David Edmonds - Bobby Fischer Goes to War

These lawyers were different kinds of people from what we knew in Iceland. It seemed to me that money was the driving force and that everything that was legal was allowed. We didn’t see it like that. In Iceland it’s more about ethics than the law. And when they said the word money, the sound of their speech changed, and the look on the face changed. Money! Money! Money!

Money, however, mattered to the Icelanders, too. They were at a disadvantage. If there were no match, they would lose their whole investment, and for a tiny country, this represented a large sum. Thorarinsson has not forgotten how Andrew Davis rubbed this in: “He said, ‘You’re losing everything. You just have to give us the gate money and this and that, and we shall make sure Bobby is here.’” The Icelander was under attack from all directions. The journalist Brad Darrach accused him of wanting to hand the match to the Soviets. The local press charged him with damaging Iceland’s international reputation. One editorial griped, “Why can’t he negotiate? He seems impotent.”

Thorarinsson was not the only one on the receiving end. Tremblay informed the State Department by telegram that his mission was dealing with a “large number of financial and facultative requests from Fischer’s reps….” He wanted to put on record demands he had not granted. For example, Davis had asked the U.S. government to guarantee Fischer a sum of $50,000 on the grounds that his bid for a percentage of the ticket proceeds had been turned down. Davis’s argument took some lawyerly chutzpah: the U.S. government should help out, he argued, because of the risk that his client would be responsible for a breach in U.S.-Icelandic relations. Tremblay wrote, “This was rejected as exaggerated. Icelanders regard Bobby Fischer as a unique individual, and while his antics may not aid the US cause, it is highly unlikely that public or official blame will accrue for the delay or possible cancellation.” Cramer had also requested on Fischer’s behalf diplomatic number plates—and was told this was unnecessary. At two A.M. on Sunday, 2 July, Darrach woke Tremblay to insist that four marine guards were required around the clock to ensure Fischer’s security.

All of this was infuriating the Icelandic government. The prime minister had particularly taken umbrage at Davis’s claim that Iceland would look to the U.S. government for reparations if the match fell through. Johannesson had also resented a demand by Fischer’s representatives that the United States guarantee Fischer’s security. According to Tremblay, “the prime minister remarked acidly that the government of Iceland is quite capable of providing the requisite security.”

Tremblay was far more anxious about the impact of Fischer’s behavior than he let on to his superiors back in Washington. The Soviets, he thought, were winning the propaganda battle. “Sure they were. Boris was his charming self. The guy’s a real charmer. He’s handsome and sophisticated and well educated: he’s got everything going for him. And here’s this other guy refusing to turn up.”

Probably sensing trouble, Davis changed tack and asked for a postponement. The excuse? His client was suffering from fatigue. Davis and Cramer promised doctors’ certificates that failed to materialize. The mood in Reykjavik was somber, the organizers living on their nerves, the city still alive with speculation. The correspondent of The New York Times, Harold Schonberg, wrote: “There is something sad about the stage which has been so carefully prepared and conceivably may never be used.”

Max Euwe, president of FIDE, held back from contacting Fischer directly. For six months, the match had been one long headache; now he was quoted as saying, “Fischer does not speak to me unless, perhaps, it is to order me to get him a taxi. I do not want to meet him.” All the same, without seeing any medical evidence, he allowed Fischer two extra days to arrive, on the grounds that the challenger was ill.

While all this was going on, the world champion was marginalized. The Soviet team in Reykjavik was informed that the drawing of lots was to be postponed from 2 July to midday on 4 July. Geller phoned Moscow to pass on the news. On behalf of the USSR Chess Federation, Baturinskii sent a furious cable to Schmid. He accused Fischer of “busying himself with blackmail” with the connivance of the FIDE leadership. His failure to appear for the opening, the drawing of lots, and the first game on 2 July was a violation of FIDE rules unprecedented in its history. Fischer deserved disqualification, said Baturinskii. For his part, Euwe had taken “the more than unattractive role of Fischer’s defender.” On his own initiative, he had postponed the match following a “nonexistent request” on the grounds of Fischer’s “imaginary illness.”

Citing chapter and verse from the Amsterdam agreement, Baturinskii declared that if, beginning at noon on 4 July, measures were not taken to follow FIDE rules and the agreement, the USSR Chess Federation would consider the contest “wrecked” by FIDE and Fischer. The threat was plain: they would declare the match null and void.

When Geller challenged Euwe over the postponement, the FIDE president used Spassky as his excuse: “I wanted to save the match because Spassky wants to play so much.” Geller recounted this to Ivonin, who dismissed it as an outrageous argument. What they could not have known is that the world champion had indeed tacitly given Thorarinsson and Euwe the go-ahead to try to salvage the competition.

In the early afternoon of Sunday, 2 July, Spassky had a long conversation with Euwe, who then proposed an evening meal with himself and an American millionaire chess fan, Isaac Turover. Geller and Krogius believed Spassky could return with honor to Moscow, and, sensing the champion’s vacillation, urged him to miss the supper where he might be prevailed upon to give ground. Spassky ignored them: the next day, it was reported he had consented to the delay.

But then came a second call attempting to save the match, just as it looked as if Fischer was going too far.

Driving to work in London early on Monday morning, 3 July, Jim Slater was upset by a radio report on the challenger’s nonappearance in Reykjavik.

Slater was a businessman whose company, Slater Walker Securities, had been formed in 1964 when he was in his mid-thirties. His partner, Peter Walker, had left the business to become a Conservative member of Parliament and a government minister under Edward Heath and (later) Margaret Thatcher. At the time of the Fischer-Spassky match, the company reportedly had a controlling interest in 250 companies around the world. Supremely confident, decisive, ruthless in business, Slater had by then amassed a fortune of, in his own words, “£6 million and rising.” A gambler by nature, he allowed himself one big luxury: to play bridge for thousands of pounds with stronger opponents.

Slater was a chess fan and supporter of the game, subsidizing the annual Hastings tournament. In the years following Fischer-Spassky, he would, alongside the former British champion and journalist Leonard Barden (who provided the vision and organization), transform the state of British chess by channeling funds into junior competition.

Now he decided that he could easily afford the money to send Fischer to Reykjavik—or expose the American as a coward. He would double the prize, putting an additional £50,000 ($125,000) into the pot. Arriving at his office that Monday morning, he passed on his offer through Leonard Barden, who then spoke to Paul Marshall, giving the U.S. attorney some background details about this championship angel. Marshall then talked to Fischer. Slater says he also telephoned his friend David Frost, who in turn rang his friend Henry Kissinger. Kissinger then contacted Fischer. What motivated Slater? “As well as providing me with a fascinating spectacle for the next few weeks, I could give chess players throughout the world enormous pleasure.”