Grandmaster (52 page)

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 I fell overboard."

The guard looked at the picture on the passport, then at Justin and then checked his name on a list. Finally he returned the small blue passport folder. "Go ahead, Señor Gilead. But hurry. Fidel will be here within the hour."

Justin put a handkerchief over the mouthpiece of the telephone 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, Justin spoke in a gravelly whisper. "Yuri?"

"Da."

"I'm bringing him up."

"Hurry."

Justin 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.

Justin 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.

Durganiv, taken by surprise, was hammered back against the wall. Justin 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 to the side, then drove his right foot up into Durganiv's kneecap. The bigger man screamed as his kneecap broke. He released his hold and sank toward the floor. Justin lunged behind him and wrapped his arms around Durganiv's throat.

"What is the plan?" he barked in the Russian's ear.

Durganiv did not speak, and Gilead applied more pressure. Durganiv could feel his neck stretching.

"Who are you?" Durganiv managed to sputter.

"Justin Gilead. The plan." He squeezed again, and Durganiv 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 Yuri's head backward until the bones in his neck cracked. The Russian's head lolled forward onto his chest.

Gilead dropped him and saw a high-powered rifle on the bed.

The utility room was locked, but Justin found the key in the Russian's trousers. He opened the door and then, moving quickly while no one was in the corridor, carried Durganiv and the rifle into the washroom and closed the door tightly behind himself. It was a small room. To make space, he pushed Durganiv's body into the big utility sink.

Overhead, a piece of Masonite had been mounted on the wall. Justin drove his fingers through a corner of it 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 pouring 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 Durganiv's own gun.

"Good plan," Justin mumbled to himself as he slipped back into the washroom. He hoisted Durganiv's heavy body up into the opening, then climbed in after it, carrying the rifle 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 rifle 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 Masonite 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 covering the hole in the wall.

Then the Grandmaster locked the door behind him and walked down to his room to change for dinner.

 

Y
uri was in place.

Alexander Zharkov sat in the front of the ballroom at one 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 Fidel Castro.

Zharkov glanced at his watch. Twenty minutes before Castro 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 ring 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 Keverin, 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 wait now.

And if the Grandmaster did show up, Zharkov would deal with Justin Gilead when Castro was killed and Cuban troops started firing into that ventilator shaft, ripping apart Starcher's already dead 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 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 imagined that he could see Yuri Durganiv lying there, the rifle 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 Premier 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 Justin Gilead warmly. "You're at table five on the other side of the room," he said with a practiced, gracious smile.

"Thank you," Justin 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 with a smile.

Justin smiled back and walked past Zharkov's table, ignoring the Russian and nodding to its other occupants, and sat in one of the empty seats at table five.

Keverin greeted him and introduced him to his second. The old Russian chess master nodded toward the empty chair. "Will your second be coming tonight?"

Justin shook his head. "I think he's off sight-seeing in Havana," he said. "I haven't been able to find him. Maybe too much rum."

"It's a curse, all right," Keverin 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," Keverin said. "I have not seen that exact attack since Alekhine in 1939."

"It was 1938," the Russian second said.

"It was '39," Keverin 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..."

"Fantasyland," Keverin snapped. "No wonder you don't know the year, because you don't know the game. It was the dragon variation 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 drifted around the room and met Zharkov s intense 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.

 

J
ustin heard sirens through the open doors of the ballroom
. A few minutes later Fidel Castro, wearing his ever-present combat fatigues, strode through the doorway as the small band in the rear of the room played the Cuban national anthem.

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.

Ignoring 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 at the table rose, and Castro greeted each warmly. Gilead had never seen him before and was surprised 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 maňana
," 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 eyes 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 of 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 "checkmate." "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 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 still 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 representing 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.