In 1975, tensions ran high as Bobby Fischer, the reigning world chess champion, remained uncertain about whether he would defend his title in Leningrad. The Cold War had intensified since Bobby won the crown, prompting the CIA to hastily take control of negotiations as part of the broader effort against the Soviets.
As the deadline loomed, I received an urgent summons to Seattle, flying in overnight. I was driven to an unsuspecting building on the corner of Fourth Avenue. At the entrance, security personnel patted me down.
“I’ll need to see some ID,” one of them said.
I presented my ID, and after another pat-down, they escorted me through a labyrinth of doors into the building’s basement. We walked through a narrow corridor leading to a room with walls of one-way glass.
Inside, a man waited for me.
“I won’t bore you with the details, Mr. Wild,” he said, casually sipping his coffee, “We both know that you’re no stranger to these arrangements. Your records show that found that your skills far surpass those of any other candidates we considered for this operation. That's why you're here—to verify if your qualifications are as exceptional as we hope.”
As if on cue, Bobby Fischer walked into the room.
Bobby's ease with the CIA's inner workings was evident in his relaxed manner. He had been under their surveillance for most of his life, and this was as routine for him as it was for me.
“Take a seat, Bobby,” the man said, standing and gesturing to the empty chair. “I’m sure you’ve met Mr. Wild before, though you likely wouldn’t recognize him. He’s a master of disguise, aren’t you, Willy?”
I maintained my composure as we exchanged glances. Bobby appeared weary, noticeably thinner than I remembered. A sense of curiosity crept over me, questioning why either of us had been summoned with such urgency.
“You two will play six games,” he explained. “Sixty minutes each, and afterward, we’ll make our decision.”
As he spoke, an agent quietly entered and set up a chessboard on the table between us.
“…Is that understood?”
We both nodded.
“Then, good luck, gentlemen,” he said before leaving the room.
We adjusted our pieces, delicately pinching their tips, shook hands, and began the match.
Bobby played white, launching the game with e4. I responded with c5, entering the Sicilian Defense. The opening moves unfolded: Nf3, d6, d4, cxd4, Nxd4, Nf6, Nc3, a6. Bobby then played Bg5, and I countered with e6. Fischer’s aggressive Qf3 and quick queenside castling revealed his intention to dominate the centre.
I could sense the escalating tension from the observers outside, their eyes piercing through the glass from all sides. By the 14th move, I had gained a significant time advantage—35 minutes on the clock—and was operating entirely on Bobby’s side of the board. His defenses were crumbling, and his increasingly erratic movements suggested the pressure was overwhelming him.
“Check-mate.” I announced. Game 1 was over.
Without pause, Bobby leaned forward and began resetting the pieces for the next game.
Over the next four games, my dominance continued. Bobby struggled to parry my relentless attacks, resulting in complete wipeouts in Games 2 through 5.
Abruptly, he stood and requested a break. Moments later, he returned with a slightly dampened collar—evidence of a desperate splash of water. He resumed his seat with renewed concentration, wiping his hands on his trousers before resetting his pieces for the final game.
I played white, opening with e4. Bobby responded with c5, and the game proceeded: Nf3, e6; d3, Nc6; g3, Nf6; Bg2, Be7. I then castled kingside.
The tension escalated as piece after piece was exchanged, leaving both of us uncertain of who had the upper hand. The turning point came when I penetrated Bobby's defenses, establishing an Alekhine's gun—a lethal alignment of two rooks and a queen on the same file, directly threatening checkmate.
Cornered with no feasible countermove, Bobby sank back into his chair, his mouth agape at the imminent massacre on the board. He brooded for several minutes, fingers pressed against his temples. Eventually, he lifted his gaze to meet mine and, with a flick of his wrist, toppled his king — Bobby Fischer had resigned.
Within seconds, security personnel burst in and removed Bobby by his arm as the man from before sat down in Bobby’s vacant chair.
He shook his head, audibly scoffing, his top button undone and tie missing.
“I don’t know what to say, Willy,” he said smugly, wiping his spectacles with his shirt, clearly satisfied.
I didn’t respond, but my growing concern for Bobby was quickly noted.
“Bobby will be fine.” He said, “He’s in the back being debriefed as we speak. What I’m more interested in discussing is what we will be doing with you moving forward.”
He told me about the intel that he had acquired, which pertained to bio-weapons that had been planned to be used to against Bobby to compromise his play and enable the Soviets to stake their revenge, costing Bobby the reputation of not only himself but also the entire nation.
But I knew none of it was true. I didn’t enjoy his smugness or the lies he was spinning. It was clear this whole trip had been orchestrated for me to deliver the final blow to a compromised man. Bobby's exhaustion had been apparent the moment I laid eyes on him. It was only because he refused to comply with them any longer than they needed to eliminate him now that he was no longer a cooperating asset which he inadvertently went on to clarify.
“We are confident that Bobby can beat any of the Russian contenders on any given day, which was why we needed to bring you here.” He continued, “But his work here is done, as is yours. We will no longer required your services from this point forth — consider yourself a free agent.”
The following day, a press release revealed that Bobby Fischer would not be defending his world title, effectively stripping him of his crown and shocking the world. I couldn't blame Bobby for despising his country after what they did to him. We had both been used by secret services that didn't hesitate to destroy us in the process. Bobby never saw me again after that day, but I often wondered how he felt knowing that Willy Wild was out there. If only we had met under ordinary circumstances, perhaps then Bobby could have stood a chance against me.
— Willy Wild