The air seemed to crackle with electrical energy. Every nontourist in view clutched a laptop computer. No one carried anything remotely resembling the battered tan briefcase in his sweaty hand. Jenkins was uncomfortably aware of his wrinkled khaki pants, his worn Hush Puppies and the faded blue chambray work shirt, damp from the heat. He removed the tan fisherman's cap and wiped the sweat off his forehead with a red bandanna, immediately regretting the move because it made him look even more like a hick. He stuffed the bandanna back into his pocket.

“Someone in particular you'd like to see?”

“Yes, but I'm not sure who it might be.” Jenkins offered a weak grin. “Sorry to be so vague.”

The receptionist was familiar with the symptoms. “You're not the first person who's been vague. This place can be a bit overwhelming. Let's see what we can work out. Could you tell me your name?”

“Sure, it's Roy Jenkins. Dr: Leroy Jenkins, I mean. I taught oceanography at the University of Maine before I retired a few years ago.”

“That narrows it down. Would you like to speak to someone in the oceanography division, Dr. Jenkins?”

Hearing the title before his name gave him courage. He said, “I'm not sure. I've some questions of a specialized nature.”

“Why don't we start in oceanography and go from there?”

The young woman picked up the phone, pressed a button and spoke a few words. “Go right up, Dr. Jenkins. The receptionist on the ninth floor is expecting you.” She flashed her fabulous smile again and directed her eyes to the next person in line.

Jenkins made his way toward the ranks of elevators off to one side of the lobby. Still wondering if he had come all this way to make a fool of himself in front of some young Ph.D. with a pocket protector and a condescending attitude, he stepped into an elevator and pushed a button. Too late now, he thought as the elevator whisked him skyward.

ON THE TENTH floor of the NUMA building, Hiram Yaeger sat in front of a horseshoe-shaped console and stared at an immense computer monitor that looked as if it were suspended in space. Displayed on the screen was the image of a narrow-faced man with beetling brows bent over a chessboard. Yaeger watched the man move the white rook two spaces. He studied the board a moment and said, “Bishop to queen five. Check and checkmate.”

The man on the screen nodded and tipped his king over with a forefinger. In a thick accent, he said, “Thank you for the game, Hiram. We must play again.” The screen went blank except for a pale green afterglow.

The middle-aged man sitting next to Yaeger said, “Very impressive. Victor Karpov isn't exactly a slouch.”