He countered immediately and was convinced the game would be over in a dozen more moves. He sighed, another strike against his own rules, and waited for the next move, which was what he had foreseen.
A couple of minutes later he lost his second piece. Sandström attacked with a pawn and left the board free for a bishop that now threatened a white knight.
Ander bounced off his chair.
“I have it!” he cried.
All the players in the room looked up in terror. Afterward Jonasson would tell over and over again for those that could be bothered to listen how the silence after Ander’s outburst had felt intensely frightening.
“You are trying the variant from Barcelona!” he said loudly.
Ander looked around the large room. He could not complain about the lack of attention.
“You remember it, right?”
Everyone looked blank except Lind, who was a chess historian of a high order.
Lind left his game, came over, and stopped to study the board.
“Do you remember the name of that Basque?” he asked.
“Sure,” Ander said absently.
“In the middle of a raging civil war. Do you remember what Lundin wrote?” Lind continued, and lost himself in a discussion of the late nineteen thirties. He had written an article about the world championships in Argentina that started on the same day as World War II. As the only member to have played against the legendary Gideon Ståhlberg, and to achieve a draw at that, he felt justified in launching into old anecdotes at any moment.
“You will have to excuse me,” Ander said and turned to his opponent, “but I give up the game.”
“Give up?” Lind said, baffled. “But you have it in the bag!”
“There’s something else that’s more important. Thank you,” he said and stretched out his hand to the astonished Sandström, and immediately departed.
Doubt came as Ander was turning the key in the ignition. Suddenly the idea seemed completely preposterous. How many were familiar with Antonov’s exhibition match from 1937?
He himself had read about it during the sixties and been completely fascinated. Not only the frame of civil war and gunfire in the streets between the different factions on the republican side-the process of the tournament itself and especially the match between Antonov and Urberuaga.
From what he could recall Antonov was as old as the century and had been a grand master for many years. He had played all of the greats. The Basque, who came from Ea, a small coastal village outside Bilbao, had recently turned twenty and was completely unknown in the chess world.
Ander rolled out from the Fyris School’s parking lot, driving past the half finished new police building, and checked the time. He knew that it was Lindell’s investigation. But could he call her this late?
He and Lindell had not had much to do with one another. Of course they had met on occasion and had collaborated to some extent on some previous cases, but not more than that. If it had been an older, male colleague he would not have hesitated. As it was it felt strange to call a woman at half past nine in the evening.
He decided to call Ottosson instead. He knew the old wolf well. They had even played bandy together, thirty years-and almost as many kilos-ago.
He called the communications exchange and got Ottosson’s home number. If his chess theory was correct Ottosson would have nothing against getting this call so late.
Luckily it was Ottosson himself who answered.
“Hi Otto, this is Ander. I’m not disturbing you, am I?”
He realized how idiotic the question was. To call a policeman with a work-related question was to disturb him, it was that simple, and he corrected himself right away.
“Of course I am, but this is important. It’s about the serial killer. I think I know who the final target will be.”
“This sounds like something,” Ottosson said and Ander could not tell from his voice how imposed upon he felt.
“It’s Queen Silvia.”
Ottosson reaction to Ander’s explanation was unanticipated. Ander had to hold the cell phone ten centimeters from his ear in order not to be deafened by his colleague’s peals of laughter.
“I’m serious,” he said when Ottosson had collected himself somewhat.
“Have you been drinking?”
“You know I haven’t,” Ander said sharply, “do you want to hear me out?”
“Okay, I can tell this at the club later. I never have any good jokes to contribute.”
Ten minutes later Ottosson was bent over in the hall clumsily tying his shoes. Asta Ottosson stood behind him, looking at her husband with a mixture of irritation and tenderness.
“Is it the Queen’s Lifeguards coming to the rescue? Do you want any help with those laces?”
Ottosson straightened up, red in the face.
“Ander is no court jester,” he said. “Certainly the idea sounds completely crazy, but what if it’s true?”
Gusten Ander laid out his hypothesis as methodically as he could. Ottosson immediately explained that he didn’t play chess, so Ander started with the basics. He described the tournament in Barcelona, the commotion the game between Urberuaga and Antonov had caused, and he also summed up the remarkable life of the Basque player.
“You mean that this game is world famous, like Beamon’s long jump in Mexico?” Ottosson asked. “That in my ignorance I’ve overlooked this?”
“Not exactly,” Ander said. “It’s famous in chess but not among the general public.”
“Among chess nerds, in other words.”
Ottosson looked thoughtful. Ander knew that everything weighed in the balance in this moment.
“Is it described in any books?”
Now Ander knew Ottosson was hooked.
“Yes, I’ve probably read about it in six or so articles. There are probably more. I can ask around. You can probably search the Web.”
“Let’s do this,” Ottosson said. “You put together a report about this game, where you can read about it, what’s been written recently. No long history. Can you have it ready tomorrow morning?”
Ander nodded. He would start at once.
“It’s urgent, of course,” Ottosson said. “She’ll be here in three days.”
“What is she doing here?”
“She’s going to open some home,” Ottosson said distractedly and Ander understood that he was thinking about which directions the investigation should now take.
“But can anyone be so damned crazy?” Ottosson burst out suddenly. “It seems so unbelievable, so, what can you say…?”
“… so deliberately calculating,” Ander filled in.
“It’s like it’s been taken from an English television series.”
“I never watch crime shows,” Ander said.
“No, you’re too smart for that.” Ottosson chuckled. “You figure everything out twenty moves in advance.”
“Don’t we have to get in touch with the Royal Court?”
“Maybe not just yet. This is such a delicate thing, a slightly daring analysis. We’re going to proceed with this all calm and collected.”
They went their separate ways outside the entrance to the police station. It was close to eleven o’clock in the evening on Tuesday, the twenty-first of October. On the twenty-fourth Queen Silvia was scheduled to come to Uppsala.
After several hundred meters Ottosson stopped short. Vaksala Square lay deserted except for a young couple walking diagonally across it. Ottosson could tell at a glance that they were newly in love. The man had his arm around the woman’s shoulders. They laughed from time to time. Ottosson followed their stroll until they turned the corner by Bodén’s Bicycle Shop in the Gerd block. A block that was now in danger of being torn down because a majority in city government had gotten the idea of building a House of Music right there. It was doubtful if they fully represented the district’s citizens. Ottosson was convinced there would be protests.