Constantin was playing white, and had chosen the Queen’s Gambit, END-GAME assuming that the fluid situation invariably resulting from the opening would be to his advantage and allow him to get on with the more serious task of planning his escape. But Malek had avoided any possible errors, steadily consolidating his position, and had even managed to launch a counter-gambit, offering a knight-to-bishop exchange which would soon undermine Constantin’s position if he accepted.
‘A good move, Malek,’ he commented. ‘But perhaps a little risky in the long run.’ Declining the exchange, he lamely blocked the checking queen with a pawn.
Malek stared stolidly at the board, his heavy policeman’s face, with its almost square frame from one jaw angle to the other, betraying no sign of thought. His approach, Constantin reflected as he watched his opponent, would be that of the pragmatist, judging always by immediate capability rather than by any concealed intentions. As if confirming this diagnosis, Malek simply returned his queen to her former square, unwilling or unable to exploit the advantage he had gained and satisfied by the captured piece.
Bored by the lower key on to which the game had descended, and the prospect of similar games ahead, Constantin castled his king to safety. For some reason, obviously irrational, he assumed that Malek would not kill him in the middle, of a game, particularly if he, Malek, were winning. He recognized that this was an unconscious reason for wanting to play chess in the first place, and had no doubt motivated the many others who had also sat with Malek on the veranda, listening to the late summer rain. Suppressing a sudden pang of fear, Constantin examined Malek’s powerful hands protruding from his cuffs like two joints of meat. If Malek wanted to, he could probably kill Constantin with his bare hands.
That raised a second question, almost as fascinating as the first.
‘Malek, another point.’ Constantin sat back, searching in his pockets for imaginary cigarettes (none were allowed him). ‘Forgive my curiosity, but I am an interested party, as it were—’ He flashed Malek his brightest smile, a characteristically incisive thrust modulated by ironic self-deprecation which had been so successful with his secretaries and at ministry receptions, but the assay at humour failed to move Malek. ‘Tell me, do you know… how?’ Searching for some euphemism, he repeated: ‘Do you know how you are going to..?’ and then gave up the attempt, cursing Malek to himself for lacking the social grace to rescue him from his awkwardness.
Malek’s chin rose slightly, a minimal nod. He showed no signs of being bored or irritated by Constantin’s laboured catechism, or of having noticed his embarrassment.
‘What is it, then?’ Constantin pressed, recovering himself. ‘Pistol, pill or—’ with a harsh laugh he pointed through the window ‘- do you set up a guillotine in the rain? I’d like to know.’
Malek looked down at the chess-board, his features more glutinous and dough-like than ever. Flatly, he said: ‘It has been decided.’
Constantin snorted. ‘What on earth does that mean?’ he snapped belligerently. ‘Is it painless?’
For once Malek smiled, a thin sneer of amusement hung fleetingly around his mouth. ‘Have you ever killed anything, Mr Constantin?’ he asked quietly. ‘Yourself, personally, I mean.’
‘Touch,’ Constantin granted. He laughed deliberately, trying to dispel the tension. ‘A perfect reply.’ To himself he said: I mustn’t let curiosity get the upper hand, the man was laughing at me.
‘Of course,’ he went on, ‘death is always painful. I merely wondered whether, in the legal sense of the term, it would be humane. But I can see that you are a professional, Malek, and the question answers itself. A great relief, believe me. There are so many sadists about, perverts and the like — ‘ again he watched carefully to see if the implied sneer provoked Malek ‘- that one can’t be too grateful for a clean curtain fall. It’s good to know. I can devote these last days to putting my affairs in order and coming to terms with the world. If only I knew how long there was left I could make my preparations accordingly. One can’t be forever saying one’s last prayers. You see my point?’
Colourlessly, Malek said: ‘The Prosecutor-General advised you to make your final arrangements immediately after the trial.’
‘But what does that mean?’ Constantin asked, pitching his voice a calculated octave higher. ‘I’m a human being, not a book-keeper’s ledger that can be totted up and left to await the auditor’s pleasure. I wonder if you realize, Malek, the courage this situation demands from me? It’s easy for you to sit there—’
Abruptly Malek stood up, sending a shiver of terror through Constantin. With a glance at the sealed windows, he moved around the chess table towards the lounge. ‘We will postpone the game,’ he said. Nodding to Constantin, he went off towards the kitchen where the orderly was preparing lunch.
Constantin listened to his shoes squeaking faintly across the unpolished floor, then irritably cleared the pieces off the board and sat back with the black king in his hand. At least he had provoked Malek into leaving him. Thinking this over, he wondered whether to throw caution to the winds and begin to make life intolerable for Malek — it would be easy to pursue him around the villa, arguing hysterically and badgering him with neurotic questions. Sooner or later Malek would snap back, and might give away something of his intentions. Alternatively, Constantin could try to freeze him out, treating him with contempt as the hired killer he was, refusing to share a room or his meals with him and insisting on his rights as a former member of the central committee. The method might well be successful. Almost certainly Malek was telling the truth when he said he knew the exact day and minute of Constantin’s execution. The order would have been given to him and he would have no discretion to advance or delay the date to suit himself. Malek would be reluctant to report Constantin for difficult behaviour — the reflection on himself was too obvious and his present post was not one from which he could graciously retire — and in addition not even the Police-President would be able to vary the execution date now that it had been set without convening several meetings. There was then the danger of reopening Constantin’s case. He was not without his allies, or at least those who were prepared to use him for their own advantage.
But despite these considerations, the whole business of play-acting lacked appeal for Constantin. His approach was more serpentine. Besides, if he provoked Malek, uncertainties were introduced, of which there were already far too many.
He noticed the supervisor enter the lounge and sit down quietly in one of the grey armchairs, his face, half-hidden in the shadows, turned towards Constantin. He seemed indifferent to the normal pressures of boredom and fatigue (luckily for himself, Constantin reflected — an impatient man would have pulled the trigger on the morning of the second day), and content to sit about in the armchairs, watching Constantin as the grey rain fell outside and the damp leaves gathered against the walls. The difficulties of establishing a relationship with Malek — and some sort of relationship was essential before Constantin could begin to think of escape — seemed insuperable, only the games of chess offering an opportunity.
Placing the black king on his own king’s square, Constantin called out: ‘Malek, I’m ready for another game, if you are.’
Malek pushed himself out of the chair with his long arms, and then took his place across the board. For a moment he scrutinized Constantin with a level glance, as if ascertaining that there would be no further outbursts of temper, and then began to set up the white pieces, apparently prepared to ignore the fact that Constantin had cleared the previous game before its completion.