active on the challenger’s behalf at critical turns in the story. As a highly successful lawyer, he was used to getting his own way, though the combination of Fischer, FIDE, and the Soviets was a challenge for which no amount of time in Hollywood could have prepared him.
In the absence of an American financial guarantee, the Yugoslavs dropped out, leaving FIDE’s two-city arrangement in tatters. Once again, Gudmundur Thorarinsson seized the opportunity—offering to host the entire match if the opening could be delayed until 1 July. Acting unilaterally, Euwe agreed: If Fischer failed to show up in Iceland, later in the year Spassky would play for the title in Moscow with Tigran Petrosian, the losing finalist in the Candidates match.
Although Euwe was now advocating Spassky’s preferred location, the Soviets were nonetheless seething at what they perceived to be the FIDE president’s bias. Fischer had effectively ignored the 4 April ultimatum, yet Euwe had continued to seek a solution, one acceptable to Fischer. A secret document—with serial number 14279, dated 29 April 1972, drawn up for the Central Committee of the Communist Party—alleged that Max Euwe was “under the thumb of the American grandmaster.” “The pretender sets a precedent and is followed by the president,” was the bitter summary by the Soviet news agency TASS.
On 8 May, Euwe received a telegram that finally appeared to resolve matters: “Bobby Fischer agrees to play in Iceland according to the program sent to him—but under protest.” The signatures on the telegram were those of Edmondson and Marshall. According to Euwe, the text was drafted by these two and read to Fischer over the telephone. Only when he agreed to it in their hearing was the telegram sent.
Fischer himself had signed nothing. However, Edmondson sought to reassure Euwe that the absence of Fischer’s signature had nothing to do with his intention to play. But what did the phrase
10. BOBBY IS MISSING
People indulge Fischer’s caprices. The very mention of his name on the radio or in the newspaper fills me with a feeling of disgust and indignation. If I were B. Spassky, I would consider it beneath my dignity to play against such a type.
Fischer trained for the most important match of his life almost completely in isolation.
What chess support he received came from two sources. Ken “Top Hat” Smith was a chess master and world-class poker player who always wore a flamboyant black silk top hat during card games. Slightly too small for its owner, the hat had been acquired in an auction and was alleged to have been discovered in Ford’s Theatre in Washington, D.C., on the night that Abraham Lincoln had been assassinated there. Whenever he won the pot, Smith would slam this hat on the table and shout, “What a player!” He always drew a crowd. Such a valued customer was he that the Hilton hotel in Las Vegas would send a private jet to pick him up from his home in Dallas. “No-limit Texas hold-em” was his game, and he was good at it, winning tens of thousands of dollars.
From Dallas, Smith ran
Fischer’s other aide was Bob Wade, a kindly, accommodating, New Zealand-born international master, a resident of south London and owner of a vast chess library. He had a more specific task: at Ed Edmondson’s request, he had sent Fischer copies of all the games he could find that had been played first by Taimanov, then by Larsen, and then, at the Candidates final stage, by Petrosian. Now Edmondson gave him the same brief for the world championship.
With infinite pains, Wade researched and compiled all of Spassky’s published games; some were well-known, others were located in obscure journals. The folder ended up at over a thousand games and over a thousand pages. He dispatched it to Fischer via Edmondson, who had it bound in red velvet. Fortunately, it reached its destination, for the work had been done by hand and there was no other copy.
By this stage, Fischer was in seclusion at Grossinger’s, in the Catskills in upstate New York. In the so-called borscht belt, Grossinger’s was an institution, popular with the Jewish middle class: a former farm, it had been converted into a huge hotel complex complete with tennis courts and bridle paths. Many famous people had stayed there, including Eleanor Roosevelt. It was also a favorite retreat for sportsmen, such as baseball legend Jackie Robinson and the undefeated world heavyweight boxing champion, Rocky Marciano, who had Grossinger’s emblazoned upon his robe.
For over thirty years, Wade has kept the letter that came back from Grossinger’s on receipt of his meticulously prepared material. There was not a word of thanks. Instead, he was greeted by a torrent of abuse for failing to abide by Fischer’s preferred method of displaying the moves. Wade had written them across the page rather than down the page. “Can’t you follow even the simplest instructions?” He was rebuked for having “cut corners.” There was nothing for it but for Wade painstakingly to copy out each move again, working almost from scratch. “The tone reminded me,” says Wade, who was a chess coach for many years, “of how a teacher might speak to his schoolchildren.” Wade was paid ?600, ?200 of which was considered “a bonus” for his conscientious labors.
For Fischer, this dossier was to be his constant companion until July 1972. At Grossinger’s, he would take his meals in the dining room accompanied only by the dossier. If he ventured out, he would take it down to a local restaurant. He tended to eat Chinese or Italian dishes. (The waitresses were never pleased to see him because he took up two tables.) For the rest of the time, he was in his hotel room, absorbing the contents of the red file, trying to discern patterns and identify weaknesses. As always, he would rise late and then work deep into the night. Journalists who knocked on the door of his quarters—a white villa—were told to “go away.” One or two chess colleagues went to visit him. Larry Evans says, “We would play over Spassky’s games—usually in the wee hours of the morning. We would have rock radio blasting.” But essentially Fischer worked alone. Evans explained to
Fischer stayed at Grossinger’s until 5 June and then went to California for tennis; he wanted to improve his fitness. He also attended a service of the Worldwide Church of God. His flight to Reykjavik had been scheduled for Sunday, 25 June, in good time for the official opening on Saturday, 1 July and the first game the next day.
He flew back to New York on Tuesday, 27 June, and moved into the Yale Club as a guest of his New York lawyer, Andrew Davis. It was four days before the official opening of the match.
The Soviet party had arrived in Reykjavik on 21 June to settle in and acclimatize. In Iceland at that time of year, there was practically no darkness, only “white nights.” Spassky was thoroughly comfortable with this; it was the season of merrymaking in his home city, Leningrad. The Soviets took up residence in the best hotel in Reykjavik, the Saga, with Spassky occupying room 730— the presidential suite at the secure end of a corridor. With its wide views, Empire-style furniture, and gold-plated taps in the bathroom, his accommodation no doubt made a pleasing change from Moscow. The champion played tennis with Ivo Nei up to eleven o’clock at night, while Geller and Krogius prepared for the chess battle ahead.
