Strategic Moves (7 page)

"What do you mean?" Krylov returned, staring darkly at Frank.

"Why are you so insistent that Ziggy and Petra remain in the open?" Frank watched closely for a reaction from Krylov but saw none.

"It is best this way," the veteran spy replied evenly.

"For whom? For you? You're using two Russian teenagers as bait to lure this new terrorist group out in the open," Frank said bluntly.

"Frank!" the Gray Man cried out.

Krylov hesitated, then laughed. "You have seen too many American spy movies, my friend."

Krylov took a deep breath, smiled, and spoke in a soft voice that carried the weight and authority of an experienced spy who had survived the cold war.

"The world is not yet stable. If anything happens to Pyotr Zigonev, the Russian people will demand immediate and possibly irrevocable action. Our countries will once again be in a perpetual state of nuclear paranoia. The slightest nervous twitch from either side could send the world up in a nightmare of nuclear war."

They rode in separate cars back to Brasenose: Frank and Joe with Fitzhugh and the Gray Man, Ziggy, and Petra with Krylov.

Frank mulled over Krylov's doomsday prophecy of increased world tensions if anything happened to Ziggy. Or is Ziggy the real target? Frank asked himself. Just who is Sergei Zigonev, what is this classified communications link, and why is it so important?

Once back at Brasenose, Fitzhugh wanted to assign Aleksandr to Ziggy's room and move Frank out, but Joe was able to persuade the British agent to move Joe into the room and leave Aleksandr in his own room, next door. That way, Frank and Joe would be there if Ziggy needed protection.

A reluctant Fitzhugh had a cot moved into the room.

They had arrived back at Brasenose at five-thirty. Fitzhugh had provided a weak but adequate reason for the absence of the four teenagers from their afternoon classes: they had been special guests of Fitzhugh for an afternoon tea.

The shattered gargoyle had been cleaned up, and the college had returned to normalcy.

The four teenagers ate in the Brasenose dining hall, joined by Katrina and Aleksandr. Aleksandr's face was bruised from his spill on the sidewalk, and he avoided looking at Frank and Joe during the meal.

Joe was disappointed when Petra announced that she was going to turn in early. She and Katrina excused themselves and left the Hardys, Ziggy, and Aleksandr at the dining table.

"I think Joe likes my sister," Ziggy mused, nudging Frank to look at his brother.

Joe suddenly realized that he was staring after Petra and turned his gaze to his cup of tea.

"You do realize, Joe," Frank teased, "that you two live half a world apart, not to mention that she's got more class than you."

"Knock it off," Joe fired back, frowning.

Ziggy laughed.

"Where did you go after the accident?" Frank asked Aleksandr.

"That is none of your business," Aleksandr replied sternly.

"Got something to hide?" Joe added, lifting his eyes from his tea to stare at Aleksandr.

Aleksandr returned Joe's steely stare but said nothing.

"Why were you listening at the door last night?" Frank continued.

"I did not know you and did not trust you," Aleksandr replied. He lifted his glass and drank some water. "Now that I do know you, I still do not trust you."

"Why?" Ziggy spoke up, angry. "What have they done? Joe saved your life."

"They are Americans," Aleksandr spit out. "That is enough."

"That might have been a good enough answer five years ago," Ziggy shot back. "But it is not good enough now. Your attitude is as archaic as the Berlin Wall."

Aleksandr threw his napkin on the table. "The wall served a useful purpose." He rose and stormed away from the table, bumping into several empty chairs, nearly tipping them over.

"Touchy," Joe said with a smirk.

"He is living in the past," Ziggy said, looking down at the table. "He wants the iron curtain back. The gray matter between his ears is rusted iron, not brains."

Frank laughed. Ziggy looked up, and the tension on his face melted into a smile.

"Krylov said there was some dissent in your country over the reforms your government is implementing," Frank stated.

"Yes, much more than you may realize. There has been talk of civil war." Ziggy picked up his tea and drank.

"Is that why the communications link between the Soviet Union and the United States is so important?" Frank asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

Ziggy smiled. "You must be a good chess player, Frank. You have an unnerving way of asking small questions to achieve big answers. However," Ziggy continued with a sigh, "I do not know what my father's negotiations involve. Excellent try, though." Ziggy rose. "I need to shower."

They walked in silence back to the second floor room. Frank stopped and knocked on Aleksandr's door, but no one answered. Frank wasn't so sure that the room was empty, though.

Ziggy took a shower while Joe made up his cot.

"This cot isn't going to be comfortable," Joe remarked. He smoothed out the wrinkles in his sheet. "You going to explain it to me or what?"

"What are you talking about?" Frank asked. He lay on his bed, his legs crossed, his hands locked behind his head.

"Why didn't you mention the lighter to the Gray Man?" Joe stared at his brother.

Frank continued to lie on the bed. He took the lighter from his pocket. It was an old silver Zippo. He flipped the lid open, flicked the roller with his thumb, and watched as a flint spark set the alcohol-soaked wick on fire. He let it burn, then flipped the lid shut.

"I think the Gray Man is lying. Or he knows more than he's willing to tell," Frank said, returning the lighter to his pocket.

"Evidence?" Joe asked.

"Hunch. If there's one person who would know that St. Armand was a Network undercover agent, it's the Gray Man."

"Maybe Fitzhugh also knew," Joe added, testing the strength of his cot by sitting on it and then bouncing a little.

"After learning that Fitzhugh is a BCI agent, I wouldn't doubt if this place was crawling with agents," Frank said.

"And I still don't trust Aleksandr," Frank continued. "Twice today we saw Aleksandr get angry. First when the gargoyle fell, and then at the dinner table."

"I don't think he likes Americans," Joe said, satisfied that the cot would hold him.

"He had no reason to be angry," Frank said. "Unless we're not all on the same side."

Joe shot Frank a knowing look.

Ziggy emerged from the shower dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, his wet hair sticking up in spikes in all directions.

"Hey, Frank," Ziggy said, toweling dry his head. "Would you like to play chess?"

"Yeah, right," Frank said wryly.

"I'll spot you my bishops," Ziggy offered seriously.

"I don't mind sympathy," Frank said, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and standing, "but I don't take pity from anybody. Get out the chess set." Frank smiled at his opponent.

A knock diverted their attention to the old wooden door of the room.

Joe hopped up from the cot. "I'll get it," he said in a low voice.

"Wait," Frank whispered, and he moved to one side of the door.

Joe waited until Frank was in position next to the door, then opened it.

Petra stood in the hallway, sleepy-eyed and smiling.

"Hello. I couldn't asleep," she explained.

Frank relaxed and returned to help Ziggy set up the chess set on the room's lone desk.

"Come in," Joe said without hesitation.

"Thanks." Petra walked into the room, and Joe shut the door.

"Where's Katrina?" Ziggy asked.

"She is asleep," Petra replied.

"You walked over here by yourself?" Joe's voice and eyes showed concern.

"I know I shouldn't have, but I wanted to talk to someone." Petra smiled. "Someone my age."

"I'm just what the doctor ordered," Joe replied.

"I see Ziggy has talked Frank into playing chess," Petra said with a nod toward the two players.

"Yeah," Joe replied as he pulled two chairs around to face each other. "I was wondering how I was going to entertain myself while those two spent the next two hours playing - "

"It will not take me two hours," Ziggy announced, a mischievous look on his face.

"I'm going to send your pieces to chess heaven," Frank replied with confidence.

" - but now I have someone to talk to."

Joe and Petra sat.

"It is cold," Petra said with a shudder, crossing her arms.

"I'll turn up the furnace." Joe rose and walked over to the wall furnace. Brasenose had no central heating, only old furnaces fueled by natural gas.

Almost as cozy as a real fire, Joe thought. He returned to his chair. Petra had curled up in her chair, her legs tucked under, her arms crossed, her shy smile of thanks sending warm shivers through Joe.

"Hello," Ziggy said, holding out his hand to Frank as they sat across from each other. "My name is Sitting Bull, and you are General Custer, I presume. Welcome to Little Big Horn."

Frank only smiled. As white, he moved first.

He placed his king pawn in king four position. A typical opening move. Ziggy countered with the same but opposite move with his black pawn.

"Give up," Ziggy joked.

"Die, Russian dog," Frank fired back, moving his queen knight directly in front of Ziggy's pawn.

"I don't know if I can take all this excitement," Joe said. "Ziggy seems more like a showman than a champion chess player."

"I believe you call such behavior 'hamming it up,' " Petra said with a laugh. "This could take hours."

Joe smiled and thought, I hope so.

An hour passed quickly. Frank and Ziggy were malicious in their playing, intensely scheming before making each move, teasing each other, threatening each other. At times, Joe wondered if a chess match or a shouting contest was in progress.

Joe and Petra spent the time talking about American boys and Russian girls, rock and roll, and the trouble with parents.

Joe yawned in the middle of a sentence. "Excuse me," he said, embarrassed.

Petra covered her mouth as she yawned, too. "Must be contagious." She nodded toward Frank and Ziggy.

Joe noticed for the first time that the chess players were silent and wondered when the shouting had stopped. Their heads were lowered, and Frank and Ziggy looked as though they were asleep.

Joe turned back to Petra. She had fallen asleep. I'm losing my touch, Joe thought, a thin haze covering his eyes. He blinked and tried to shake himself awake. His head began to ache with a slight but persistent pounding around the temples.

Then he noticed the room was still cold.

Joe slowly turned his head toward the furnace. The fan was softly blowing. He stood, his legs going out from under him. As he fell, he hit a small tea table, then landed on the floor.

Sleep. He wanted to sleep.

He crawled and pulled his way to the furnace. He yanked on the small vent door at the bottom of the furnace. His fingers were numb, and he lost his grip on the metal knob. After several tries, the door sprang open.

Joe looked inside. The furnace was dark. No pilot light; no flame.

Joe's head felt heavy. He laid his head on the floor. He couldn't keep his eyes open. One thought kept trying to push its way through his brain before he lost consciousness. He had to shut off the gas before they all suffocated to death.

The voice was far away, an echo ricocheting inside his head like an errant bullet. Joe lifted and turned his head.

"Joe."

The voice was closer.

He opened his eyes. Petra was lying next to him, her eyes watery, her breathing shallow.

Joe pushed up, every fiber of his muscles screaming for oxygen. He crawled over to the window, grabbed the windowsill, and pulled himself up. His arms were leaden, tight, and stiff. Once he was on his feet, he tried to push the window up, but it was locked. He looked out through the panes.

Students strolling in the chilly evening were distorted by the glass and the foggy haze that drifted through Joe's mind.

Joe pounded on the window, but he was too weak to make any real noise. He looked down. Ziggy's wet towel was on the floor. He grabbed the towel and wrapped it around his hands. He held his breath, balled his hands together, brought them back over his head, and swung them forward in a swift, powerful arc.

His towel-covered-fists hit the window, shattering the glass. Clear shards fell to the sidewalk below and broke again. Several students turned at the bell-like sound of glass crashing on the concrete.

Joe hit the window again. More glass went flying out and down, hitting the concrete with a dull tinkling.

Fresh air poured into Joe's lungs, and he gasped for more.

"Help," he said, his voice barely audible. Joe leaned toward the broken window, his legs like warm taffy, his lungs on fire, his head swimming in a dark nightmare of fog and distortion. He took a deep breath and screamed, "Help!"

Then he blacked out.