Madhavy started well, rolling a six and a one to form a vital point just outside his home board. Then on his next throw he got a double six, the double entitling him to four moves of six rather than the usual two, allowing him to move his two pieces out of Tom’s home board and close off another point.
Given Madhavy’s strong start, Tom was not surprised when he doubled him on his next turn. Normally, he would probably have refused the double, preferring to lose the one point rather than risk two. But this wasn’t a normal game.
To Madhavy’s thinly concealed delight, therefore, he accepted the double and a few moves later lost the game. Usually each game was worth a point, but with Tom having accepted the double this one was worth two.
“I win,” crowed Madhavy, punching the air. “Two points. You have lost your touch.”
“You were lucky,” said Tom, swiftly rearranging his pieces. “It’s first to five, don’t forget.”
Madhavy bent his head back down toward the board and his earlier jubilation seemed to evaporate as a swift exchange of pieces raised the excited murmur of the growing crowd of onlookers. Mindful of how the game was evolving, Tom quickly settled on a back game, placing his pieces in blocking positions and then waiting for an opportunity to hit Madhavy as he tried to bear off. It was a risky but potentially devastating strategy.
As Tom had planned, it wasn’t long before Madhavy, cursing his misfortune in rapid-fire Turkish, was forced to leave a piece exposed. Sensing his opportunity, Tom doubled him, but Madhavy, clearly fancying his odds, immediately doubled Tom back. In a few seconds it had gone from a one-point to a four-point game.
Tom stared Madhavy in the eye as he flicked the dice, not bothering to look down to see what he had rolled. The gasps from the enthralled crowd and Jennifer’s low whistle were sufficient. He had hit him.
With Tom having blocked all the points in his home board, Madhavy was now frozen out of the game, his piece stranded on the bar. All he could do was watch stonily as Tom swiftly bore off almost half his pieces before he was able to get back on the board and begin to bear off himself. Madhavy angrily conceded the game. Four-two to Tom.
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
Madhavy snarled out an order for another coffee and snapped at one of his bodyguards for talking. Tom knew now that Madhavy couldn’t afford to make a single mistake or he would lose. And, according to the rules, there was no opportunity to use the doubling dice anymore, with Tom being only one point from victory. Madhavy had no choice but to win three games in a row. No wonder he looked rattled.
The muttering onlookers, crowded round them in a tight, jostling circle, were feeding hungrily on the tension. Tom studied Madhavy’s face thoughtfully, took in his bulging eyes, the nervous fidgeting with his beard, the oily slick of sweat on his forehead, the continuous wetting of his lips. Madhavy looked up and returned Tom’s stare, smiling apprehensively. Tom could see that Madhavy was on show here, in front of his own people. He had to play this very carefully.
The next game started with a balanced exchange of moves between the two players, no real advantage accruing to either of them. About four rolls in, though, a succession of poor throws forced Tom to change his strategy to an all-out blitz of Madhavy’s pieces. Death or glory.
Madhavy reacted well, striking Tom back and with a few doubles closing out most of the points in his home board. Tom suddenly found himself in a very difficult position, his pieces strung out over the board like a ragged necklace.
Three rolls later and Tom was in the same position Madhavy had faced in the previous game — frozen out — except that he had three pieces off the board while Madhavy had only had the one. Madhavy swiftly bore off his pieces, Tom eventually getting one, then another, piece back on. With only four pieces left to bear off, Madhavy’s anxious face relaxed into a grin. He rolled. Boxcars — a double six.
He purposefully took the final four pieces off the board and looked up at Tom, smiling. Tom still had one piece on the bar. Backgammon. Three points to Madhavy and therefore the match.
The small crowd around them erupted into applause and Madhavy energetically shook Tom’s hand, all smiles now. His bodyguards slapped him on the back, the tea garden manager fussed round him appreciatively, and he waved regally at the chattering crowd, who nodded their appreciation back. Tom Kirk beaten. It would be the talk of the town.
“Well done,” said Tom.
“Better luck next time, Kirk-bey.” Madhavy didn’t bother to mask his elation. Tom loosened the watch strap from his wrist, took a last regretful look at it, and handed it over to Madhavy. He accepted the watch with both hands and then held it over his head like a small trophy. Again the small crowd clapped and cheered.
“Come on. Let’s go,” Tom whispered to Jennifer.
“Go? Is that it? We didn’t even… ” She tailed off as she caught Tom’s glare.
“But we didn’t find anything out,” she whispered into Tom’s ear as they stood up. “What about the off-site?” Tom didn’t say anything, steering her instead toward the exit with a firm hand on her elbow. But just as they were about to leave, Madhavy called after them.
“Kirk-bey, wait.”
He walked up to them, leaving his admirers chatting excitedly in the middle of the garden.
“Come, let us part as friends.” He held his hands out and gave Tom a long hug, his head over Tom’s left shoulder, his arms around his waist, before shaking his hand again.
“Until next time,” Madhavy called after them as they walked out into the late-afternoon heat.
“What the hell was all that about?” Jennifer asked as they immersed themselves in the street’s clamoring tumult. The older men were clad in suits and neatly trimmed moustaches, the youngsters clean-shaven and wearing designer jeans and shirts. The women were smart, dressed in this year’s Italian fashions and last year’s Hollywood haircuts. Mobile phones were on show everywhere, clipped to belts or hung round necks like expensive necklaces. Stalls sold dates and orange juice, while others boasted Iznik pottery and Islamic prayer beads.
“Have you ever heard of the Cistern of Theodosius?” Tom asked her, an amused look on his face. He swerved past a marble block, the remnant of some ancient temple or pillar that had been left to rot at the side of the road.
“The Cistern of what?” She screwed her face up in confusion. “Wait a minute. Is that where it’s happening? Did he tell you?”
Tom nodded.
“He whispered it when he said good-bye.”
“Even though he won?” Tom nodded “Why?”
“I guess he was being gracious in victory.”
“You mean you lost deliberately?”
“The last time I played him, I won twenty games in a row. Ended up with his Mercedes. I heard he didn’t play for two years after that. I just figured he would be more likely to tell me if I lost convincingly than if I beat him again. Especially with all his people looking on. It wouldn’t look good to lose face twice.”
“But what about your watch? Didn’t you say your mother gave you that?”
“Oh, it was for a good cause. Besides,” Tom reached into his jacket pocket. “I don’t think I’ll miss it.” Grinning, he held his watch out.
Jennifer held her hands up in disbelief.