The Grandmaster's Pawn Read online

  Copyright © 2020 by Patricia D. Eddy

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  About the Author

  Also by Patricia D. Eddy

  One

  Daniel

  “The Sicilian Defense? Are you certain?”

  Her huff brings a smile to my lips, though the anonymity of the internet hides it from her.

  “Do you have a problem with Sicilians?”

  “Not at all. However, the King’s Gambit is the more…popular response.” I lean back in my chair as she locks her pawn to C5.

  “Shoulder pads were popular once too. Shall we bring those back? What about tie-dye? Leg warmers? Hammer pants?”

  “I owned a pair of Hammer pants.” I don’t know why I admit this faux pas to Gemma Watson, the woman I’ve met online every night for the past two weeks. Except, I’m tired of our games. Not the chess matches. The constant banter that never says anything.

  Gemma laughs, and the sound shocks me with its musicality. Have I heard her laugh before? I don’t think so. Brilliant. This is progress. “Now that I shared my deepest, darkest secret with you…perhaps you will share one of your own?” Moving my knight to NF3, I wait to see if she’ll take the bait. On the board and in our chat.

  Her N6 move is expected, but not ineffectual, and two moves later, she’s captured my first pawn. “I’m afraid of the dark.”

  This, I can use. “Any particular reason?”

  “None I’m willing to share. In fact, I have to be at the museum by 7:00 a.m. We’ll have to pick this game up tomorrow. Good night, Daniel.”

  The connection clicks off, and the game on screen disappears. I pushed too far. No matter. She opened up, and tomorrow, I’ll make my next move. If all goes well, Gemma and I will have met…in person…by the end of the day, and in less than a week, the Lewis Chessmen will be mine.

  Three years I’ve been planning this heist. Blueprints for the British Museum, security timetables, alarm system schematics. All mine. Except, the Lewis Chessmen are under lockdown if you do not have a very specific keycard programmed to allow access to the Antiquities Room, and my last attempt to obtain one failed. Miserably. The former curator, a dour-faced dodger with a penchant for gambling, should have been an easy mark.

  And then the dolt went and got himself indebted to a particularly vicious loan shark. If only he hadn’t gone to the police. Once the coppers were involved, I couldn’t get close to him again.

  But now…everything is falling into place. A part of me wishes I could have found another way. Once the Chessmen are mine, I’ll never speak to Gemma again. I’ve come to enjoy our chats, and the challenge she poses. Rarely do I lose a chess match. But to her…I’ve conceded defeat more than I’d like to admit.

  I stare out the window of my penthouse flat, wearing nothing but a black silk robe and slippers. The lights of London glitter before me, and I stare off to the east, where eleven kilometers away, Gemma is likely getting into bed.

  The Chessmen will be my crowning achievement, and after they’re mine…I’ll retire.

  “Gemma, you little minx. I hope I’ll be able to forget you one day,” I murmur as need stirs within me. “Though I intend to make sure you never forget me.”

  Gemma

  Why did I tell him about my fear? Daniel’s a foe. An online opponent. Someone to challenge me. A way to hone my skills for the game I love. Nothing more.

  For all I know, Daniel isn’t even his real name. Though…like a fool, I failed to use a screen name when I signed up with that stupid website two months ago. Daniel’s the first opponent who rematched me. Not only that…but he taught me. Patiently. Explained every move.

  Now…I’m not bad. Good, even. At least against Daniel. I rarely have the time to play with anyone else. Between my job as an Assistant Curator for the British Museum and studying for my Master’s Degree, I get maybe two hours a day to eat, order groceries, and play chess with Daniel.

  After I double-check the door locks, I trudge into my little bedroom. Despite living in London for three years, I never really…moved in or made my flat my own. Except in this room.

  On my dresser, my sister smiles back at me, forever nine years old and full of joy. I press my fingers to my lips, then touch the picture. “Miss you, Nora. Always.”

  Climbing into the queen-size bed, I pull the rich, purple duvet up to my chin. Silk scarves drape the lamps, and some of my favorite pictures—sunsets over Lake Tahoe, the Italian coastline, and the Cliffs of Mohr decorate the walls. If I weren’t a historian, I’d be a photographer. Nora and I used to dream about what we’d do when we were “big.” We always said we’d see big cities, mountains, and oceans. All the things we didn’t have in our tiny little country town.

  I leave the lamp on. Usually, my fear of the dark can be assuaged by the little night light in the hall. But I can feel the memories threatening. I’m not sure why. Except…the weather in London today was just like that awful day twenty years ago. When I lost her.

  The clouds roll in as we run across the field. “Hurry!” I call to Nora, who trails behind me, her legs so much shorter than mine are at two years her senior. “We have to be back before Daddy comes home.”

  She pumps her arms and bursts past me—though I let her. I always let her win. When she yanks open the old barn door, a wide smile lights up her face, turning her blue eyes almost gray. “This is so cool.”

  Dirt and bits of hay cover the floor, and cobwebs hang from rafters in the ceiling. It smells like cow pies and sawdust, and we explore every inch of the cavernous space. Until Nora climbs up onto a bale of hay.

  “Gemma, look at me! I’m taller than you are!” She bounces up and down on the solid bale a couple of times, and I march over and jam my hands on my hips.

  “Maybe, but I’ll always be older. Now get down. We’re going to be late!”

  Nora pouts, but jumps down. And as she lands, the wooden floor gives way, and we fall into darkness.

  “Help!” I scream, sitting bolt upright in bed before the spiders crawl over my skin and I feel Nora’s final breath against my cheek. I’m not trapped in an underground storage room beneath the abandoned barn, unable to move, my leg broken, and a metal rake impaling Nora—the tines piercing her liver and one lung. I don’t have to shiver as the temperature drops, don’t have to cry as the light fades and I see my sister’s eyes for the last time.

  But I still see my father’s heartbroken face lit by a flashlight as he peers through the hole in the floor and realizes my sister is gone. My shin throbs where the bones broke, and I reach down to rub the dull ache away, skimming the long scar from the surgery. Sometimes, I think I can feel the metal pins, though the doctors all assured me that was impossible.

  I stumble out to the little kitchenette and pour myself a glass of water. The liquid soothes my raw throat, but not my nerves, and I flip every single light on before I hide back under the duvet.

  Here, in my flat, I’m safe. I’m warm. But Nora’s still gone. And I’m still terrified of the dark.

  Two

  Gemma

  I didn’t have time to make my usual cup of coffee this morning, and my lingering sluggishness annoys me. As does the headache from too little sleep. I woke up half a dozen times last night. Two nightmares, but the rest
of my dreams were of happier times with Nora. With my parents.

  Each one made me cry. So now my eyes are swollen behind my glasses, and my lids are made of sandpaper.

  “Morning, Charles,” I say to the day guard as I rush by the antiquities room.

  “‘Allo, Miss Gemma. Watch—”

  I skid on the still-wet floor, and with a grace only I can manage, end up on my ass, practically doing the splits as my briefcase slips from my shoulder and my textbooks tumble to the ground, notes and papers flying everywhere.

  “—your step,” Charles says as he rushes over to me. “You all right, Miss Gemma?”

  “I’m fine. Just…soaked. And mortified. Thanks.” In truth, I’m close to tears again. My ass hurts, my pants are wet, and my class notes…well…they’re slowly dissolving in the remnants of the crappy mopping job someone did this morning.

  He helps me up, but groans every time he bends over. The man’s pushing seventy, and loves cookies and beer a little too much. “I’ll get everything,” I say, patting his arm. “But can you call someone to get this floor taken care of? Or at least put up a sign? This is dangerous.”

  “Called half an hour ago. But I’ll call again.” He shuffles off to one of the wall-mounted staff phones as I limp towards my office. I’ll be lucky if my right ass cheek isn’t four shades of purple by the end of the day.

  The room isn’t much bigger than my closet, but at least it has a door I can lock, and once I know I won’t be interrupted for at least a few minutes, I ease myself into my crappy desk chair with a wince.

  Turning on my computer, I check my schedule. Great. A university tour group is showing up in an hour. And their professor requested a docent with in-depth knowledge of the Lewis Chessmen. As we don’t have one, I’ll have to fill in.

  I’m about to pull out my makeup bag to see just how bad my face looks when a new email pops up from ChessWorld.

  Gemma, I fear I offended you last night. That was not my intention, and I apologize. I hope you’ll have time to finish our game this evening.

  Your humble opponent, Daniel

  My cheeks warm, and I shake my head as I reach into my bag and pull out a mirror. The man is so very British. And formal. I’m not sure why, but he makes me smile. Not even the sight of my blotchy skin and red-rimmed eyes dims the little thrill that runs through me.

  Taking a few seconds to pull up the game, I make my next move, then add a brief note.

  No apologies necessary. It was just a stressful night. Your move.

  I’m about to log off when another message comes in.

  Chess is a wonderful cure for stress. And perhaps, I will send you a photo of those awful hammer pants I spoke of. If only to hear you laugh again.

  The flush that started in my cheeks takes over my entire body. I shouldn’t be doing this. Flirting with a man online I barely know. But then I realize last night was the first time I’ve laughed in weeks. It felt good.

  Before I know it, we’ve exchanged another five moves, and if I don’t sign off now, I’ll say something I can’t take back. Like…how very much I enjoy our conversations. How I look forward to our matches every night.

  Daniel, when I log on later, I expect to see a photo of those pants.

  Thirty university students gather around the exhibit, and I push my glasses up on my nose as I force a smile. “The Lewis Chessmen are from the twelfth century. They were carved out of ivory from walrus tusks, and they get their name from where they were discovered—on the Isle of Lewis in the Outer Hebrides in Scotland.”

  “How come you don’t have the whole set?” one of the boys asks as he shoves another classmate aside for a closer look. “And what are those little…lumpy pieces?”

  I stifle my sigh. “Those are the pawns. When the cache was discovered, it contained seventy-eight chess pieces and fifteen other artifacts believed to be from five different complete sets. That’s why you see the variation even among pieces of the same type. The British Museum holds eighty-two pieces, and the other eleven are at the National Museum of Scotland in Edinburgh.”

  “They should all be in Scotland,” a tall, willowy blond says as she examines her nails. Her accent is decidedly Scottish.

  “That, ladies and gentlemen, is a debate that is above my pay grade.” The American joke doesn’t play well with the students, and my cheeks flush with heat as I gesture to one of the pieces that are stained red. “One of the most interesting finds from this discovery is that in the twelfth century, chess colors weren’t black and white, but red and white.”

  I continue my rambling for another half an hour until two of the boys start roughhousing around the display. They jostle the cabinet, and all hell breaks loose.

  Charles runs in from the hall, my phone starts to buzz in my pocket, and lights flash as the alarms go off, the loud clanging making my headache even worse. “It’s okay, Charles,” I say as I key in my code that tells the security system this is all a false alarm. “Just a row between two boys who will definitely be leaving now.” With a glare at their professor, I nod at the door. “I’m afraid the tour is over. Charles will escort you out.”

  As the group follows the guard and the professor reams the boys new assholes, I sink down onto a bench and wait for the alarms to fall silent and the museum guards to come in and secure all of the exhibits so the room—and the Chessmen—can be examined and reset.

  Now, more than ever, I wish I hadn’t skipped my morning coffee. Even thinking about the paperwork I’ll have to fill out this afternoon. I groan and drop my head into my hands. Within minutes, the room is emptied and the other displays locked down. “Miss Watson?” one of the guards says. “We’re ready for your report now.”

  Daniel

  The little tiff at the museum provides me with a a wealth of information. Gemma is calm and cool under pressure, knows all about the Lewis Chessmen, and can turn off the security alarms with her phone.

  I stride quickly down the hall and duck into a bathroom by the lobby to remove my disguise. The gray wig and horn-rimmed glasses make me look like a college professor. Paired with the tweed jacket, no one looked twice at me tagging along at the back of the group.

  The jacket reverses, the tie, wig, and glasses go into my briefcase, and businessman Daniel Hastings slips out the front doors.

  After two months of following and observing her, I know Gemma’s routine. At precisely eleven-thirty every morning, she heads to a local shop a kilometer away, orders an almond milk latte, and sits down with a text book for twenty-two minutes. So at eleven-thirty-five, I queue up behind her.

  “Earl Grey and a biscuit,” I say, just loud enough for her to hear as she’s standing at the takeaway counter. “For Daniel.”

  The din surrounding us masks the hitch in her breath, but out of the corner of my eye, I pick up on the little stutter in her chest. Red silk drapes over her breasts, gathering at her waist. Black pants showcase her curvy hips and long legs, and nervous fingers fiddle with a single strand of pearls around her neck.

  “Daniel?” she asks hesitantly. “Do…you play chess?”

  After dropping a ten pound note on the counter and waving off change, I turn to her. “I do.” I let my brow furrow, just for a moment. “Bloody hell. Gemma?”

  Her smile lights up the entire room, and as she nods, I hold out my hand.

  “This is unexpected. I do apologize. If I’d known we would meet, I would have brought that photo for you.”

  Her fingers are warm in mine, soft, and I hold on for a moment longer than I intend, something about her almost magnetic, especially when she laughs, like she does now. “I work down the street. I have an office above Harrods. Usually, I hit up the tea shop around the corner, but they had a power outage this morning. What are you doing here?”

  To Gemma, I’m an art dealer. Paintings, mostly. Both modern and classical. Not affiliated with any gallery, I freelance, buying and selling for my clients. Not altogether different from my true calling. After all, the last several item
s I’ve stolen have been paintings.

  “Oh. I…I come here every day.” She accepts her latte from the barista and scans the room for a table. “Um, I know this is forward of me, but…it’s been a morning, and trying to read about the origins of color in art—” she shrugs as she hugs her textbook to her chest, “—is probably going to be a waste of time. Would you like to join me?”

  “I would be delighted. Then, perhaps, you’ll let me apologize again for last night.” Picking up my biscuit and mug, I follow her to a corner table. “I did not mean to pry.”

  She laughs again, and shite. The sound is so much better in person. Along with the little self-conscious flush creeping up her cheeks and the way she stares down at her hands cupped around the mug for a moment before meeting my gaze once more. “You didn’t. I…reacted badly, that’s all.”

  “Then may I do so again? You can refuse, of course.” I lean forward, infusing as much care and concern in my tone as I can. I thought I would have to force the emotion, but I find it comes naturally with her this close. She nods, and I raise a brow. “Why has it ‘been a morning’?”

  Despite how much I’d like to, I don’t walk Gemma back to the museum. Best to stay away from the cameras. I’ve already traversed this route once today. Instead, I offer up an excuse and an apology before taking a shortcut back to my flat, cutting through St. George’s Gardens. Despite the chill in the air—almost permanent in London—a weak sun shines today, and I let my mind wander as I pass by the old gravestones and statues.

  “Hastings.”

  The single word makes my blood run cold, and I stiffen, turning slowly towards a set of three benches in the center of a small circular hedgerow. “Ulrich. You are an unpleasant surprise. What brings you to London?”