Grandmaster (49 page)

"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 chessboard 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 while 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 told 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 had not been 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 lost to Gilead. 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 consolidating his power in the Soviet Union, regularly bringing new people to his side in case there would 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 recover from its role in his assassination, a role that would be proven when Andrew Starcher was thrust into the role of killer.

And Justin Gilead would die. He would entrust that death no longer to underlings. He would kill Gilead himself.

The Grandmaster would lose, once and for all, just as he would lose this game.

Zharkov contemplated the board for only a few minutes and then leaped one of his knights forward deep into Gilead's territory.

The Grandmaster looked at the move and immediately conceded its strength. Gilead had come out of the opening with equality, but Zharkov was now preparing to mass his attacking men on the side of the board in front of Gilead's king preparatory to launching a killer attack. It was a bold stroke, and it would take elaborate planning on Justin's part to refute it.

Planning. There was an old chess rule that even a bad plan was better than no plan at all. In this case, however, a bad plan from Justin would have been as fatal as no plan at all. He needed a plan good enough to repel the coming attack and to leave his own pieces coordinated enough to move forward into an attack position of their own.

Planning. It had always been the key to Zharkov's life, Justin thought. Zharkov had planned on getting the defenders of Rashimpur away from the mountain monastery by sending that lone patrol of soldiers up the slopes. And Justin had fallen into the trap. While he was down at the base of the mountain, dealing with that patrol, Zharkov had moved his main body of men into the monastery and slaughtered the priests of the temple. It had been Justin's fault. He had not planned, and he had not considered the plan of another.

He could not afford that mistake now. Not in this game; not in this life. He would have to find Andrew Starcher. There were the Kutsenkos to consider as well. And there was whatever scheme Nichevo had planned in Havana. Those plans had to be dealt with.

And Justin had his own plans.

First Zharkov's death. And then his own.

It was time to complete the circle, to end the life he had not wanted to live. His karma was hopelessly ruined; there were too many deaths on his hands. It was time to die and hope that someday a real Patanjali might live, one who would not soil the honor of the name and the worth of the office of the Wearer of the Blue Hat.

But first the game. He glanced surreptitiously at his clock and knew that he would be in time trouble before this game ended. He had already used up too much time. He studied the position one more time, and thought with a sinking feeling of apprehension that he was not familiar with it. If there was a trap in there that Zharkov knew, he did not see it, and so he could only play on general principles, could only make the move that nine out of ten times would be a correct defensive move, and hope that this game was not an example of the tenth case when such a move was doomed to fail.

He pushed forward the pawn in front of his king rook square one space and lightly tapped the clock to start Zharkov's time running.

Time. He hoped he had time. Time for this game. Time to find Starcher. Time for all the things he had to do.

 

T
he defense was feeble. Justin Gilead's attempts
at defense against him had always been feeble. Zharkov looked at the unnatural pawn structure in front of Gilead's king. They were men to be sacrificed, those pawns, Zharkov thought. Just as sacrifices had always saved Gilead. The monks, the people in that Polish village, the woman Zharkov had killed. All had been pawns; all sacrificed so that Gilead could escape. Until now.

Zharkov glanced at the clock. He had over eighty minutes left on his clock; Gilead had only fifteen. The Grandmaster had been playing quickly to try to conserve his time, but the rapidity of his moves and Zharkov's greater knowledge of these new lines had led Gilead to a position that was growing steadily more precarious.

Almost casually, Zharkov moved a knight forward and captured one of Gilead's pawns, breaking the barrier that had separated the Grandmaster's king from the full fury of Zharkov's attack.

Now the knight was vulnerable to recapture. Gilead's pawn would take it, and Zharkov would have sacrificed a knight for only a pawn, because in the process he would be able to launch an irresistible attack. He casually pressed down the button atop the chess clock, and as he did, he thought of Maria Lozovan. She had been sacrificed, too. It had been a game of pawns, after all.

He looked up, hoping to meet Gilead's eyes, hoping to mock him now in the final moments of his losing struggle. But Gilead's head was bent down over the chessboard, and all Zharkov could see was the hair so black it seemed almost blue. It was the way he had first seen Justin Gilead, as a young boy, bent over, his concentration focused totally on the board.

There was nothing left for Gilead, Zharkov knew. He was going to lose.

Justin knew it, too. He had no time. His plan had not worked. He had neglected chess for five years, and his knowledge of recent developments was too spotty.

And then he realized that he was wrong. The greatest thing of all still remained, and it was still on his side.

When time was short, when strategies proved valueless, when tactics had failed, when rote learning and memory had been exceeded, there was always one thing left. There was life. There was an innate sense of power and force and lines that rendered all the other factors in a chess game meaningless. There was the genius of survival, and there was the power of life.

      Even as he thought that, Gilead felt a warm glow come over his body. The short hairs on his forearms bristled, standing up with energy and excitement, and he stared at the board and let himself drift into the game. He let himself be merged with the pieces, become a part of the board, and suddenly he was no longer a chess player looking down from a safe distance at the war of two wooden armies; he was
in
the armies and
of
them, and their struggle was his, and their victory would be his. Because he would live.

You are the game.

As if it were a flash of light, the sequence came now to Justin. His queen still lived. Many smaller, less powerful pieces had been traded, but his queen—the most powerful piece on the board—still lived, and she would not let her king die. It is not a game of pawns, he thought. It is never a game of pawns.

He no longer calculated; he no longer planned what response he would make to whatever move Zharkov showed him. He was the game, and he would move the game where he wanted it to move; he would make of it what he wanted it to be.

He moved his queen across the board in a long line to protect his king. He was the game. His hand reached out and touched the clock.

 

Z
harkov responded immediately
. The Russian thought that the queen move was a blunder and that Gilead now must surely lose a piece to Zharkov's marauding advancing knight. He moved that knight, attacking two pieces simultaneously.

He touched his clock, but his hand had barely moved away from the clock control when Justin moved and turned on Zharkov's clock again. So quick was Justin's motion that their fingers almost touched above the clock.

Zharkov looked across at Gilead. The Grandmaster no longer had his head down; he was looking up, but he was looking past Zharkov at a point in space far beyond the Russian. If it had been another man, Zharkov would have said he was daydreaming, but he knew that Justin Gilead was not doing that.

Justin had moved his queen again, and Zharkov now could pick off Justin's rook.

His hand reached out to make the capture, and then he stopped. He had plenty of time left; he should analyze the position carefully, in case Gilead had some kind of trap planned.

He lowered his head over the chessboard and began to calculate.

 

Y
ou 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. He would trust the pieces to find those lines and to march his army of men along them, and he would go where the game took him. Because he was the game.

Zharkov moved.

Justin responded immediately.

Zharkov pondered and moved again.

Justin's answering move was done with but a second passing on the clock.

Justin now looked at the board only to see where Zharkov had moved. He spent the rest of his time staring out into space, seeing the position in his mind, letting the pieces move along their chosen paths.

He had now lost a pawn and a rook. In a different game against a different player he would have resigned. The difference in material was too great to make up in an ordinary game. But this was no ordinary game. This was life.

The queen,
the pieces of the board whispered to Justin. Now, we move our queen into his camp.

When Zharkov moved again, Justin immediately responded, slashing forward with his queen, attacking Zharkov's pawn position.

 

T
he queen was defenseless. It could be taken by two of Zharkov's pawns
. The Russian looked at the move in astonishment. Gilead had blundered away any chance for the game.

Take the queen. Zharkov would be ahead by a rook, a pawn, and a queen. Hardly anyone who knew where the pieces were placed on the board could lose with that kind of advantage.

He reached to capture the queen with his pawn. He hesitated and looked at Gilead. Justin was looking in his direction but did not see him. His eyes were again fixed on something in the distance, and Zharkov knew that if he turned and followed Justin's eyes, he would see nothing there. Because what Justin was looking at was not of the world they occupied. He was seeing into the heart and soul of the game they were playing. Seeing as perhaps no man had ever seen before.

For the first time, Zharkov felt doubt insinuate itself into his mind. He glanced at his clock. He now had only twenty-five minutes left. Justin still had thirteen. The Grandmaster had made his last eight moves in less than two minutes. He no longer thought about the game, about the strategy, about the tactics or the complications. He only moved, move after inexorable move, counting on the game to play itself.

Zharkov cursed under his breath and took the queen. Mysticism was fine, but this was chess, the real world. Let Justin Gilead play the game without queen or rook or pawn. Let him try to find a win in that. Triumphantly he took the queen and savagely hit the button atop the clock.

 

T
he queen had done her job
. She had protected Justin Gilead's king from Zharkov's attack, refusing to let the king fall before the Russian onslaught.

And now the rook.
Without thought, without calculation, Justin moved the rook over in front of Zharkov's king and checked it. The rook could not be taken because it was protected by Justin's remaining bishop. There was only one move for Zharkov, to put his king into the corner.

He made the move immediately because there was no need to waste time studying moves when there was only one move to make.

As soon as he did, Justin moved his rook across the board, capturing one of Zharkov's pieces. As he moved the rook, it exposed the long diagonal across the board and again checked Zharkov's king, which was in line with Justin's bishop. Zharkov again had only one move, to return the king to the square it had just fled.

As soon as he did, Justin brought his rook back in front of the king and checked it again. Again, Zharkov could not take it because it was protected by the bishop, and again, he had only one move. Into the corner.

Once more, Justin slid his rook along the length of the board, uncovering a check by the bishop. He brought the rook down on the square occupied by Zharkov's own rook. Another Russian piece had fallen.

Too late, Zharkov saw what had happened. Justin Gilead's pieces were so placed that his rook could swing back and forth across the board, move after move, first checking Zharkov's king, then capturing a piece, then checking the king and capturing another piece, until Zharkov was so far behind in material that there was nothing left for him.