying useless at his side The old
man's body twitched m pain He had been shot

With a cry of rage, Justin swung his right fist into Zharkov's
face and felled the Russian, then ran to Stareher s side
Behind him, Zharkov dropped like a wet cloth onto the rock
table of the cliff

Even in the darkness, Justm could see the red stain of
blood spreading over Starcher's shirt He had been shot in the
right side

"It's all right, Justin," said Stareher. his breathing labored
"Take care of yourself This is a good way for me to die "

Suddenly Justin heard Zharkov's voice, choking on his
own blood "Katanna Shoot him' Shoot him'"

The Grandmaster looked up as a woman holding a gun
stepped from the other side of the semicircle ot trees and

The Game                403

walked deliberately toward him She moved stiffly, zombielike,
holding the gun low in front of her

She walked up to him Only a few feet separated them, and
she began to raise the gun toward Justin

The moon slipped out from behind the cloud Suddenly,
the rock plateau was flooded with light again as Justin looked
up at her face, and his heart skipped as he recognized her

Duma

The girl of his boyhood at Rashimpur The young girl who
had died at Vaqa's hands

She had the pistol pointed at Gilead's face, and then her
face contorted, first with doubt, then confusion, then in blind
pain Two tears squeezed from the comers of her eyes and
trickled down her cheeks

Zharkov was scrambling to his feet "Shoot him, Katanna."
he shouted His mouth sprayed blood "Shoot him "

"Patanjah," Katanna Velanova whispered, "it is you "

"Shoot him." Zharkov screamed "He is the Grandmaster
Kill him'"

Katanna didn't move The pistol, shaking violently in her
hands, was still aimed at Justin

Justin felt tears welling in his eyes Duma

She was alive The girl Vaqa had torn out of his heart had
never died, after all Now, after a lifetime of longing for her,
he saw that she was alive

And she belonged to Zharkov

Fate had tncked him before, but this final cheat was more
than he could bear

"He was the one you were saved for," he said bitterly

A sob escaped from her, as sudden as the snap of a thread
"I was made to hate you " She flung the gun away with
distaste "Patanjali, I was not saved," she cned "I was
dead I am dead still "

Zharkov ran across the plateau and picked up the pistol
where Katanna had thrown it

"No'" she screamed, and an instant before Zharkov pulled
the trigger, she leaped at Justm, enveloping his body with her
own

The bullet took her in the back Her body muffled the
sound of the shot, but bits of flesh and a fine spray of blood
spattered into the air, as visible in the bnght moonlight as
warm breath on a cold night Katanna's widespread hands

404 GRANDMASTER

slid down Justin's legs as she slipped bonelessly to the ground.
She landed huddled at his feet, the gaping red hole in her shirt
widening with bright blood.

Justin and Zharkov both stared at the crumpled figure for a
moment, stunned- Then, with an animal roar from deep inside
his throat, Justin sprang at Zharkov, knocking the gun from
the Russian's hand. He turned to flee, but Justin grabbed him
by the shoulder.

As if Zharkov were a child, the Grandmaster lifted him
over his head, walked to the edge of the cliff, and hurled him
over.

Zharkov screamed as he fell The scream ended m a heavy,
wet thud as his body hit the hard-packed damp sand a hun-
dred feet below

Justin ran back to Katarina and knelt beside her. Gently he
lifted her to cradle her in his arms. Her eyes were open. but
not yet glazed with death. She coughed, and a spurt of blood
dribbled from the corner of her mouth. A drop of water fell
and mingled with the blood. Justin wiped it away, realizing
only then that he was touching his own tears.

She struggled to speak, but her breathing was raspy and
choking. ". . . always loved you," she said softly. Her eyes
melting into Justin's, she smiled. "But they made me forget."

It was the apology of a small girl, the little girl Vaqa and
Zharkov had not permitted her to remember, the young girl
Justin had loved.

"I always loved you, too, Duma," Justin answered. "And
I never forgot."

He lifted her in his arms to hold her against his chest. She
coughed again, spraying him with her blood. Then she sighed,
long and ragged, and her head dropped forward as if she were
trying to hide from the world inside Justin's arms, and he knew
she was dead.

Starcher groaned again.

With a start, Justin laid Katarina's body aside and went to
him. He had nearly forgotten the old man. Starcher's shirt
was soaked with blood. Without medical attention, he would
die, too.

Justin looked over the cliff edge and saw the Kutsenkos
sitting in the inflatable rubber boat with Saarinen- The Finn
was moving back and forth, parallel with the shoreline twenty
yards away, obviously deliberating whether to flee or stay.

The Game                405

Duma was dead. Nothing could change that now. But
Starcher was alive. And he could live. One death Zharkov
could not claim.

Justin called down, "We're coming. Starcher's hurt."

Easily, he lifted the CIA man and placed him across his
shoulders, then started down the knotted rope, moving as
swiftly and smoothly as if he were walking down a stairway.

When his feet touched sand, he ran toward the water.
Saarinen had pulled the boat in close to shore and was wading
ashore to help Justin. Together, they put Starcher into the
small boat.

The CIA man looked up and saw Justin next to him

"Stay with me," he said weakly

"I will, Starcher. I will."

The Grandmaster jumped onto the bow of the rubber boat
as Saarinen turned up the throttle on the electric motor and
aimed it out to his waiting boat. The new Kronen was just a
black speck far out in the water.

Juslin looked back toward shore. On the sand, he saw the
crumpled lump that was Zharkov's body.

The Black King had fallen at last. As he turned back to
look toward Saarinen's boat his eyes caught something else,
perhaps fifty yards away. But the moon again moved behind a
cloud and the night darkened, and though he strained to see,
the vision was gone. He was not sure what it had been. Birds,
perhaps, coming to pick at Zharkov's eyes.

Five minutes later, they were on Saannen's boat, running
without lights, full speed toward Miami. Starcher was on the
cot in the cabin. Justin knelt by his side as Dr. Kutsenko
cleaned his wound.

"He's going to be all right," she said. "The bullet passed
right through."

"His heart?" Justin asked softly.

"It seems to be all right," she said.

Saarinen had put the boat on automatic pilot and entered
the cabin.

"I should charge you bastards double for this," he roared
He had a bottle of Finlandia vodka in his hand. "Shooting,
fooling around, making me wait. Are you trying to make an
old man of me? Making me crazy. I'm steaming toward Cuba
and what am I hearing on the radio? That somebody tned to
kill Fidel Castro, and it's probably the work of the crazy

406 GRANDMASTER

imperialist Yankees. Is that what I have on my boat now?
Assassins?''

"We saved Castro's life," Justin said simply.

Saarinen paused, then roared again. "Well, aren't you the
idiot? They're blaming it on you people anyway."

Justin saw Starcher's eyes open. The CIA man was smiling
faintly.

"It's all right," Starcher said softly.

"So what'd we accomplish?" Justin said.

Starcher spoke softly. "Sure, they can blame it on us- But
they'll figure out the truth, Justin. And when they do ... you
watch. Castro will start being a tot nicer to the United States-
Maybe we made a friend for America, Justin."

"Be quiet and rest," Dr. Kutsenko said. "Is there anything
you want?"

Starcher grinned. "Yes. A cigar."

Justin stood on the rear deck of the boat. Cuba was far
astern now, out of sight, but he kept looking in that direction.

He thought of Duma lying dead on the top of the cliff.

Hers was the most crushing death of all. Everything he had
ever loved had died at Zharkov's hands. She had thought him
Patanjaii, but he was not Patanjaii. Justin Gilead was a fake,
a fraud who had (earned some physical tricks, enough to keep
him alive while others died.

But no more.

Zharkov was dead; the Prince of Death was no more. And
Justin would soon join him in death.

But he wished he had had time to go over to Zharkov's
body and wring its neck. He wanted to feel the last pulse of
Zharkov's life under his fingers and to feel it vanish through
his hands.

But enough. Zharkov was dead. The game was over.

He remembered the dark lump that had been Zharkov,
lying on the sand as their little boat moved away from the
shore. And he remembered the other thing he had seen. He
tried to focus his concentration and his memory, to try lo
make the picture come clear in his mind. It was like a chess
position; if he allowed himself to flow into his memory, to
become his memory, the picture would come clear, unbidden,
into his mind.

He stared up blankly toward the bright moon and let his

The Game                 407

eyes drift out of focus. Slowly, fuzzily, the thing he had seen
in the water began to take shape, to form, to become visible.

And then the full picture burst into his mind like a skyrocket,
going off, flaring into color, forcing him to blink and turn

away.

In that brief glimpse under the moonlight, he had seen not

birds, but men,

Four men, dark, crouched, running, their faces painted

black.

Vaija's men.

Coming for the Prince of Death.
Was it over? Would it ever be over?
He lowered his face to his arms.
The Grandmaster wept.

Book Six

THE RESIGNATION

-CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Time to die.

Justin huddled in the hollow of snow he had dug for
himself. It was night in the mountains near Amne Xachim,
and so cold that his spittle froze and cracked in midair.

He had been waiting for death most of his life. From his
youth, when he lost Duma, to the massacre of the monks at
Rashimpur, to the razing of the Polish village where a woman
who had cared for him had died in his place, he had longed
for the Final release of death.

There had been times when he could actually feel its
proximity, roaring and mighty, its bloody jaws agape- At
other times, death taunted him from a distance, smiling slyly
at his fear. But it was always present, always waiting, always
offering up its cold, irresistible promise to him.

But each time he had reached out to embrace it. death had
skittered away like a coy girl. He had died for the first time at
Rashimpur. It had been death's first joke. It had taken him
through the pain of dying only to send him back to suffer the
pain of living- And he had died again, in Poland. That, too,
had been a trick.

But now was the third time, the third death. And this
death would be the true one, because he would inflict it
himself.

First Zharkov, then Justin Giiead. When the Prince of
Death was finally, truly destroyed, the Grandmaster would at
last be free.

It was time.

411

412 GRANDMASTER

He lifted himself out of the sheltering womb of snow and
continued walking. By dawn he was making his way over the
ice-blown steppes with their hidden caves. He stopped short
as he passed the cave where long ago, before he had grown to
need the sweet, sick lust of death, he had once loved a girl.

Why did it have to be this way? The freezing air burned his
lungs. Why? Why were Varia's women murdered? Why did
Rashimpur have to bum? Why had Yva Pradziad been killed
in the burned village in Poland? Why had he found Duma
again, after a lifetime of longing for her, only to lose her a
second time?

He had no answers. Perhaps his life had been no more than
a monumental game of chess mat he had played badly. Per-
haps things would have been quite different if he had not been
bom Patanjali. reincarnation of the spirit of Brahma—or.
more accurately, if Tagore and the other monks at Rashimpur
had not believed him to be Patanjali.

That was the most bitter aspect of Justin's whole terrible
existence; it had been based on a lie. He was not Patanjali; of
that he was certain. Brahma would not have permitted his
spirit to live in a man who had failed so often, and so
miserably.

But the monks had been innocents. They believed in magic.
Now they were dead. Nearly everyone who had ever be-
friended Justin Gilead had been destroyed. And Rashimpur,
created by the hand of Brahma the Creator himself in the
beginning of the world, was burned to ash.

He would visit Rashimpur—the rubble that remained of
it—one last time. After he found Zharkov and killed him.
After the Prince of Death and the evil legacy that spawned
him were eliminated forever, he would go back. To the ashes
of the Tree of the Thousand Wisdoms, to the spirits of his
dead brothers, to me place where Tagore's precious blood had
spilled. He would go back and join them all one last time.

His spirit would not rest with theirs, because the monks of
Rashimpur were holy men, and Justin, in his way, had be-
come as wicked as the man he sought to kill. But he could die
where the holy men had died. Perhaps he would find peace in
the final moments of his life. If he did, he would go gladly to
damnation.

In the distance he could see the shimmering copper dome
of Varia's palace. In the cold morning tight, it shone like fire.

The Resignation                413

Everything I have ever loved has been destroyed by fire, he
thought.

And so he knew what he would do to Varia's palace when
he reached it,

He went no closer. Instead, he combed the area for scrub
grass laid beneath the snow and for the brittle little bushes
that had grown in summer and now lay brown and dry in the
cold. When he had gathered enough, he bound the tinder with
rope woven from the grass and dragged the bundle in a large
circle toward the garden entrance to the palace.

The garden was bare and snow-covered now. Inside it,
Justin stood for a moment and swallowed back the tears of
remembrance for the girl who had seen herself for the first
time in his eyes. But there was no time for tears anymore.
Duma was gone. Tagore, Yva, the holy men of Rashimpur
... all gone. He would have to put his regret aside, because
it was his last day on earth, and it was going to end, not in
tears, but in fire-

From his pocket he took two pieces of stone—one flint,
one iron pyrite. They were firestones that he carried to warm
him on his journey, but now they would serve a much greater
function. He knelt down with the stones and a handful of
kindling and struck the stones together.

A small spark flew. He struck again, trying to shelter the
stones and kindling from the wind, but the kindling would not
catch. Even in the freezing cold, sweat poured down Justin's
face. Why wouldn't they work? Throughout his long journey
to the mountains, the firestones had never failed.

Then he heard it. A deep, soft laugh, neither masculine nor
feminine. He looked up and gasped. A small, bald, gnomelike
creature stood in front of him in a place where a moment ago
had been only air.

Justin clutched the firestones tightly. The little person who
had walked so silently that he'd seemed to materialize out of
nowhere pulled a long leather thong from out of his robe.

Justin threw the firestones. He aimed for the gnome's head,
but the creature's movements were so fast they were almost a
blur. Before Justin's eyes could follow the gnome's changing
positions, the strip of leather cracked through the air, winding
with a slap around Justin's chest and arms.

As he landed, Justin heard a snap and knew that one of his

414 GRANDMASTER

nbs was broken In his pain, his onty thought was of the
strange little being who had bested him so easily How could
he move so fast7 Justm hadn't seen speed like that since his
early days at Rashimpur

A monk, Justm realized with sudden certainty The little
man had once been a holy man, as well trained as he himself
had been

The monk drew nearer "You are from Rashimpur," he
said, his face expressionless

Justm struggled to keep the pain of the cracked bone in hi3
chest from his voice "As are you "

The monk nodded "My training was at Rashimpur But I
have always belonged to Vaqa "

"Belonged7" Justin asked, trying to stall for time as he
worked the leather knots behind his back

"Our tie is deeper than this life," the monk said "My
ancestors were of the sect of the Black Hats You know of
them, perhaps9"

Justin didn't respond

A faint twitch of amusement played at the corners of the
monk's mouth "The most powerful beings on earth "

"The Black Hats no longer exist "

The monk's eyes flashed "Only because of a fool and his
tricks Patanjali was an old man who believed that the spirit
of life was stronger than the magic of death Through trickery,
he destroyed our people, but he could not destroy the magic
of the Black Hats forever "

A note of passion had crept into the monk's voice "The
magic remained, unharnessed and wild, through centuries
While the Black Hats faded into oblivion, there were many
new incarnations of Patanjali, but none powerful enough to
evoke the sleeping spirits of the Black Hats "

"Then why do you bother to serve Vaqa7" Justin asked

"A generation ago, Sadika. the sage of Rashimpur, pre-
dicted that the true Patanjali would be born once again That
was when the spirits of the Black Hats awoke again in anger
I left Rashimpur then to follow the living goddess of evil,
who has waited through ages of oblivion to exact her revenge "

Justin tried to struggle out of his bonds, but the knots were
perfect The monk watched him, smiling

"Take me to Vaqa'" Justm cned

"You have no need to see the goddess You cannot even

The Resignation                415

fight me, and my power is mortal Vaqa reserves herself for
the great, not the weak and unworthy of the world " He
spoke near Justm's face, enjoying his captive's humiliation

It was the moment Justm had been waiting for Spinning
where he lay. Justin retracted his legs and then kicked with all
his strength The monk crashed against the wall of the palace

The monk cned out in anger In one bound he was up and
grasping the thong that held Justin, lifting him into the air and
whirling Justin's much heavier body as if it were a toy
attached to a string

The monk let go His aim was flawless Justin fell in a
heap inside the doorway, m the empty room that had once
been the living quarters of the palace women As he tried to
nght himself, he fett a vicious kick to the side of his head,
smashing it against the floor He passed out

He came to in another room he remembered, a stark white
room devoid of furniture-except for a high, square platform
Duma once lay there, he thought For how long7 Years? She
still looked young when Justm saw her for the last time She
had been robbed of her life while she still lived, just as Justm
had

He felt for the knots on the thong The monk's exertions
had stretched the leather In time, he woutd be able to loosen
them enough to free himself He worked frantically, trying
hard to focus with his still fuzzy vision on the little man

The monk was straining at a comer of the bare white wall
His fingers made a hollow sound on it It's made of metal,
Justin thought But what is he doing7 Then, surprisingly, the
wall itself slid open, and the monk threw Justm through the
opening

His broken nb throbbed, but Justin forced himself to think
while he continued to manipulate the leather thong Was he
outside9 It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the
darkness There was no ceiling that he could see, but he was
still indoors, m some sort of cavernous corridor Flickers of
light shone dimly from an area some distance away, along
with the faint, smoky fragrance of incense Another chamber9

Vaqa's quarters, Justin realized Of course He was in
another section of the palace During his visit, he had not
seen the goddess until his final day in the Sacred Chamber
The women who served her did not normally see her. either
If Vana was anywhere in the palace, it would be here

416 GRANDMASTER

One hand slipped free A flood of relief washed through
him, but he could not give himself away too quickly Grasp-
ing the loose ends of the thong tightly to hide them from
view, he allowed the monk lo drag him down the dark
corridor

At the far end, where the open doorway let out the scent of
incense, some flickering tight danced on the polished wood
floor But the monk was taking Justm in the opposite direction,
toward deeper darkness

He heard men's voices somewhere, muffled and distant .
Men7 He remembered the black-painted faces of the men who
had executed the young women of the harem while Justin
looked on helplessly The same ones who had come for
Zharkov But where were they9

They stopped before an expanse of darkness that caught the
distant light in a sheet Iron, Justin thought Another metal
door Like the wall in the Sacred Chamber, the black iron
door slid open at the monk's touch Immediately the sound of
voices grew louder and more distinct Now Justin knew where
they were coming from Below, in the cellar of the great
palace, lived a teeming mob of Vaqa's laborers

"I must see Vaqa," Justin demanded "This is my warn-
ing to you "

The monk turned to him There was hatred in his eyes ,
"Do you think I do not know who you are     what you
are7" He kicked Justin around to face him "Patanjah," he
sneered, "Vaqa will never see you I will spare her the odor
of your presence ''

He spat Then, preparing to kick Justin into the dark human-
filied hole. the monk took a step backward

It was the moment to strike Justin threw his arms open in a
wide are. knocking the monk off balance As the leather
thong flew away from him, he spun and struck the monk in
the face With a high scream, the monk fell head first into
the stinking pit There was a sudden silence broken only by the
little man's frightened wall as he fell with a thud and the
crack of small bones

Justin looked into the pit It was so deep that the black-
painted men, lit by the flames from a huge fire pit. seemed to
swarm like rodents far below There were no stairs leading to
the metal door from the depths of the cellar, only a worn rope
ladder rolled into a scroll at its top

The Resignation                417

The pil was at one end of the comdor Justin reasoned that
the room on the other end, where the faint fight glowed, must
be the one in which Vaqa waited He walked slowly toward the
light

As he neared, the light grew brighter With an unseen evil
force that made the hair on his neck stand on end. the dim
flickering light pulsated and brightened until it spilled out of
the incense-filled room like a vague, shapeless entity

Justin stopped, frozen The light expanded, seeming to take
on a life of its own, as it moved from the room into the
comdor The area where Justin stood, once nearly black with
darkness was now awash with a blinding cold light that
moved, slowly and inexorably, toward him

In the center of the light was a vision A dream, Justm
thought, a tnck of the eyes But he knew it was no dream It
was Vana herself, iridescent, shimmering with pure. violent
light, more beautiful than any mortal woman

She was painted, as she had been on the night of Justih's
nte of manhood, with a third eye in the center of her forehead
But where he had once viewed her as disgusting, he now
found her irresistible The third eye was the focus of the light It
was blackness, the beginning It was the center of Vaqa^s
death-nurtured spirit

'You sought to bum me with your pitiful fire," she said
mockingly

Justm could not speak He tried to turn dway, but the light
that bumed from her compelled him to look Her beauty was
lemfymg. hypnotic It earned the eternal fascination of death

"You cannot bum me, fool " Her face, with its three eyes,
seemed to look into his very soul and judge it to be
contemptible "You know that you are weak You have failed
in every poor attempt you have made against me The force
behind me is too strong for you. nameless, spineless man I
am too strong, and my pnnce is too strong He was strong
enough to kill the woman he loved She was the same woman
you loved, coward But you could not save her Or the
others You had to let them all die In the end, it was your
weakness that killed them " She pointed a finger at Justin
He sank, groaning, to his knees

"Would you like to see fire9" She smiled, and the smile
grew into a loud. sadistic laugh "Here is your fire "

She held out her hand A spark flew from the tips of her

418 GRANDMASTER

fingers and gathered into a bail, growing as it rolled at
tremendous speed toward Justin It filled the corridor There
was no place for him lo hide from it

His clothes ignited instantly when the fire touched him,
burning his skin like a bucketful of boiling oil Screaming, he fell
back into the pit He landed atop the lifeless body of the monk

"KiH him," she breathed, so softly that it was less a
spoken command than a thought Then she said the words.
again, shrilly "Kill him' '

She raised her arms, and a wall of flame rose up in the pit;

encircling the terrified men "Kill him or die in the flames of
my anger'"

As the men watched, still unable to comprehend the power-
ful magic they had JUS! witnessed, the luminous vision of
Var|a the goddess disappeared In its place was blackness and
emptiness—a closed metal door She had never been Yet the
flames were real

The men shouted, running wildly to put out the fire, but it
surrounded them One of them approached Justin, pulling a
long-bladed knife out of his waist wrap He spoke a bastard
version of Hindi "You have done this to us "

Another followed him, also unsheathing his knife "Kill
him," he said 'The goddess will put out the fire when he is
dead "

"She cares nothing for you," Justin said "You are merely
a horde of murdering beasts, and death by fire is too good for
you "

"Kill him'"

"You will not kill me as easily as you killed the helpless
women on the steppes You " He pointed at the leader
"Fight me "

The man's dirty face broke into a gnn "I'll fight you And
I'll kill you, too "

"Try," Justin said

The leader jabbed, long and quick Just before the knife
touched Justin, he kicked the blade out of the man's hand,
caught it, and in the same motion slit open the man's throat

"For the women you butchered," he said

He took the second man by the arm, broke it behind the
man's back, and threw him into the flames

A third bludgeoned him from behind Justin felt the club a
moment before it struck, and flattened himself on the floor to

The Resignation                419

escape the blow It was a mistake In his prone position, the
men were on him in a swarm A dirty heel ground into his
hand, tearing off the burned skin Beneath it, Justm's raw
flesh lay exposed and bleeding

As he tned to get up, another of the black-painted men
kicked him A third doubled his fists together and slammed
Justin on the side of the head Two strong arms grabbed him
from behind and lifted him to his feet As Justin opened his
eyes, he saw the tallest of the mob, a giant more than seven
feet in height come at him with a knife glistening m his
sweat-shiny hand

He lunged for Justm's heart Justin wnggled free, but not
in time to miss the sharp point of the blade It struck deep in
his side, ripping open his flesh in a spurt of blood Justin
moaned He slumped in the first man's arms as the tall man
stood back, watching

Justin lay still His breathing ebbed and finally stopped
The old voices called to him again in the darkening recesses
of his consciousness Come back, Justin Come back, hide
with your fears and weakness

The tall man, gasping for breath in the airless pit, raised his
arms and shouted above the din of the men "Vaqa' Our
goddess and protectress, we have done your bidding The one
you cail your enemy is dead Stop your fire of wrath Permit
your servants to live ''

There was no answer The black metal door remained
closed

The man holding Justin threw his limp body to the dirt
floor "Cut him to pieces," he hissed "Let nothing of him
remain Then will the goddess be satisfied "

Come back to us, the voices called, where it is safe and
warm and forgetting This life is too hard Come back now,
and when you die, there will be no more pain no more
suffering Allow yourself to find some comfort, some peace,
some rest

But then another voice spoke, Jamng and uncomfortable It
was Tagore's voice, as clear as if the old man were himself
present Whereas Vaqa manifested her power in resplendent
light, Tagore's voice came from a pure void But Vaqa's
light was centered around the bottomless darkness of her third
eye The darkness of Tagore's presence was focused around a

420 GRANDMASTER

pinpoint of shimmering light Justin's mind followed the light in
the darkness, willing himself nearer Tagore.

"I hear you, teacher," he whispered

Who are you?

"I am no one. I am nothing."

Do you/ear death?

"No, master. I welcome it."

But you fear life.

"I . . I cannot live. Varja's magic is too strong "

Then you believe in magic?

"I believe in all things now, my teacher- All is possible."

What is karma?

"A circle, master."

Past and present . . .

"The same."

Yin and yang. good and evil, light and darkness . . .

"The same."

Life and death?

The light was very close now.

"The same. my teacher."

Justin was bathed in light. But it was not Varja's blinding,
fearful light of destruction. It was, instead, the light of the
sun reflected on a rippling lake, and the cloudless sky of
summer, and the sparkle in the eyes of an infant. And into-
this light came Tagore, again living and whole, his arms
outstretched to Justin.

Come to me now, Patanjali, and embrace life. For now are
you truly the Wearer of the Blue Hat, the bearer of light in
the darkness. If you do not fear death, then you cannot fear
life. Go forth and do what you must. For life.

Justin walked into Tagore's arms. The old man's spirit
suffused him with a calm power, pure and perfect. For a
moment, Justin felt as if he were not made of flesh at all, but
solid energy. He opened his eyes.

His own blood was everywhere. The tall man was with-
drawing his dagger from Justin's chest.

"He's still alive!" one of the men cried.

"Surely this is no mortal,"

"Try again. You have missed his heart."

The tall man lunged.

If you do not fear death, then you cannot fear life.

Uncoiling, Justin sprang upward, knocking the knife out

The Resignation                421

of the man's hand. He saw his own blood spatter on the faces
of his astonished attackers and sizzle on the hot stone floor.
With a slap, he sent the tall man sprawling to the ground. He
kicked out instinctively behind him. One of the men fell,
doubled over. Justin made his way through the mob like a
spirit, unfeeling, mindless of the airless heat, smashing what-
ever was in his way.

One of the men ran toward him, crouching. Justin leaped,
spinning, to land on the man's back. From there, he cata-
pulted himself onto the stone wall, now dry from the tongues
of flame that licked up its sides, and clung to it. The stone
was blisteringly hot, and there was no air to breathe except
the sooty black film that rose from the licking flames, but
Justin felt nothing anymore. He had chosen life, with its pain
and suffering and defeat. He was not afraid.

Those who were still conscious watched with amazement
as the dying man inched his way upward over the rough, hot
stone. He was surrounded by flames, and the trail of his
blood flowed beneath him, drying from the heat before it
reached the floor.

"He, too, is a god," someone whispered.

He was answered by a deafening roar as the flames burst in
an explosion of fire. The screams of the burning, suffocating
men filled the pit with a horrible din as they scratched at the
stone walls. The body of the monk had been consumed by
flames, and the smell of burning flesh was acnd and nauseating.
Justin felt his own legs burning, but he continued to climb,
one hand, one foot after the other.

He reached the top. Swinging his legs to the ledge at the
base of the iron door, he pulled himself erect, and with his
blistered, skinless hands, opened the door.

The rush of incoming air gave new life to the fire below.
The bodies of the men were completely engulfed in fire.
Only their dying moans could be heard now, and the sight
was a vision of the disembodied spirits of a Christian
hell

For a moment, he wondered if his own afterlife would
resemble the scene in me fire pit. It was no less than he
deserved. Varja has destroyed by fire everything I have ever
loved, he thought. It was the way of the Black Hats, consuming,
complete. She and her kind could never see the magic of
water that melts rock, or of running sap in spring, or of the

422 GRANDMASTER

sweet sky at morning. The magic of the Blue Hat is small
compared with hers. Will my soul, with its broken karma, be
made to burn also?

He walked back into the corridor. Although the flames
were already licking at the opening, it felt cool to him. He
walked toward the dim, flickering light in the room at the end
of the hallway. As he approached, he could hear the faint
tinkling of a bell. It seemed to call to him, beckoning him
with its shrill, mocking beauty.

He was tired, so tired. The effort in the fire pit had
exhausted him- His wounds hurt. His head slumped with
weakness. Inside the room, he knew. Varja and Zharkov
would be waiting for him. He had nothing left to fight them
with. Zharkov was a strong man, and Varia's magic was the
magic of the Black Hats. Justin had no weapon but the peace
Tagore had finally placed in his heart. The effort of a lifetime,
he thought sadly, had been for nothing. But he was not
afraid.

This is where it will end.

The thought did not anger him. There was no more hatred
in his heart. Tagore and the others have died, just as I myself
shall soon die. Zharkov, too. will be ashes in a blink of
Brahma's eye and, in time, even Varja herself will fade into
oblivion. He remembered a prayer he had recited as a boy at
Rashimpur:

All winds, all seas,

all the heavens and earth will grow
and die and pass away to nothing.
I give myself up to the eternal sands.

He walked into the high, vaulted room. The sound of the
bell solidified into a pinpoint of black in the center of the
room. Around the darkness grew the cold, unearthly light
Justin had seen before. Out of the light grew the magnificent
image of Varja the goddess, triumphant in her victory. And
beside her stood Zharkov, the Prince of Death, his hooded
eyes gleaming with malicious strength, his body clothed in
silver.

"Where is your magic. Wearer of the Blue Hat?" Varja
teased.

"I have no magic," Justin answered.

The Resignation                423

The goddess smiled. "You are dying. You cannot even
heal yourself."

"If it is my destiny to die, then I will die."

Varja laughed. "Very v/ell. My prince will help your
destiny."

She looked at Zharkov, and1 the Prince of Death raised his
right hand high. In it, out of the darkness, appeared a gleam-
ing silver sword.

"Now," Varja commanded. "The world is yours. The
Wearer of the Blue Hat can fight you no more."

Zharkov brought the blade singing downward. Justin did
not resist. The sword struck him on his right wrist, severing
his hand. Justin looked at the bloody stump of his arm. The
pain was excruciating, but he did not cry out. if he was not
afraid to die, he would not be afraid to tive the moments
before his death.

The goddess's eyes were furious. "His hand?" she shrieked.
"Why did you not strike his head, his chest - - , ?"

"I tried," Zharkov said, bewildered. "The blade moved
itself."

"But his hand ..." She stared at the severed appendage,
her body trembling with loathing. Then. as the hand on the
floor began to glow, she whispered franlic incantations, back-
ing away until she was pressed against the wall. The words
spewed out of her mouth in a torrent-
No power came from her. The light that had surrounded
her and Zharkov dimmed and vanished.

But the hand, invisible beneath its golden light, began to
hiss.

"Patanjali," Varja sobbed. "Hail to thee . . . Hail to thee,
Wearer of the Blue Hat . . ."

The hand had been replaced by a coiled golden snake.

"Spare me," she whispered.

"As you spared Tagore?" Justin asked. "As you spared
Duma and the monks of Rashimpur? As your prince spared
everyone who had ever shown me kindness?"

"Then take him," Varja pleaded. "He is your enemy.
The man you call Zharkov was born in the same hour of the
same day of the same year as you. As you live, he shall live
as your opposite. Take him now to end the suffering of your
own life. I beg you ..."

But Justin no longer heard her- Another voice was speaking

424 GRANDMASTER

to him now, the same voice he had heard a lifetime before,
when a strange man had cornered a child in an alley in Paris.
It was Tagore's voice, asking the same question it had then.

Is it your will?

Justin looked at the coiled snake, understanding nothing
and everything. There was magic, but it was not his. It
belonged to the Wearer of the Blue Hat.

"It is my will." he said

The snake uncoiled. Darting swiftly as a lightning bolt, it
wrapped itself once around Varja's neck and struck in the
black center of her third eye.

Vaqa shuddered. A drop of bright blood appeared in the
middle of her forehead. She closed her eyes and seemed to
shrink before him. The smooth skin of her face began to
wrinkle and crack. Knotted veins stood out on the backs of
her hands. Her black hair turned white and fell out in matted
clumps. Her cheeks hollowed; her red-painted lips opened,
and she spat out the brown stubs of her teeth Then she sank
slowly, her brittle bones unable to support her, as her flesh
dned on her skull and the skull itself rolled onto the folds of
the sumptuous gown that lay rumpled on the floor, covered
by me ashes of a hundred thousand years.

And resting on her garment was a small snake the color of
pure gold.

When there was nothing left of her, the snake uncoiled
itself and slithered up Justin's body to his wnst, where it
wound itself around the stump tightly It glowed for a moment,
then was gone. In its place was Justin's restored hand.

Horrified. Zharkov turned panic-filled eyes toward Justin.
He brought the sword up high overhead and slashed down-
ward with all his strength Justin reached up and shattered the
blade. Silver shards sprayed around the chamber, tinkling like
a thousand bells.

Zharkov ran frantically from one end of the room to the
other- The fire had reached the main floor of the palace, and
the doorway of the vaulted chamber was filled with flames
licking at the inner walls. There was no escape except through
the wall of flame

Screaming, Zharkov rushed headlong into the fire.

Justin followed him, feeling the flames burning him, but
indifferent to the pain. Zharkov was straining at the door to
the white Sacred Chamber, but it had been sealed closed by

The Resignation                425

the fire. When he saw Justin, he did not run- Instead, with a
look of bitter resignation, he squared his shoulders and brought
himself to full height to face him.

His lips were dry and cracked Sweat poured over his face
in a sheet. But the hooded reptilian eyes were cold; he was
again in control of himself. He swallowed to compose his
voice.

He is in great pain. Justin thought. But his dignity is
greater.

"Will you die now?" Zharkov asked.

Justin nodded slowly. "1 will die when you do. We are the
same, you and I. We always were."

Zharkov granted him a curt bow. It was a gesture one
might use at the end of a game of chess, a civilized acknowl-
edgment of his opponent's superiority.

Their eyes met for one last time Then, without hesitation,
Zharkov walked to the open metal doorway leading to the
flesh-stinking pit and stepped through it

Justin saw a rush of flame and sparks, as Zharkov's body
struck the stone floor, but he heard nothing. The Pnnce of
Death had resigned honorably

Justin puiled at the door to the Sacred Chamber. It slid
open effortlessly. So there is still time to see Rashimpur
again, he thought. Thank you, spirits of the dead I will be
with you soon.

Outside, staggering numbly through the snow. Justin looked
back to see Varja's palace engulfed in flames It was finished
now; his work was complete. He turned toward Rashimpur. It
was a long journey, but he would make it. He would will
himself to live that long.

The lake at the base of Amne Xachim was frozen solid. He
was glad. He could not have swum it now, even with Tagore's
help His body was burned beyond healing. He had lost too
much blood, and the wounds in his side and chest were
beginning to fester.

He began the steep climb up the mountain on ail fours. By
the time he reached the first plateau, he was crawling, but he
continued. He was too close to Rashimpur; he could not die
now He would not permit even death to touch him until he
found his home

His vision was blurry, and he shivered with the cold So

426 GRANDMASTER

easy     so easy to die    He forced himself to cling to the
rocks and scrub grass that jutted out of the snow The cold on
his belly numbed the pain of his wounds AH the pain was
ebbing at last He knew he would see Rashimpur only for a
moment before he died, but a moment would be enough

When he saw the second lake and, beyond it, the stone face
of the ruined monastery, he staggered to his feet Stumbling
blindly along the rocky cliff, he fell, pulled himself up again,
fell once more, then lurched forward on the strength of his
arms alone, to go home

He crawled to the massive stone doors and, shaking vio-
lently with the last of his strength, pulled himself upright

"Tagore, I have come home," he whispered With an
effort greater than any he had ever made, he opened the door

His face drained of color The trembling in his limbs stilled
to numb shock For in the center of the Great Hati, among the
charred rums and the dusty skeletons of the dead, stood the
Tree of the Thousand Wisdoms, whole and in full leaf, as it
had stood since the beginning of time

He did not realize for several minutes that tears were
streaming down his face It was as Tagore had said Nothing
can destroy the Tree It was life itself, and no army on earth
could kill it

Haltingly, he walked forward and knelt beside the tree The.
bark was hard and dark with winter Justm remembered learn
ing of the change of seasons from the tree, and the beauty of
color, and the patience to grow, as the tree had, without
notice or admiration The tree was, is, will be, and so life
would endure forever

Tagore knew He had always known But Justm had never
been able to understand until now. at the moment of his
death, that some magic cannot die Somewhere birds were
singing the songs of the universe Somewhere in winter's
cold, a seed was waiting to be bom. its magic coiled deep
inside it, ready to burst forth when its time came The world
was full of magic, and it was vastly more powerful than any
wizard's

"I understand, Tagore," Justm said, weeping "I have not
been cast out I belong, too "

A leaf fell from me tree Justm caught it, clutching it in his
shaking hands A warmth spread through him, soothing him,
calming his fears When he opened his hand, he saw that the

The Resignation                427

leaf was withered The blisters on his fingers were gone The
wounds on his body were healed

With a sob, he prostrated himself on the floor "Tagore'"
he shouted "I will rebuild this place There is no death, no
end I will make a beginning For you For the others I will
live, and there will be another PatanJali after me, and Rashimpur
will never die, and there will be magic, always, forever, as
long as there is life And we will fight death, however it
comes "

He opened his eyes And then he saw it, standing small and
dark at the base of the tree a chess piece, carved from a scrap
of wood found behind a shack outside a Polish village

Justin felt a cold rush of air fill his lungs How could it be^
Zharkov had died Twice Once on the cliffs in Cuba, again
in the fire pit of Vaqa's palace

We are the same, you and I We always were

The realization struck Justm like a physical blow If he was.
alive, then so was his opposite The Pnnce of Death was still
waiting, still searching, still living out his destiny with the
Grandmaster For good to exist, so must evil

He picked up the piece It was the black king

The game was not over

It would never be over

From outside, a soft breeze carrying the scent of almonds
stirred the air

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

A New Jersey native. Warren Murphy is a fanner journal-
ist and author of more than seventy novels including the
bestselling DESTROYER series, which has been translated
into nine languages.

Born in Tokyo, Molly Cochran is the author of sixteen
books, including twelve pseudonymous adventure novels
and four nonfiction books, among them the bestselling
DRESSING THIN.

Murphy and Cochran are married and live in Teaneck,
New Jersey.