At the cafe they ordered coffee and brioches. Then, to Vrostk’s obvious surprise, Rogan called for the chess set. The waitress brought it over, and Rogan set up the pieces, taking the whites for himself.
Vrostk said in an annoyed voice, “I have no time for such foolishness. I must get back to my office.”
“Play,” Rogan said. Something in his voice made Vrostk suddenly quiet. He let Rogan make the first move and then moved his black pawn. The game was soon over. He beat Rogan easily and the pieces were dumped back into the set for the waitress to carry away. Rogan gave a large tip. Outside the cafe he hailed a taxi to take them back to the consulate. He was in a hurry now; every moment was valuable.
In Vrostk’s office Rogan sat down at the table that had the special equipment on it.
Vrostk was angry; it was the bullying anger of a small-minded man. “What is the meaning of all this foolishness?” he asked. “I demand to know.”
Rogan put his right hand into his jacket pocket, pulled it out again clenched. He thrust it at Vrostk and then opened it. Lying in his palm was the white king.
Rogan worked intently at the table for nearly three hours. He drilled a hole in the bottom of the king, and then took the bottom out entirely. Working very carefully, he hollowed out the inside of the chess piece and packed it with liquid explosive, wires, and the tiny electronic parts. When he was finished he put the bottom back on, and then with buffing cloth and enamel he hid all scratches and chips. He held the chess piece in his hand, trying to see if the extra weight was too obvious. He did notice a little difference, but he reasoned that this was because he was looking for the difference. The piece would pass.
He turned to Vrostk. “At eight o’clock tonight this thing will blow up in Pajerski’s face. I’ve got it fixed so that nobody else will get hurt. There’s just enough to kill the man holding the piece. And Pajerski always scratches his chin with it. That and the timing device will set off the explosive. If I see someone else holding it, I’ll interfere and deactivate it. But I’ve watched Pajerski, and I’m sure he’ll be the guy who’ll have the piece in his hand at eight tonight. Now I want you to have your underground people pick me up at the corner two blocks from the cafe. I’m counting on your organization to get me out of the country.”
“You mean you’re going to stay in the cafe until Pajerski is killed?” Vrostk asked. “That’s sheer madness. Why not leave beforehand?”
“I want to make sure nobody else gets killed,” Rogan said. “And before he dies, I also want Pajerski to know who killed him and why, and I can’t do that unless I’m there.”
Vrostk shrugged. “It’s your affair. As for my people picking you up two blocks from the cafe, that’s too dangerous for them. I’ll have a black Mercedes limousine waiting for you in front of the consulate here. It will be flying the consulate flag. What time do you want it to be ready?”
Rogan frowned. “I may change the timing on the explosive, or it may possibly go off ahead of time if Pajerski keeps scratching his chin with it too much. Better have the car waiting for me at seven thirty and tell them to expect me at ten minutes past eight. I’ll be on foot, and I’ll just get into the car without any fuss. I assume they know me by sight. You’ve shown me to them?”
Vrostk smiled. “Of course. Now I suppose you and I will have a late lunch and a game of chess at the Black Violin so that you can return the white king.”
Rogan smiled. “You’re getting smarter all the time.”
Over coffee they played the second game of chess, and Rogan won easily. When they left the cafe, the booby- trapped white king was safely back with its fellow chess pieces.
That evening Rogan left his small hotel room at exactly 6:00. The Walther pistol was tucked under his arm and buttoned securely into its holster. The silencer was in his left jacket pocket. His passport and visas were in his inside jacket pocket. He walked slowly and leisurely to the Cafe Black Violin and took his usual small corner table. He unfolded a newspaper, ordered a bottle of Tokay, and told the waitress he would order food later.
He had drunk half the bottle when Wenta Pajerski came roaring into the cafe. Rogan looked at his watch. The giant Hungarian was right on schedule; it was 7:00 p.m. He watched Pajerski pinch the blond waitress, yell to his waiting friends, and have his first drink. It was about time for him to call for his chess set, but he ordered a second drink. Rogan felt himself go tense. Would this be the first night that Pajerski would pass up his chess games? For some reason it seemed to have slipped his mind this evening. But then, without his calling for it, the waitress brought the chess set to Pajerski’s table, waiting expectantly for the pinch that would reward her forethought.
It almost looked as if Pajerski would wave her away. But then he grinned, his warty piggy face becoming a mass of joviality. He pinched the blond waitress so hard that she gave a little scream of pain.
Rogan called to the waitress and asked her for a pencil and a piece of notepaper. He looked at his watch. It read 7:30. On the rough brown notepaper he wrote: “I will turn your screams of pleasure into pain.
He waited until his watch read 7:55; then he called a waitress over and handed her the note. “Give this to Mr. Pajerski,” he said. “Then come right back to me and I will give you this.” He showed her a banknote that was more than her weekly salary. He didn’t want her standing near Pajerski when the booby trap went off.
Pajerski was scratching his chin with the white king when the waitress handed him the note. He read it slowly, translating the English audibly, his lips moving. He raised his eyes to stare directly at Rogan. Rogan stared back at him, smiling slightly. His watch read 7:59. And then as he saw the recognition slowly dawn in Pajerski’s eyes the white king exploded.
The explosion was deafening. Pajerski had been holding the chess piece in his right hand under his chin. Rogan had been staring into his eyes. Then suddenly Pajerski’s eyes disappeared in the explosion, and Rogan found himself staring into two empty bloody sockets. Pieces of flesh and bone spattered all over the room, and then Pajerski’s head, its flesh shredded, slumped over on flaps of skin that were still holding the neck to the body. Rogan slipped out of his seat and left the cafe by the kitchen door. The screaming, stampeding crowd took no notice of him.
Out on the street he walked one block to a main avenue and hailed a taxi. “To the airport,” he told the driver; then, just to make sure, he said, “Take the street that goes past the American consulate.”
He could hear the whine of police car sirens speeding to the Cafe Black Violin. In a few minutes his taxi was on the broad avenue that led past the consulate. “Don’t go so fast,” he told the driver. He leaned back so that he could not be seen from the street.
There was no Mercedes limousine waiting there. The street was empty of all vehicles, which was in itself unusual. But it had a hell of a lot of pedestrians, waiting to cross at corners and window-shopping. And most of the pedestrians were big, burly men. To Rogan’s experienced eye they had secret police written all over them. “Speed it up to the airport,” he told the driver.
It was then that he noticed what seemed like a physical coldness in his chest. It was as if his whole body were being touched by death. He felt the chilliness spread. But he was not cold. He did not feel any real physical discomfort. It was simply as if he himself had become some sort of host to death.
He had no trouble getting on the plane. His visa was in order, and there was no sign of any special police activity at the airport. His heart beat swiftly when he boarded the aircraft, but again there were no complications. The plane took off, climbed, and then it leveled off and headed for the German border and Munich.
That night Rosalie left her job as nurse’s aide in the Munich Palace of Justice at 6:00 p.m. The young doctor who worked with her insisted she have dinner with him. Afraid of losing her job, she agreed. He made sure the meal took a long time by ordering several courses. It was after 9:00 p.m. when they finished. Rosalie looked at her watch. “You must excuse me; I have an important engagement at ten,” she said, and started to gather up her coat and gloves.
The young doctor had a disappointed look on his face. It did not occur to Rosalie that she could miss meeting the plane one night and keep her escort company for the rest of the evening. If she missed meeting the Budapest plane even one time, it would mean she thought Rogan was dead. She walked out of the restaurant and hailed a taxi. By the time she got to the airport, it was nearly 10:00. By the time she ran through the terminal to the Budapest plane arrival gate, passengers were already coming out. Out of habit, she lit a cigarette as she watched them. And then she saw Rogan and her heart nearly broke.
He looked dreadfully ill. His eyes were sunken, the muscles of his face were rigid, and there was a fearful stiffness in his body movements. He had not seen her, and she started running toward him, calling his name through her sobs.
