roistering, catching the ponies, and scampering off, frightening the Icelander out of his wits.” And in his 1948 novel,
Over and above the geopolitical considerations, Tremblay was also fond of the Icelandic people. “I hated to see this thing blow up in their face because of Fischer’s ignorant attitude.” He recalls the prime minister telling him how much Iceland had laid out for the match and asking, “Is there any way we can get him here?”
Back at the U.S. embassy, Tremblay sent a telegram addressed to the secretary of state, William Rogers, and copied to the National Security Council and the CIA. It recited that the charge had been summoned by Olafur Johannesson to express concern at Fischer’s nonappearance: the United States government was not accountable for the imbroglio, but Fischer’s actions, he said, were an insult to Iceland, and cancellation would cost seven million kronur. “Everyone knows that Fischer erratic
Given that these events unfolded over a weekend, it remains unclear whether Tremblay’s telegram produced any result. We can simply observe a chain of events: Johannesson’s request preceded Tremblay’s action, which was followed by a call to Douglaston made by the national security adviser, Dr. Henry Kissinger.
In an interview with the authors, Dr. Kissinger rejected any idea that this call was made in an official capacity. “It was not a big political thing. I did not have a big staff paper to say you’ve got to do this. It somehow came to my attention.” Kissinger makes no claims for his own chess expertise. “I am a rank amateur.” He refused to play the Soviet ambassador Anatoli Dobrynin, a keen player, in case it gave his adversary an insight into the way his mind worked. The opening words of Kissinger’s conversation with Fischer have entered chess lore: “This is the worst player in the world calling the best player in the world.” He recalls, “There was a difficulty in the operation, an upset. I just wanted Fischer to know that his government wished him well. I wished him well.”
Thorarinsson learned from the “American attorneys” about Fischer’s reaction.
They were in the room with Fischer when Kissinger phoned. Kissinger had said to Fischer, “America wants you to go over there and beat the Russians.” And Fischer changed, becoming like a young soldier going to war. When they asked him later, why did you change your mind, he said something like “I have decided that the interests of my nation are greater than my own.”
No doubt the attorneys felt suitably humbled at so selfless a display of patriotism by their client—and puzzled by his continued failure to leave his Douglaston foxhole for the battlefront.
Meanwhile, in Reykjavik, the American team was pushing Thorarinsson for financial concessions in ways he had never experienced and thought utterly unreasonable. He felt that if he yielded to one of their demands, he would simply open the door to many more. “So we very stubbornly said, ‘This is our offer. We will live up to it, but this is all we can do and we’re not changing it.’” Almost admiringly, he recollects their tactics. “They would always say, ‘This is nonsense. We’re against it. We are telling you this as a friend: To save the match, you have to do this and this. Otherwise there will be no match.’ There was no hostility. They were just giving me advice! They came with papers and they said, ‘There’s no problem, you just sign here.’” The Icelander was in culture shock:
These lawyers were different kinds of people from what we knew in Iceland. It seemed to me that money was the driving force and that everything that was legal was allowed. We didn’t see it like that. In Iceland it’s more about ethics than the law. And when they said the word
Money, however, mattered to the Icelanders, too. They were at a disadvantage. If there were no match, they would lose their whole investment, and for a tiny country, this represented a large sum. Thorarinsson has not forgotten how Andrew Davis rubbed this in: “He said, ‘You’re losing everything. You just have to give us the gate money and this and that, and we shall make sure Bobby is here.’” The Icelander was under attack from all directions. The journalist Brad Darrach accused him of wanting to hand the match to the Soviets. The local press charged him with damaging Iceland’s international reputation. One editorial griped, “Why can’t he negotiate? He seems impotent.”
Thorarinsson was not the only one on the receiving end. Tremblay informed the State Department by telegram that his mission was dealing with a “large number of financial and facultative requests from Fischer’s reps….” He wanted to put on record demands he had not granted. For example, Davis had asked the U.S. government to guarantee Fischer a sum of $50,000 on the grounds that his bid for a percentage of the ticket proceeds had been turned down. Davis’s argument took some lawyerly chutzpah: the U.S. government should help out, he argued, because of the risk that his client would be responsible for a breach in U.S.-Icelandic relations. Tremblay wrote, “This was rejected as exaggerated. Icelanders regard Bobby Fischer as a unique individual, and while his antics may not aid the US cause, it is highly unlikely that public or official blame will accrue for the delay or possible cancellation.” Cramer had also requested on Fischer’s behalf diplomatic number plates—and was told this was unnecessary. At two A.M. on Sunday, 2 July, Darrach woke Tremblay to insist that four marine guards were required around the clock to ensure Fischer’s security.
All of this was infuriating the Icelandic government. The prime minister had particularly taken umbrage at Davis’s claim that Iceland would look to the U.S. government for reparations if the match fell through. Johannesson had also resented a demand by Fischer’s representatives that the United States guarantee Fischer’s security. According to Tremblay, “the prime minister remarked acidly that the government of Iceland is quite capable of providing the requisite security.”
Tremblay was far more anxious about the impact of Fischer’s behavior than he let on to his superiors back in Washington. The Soviets, he thought, were winning the propaganda battle. “Sure they were. Boris was his charming self. The guy’s a real charmer. He’s handsome and sophisticated and well educated: he’s got everything going for him. And here’s this other guy refusing to turn up.”
Probably sensing trouble, Davis changed tack and asked for a postponement. The excuse? His client was suffering from fatigue. Davis and Cramer promised doctors’ certificates that failed to materialize. The mood in Reykjavik was somber, the organizers living on their nerves, the city still alive with speculation. The correspondent of
Max Euwe, president of FIDE, held back from contacting Fischer directly. For six months, the match had been one long headache; now he was quoted as saying, “Fischer does not speak to me unless, perhaps, it is to order me to get him a taxi. I do not want to meet him.” All the same, without seeing any medical evidence, he allowed Fischer two extra days to arrive, on the grounds that the challenger was ill.
While all this was going on, the world champion was marginalized. The Soviet team in Reykjavik was informed that the drawing of lots was to be postponed from 2 July to midday on 4 July. Geller phoned Moscow to pass on the news. On behalf of the USSR Chess Federation, Baturinskii sent a furious cable to Schmid. He accused Fischer of “busying himself with blackmail” with the connivance of the FIDE leadership. His failure to appear for the opening, the drawing of lots, and the first game on 2 July was a violation of FIDE rules unprecedented in its history. Fischer deserved disqualification, said Baturinskii. For his part, Euwe had taken “the more than unattractive role of Fischer’s defender.” On his own initiative, he had postponed the match following a “nonexistent request” on the grounds of Fischer’s “imaginary illness.”
Citing chapter and verse from the Amsterdam agreement, Baturinskii declared that if, beginning at noon on 4 July, measures were not taken to follow FIDE rules and the agreement, the USSR Chess Federation would consider the contest “wrecked” by FIDE and Fischer. The threat was plain: they would declare the match null and void.
When Geller challenged Euwe over the postponement, the FIDE president used Spassky as his excuse: “I
