Grandmaster (51 page)

There were no signs of life from the cruiser. Starcher, if 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.

 

T
he 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 just said 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 radiophone call came, the agent would have to go outside the cabin to answer it. The phone was on the bulkhead a few feet outside the 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 corner.

Suppose he did knock the agent out? What then? Swimming to shore was out of the question. He couldn't swim well, and the exertion alone would kill 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 radiophone 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 his 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 himself 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 arm for protection. The pipe crunched into the 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 Starcher's belly.

"You American son of a bitch," he snarled in Russian. "The only thing keeping you alive is my orders."

Starcher lowered the pipe, just as low 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 in," Starcher said.

"And I'm sorry I didn't blow your brains out. You're making the trip to shore tied up."

As the agent lashed Starcher's wrists behind him with a length of rope he pulled from one of the cabin's lockers, Starcher asked, "Are you Nichevo too?"

"What's Nichevo?" 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 wrists. 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 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 right arm move. He heard a snap and then another snap, and then Justin 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 forward onto the floor.

Gilead stepped over him to undo the ropes around Starcher's wrists.

"How'd you do that?" Starcher asked.

"It's not important. Are you all right?"

"I'm okay. They're going to kill Fidel Castro," Starcher said.

"That's their plan?" The knots were tight on his wrists. Starcher heard Justin sigh, and then felt the ropes snap.

"Yeah," Starcher said. He rolled over and removed the remnants of rope from his wrists. The knots were intact. The heavy line had just been pulled apart.

"Why not let them?” Justin asked. “Castro's no friend of the United States."

 "Because they're planning to blame the killing on us. That's why they've been holding me. I was their prize exhibit. Crazed CIA assassin."

Gilead said, "They didn't even know you were coming. They didn't know who you were."

Starcher rubbed his wrists. 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 ago?

"That explains why they tried to kill me last 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?"

"Your friend at the waterfront bar heard about this boat. He told me. It's one you people owe him. Now, what's next?" 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-nineteen. Right away.' I imagine he was supposed to take me there. Probably at the José Marti. I guess they were going to set it up then."

"I think one of us should keep that appointment," Justin said.

"Sure," Starcher answered. "But how do we get out of here? We're surrounded by the whole Russian navy. How'd you get here, anyway, with those patrol boats?"

"I swam. You want to swim to shore?" Gilead asked with a smile.

"I wouldn't make it fifty feet," Starcher said.

"Then I guess we'll have to try something else."

 

H
air darkened by brown shoe polish and wearing
the KGB agent's blue suit jacket, Starcher stood at the boat's controls on the stern 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 the two men on the small boat yelled.

"All right," Gilead said softly from inside the small passageway 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."

"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 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 obviously 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 clanging 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.

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 José Marti Hotel.

 

 

"
Y
ou 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 José 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 Starcher 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?"