Grandmaster's Gambit

By Leigh Kimmel

The disastrous war of 1913 is over, and young journalist Isaak Babel has used his fame as a war correspondent to win a peacetime job covering an international chess tournament in New York City. However, trouble is aboard the airship Grossdeuschland, in the form of the notorious Bolshevik terrorist Koba and his henchmen. Men with a dark plan, and New York City will not welcome their visit

• Language: English
• Publisher: Starship Cat Press
• Release date: Apr 9, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215378328

Book preview

It's a long way for a Jewish boy from Odessa.

It had been a long way north to St. Petersburg and employment as a reporter. Thence to the front, where he'd made his reputation in that brief and ill-fated war against the Kaiser in 1913, riding with the Cossacks into East Prussia.

And now across the Atlantic to New York City, to cover the world chess championships. Isaak Babel still couldn't shake the feeling he didn't belong aboard the airship Grossdeutschland. Had he made a mistake letting Peshkov know he played the game, even as an amateur? Already Isaak regretted indulging in his curiosity about the man studying a chess problem here in the tiny salon.

The man's hazel eyes made Isaak think of a hunting tiger. You are Russian?

Isaak decided it best not to advertise his ethnicity, given the anti-Semitism endemic among Russians. I am a subject of His Majesty the Tsar, yes.

On the other hand, this man's throaty accent didn't belong to a Russian muzhik. The Georgians of the warm Transcaucasus were said to be free of that bigotry. Isaak extended his hand, introduced himself. "Isaak Babel, international stringer for the St. Petersburg Guardian."

The man raised his sharply-arched eyebrows. "Ah, the author of the Odessa Tales and Notes from the Front. I am Iosif Dzhugashvili."

The Grandmaster? What a stupid response. I mean, I hadn't exactly expected to be traveling with one of the very men I'm going to be covering when I get to New York.

A smile spread the Georgian's bushy moustache, yet it failed to soften the man's predatory aspect. So you're a chess player yourself? Would you like to sit down for a game?

Isaak's whole face went hot and the words tumbled out in a confused rush. No, please, I wouldn't want to waste your time with my paltry talent.

He immediately regretted hurrying away. How could he have thrown away the opportunity to interview a man who'd become a legend in his own time? Was it just the man's gaze, which brought forth childhood memories of old stories about the Evil Eye, as though Isaak were fresh out of the shtetl rather than an educated cosmopolitan?

Isaak was no more than through the door than he encountered a stony-faced man in uniform, the insignia of an Obesrstlieutnant, a lieutenant colonel, of Military Intelligence at his shoulders. He flashed a badge identifying him as one Gerard Jacobs. Herr Babel?

Shit, I'm in trouble. Isaak forced his lips into a polite affirmative, half amused that the Yiddish of his childhood was sufficiently similar to German that they could communicate with minimal difficulty.

"Thank you. We have received information