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masters, whom he pays handsomely. The encounter takes place over four weeks, some months before the official contest for the world championship, and has come to be considered the unofficial world championship between the two best chess players of the moment: the titleholder and the most prominent challenger. In addition to the prize money (fifty thousand dollars for the winner and ten thousand for the runner-up), the prestige of the Campanella Cup resides in the fact that, so far, the victor of the contest has either gone on to win the world title or has retained it. Sokolov is the current champion; and Keller, who has beaten all the other candidates, is the challenger.
    â€œThat young man is Keller?” Max says, astonished.
    â€œYes. A pleasant lad, relatively normal, which is unusual in his profession. . . . The Russian is less friendly. Always surrounded by bodyguards and cautious as a fox.”
    â€œWhat about her?”
    Spadaro makes a dismissive gesture, the one he reserves for low-status guests. Those without much history.
    â€œShe’s the fiancée. And part of his team (the receptionist leafs through the hotel register to refresh his memory). Irina. Irina Jasenovic. The name is Yugoslav, but her passport is Canadian.”
    â€œI meant the older woman. The one with the short gray hair.”
    â€œAh, she’s the mother.”
    â€œOf the girl?”
    â€œNo. Of Keller.”

    He bumped into her again two days later, in the ship’s ballroom. Dinner was to be a black-tie affair: the captain was honoring some distinguished guest, and a number of male passengers had exchanged their customary black tuxedo for a tight-fitting tailcoat, starched bib front, and white bow tie. The diners had gathered in the ballroom, drinking cocktails and listening to the music before going on to dinner. After the meal a few of the youngest or more fun-loving would return there and stay on until the small hours. The orchestra started with the usual slow waltzes and smooth melodies, and Max Costa danced half a dozen sets, almost all of them with young girls and married women traveling en famille . Max reserved a slow fox-trot for an Englishwoman, past her prime but not bad-looking, who was there with a girlfriend. He had seen them whisper and nudge each other whenever he swept past their table. The Englishwoman was blonde, plump, with a rather abrupt manner. Although perhaps a little vulgar (he thought he detected too much My Sin on her) and festooned with jewelry, she was not a bad dancer. She had pretty blue eyes, too, and enough money to make her attractive: the clutch bag on the table was of gold mesh, he confirmed at a glance as he stood before her to invite her onto the dance floor; and the jewels looked real, in particular the sapphire bracelet and matching earrings, the stones of which, once removed from their settings, would fetch five hundred pounds sterling. He had discovered from the reservations list that her name was Miss Honeybee. Widowed or divorced, the headwaiter, a man called Schmöcker (nearly all the officers, seamen, and permanent members of staff on the ship were German) had hazarded, with the assurance of someone having fifty Atlantic crossings under his belt. And so, after a careful study of the woman’s responses to his manners and proximity, and without making a single inappropriate gesture—maintaining proper distance and a professional aloofness throughout, and ending as he returned her to her table with a splendid, manly smile (met with a perfunctory “so nice” from the Englishwoman)—Max placed Miss Honeybee on his list of possibles. Five thousand sea miles and a three-week crossing could provide rich pickings.
    That evening, the de Troeyes arrived together. Max was taking a breather next to the bank of palms alongside the stage, drinking a glass of water and smoking a cigarette. From there he saw the couple enter, preceded by the obsequious