LiGa Page 4

  What to do? wondered Porter at table 2. I should respond to my partner, Fr. Griffith’s bid of 1-spade if I have at least six points, which I don’t. I only have five points… On the other hand, five points is almost six, and I do have the ace of spades. I am sorry to mislead you, Father, but it’s only by a point…

  Porter placed the ‘2-spades’ bidding card on the table indicating to his partner, Father Griffith, that he could support the latter’s spade suit, but at a minimal level.

  *

  Helen looked at her watch. It was 2:10. Her mind catapulted to another time: the last time she had spoken to him. She remembered the conversation almost verbatim even though it was two weeks ago. She could recall every inflection in his voice, for she hadn’t been able to see him. He had told her on the phone! Told her, for the first time. Storm could be infuriatingly private at times!

  I panicked, she admitted, filled with regret as she recalled her reactions. Anger. Yes, she conceded, she had been angry. She had probably seemed petulant too, she thought with shame.

  “Helen, I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” he had said. There was such finality to those words. “We’ll talk after the game, ok? Don’t worry. It’ll all work out fine.” And then the line was dead. No more Storm.

  She shook her head. Storm, what if it doesn’t ‘all work out fine?’ I can’t wait until the end of the game. That’s why I’m here. That’s why I came to New York. And here I am… waiting for you to finish the first game.

  “But I can’t just stand here brooding and feeling sorry for myself!” she declared, stamping her foot. “This stupid game is going to last another three hours. I have to organize my thoughts and ideas for this article…”

  *

  As a result of the bids made by the judge and Porter at their respective tables, the subsequent bidding had resulted in different contracts at the two tables: 3-diamonds to be played by Danny as the East-West pair at table 1, and 3-spades to be played by Father Griffith, the North-South pair, at table 2.

  It was time to embark upon the play of the hand.

  “Good luck, partner,” the senator said at table 1, laying out his hand carefully on the table as dummy. Danny nodded, and set about examining the cards in dummy to map out how he would play the contract of 3-diamonds…

  At table 2, Fr. Griffith regarded his partner, Porter’s cards on the table as dummy. I did expect you to have at least six points, Mr. Porter, the priest thought, but the difference is only one point, and in line with what I know of your bridge play. My research and your biography revealed an able player, and one who is not averse to risk… But it may mean I cannot always trust what you bid…

  Now, I have to make the contract of 3-spades, and in order to do so I must win nine out of thirteen tricks. Examining the cards in his hand and those in dummy, Father Griffith knew he would lose four tricks in hearts and clubs, and could not afford to lose a further trick in spades, a suit in which he held all the high cards except the queen. Holding the king, jack and 10 in his hand, and the ace in dummy’s cards on the table, Father Griffith realized he would need to finesse for the queen in order to make his contract: a play that depended for its success on Bruce, to his left, having the queen of spades. If the missing queen could be trapped between his hand and dummy that held the ace and two small cards, he would ensure no losses in that suit. In order to do so, he would play the jack or 10 from his hand towards dummy. If the next player, Bruce, played a low card, Fr. Griffith too would play a low card from dummy, hoping Sinclair wouldn’t overtake with the queen when his turn came. If Bruce played the queen, the ace in dummy would win the trick, leaving the 10 and the king to take the remaining tricks in the suit.

  Father Griffith started to play…

  “Bid and made 3 diamonds.” Danny grinned and leaned back in his chair at table 1. The hand was over.

  It was North’s role to write down the score. “That’s 110 for East-West, and -110 for North-South,” Storm said quietly, writing down the score on the score sheet attached to the board. He held it out to Peter who wrote the score and contract on the transparent tablet with a thin black stylus.

  “What did the other table play? What’s their score?” Storm asked.

  “They are still playing,” Peter replied. “I will let you know when they finish.”

  Father Griffith remained still with bowed head, his eyes closed. Merciful Mary, I am weak and blind. I am lost in the maze of a simple bridge hand. I cannot see my way to the end in my search for a card, the queen of spades.

  The remaining players at table 2 remained impatiently silent, waiting for the priest’s lead on the ninth trick.

  It is one hand out of many, came the voice of reason. I must play it to its conclusion. I do not know where the queen is, he countered, stalling. And I will not know until she shows herself, reason riposted. This is simply one of those hands. I may not make the contract, he resisted. I have already lost four tricks. If I lose another trick, I will not make the contract.

  So? Must I not play the hand, nonetheless? Just play bridge, he told himself and resolutely placed the jack of spades on the table.

  It was Bruce’s turn. He saw the jack that had been played, the ace in dummy, and the queen in his hand. Without hesitation he played the 3 of spades instead of the queen. I will not make it so easy for you to get the queen, Father, he thought. You will most likely play a low card from dummy now, but what if you decide – perhaps out of fear of losing a trick – to play the ace? In any event, I have nothing to lose by not playing the queen right now.

  “Low, please, partner,” Father Griffith said tonelessly, as Porter pulled the 4 of spades from dummy leaving the jack splayed vulnerably without cover.

  It was Sinclair’s turn…

  “Table 2 played the contract in 3-spades by North, making 3-spades,” Peter announced at table 1. “The score at that table for board 1 is 140 to North-South, -140 to East-West.”

  “I knew we should have been in spades–” Storm muttered, his voice heavy with disappointment.

  “I am sorry, Mr. Drake,” the judge said. “I felt my hand was too weak to bid. Under other circumstances, with a different distribution, it may not have worked out.”

  Storm was silent. “You are right,” he said finally.

  “What did the other table play?” Bruce asked Tanner at table 2, as the latter wrote down their score.

  “Bid and made 3-diamonds by East-West,” Tanner replied, “for a score of 110 for East-West, and -110 for North-South.”

  Father Griffith looked across the table at his partner, Porter, who was polishing his bifocals with a checkered handkerchief. “Well bid, Mr. Porter,” the priest said.

  Porter smiled mildly. His milky-blue eyes looked out, benign and unfocused as he continued to wipe his glasses.

  I made the contract to score 140 for our side, thought Father Griffith. And if I had failed to make the contract – for instance if Mr. Davis had held the queen of spades instead of Mr. Saber – we would have gone down one trick, for a score of -50. But since -50 is higher than -110 – which is what North-South scored at the other table – we would still have beaten them… Not because of my great analysis and painstaking play, but because my partner, Mr. Porter, took a small but significant risk during the auction.

  “Nicely played, Father,” Bruce said.

  “Thank you, Mr. Saber,” Father Griffith responded, adding, “and yet, even if I had failed to make an extra trick with the queen, the result would have been the same.”

  Bruce shrugged and laughed. “That’s duplicate bridge.”

  We are all blind, Father Griffith thought. As we make our decisions behind a clouded wall, without knowing the distribution of the cards, unaware of our opponents’ moves, we are handicapped by our emotions, hamstrung by our fears, and misled by our assumptions. Sometimes, we are rewarded for our decisions. But in the end, we are simply blind.

  Porter had replaced his glasses. “So we get a point,” he said, turning to look
at the scoreboard on the glass wall.

  *

  Helen had ensconced herself comfortably in a booth at a nearby café, looking at a cup of strong black coffee and a generous slice of tepid quiche Lorraine. Before her she had spread out a copy of the day’s paper.

  She dug into her bag and brought out the ream of documents. Here, she thought, looking at the untidy heap, is everything I know about LiGa. Every scrap of information I have been able to find in a week. Articles … some printed, others ripped or cut unceremoniously out of the pages of a newspaper or magazine.

  Helen flipped through the pages to the article … the first glimpse, ten years ago…

  *

  “Four hearts making five,” Father Griffith announced at table 2 on the second board of the round. The priest picked up the score sheet from the side table to his left and wrote down 450 for the North-South pair. When he was finished, he laid the sheet on top of the board: visible to the remaining players.

  “Done?” Tanner asked, reaching for the first board and the score sheet.

  The table acquiesced.

  That was not an interesting hand, Father Griffith thought, waiting for the results to be posted.

  Peter’s impersonal smile remained fixed as he transferred the contract and the score to the transparent pad in his hand.

  “The contract at table 2 for this board was four hearts by North,” Peter announced. “North made an overtrick for a final score of 450 for North-South. As this is the same result as at this table, all the players will receive half a point.”

  So far, I have one and a half points, the senator thought. After two boards, I am one of the top four players. Twenty-six to go…

  *

  *

  St. Petersburg, Russia

  Russian oligarch, Alexander Filipov (39) passed away on Saturday, June 3, following a chess match held in a fifteenth century castle on the outskirts of St. Petersburg. Mr. Filipov was pronounced dead at the St. Petersburg Medical Center. According to preliminary medical findings, Mr. Filipov appears to have suffered a sudden heart attack shortly after the conclusion of the chess match at 6:00 p.m., local time.

  The chess match in which Mr. Filipov was participating before his death was a private game held by an organization identified as LifeGame™. Officials for the organization could not be reached to comment on Mr. Filipov’s death. Questions regarding the identity of Mr. Filipov’s opponent in the chess match were not answered.

  Mr. Filipov’s American-born widow, 32 year-old former actress and model, Marigold Hunter, blamed her husband’s death on the lack of adequate and prompt medical intervention. “I had to call an ambulance myself!” she is reported to have said, in a state of extreme agitation, claiming that LifeGame employees had made no attempt to contact the authorities following Mr. Filipov’s collapse.

  Ms. Hunter explained that she had arrived at the castle together with her husband earlier that morning, but had been separated from him upon arrival. She said she was told to enjoy the grounds while her husband played chess in an undisclosed location. Ms. Hunter said she does not know the identity of her husband’s opponent. “He wouldn’t tell me anything about this game,” she said tearfully, speculating that her husband may have been gambling.

  Alexander Filipov, who is estimated to have left behind a fortune worth in excess of 3 billion dollars, was a highly regarded chess player, ranking among that rarified group, the grandmasters.

  *

  That was the first of the articles she had been able to dig up. It was the first mention of LiGa Chess, unwittingly exposed by the tiresome intervention – from LiGa’s point of view, Helen assumed – of an American woman, who, apparently, had known nothing of LiGa. Of course they weren’t going to get him medical attention, thought Helen indignantly. He was dead – as far as they were concerned.

  There had been no mention of LiGa for another year.

  *

  The scores on board 4 had been tallied, and the cards put away.

  “I’m sorry, partner, I should have raised your spade bid.” The senator’s voice, mellow and contrite did nothing to alleviate Danny’s irritation.

  “Yes,” Danny said, not looking across the table at his partner. His right hand, resting on the table, twitched rapidly three times.

  It was the end of the round. I am no longer in the lead, thought the senator. Now we are all – all eight of us – tied with two points each. It was my fault. I ought to have known to bid four spades, and I didn’t…

  In retrospect, Senator Heath could not help recalling operation “Cherry Blossom” with a sense of unease.

  Back in April.

  April in Washington, D.C.: the capital aflutter in pink and white. Confetti on trees.

  Amid the blooms of spring, was he. He had so recently defeated the democratic incumbent. He was full of the potential of what politics could be. Should be. A republican in the traditional mold he had positioned himself carefully as a moderate. A counterweight to the extreme wing of his own party. He was the reasonable one; the one who would fight for the true ideals of his party for the People without resorting to outlandish rhetoric! Everyone was full of enthusiasm – his family (one golden-haired boy, one bouncing baby girl, a photogenic and fabulously wealthy wife), his staff, his state, and even the press.

  Yes… it was good to be Senator Heath. The only thing better would be… President Heath. He had time…

  On one bright, fresh morning in April, he had received an unexpected telephone call. It was the former governor of Louisiana. Catherine Trahan. The WildCat. Who didn’t know the stories of the steely, steamy, at-times-quite-possibly-veering-off-the-straight-and-narrow Cat Trahan? She was a legend. An elderly one.

  It wasn’t the sort of fame he wanted for himself, of course, however popular she may have been. She had certainly been popular: the ‘people’ had loved her – despite, or perhaps, he thought uncharitably, because of her failings. Her many, many failings: bribery, sex scandals, guilty-plea to extortion! But then, that was Louisiana. The ‘people’ probably didn’t know any better; that’s what they were used to. So they had had their love affair with the WildCat.

  How old was she now? In her seventies? A has-been.

  He had a few minutes to kill before a breakfast meeting. He was curious and rather excited at the prospect of talking to this woman.

  He took the call.

  “Is this Senator Heath?” she trilled.

  “Yes Ma’am. How are you, Governor?”

  She was well, she replied, enjoying New Orleans in the spring. Her house on St. Charles Avenue was always open to him, should he have occasion to visit Louisiana.

  He wondered what she wanted from him.

  “You must think my calling you out of the blue quite unusual, so I’ll try to get to the point as quickly as I can, dear.” Cat paused, as if to collect her thoughts. “You see, I have received an invitation to a very interesting and potentially very –” Cat paused dramatically, “beneficial event,” she continued. “I have heard a great deal about you– I have been away from politics for a long time but the old fire never really dies, does it dear? And I try to keep up with the young stars of today–”

  “Oh, Mrs. Trahan!” Senator Heath protested with a laugh.

  “Don’t be embarrassed dear. Your wife must be very proud of you. Anyway, to cut a long story short – something I have problem with at times I am afraid – I immediately thought of you, when I received this invitation …”

  “Invitation to what?” the senator asked, growing impatient.

  “Darling–” she hesitated.

  “Yes, Governor?” He glanced irritably at his watch. What does she want from me? Some favor, I guess. “Why don’t you tell me what this invitation is and then I can let you know if I’m interested,” he said amiably.

  “It’s a LiGa invitation, darling,” Cat said quietly. “You know, one of those things that invites you to play in their tournaments.”

  A LiGa invitation! There were so many
questions he wanted to ask, but he said instead as calmly as he could manage, “very good, Mrs. Trahan. Why don’t you send it to me and I’ll take a look.”

  “I will, darling.”

  And the next day the invitation arrived by Federal Express.

  “Welcome–” The matte black brochure began. “You are hereby invited to compete in a tournament of LiGa Bridge …”

  Of course he had heard of LiGa. Who hadn’t? He was surprised, frankly, that it was Cat Trahan who had received the invitation. Surprised and skeptical. The invitation looked real – not that he had seen one before – or at least it fit what he had heard and read of such invitations.

  He made inquiries, naturally. One of the bright young aides in his office was put in charge of investigating and writing a detailed memo on “the socio-political ramifications and historical foundation of the LifeGame invitation process.”

  What a memo he had gotten within three days! An absolute tome. The eager aide – Andy something or other – had been profusely apologetic – apparently he had had to sleep a few hours in the interim. Behind the gracious smile, the senator noted the young man’s unwashed hair and ill-fitting suit with no small satisfaction.

  I’ll never read all this, he thought, seated at his neat, leather-topped desk. A single letter lay before him awaiting his signature. Next to the letter, at his right elbow, stubbornly loomed the monstrosity that somewhere in its dry innards, contained the information he wanted…

  I am not going to read this, he decided. I don’t have to; I am the senator.

  He commanded Andy to come forth.

  “Come in here, will you? I want to go over this LiGa report–”

  Andrew T. Strong, twenty-four years old, who had stepped out of the shadows of the Blue Ridge Mountains of West Virginia, and on a full scholarship while working two jobs, graduated with a summa cum laude in mathematics from MIT, opened the door hesitantly.

  “Yes, senator?”

  “Please sit down Andy–” the senator waved generously towards the upholstered chair in front of the handcrafted Cherry Wood desk.