'Sir, I–'
'Now get out of my sight, you poisonous little shit.'
A Peaked Cap, waving a sheet of typescript, hurried into the Customs office where a Dark Grey Suit was watching television.
'Comrade Captain,' he said. 7 have the inventory of the delegation's luggage.'
'You can cut out the Comrade crap for a start,' said the Dark Grey Suit, taking the proffered sheet.
'Szabo's articles are itemised at the top, sir.'
'I can read.'
The Dark Grey Suit scanned the list.
'And you searched the rest of the team just as thoroughly?'
'Just as thoroughly Com– Captain Molgar, sir.'
'The chess books have been checked?'
'They have all been checked and replaced with identical copies in case of . . .'the Peaked Cap gestured hopefully. He had no idea what the original chess books might have contained. 'In case of. . . microdots?'he whispered.
The Dark Grey Suit snorted contemptuously.
'This radio in Ribli's luggage?'
'A perfectly ordinary radio, Captain. Comrade Ribli has taken it abroad many times. He is not under suspicion also?'
The Dark Grey Suit ignored the question.
'Csom's suitcase seems to be very heavy.'
'It is an old case. Leather.'
'Have it X-rayed.'
'Yes, sir.'
'Yes, Captain.'
'Yes, Captain.'
'That's better.'
The Peaked Cap coughed.
'Captain, sir, why do you let this Szabo out of the country if he is . . .?'
'If he is what?'
'I-I don't quite know, sir.'
'Szabo is one of the most talented young grandmasters in the world. The next Portisch. All this checking is simply a routine test of your efficiency, nothing more. You understand?'
Yes, Captain.''
'Yes, Comrade Captain.'
'Yes, Comrade Captain.'
The Dark Grey Suit hummed to himself. He did not know what they were looking for either. But the British had been paying him a great deal for many years and now that they suddenly wanted him to work for his money he supposed he had no business complaining. This was not dangerous work, after all. He was doing no more than his usual duty and if the authorities discovered his unusual interest in Szabo they would be more likely to reward him for his zeal than shoot him for his treachery.
He had hoiked out Szabo's file that morning to see if there was anything there to justify this sudden British directive. There was nothing there: Stefan Szabo, a perfectly blameless citizen, grandson of a Hungarian hero and a great chess hope.
The solution came to the Dark Grey Suit in a blinding flash. Stefan Szabo was planning, sometime during the tournament in Hastings, to defect. The British needed to check that he was an honest defector, that he was not bringing any equipment out with him that would suggest a darker purpose.
But why should a successful chess-player need to defect? They made plenty of money, which they were allowed to keep, they were granted unlimited travel abroad, foreign bank accounts. Hungary was not Russia or Czechoslovakia, for God's sake. The Dark Grey Suit, who had betrayed his country for years, felt a stab of resentment and anger against this young traitor.
'Little shit,' he thought to himself. 'What's wrong with Hungary that he needs to run away to England?'
Six
Just as Adrian was getting thoroughly bored, the President started to wind up the meeting.
'Now,' he said, 'it's getting rather late. If there is no further business, I would like to - '
Garth Menzies rose to his feet and smiled the smile of the just.
