The game master, p.6
The Game Master, page 6
The applause that ensued gave him the greatest climax of his life.
#
After the debate, Vogel shook hands with his opponent, a pro forma gesture for the television cameras and photographers.
To his surprise, Beale held on to his hand even after the shaking ended.
“Nice work,” Beale murmured. “You continue to surprise me.”
He made sure no mikes were in range. “Just doing my job.”
“Your answer on that wheat-price question was brilliant. I couldn’t have given a response that detailed if I’d read it off a briefing paper. You’re going to see your numbers rise in the morning, damn it. How did you know that question was coming?”
“My advisor always makes me do thorough preparation.”
“Give me a break. You were all over that, and wheat prices have not been an issue in this campaign, ever. Not even tangentially. Who tipped you off? Did you bribe the PBS lady? Someone on your staff boinking the chairman of the League of Women Voters?”
The corner of his lips tugged upward. “Years of political experience have given me a certain degree of foresight.”
“Foresight? You must have a crystal ball.”
He released Beale’s hand. “No. Something much better.”
13
BB bolted through the door at the top of the stairwell. The roof was covered with a mixture of gravel and tar that stuck to his shoes. He felt as if he were wading through a sea of discarded bubble gum. He raced to the skylight. Peering downward, he obtained a clear aerial view of the seventh-floor office space below.
“Do you see it?” he asked, trying to quell the bubbling excitement in his voice. He knew he got overexcited sometimes. Linden had belittled him for it often enough.
Palmer glanced through the Plexiglas bubble. “So?”
“You see, but you do not observe. Look harder.”
Linden joined the rubberneckers. “Office floor. Workstations. Parquet floor.” There was a sudden catch in her throat. “Parquet floor.”
His eyes gleaned. “Anything seem familiar?”
“Stared at it every night. When we were married.”
Greenstreet squinted. “You stared at this floor?”
“No. Black and white alternating squares. From one end to the other.” Her lips pursed, something between a frown and an appreciative smile. “It’s a chessboard.”
“Not a fan?” Palmer said. “I thought all eggheads liked chess.”
“I despise chess. You would too, if you had to play him.”
“Reigning American grandmaster,” he reminded them.
“I could live with losing,” Linden explained. “It’s the gloating I couldn’t bear.”
“It was the losing you couldn’t bear,” he corrected. “The PhD couldn’t handle losing to a guy who never finished college.”
Greenstreet was the only one still staring at the floor. “Isn’t it too large to be a chessboard?”
“It is,” he said, returning to topic. “The entire floor is fourteen squares by sixteen. A chess or checkerboard is eight by eight. But that’s easy to fix. Pare away the excess squares in your head. Focus on the central eight by eight.”
“Okay, I think I’ve got it. Now what?”
“Notice anything unusual?”
“All the desks you slapped are inside the central area. The so-called chessboard.”
“Of course they are. The desks are markers. They tell you where the chess pieces go.”
“Is he entirely sane?” Palmer asked Linden.
“Entirely?” She pondered. “He’s eccentric. Obsessive. Unbelievably narcissistic, and with so little cause. But yes, probably sane. And very good at games.”
“Okay,” Greenstreet said, “so I imagine the center grid, and I put chess pieces on the squares with the relocated desks.”
“Exactly.”
“But what pieces?” He laid a hand on the nearest desk. “For instance, which piece goes on this one?”
BB made a split-second calculation, assigning colors to the desks. “Didn’t you tell me that belonged to the project head?”
“Yes.”
“Then he’s the king. We’ll make him the white king. Programmers, white. Physicists, black.”
“Okay,” Greenstreet continued. “So we’ve placed the white king. What about the assistant’s desk?”
“A female second-in-command? What do you think?”
“The queen.”
“Now you’re getting the idea.”
“And the other desk,” Palmer said. “The one that belongs to the errand boy?” He snapped his fingers. “He’s a pawn.”
“Exactly. So is the other programmer. I saw unsorted mail on his desk. If he sorts mail, he’s a pawn.”
“No other programmer desks were moved. Any other white pieces?”
“No. Let’s place the physicists. The black pieces. The head of the physicist team’s desk was moved.”
“The black king.”
“But she’s a woman.”
“If she’s the boss, she’s the king.”
“Then who’s the queen?”
“There isn’t one. That’s black’s problem.”
“Does the corpse count as a marker?”
“I assume the body was moved for a reason.”
“But there’s no corpse in chess. What piece do we place there?”
“What did you tell me his name was?”
“Da—” Greenstreet released a slow smile. “David Bishop.”
“Answer your question?”
“Yeah. Any other black pieces?”
“No. Black is at a disadvantage. But it still has some strength. It will be difficult for white to pin down. For most people, this board would lead to a draw.”
He continued. “These desks were not placed by accident, my friends. Someone arranged them with a definite purpose. To create a chess problem.”
Palmer rubbed his forehead. “You expect me to believe that after committing the murder, someone rearranged the furniture to create a mind game? Who would do that? The Riddler?”
“More to the point,” Linden said, “what’s the goal? I’ve seen you work chess problems. There has to be an object. You can’t come up with a solution if you don’t know what you’re trying to achieve.”
He agreed. “We have a goal spelled out for us. Literally.”
Palmer jumped in. “You mean the SCRABBLE tiles?”
“Yes.”
“They spelled out your name.”
“No, they misspelled my name.”
“The victim didn’t get all the tiles down before he bled out.”
“I don’t think so. Why the Carmine? That’s not my middle name.” He moved on before anyone could ask what his middle name was. “This message wasn’t left by the victim. It was left by the killer. Or perhaps a third party arriving after the murder.”
“Because he got your middle name wrong?”
“And he omitted the terminal S in Thomas. And put an extra E in Steven. I don’t think anyone ran out of time. The misspellings are a clue.”
Palmer frowned. “Are you about to tell us Bishop was killed by Colonel Mustard in the Conservatory?”
He ignored the agent. “Ask yourself the larger question. Why not use pencil and paper? That would be much simpler. Why not write in blood? That would be more dramatic. There’s a laptop on the desk. Type the message into a word processing file. Any of those possibilities would be more efficient. So why SCRABBLE tiles?”
“You’re the Game Master,” Palmer growled. “You tell me.”
He felt as if he were about to burst. He hated having to explain the obvious. “What’s the whole point of SCRABBLE tiles?”
No answers.
“They’re designed to be moved around! Rearranged! Scrambled! Anagrammed!” He grabbed Palmer’s notepad and scribbled down the letters. “There are many good possibilities for anagramming here.”
In mere seconds, he rearranged the letters to spell:
“Or, if you prefer . . .” He rearranged the letters again:
“But there’s only one correct answer.” He spelled it out, using all the letters.
“Oh,” Linden said. “Well. That does make more sense. It’s a challenge.”
14
“Ladies and gentlemen. Do we have a winner?”
This meeting finally approached the finish line, Ogilve thought, with considerable relief. He knew he’d been sleeping with the devil. Make that plural. They all had private agendas. They all had enemy lists longer than Nixon’s. The desert sands he outside the penthouse window did not burn as hot as some of the grudges in this room.
Still, the outpouring of hatred that spewed the moment he opened the meeting to “nominations” astonished him.
Kussein had grudges against China. Part historic, part economic. As in, he didn’t trust anyone with more money.
Mulinak favored targeting India, South Africa, Germany, and Venezuela. Rani nominated Australia.
Australia? Who had grudges against Australia?
He was less than astonished when, in less than an hour, they compromised by making the first target the United States of America.
“Take out the president.” Kussein was nothing if not predictable. “If you cut off the head of the great snake, the rest withers and dies.”
“If the president were killed by an act of terrorism, the country would descend into chaos,” Rani insisted. Despite being the only female in the room—or perhaps because of it—she was one of the most forceful advocates. “Our goal is to get their attention. To give them a choice. Not to destroy them.”
“I think she is right,” Mulinak said, confirming Ogilve’s earlier impression that the old soldier must have a crush on Rani. “If we take out the president, the entire nation goes into lockdown. DEFCON five. Positive change will become impossible. Besides, the Egyptian government still receives aid from the Americans and has a tentative diplomatic relationship. Better not to arouse them.”
“Do we care if the Great Satan is aroused?” Kussein asked. “Let them suffer as they have caused so many others to suffer.”
“I thought our goal was to change the world for the better,” Mulinak said. “Not to start World War Three.”
“You do not see the geopolitical realities. You see only the opportunity for profit.”
“No, I see that targeting the president would be foolish and insane. Which perhaps explains why you favor it.”
Ogilve thought this might be a good time to cut in. Before World War Three erupted in this room. “My friends, listen. This is only an opening move. A demonstration. Something to help you understand that my additional capital requirements are a worthwhile investment. The target doesn’t matter—as long as it doesn’t draw attention to any Gen32 installations.”
Kussein rose. “I am not convinced that even eliminating the president is enough to justify the money we have already given you.”
“Then let me offer the one thing that’s better than eliminating the president.”
“And that would be?”
“Controlling the president.”
Silence filled the penthouse.
“Can this be achieved?” Kussein asked.
“Are we agreed that it would be a desirable goal?”
They all agreed.
“Very well. You’ll have what you want in a few days. This meeting is—”
“Point of order.”
Every head in the conference room turned. The new voice emerged from just outside the door.
“Good afternoon, my friends.” General Chun strode into the room, a slick smile on his face.
Ogilve felt the air in his lungs turn to ice.
“Hello, Emerson. Good to see that you’re well.” He paused, a thin smile curling around his face. “I’ve missed you.”
15
“Now do you believe this game was prearranged?” BB asked.
“This is . . . surprising,” Agent Palmer allowed, staring at the letters.
“What surprises me,” Greenstreet murmured, “is how quickly you came up with that. Almost as if—”
“As if,” BB interjected, “I’m the North American SCRABBLE champion. And you’re not.”
“The question is, who would leave clues like this?”
“Someone who loves games.”
“Yes,” Palmer said, “I’ll grant you that.”
“You mentioned the Riddler before. As you must know, unless you had a terribly deprived childhood, the Riddler left clues because he was psychologically compelled to do so. Because deep down, he felt guilty about his crimes and wanted to be caught.”
“And you think that’s why the murderer left these tiles behind?”
“No.”
“Then why? Why the clues? Why the desks and the SCRABBLE tiles?”
“Bread crumbs.”
Linden cut in. “Getting back to the puzzle, O Great and Powerful Game Master, is it possible? Can you mate in three moves, using the chessboard setup?”
“I don’t see how,” Palmer said. “I know this game a little. White has more firepower, but black still has plenty of maneuvering room. This could go on for a long time.”
“But this is chess, not the nuclear arms race,” BB answered. “It’s not about firepower. It’s about strategy and position.”
Linden nodded wearily. “I can see by the vivid—some might say, insane—look in your eyes that you’ve already found the solution. So don’t be selfish. Tell.”
“If the white queen makes it to black’s home row, the black king is toast. The white queen is on F1, poised for the kill. So the only move black can make to protect the king is F7. Now the queen’s path is blocked.”
He continued. “If the queen attempts to take the bishop, the obvious move, the black king will capture it. Then the game will probably be a hopeless stalemate. At any rate, it won’t end in three moves.”
He drew in a deep breath. “But white does not take the bishop. Surprise! White moves to B5, cutting off the black king’s last escape route. Black is powerless to prevent the inevitable. Check and mate.”
“Okay,” Palmer said, “I get it. Very clever. But what’s the point?”
“Let’s go downstairs and take another look at the desks.”
He led the way to the stairwell and opened the door for his ex. “Ladies first, Ms. Thomas.”
“That’s not my name anymore. Of course, it’s not really your name, either.”
They exchanged grimaces. As soon as she passed through, he followed her—
And slammed the door behind them. He slid the bolt through, locking it from the inside.
“Hey!” Palmer shouted. “What gives?”
He grabbed Linden’s hand and led her down the stairs. “Thought we’d have a better chance of finding Kadey together. Let’s get out of here.” He was already halfway down the flight.
“They think you killed Bishop,” she said, running as she explained.
“I know. Palmer has a tell. Several, actually. And Greenstreet isn’t even trying to hide what he thinks. Guys like him always go for the easy answer. The readily available suspect.”
“I overheard them talking on the radio while an officer drove me here. They think the tiles were the victim identifying his killer. And by showing how the crime scene was turned into a gigantic game, you confirmed their suspicions. Who else could construct these elaborate puzzles?”
“Why would I kill that man? I didn’t even know him.”
“They probably think it has something to do with Kadey. Protecting her or avenging her—the motives of a guilty father. You have to admit, it does look like something an egomaniacal Game Master might concoct.”
“Maybe someone wanted to implicate me.”
“Maybe so.”
“Why are you helping me?”
“Because there’s no one on earth better at solving puzzles than you. So even if I personally think you’ve lost all right to call yourself a father, you’re still the best chance we have to find Kadey alive.” She jumped another flight of stairs. “And you can’t solve puzzles when you’re behind bars.”
“Sound reasoning.” He exited the stairwell and raced onto the seventh-floor office area to one of the desks that was not rearranged. “This desk is on the square that represents the position the white queen takes for the final mate. The catbird seat, so to speak. Chess problems are often referenced by the clinching position.”
“So?”
“So the whole puzzle was designed to draw our attention to this desk.”
He glanced down. The top page of a stack of papers appeared to be covered by random numbers. Four repeating sequences of 1721 followed by a long series of zeroes and ones.
1721172117211721000000001000000000000000010000000000000000100000000000000001000000000000000010000000000000000100000000000000001000000000000000010000000000000000100000000000000011100000000000001111100000000000001110000000000000110110000000000011000110000000000110001100000000011111111100000000111111111000000011100000111000001110000000111000111000000000111001110000000001110
“Know what this is?” he asked.
“No idea.”
“That’s okay. I do.” He shoved it into his pocket.
A second later, they heard a gunshot followed by a titanic shattering sound. Two more shots rang out after the first.
He looked up. Glass fell like raindrops.
Palmer had shot out the skylight. He was coming down the hard way.
16
One Minute Before
Palmer and Greenstreet stood at the edge of the skylight peering down.
“What are they doing?” Greenstreet asked.
