Waiting for Bobby

Where was he? Nobody in Reykjavik, Iceland, knew, and the tension last week was palpable. Teams of reporters roamed the airport, waiting, watching, checking. Icelandic Airlines officials in New York kept two seats open on every flight--just in case. But where was he? Meanwhile, carpenters put the finishing touches on the 3,000-seat Sports Hall in Reykjavik. Lighting experts checked and rechecked the lighting. Eight closed-circuit TV cameras, five telex machines, three movie cameras and one huge projector were set up. But where, oh where was he?

Suddenly, late one night, there he was, sitting in a coffee shop at New York's John F. Kennedy International Airport. Spotted by newsmen and jostled by photographers who crowded in around him, he ran across the waiting room, bolted out the door and disappeared into the parking lot. Later it was reported that he had actually checked his bags for a flight to Reykjavik, but miffed because of the lack of proper police protection, he demanded his bags back and then disappeared again. One thing was certain: when Icelandic Airlines Flight 204 finally departed, Chess Grand Master Bobby Fischer was not on board.

Elegant Game. Such were some of the cat-and-mouse games being played before this week's scheduled opening of the world championship of chess between Fischer and Russia's Boris Spassky in Reykjavik. It was bizarre that the orderly, elegant old game could be at the center of such a ruckus. But then ruckus raising is Fischer's specialty. Four years ago, he withdrew from international competition, accusing the "lying, cheating Russians" of denying him the world title that was rightfully his. Eighteen months later he stormed right back, knocking off one grand master after another to win a crack at the crown in Reykjavik. Then, on the eve of the showdown, he went into hiding, began delivering ultimatums and kept tournament officials waiting and wondering if he would ever show up. Fischer's demand was a familiar one: he wanted more money. Not satisfied with a record purse of $125,000 and 30% of the lucrative TV and film rights, Bobby wanted an additional 30% cut of the gate receipts for the match at the Sports Hall.

Fischer's demands and demeanor did not sit well with the Russians or the chess community. Tass, the Soviet news agency, complained about the "disgusting spirit of gain that Fischer carries around with him. It is characteristic that his spokesmen are lawyers and not chess players. Wherever Fischer is, money ranks first, pushing aside all sporting motives." Said The Netherlands' Max Euwe, former world chess champion (1935-37) and the president of the Federation des Echecs (F.I.D.E.), the world governing body of chess: "I don't like Mr. Fischer in our chess world. He's a good player, but every day we are getting another ultimatum from him like this." Then Euwe issued an ultimatum of his own: if Fischer did not show, he stood to lose his right to play for the world title "not only this time but perhaps forever."

Fischer (who was hiding out with a friend, Grand Master Anthony Saidy, in Bayside, a community in the New York borough of Queens, while the controversy raged) was adamant. For years he has charged that the Russians were conspiring against him and that F.I.D.E. was controlled by Moscow. During negotiations for the site of the match, Fischer was just as troublesome and demanding. It took months of wrangling to settle on Reykjavik, and even then Battling Bobby was not satisfied. "Iceland, with all due respect, is just too small and primitive to handle an event of this size," he said. "Their hall is inadequate and so is their lighting. But the worst thing of all is that there is no way to telecast the match from Iceland to the U.S. or even Europe. That's why the Russians picked Iceland. They know they're going to lose the match, so they figured they might as well bury it."

Waging a War. Meanwhile, back in Reykjavik, the rumors were flying thick and fast. HAS FISCHER ALREADY ARRIVED? headlined Timinn, the Reykjavik daily, speculating that Bobby had slipped into Iceland. The Icelandic Chess Federation said that it had already spent $200,000 on the match, or $1 for every man, woman and child in Iceland, and could not afford to give Fischer a share of the gate. Fred Cramer, vice president of the U.S. Chess Federation and Fischer's representative in Reykjavik, moaned: "You don't know what we've been going through. We spent over $1,000 on phone calls already."

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