The game master, p.12
The Game Master, page 12
Well, Moses never got to enter the Promised Land either.
But the death of one egomaniacal game freak was a small price to pay when paradise hung in the balance.
41
BB raced up the stairs to the third level of the Bibliothèque. Linden trailed behind him, scanning the labels on the end of each shelf.
“The cutters are wrong,” he explained.
“That probably sounds more ominous than it is.”
“Cutters. The first two letters in a call number should indicate a category. The second line—the cutter—narrows it to a smaller subdivision. These don’t make any sense.”
“This is France, BB. They’re not using the Dewey Decimal System.”
“No kidding. Do you know how much time I’ve spent in libraries? The French call number system is based on the US Library of Congress system, which is employed by most of the great libraries today.” His eyes followed the labels on the shelves. “Here we are. These match.” He scanned the spines of the books. “The cutter GV1 brings us to Games and Recreations. Why am I not surprised?”
He pulled the book with the matching call number from the shelf. The Book of Games: Strategy, Tactics & History, by John Botermans. He opened to the center. The thick, hardbound, and richly illustrated book appeared to provide details on some of the great board games throughout history. In English.
Linden looked over his shoulder. “But the last three digits aren’t in the call number.”
“Page number.” He thumbed to the proper page. “The Siege of Paris. What do you know. Almost as if someone had read my article.”
“So what do we do now? Does your pass give you checkout privileges?”
“This is a reading library. No one has checkout privileges.”
“Then what do we do”
“Find a clue to where our daughter has been taken.” He scanned the page. Seemed like a straight-forward explanation of the game. He had this book at home and considered it one of the best and most beautiful discussions of classic games throughout history. Though he still preferred his own work on the Siege of Paris.
He scanned the discussion. Siege was best played by three players, unlike chess and checkers. One player led the white army, one the black, and one defended the citadel—the squared-off area in the center of the board. The two armies lined up on either end of the board, much as in chess. The colored circles in the center indicated where the citadel defender could place his pieces. The lines connecting the circles indicated how they could move.
The rest of the rules seemed clear and correct. The illustrations showed how each piece moved . . .
Wait a minute.
“What is it?” Linden asked. “You’ve noticed something. I can tell from that high-on-myself look in your eyes.”
“In this illustration. Something only someone familiar with the game would spot.” He pointed to the picture in question. “Each piece has different rules governing movement, and they rules are different for attacking pieces than for defending pieces. For the defending army pieces, the general can move one square in any direction, like the king in chess.”
“The colonel can only move one square forward, never diagonally. Like a chess pawn, without the en passant.”
“And the soldier can only move one square at a time diagonally.”
“No more than three soldiers can be on squares of the same color. Outside the citadel, a solider cannot move to a square of a different color. He must first return to the citadel—”
“I don’t need a lecture on game mechanics. What’s the point?”
“Look at the illustration at the bottom of the page. See how the arrow indicates the movement of the general?”
“Yeah. Three squares up or—” She stopped short. “But the general can only move one square at a time.”
“Exactly.” He moistened his fingertip, then lightly rubbed the blue arrow indicating the general’s movement. It came off.
“Someone added that.”
“For us to find.”
“But what’s the point?”
“To tell us where to go next, of course.” He replaced the book on the shelf. “Let’s get out of here.”
“No, first you explain.”
He felt a buzz in his pocket. He pulled out his phone and checked the countdown.
Only sixty-one hours left, the readout said.
Accompanied by a new photo of Kadey, looking even more desperate than before. Eyes wide and pleading. Begging him to come save her.
He could hear her voice thundering inside his head. Help me, Daddy. This time. Help me.
“We’ll talk later. Come on.” He turned toward the stairs—then froze.
“What is it?”
He nodded toward the lower level. “See any familiar faces?”
“Damn.”
Agent Palmer stood on the floor below, between the reading tables.
He pushed Linden back . . .
But not quickly enough. Palmer spotted them.
He grabbed Linden’s hand. “Run.”
42
Palmer watched them bolt. He turned left and ran toward the side stairs between the floor-to-ceiling book stacks.
“Police,” he shouted, then realized he was speaking the wrong language. Should he shout Sûreté? Gendarme? Perhaps the scholars in attendance had seen enough American films to grasp the meaning without translation. People were getting out of his way.
Except one. Palmer barreled around the end of the row of tables but did not see the large bespectacled man carrying a tall stack of books. At least not in time. They collided with a powerful and audible impact. Both dropped to the floor. Paper flew everywhere. Books rained down upon them. One hit Palmer in the head. It hurt.
He could see the report already. “Agent fatally injured by art history book.” No, he did not want that to be the last line in his file.
He scrambled back to his feet and headed toward the stairs. Above him, he saw that BB and Linden had descended to the second level. If he took the stairs, he’d lose them.
Each of the bottom tier of shelves had gold-handled ladders to allow access to the top shelves. Palmer leaped onto the fourth rung of the nearest ladder and jumped. He grabbed the guardrail on the second level and demonstrated why he started each day with 105 sit-ups.
He swung his feet and locked them on the second floor ledge. He’d made it to the second level in fewer than five seconds.
And he was just twenty seconds away from BB and Linden.
“Stop!” he shouted, knowing perfectly well they would not. And it didn’t matter. He’d just vaulted an entire library floor. He could catch a freaking poker player, not to mention his wife.
This time he had them.
43
“Hurry!”
BB pushed Linden forward so hard she almost tripped. He knew Palmer was right behind them, but the thin balcony beside the bookshelves, narrow and clogged with people and unshelved books, made it impossible to run.
He caught a glimpse inside Palmer’s jacket while the man did his Spider-Man act. Palmer was packing a gun. In France, even la Sûreté did not carry guns.
If Palmer got them, it was Game Over. He would haul them back to the States, or at the least incarcerate them locally, and they would never find Kadey. And if they didn’t, who would? Did any FBI agent know the rules to an eighteenth-century strategy game about the siege of Paris? Not likely.
He had to remain free. For Kadey’s sake.He had to stay in the game.
He turned and ran back toward Palmer, still hanging from the guardrail.
“What are you doing?” Linden screamed.
He grabbed a book and slammed it down on Palmer’s hands. Palmer winced but did not let go of the guardrail. He pounded again, this time even harder. Palmer shuffled his hands. He slammed the book down again. But Palmer did not let go.
Tough bastard. He hated to get nasty, but he didn’t see that he had any choice.
He kicked Palmer’s foot off the guardrail. The agent fell sideways, his chin banging against the guardrail.
A moment later, he reared back his foot and kicked Palmer through the ornate cast-iron decoration. His foot connected with the soft part of Palmer’s gut. He could see the man hurt, but he was still too stubborn to let go. Palmer would probably die of internal bleeding before he would let go.
Even though he had nothing beneath his feet, Palmer managed to pull his head over the top rail. Impressive. But unacceptable.
He reached into Palmer’s jacket. The agent had no hand free to stop him. He removed Palmer’s lighter.
“Don’t do it,” Palmer grunted.
“Sorry. No choice.” He flicked the lid and lit the flame. Then he held it next to Palmer’s left hand.
“You’re defacing architecture that goes back centuries,” Palmer grunted.
“Yes.”
“You could catch the whole building on fire. The Bibliothèque could go up like the library in Alexandria.”
“I think you’ll let go before then.” He hoped. But down on the ground floor, he saw three uniformed men enter the library. Their blue uniforms, gold buttons, and flat peaked hats told him they were gendarmes.
A librarian pointed upward. The gendarmes ran toward him.
They did not have much time.
Palmer’s flesh blackened. BB pressed the lighter all the way down on the man’s hand. His flesh began to bubble. It made a sickening popping sound.
Palmer still wouldn’t scream. But he did finally let go.
Palmer tumbled to the ground floor with a clatter, taking the ladder with him. Books tumbled down upon him. People screamed and moved away as quickly as they could. The gendarmes raced to his side.
He grabbed Linden’s arm. “Go.”
44
Palmer cursed under his breath. Another reason to hate France. Their stupid libraries with their stupid little ladders.
He scrambled to his feet. A little too quickly. The room spun around him. His head hurt and his hand burned and he’d twisted an ankle in the fall.
But he still wouldn’t let that damn poker player get away from him.
Hobbling on one foot, careful not to put too much weight on the damaged ankle, he sped toward the far north side of the reading room. The gendarmes tried to talk to him, but he flashed a badge and pushed them out of his way.
He’d checked the schematics of the building during the cab ride. BB would undoubtedly try to escape down one of the rear service staircases used for hauling books to the upper level shelves. From the ground floor he could escape through the rear exit. But he would have to backtrack. Palmer couldn’t get there first, but he still might be able to stop him before he escaped.
If the library security staff didn’t get in his way. Someone in what looked like the uniform of a museum security agent intercepted his path.
“Monsieur, pardonnez—”
Palmer ripped out his badge. “FBI. On detached service with the Sûreté. Move.”
The library agent drank it in quickly. “But monsieur—”
“Get out of my way.”
“But monsieur—”
He shoved the security agent back, hard. The man fell to the floor. A woman nearby gasped. The gendarmes rushed toward him, shouting words in that silly language he didn’t understand.
Good thing those boys don’t carry guns, he thought.
Yes, he would undoubtedly pay for this. But he didn’t have time to waste. And he’d rather explain his actions later knowing BB was under lock and key. They wouldn’t take extreme action. They thought they were chasing some low-level jerk who disturbed the peace in a public library.
He pushed through the stacks to the rear corridor, the service entrance for book transportation. This corridor would take him to the north side exit. A large flatbed pushcart rested in the hallway unattended.
He shoved off the books, pushed it like a scooter, then jumped on board.
Sprained ankle or not, he would head them off at the pass.
45
BB pulled Linden around the corner. He spotted a rear stairwell. They raced down, taking the steps three at a time, as fast as he could without falling on his face. Once they reached the ground level, they hung a sharp left and entered a service corridor.
Must be an exit around here, he mused. The books had to come in somewhere, and it wasn’t through the front door.
“I think I see the way out. Probably a loading dock.”
“And then what do we do?” Linden asked, huffing hard. “Hijack a truck?”
“We’ll work on that when we get there.”
“Why do I think this plan of yours was not brilliantly thought through?”
“Why do I think you like to complain?” He rounded another corner. “Oh yeah. Because you do.”
He pumped his thighs full throttle. He’d been working with a personal trainer the past year. He was convinced that a strong body meant a strong mind, and he was determined to have the strongest mind on earth. Hadn’t foreseen the possibility of library sprinting. But it proved the value of being prepared.
He reached the exit door.
Locked.
He pulled harder, clanging the handle, rattling it back and forth. Nothing. He threw himself against it. Didn’t even give.
“This is bad.”
“What do we do now?” Linden asked.
And at that moment, a pushcart at the far end of the hall rounded the corner and came barreling toward them.
Palmer steered the ride.
“Don’t go through that door!” Palmer pulled his gun. “Freeze!”
He pushed harder on the door handle. No movement at all.
Palmer fired.
The bullet ricocheted somewhere above their heads.
“Next one hits the target, BB,” Palmer shouted, speeding toward them. “I’m a very good shot.”
“You want us alive,” he shouted back.
“So I won’t hit a vital organ.”
“I have to find my daughter.”
“Then you shouldn’t have run.”
“I’m the only one who can do it.”
The cart screeched to a halt. “Don’t move.”
He gave the door another shove.
It opened.
An elderly man stood on the other side. “You should leave now if you care to live.”
He leaped through the door, dragging Linden behind him. Palmer fired. The stranger locked the door from the outside with a key.
The gun fired again. The bullets put bulges in the metal door, but did not penetrate.
“We don’t have much time,” the man said with a British accent. “It won’t take him long to shoot through that door.”
“How do I know we can trust you?”
The man appeared irritated and impatient. He moved toward the driver’s side of the sedan as he talked. “I believe your current options are rather limited.”
BB hesitated.
“You can’t find Kadey behind bars,” Linden said. “If we don’t get in that car—you’re out of the game.”
The elderly man gestured toward the backseat.
He glanced at the countdown on his cell phone.
They piled into the car and roared out onto the Ile de Richelieu.
46
Rani took a seat at the furthest table in the sidewalk café on the Rue de Porthos. The man in the opposite chair read today’s Le Monde. The paper obscured his face.
Her smooth face and sculpted nose gave her a profile she knew caught men’s eyes. Perhaps even the kind of profile that would cause some men to fail to exercise their best judgment.
She adjusted herself in the chair to avoid the eyes that had followed her since she entered the café. She did not want to attract attention. Except from the man she was here to see.
“How was your flight?” Chun’s voice came from the other side of the newspaper.
“Adequate.” She paused. “Is everything as it should be?”
“Confirmed.”
“Reactions to the developments yesterday with General Yoon?”
“As expected.”
“What about Ogilve?”
“He has no clue.”
“He did in Dubai.”
“His crystal ball has a limited range. And he has not had time to remedy the problem.”
“Why are you two old foes doing this?”
“Ogilve seeks the final element necessary to complete his plans. I seek to rearrange the map. We are like chess grandmasters, each repeatedly jumping a few moves ahead of the other. And every time a piece moves, the playing field changes. No one stays ahead for long. And no one achieves their goal.”
“Until someone does.”
“Yes. Until someone does.”
She could not miss the insinuative tone of his voice. Given what had happened recently in Pyongyang, his meaning could not be misunderstood.
“Tell me about Nevada. Your sister.”
She bowed her head. “I am . . . sorry. She failed. Though I trained her myself. Though her command of ancient weaponry is unparalleled.”
“There is no shame in this. Julian trained in Russia for more than a year. Perhaps she should consider more modern tactics.”
“I thought—to preserve the Order—”
“I understand. But next time, she might pack a pistol, just in case.”
“That is so noisy—”
“A stiletto then. As you do.”
She knew her cheeks reddened and it embarrassed her. “Why do they need this Game Master?”
“I can only speculate. But I am sure it relates to Ogilve’s ongoing efforts to thwart my new world order.”
“But you would bring—”
He raised a hand from the paper, stopping her. “His hatred goes far back, and to be fair, is understandable.” His eyes dropped for a moment. “I too have experienced the insidious means by which hardship can derange a man’s logic. Ogilve does not think rationally and has not for some time.” He turned a page in the paper. “And you say the game now continues here in Paris?”
