Work Text:
1958
The bar is quiet, this early in the day. Just after most of the lunch crowd has dispersed, and there are a few alcoholics getting started early, but Walter has no trouble finding a quiet corner booth. He orders an appetizer and a drink in Russian, taking care with his accent. It’s not that he’s afraid he’ll be reported if someone suspects he’s American—it’s more that his waitress will keep bothering him in hopes of a big tip. He always gives them one anyway. Just his own little piece of international aid.
Walter likes to arrive first, to get settled in. Apparently, Alexander Molokov has noticed. He’s five minutes late, and Walter would never make the mistake of thinking anything Molokov does is unintentional. The unassuming man slides into the booth across from him—tall, moderately handsome but understated enough that he doesn’t draw undue attention, probably in his mid-30’s. He smiles easily at Walter.
“Mister de Courcy, what a pleasure to see you here,” he says.
“Mister Molokov. I didn’t know you were in town,” Walter smiles back, leaning back in his seat. “Have you eaten?”
“I have not.”
“Well, stay for a while and eat, then. I haven’t decided what I want yet, maybe you can help me,” Walter says.
Molokov nods, playing at deferential. “If it’s not an imposition,” he says.
“Of course not. I’d be delighted to have you. Here, have some of this, it’s good,” Walter says, pushing the appetizer dish over to him as he waves to the waitress for another menu. Honestly, Walter doesn’t know what it is—he’d ordered at random.
“So, what’s new? Have you been in Croatia long?” Walter asks, just as the waitress turns to go.
“A month or so,” Molokov says. “A business deal that is taking far longer to nail down than it should, I’m afraid, but at least it allows me to see the country.”
“I’m enjoying it quite a lot, myself,” Walter says. “But a month is a long time. I’m sure your family misses you.”
Molokov smirks at him. Can he tell he’s fishing? Is Walter fishing?
This is almost his favorite part of the job. The politics are okay—it’s what he went to school for, they should probably be a little bit more than okay—and he likes that his job matters. He likes seeing the shadowy evidence of his work played out in the newspapers, none of which will ever mention his name. But more than that, he likes the stories, both the ones he finds out while on the job and the ones he makes up. And Molokov is very good at making up stories.
They have a routine now, weaving new lives for themselves each time they meet. It’s just like improv—Walter lays something down and waits for Molokov to do something with it. He never knows what that will be, but it’s always good.
“Oh, no,” Molokov says. “Between you and me, I think my wife is happier when I’m not around.”
Walter chuckles. “Might be time for a new wife, then,” he says. “Or do you not do that over there?”
“Not when our in-laws are well-connected, we don’t,” Molokov says, just as the waitress comes back to take their order. They wait until she’s gone again to continue. “And what about you? Last I heard you were planning to move to Australia.”
Walter snorts into his drink. He’s kind of mad Molokov makes him slip up so quickly, but the man looks so proud of himself, Walter decides to let it go. “You know me, I can never make up my mind about anything,” he says. “I’m an only child, and my mother said she would die of loneliness if I left. Plus, I have it on good authority the automobile industry isn’t exactly booming over there. Another failed business is the last thing I need.”
“Of course,” Molokov says. “Speaking of business—it’s fortunate I ran into you today. I have a business proposal I’ve been thinking on. Would you give me your opinion?”
“If it’s mine to give, it’s yours,” Walter says. “Although, with my track record, I don’t know if you should trust it.”
“Nonsense. Another pair of eyes always helps,” Molokov says. Walter watches carefully as he reaches for his briefcase on the seat next to him, trying to get a glimpse of what’s inside. He catches a few Russian words on some papers, but nothing helpful. Molokov is too careful to leave anything sensitive out in the open accidentally.
He pulls out an official paper—or one made to look official—and slides it across the table to Walter, who takes his time reading it over. Molokov is patient, which is good, because Walter has just spent the last six months in Italy, and he’s still working on getting his Russian reading skills back up to par.
It doesn’t take long to get the gist of it. It’s a report from a weapons inspection, innocuous enough unless you know what you’re looking for. What he does know is that they’re being made ready for use, for transport. It’s some heavy stuff. Headed to Vietnam, most likely. Assuming it’s legitimate, this document wasn’t written for his eyes, and that’s part of the thrill of it—this is a covert message, one government to another, being sent entirely through Molokov to him. A threat, here in the corner booth of this little Croatian diner. This is what you’re up against, it says.
He pushes the paper back over to Molokov, because of course he won’t be allowed to keep it. “An interesting proposition, to be sure,” he says. “A little risky, though, don’t you think?”
“Yes, perhaps,” Molokov says. “This just means greater rewards.”
“If it works out,” Walter says.
“Yes,” Molokov smiles. “If.”
Walter leans back, waving to the paper flippantly. “Well, if you’re that confident, by all means. You don’t need me to tell you what to do with your money, you’re an accomplished enough businessman,” he says. “Next time we see each other, you’ll have to tell me how it went.”
“Of course,” Molokov says pleasantly. He puts the paper away just before their food is served.
They talk over their meals, mostly about the city and the other places they’ve been. These stories, at least, Walter believes—Molokov is just careful not to hint at when he visited, and Walter does the same. He files it all away for later, just like he always does, but more likely than not, there’s no point in examining any of it under a microscope. It’s funny, though, to sit across from a KGB operative and talk to him like they’re old friends.
In a way, Walter supposes they could be—they’ve known each other for years now, and Molokov has never done Walter any harm. They always have jobs to do. And as such, Molokov will excuse himself any minute now, and disappear again for weeks, months, or even years. He always does.
“Do you ever think about leaving this line of work?” Molokov asks.
Walter freezes. He says it so quietly, Walter is almost convinced he’d misheard him. His brain rushes to catch up, to connect the dots—this is different, this has never happened before. And Molokov sounds… serious.
“What, automobiles?” Walter says, trying to cover for the delay. “It’s all I’m good at. I don’t know what else I would do with myself.”
“Surely you had other interests you didn’t pursue,” Molokov prods, a little more jovial now.
Walter shrugs. “Before college, I wanted to be a journalist,” he admits. “I was never very good at it, though.”
“I’m sure you are selling yourself short,” Molokov says. “You are good at what you do. There are many jobs that require the shrewd eye of a businessman. Perhaps politics?”
Walter laughs. “Very funny,” he says. “Where’s this coming from, Ivan? Feeling a little bit of regret, or did you get a better offer?”
Molokov doesn’t like it when Walter calls him Ivan, that’s one of the only things about him Walter has been able to ascertain. And it’s not that he wants to annoy the man—he just enjoys having that little bit of power. Still, there’s only the slightest twitch on his face before he’s smoothed it out into something more pleasant again.
“Not an offer. Not yet,” he says. “Just something I’ve been considering. A change of pace could be nice—perhaps this job is better left to younger men.”
Not the fictional careers they’ve invented for themselves on the spot, then.
“Could be,” Walter comments. He can see the appeal. His job is dangerous, and difficult, and the hours are long, and he spends months away from home at a time. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to keep it up forever. But it took an immense amount of work to get here in the first place, and he likes knowing he’s leaving the world a little bit different than he found it. He likes the travel, and getting to see places most Americans couldn't even hope to. “What did you have in mind?”
Molokov takes a sip of his drink, a contemplative expression on his face. “I hadn’t decided,” he says. “Lately there has been a lot of focus on sports, back home. Those athletes need staff.”
“You play any sports?”
“No, that was never my forte,” Molokov admits with a smile. If he’s making a joke that he isn’t athletic, he looks like he could wrestle a bear. Walter wouldn’t put it past the commies to do it just for fun, either. “I played chess in school. I was fairly good at it.”
“Chess,” Walter says contemplatively. He hasn’t played since he was a child—he always found it rather boring. He tries to look at it from Molokov’s perspective, to see what the draw might be. “Well, you’d probably still get to travel, right? I can’t say I envy the thought of waiting on some genius chess player hand and foot. Doesn’t sound very lucrative, either.”
“Perhaps not for you,” Molokov agrees. “We should play next time we meet. I’m very rusty.”
“You’d still kick my ass,” Walter says.
Molokov grins at him, a rare sight. It used to unnerve Walter, but not anymore. “Even better,” he says. “I’m afraid I must take my leave, Mr. de Courcy. I thank you for allowing me to intrude on your company.”
“Oh, don’t even. Wherever I am, you’re always welcome,” Walter says. It can be his own little secret that he means it. With Molokov, he always knows where he stands—and usually, the view isn’t half bad. “It was a pleasure to see you, Mr. Molokov.”
“And you as well, Mr. de Courcy,” Molokov says, nodding to him as he slips out of the booth and goes to the counter to pay his bill.
Walter has another drink before he leaves. When he gets to the counter he finds that Molokov has already paid for his meal, the bastard. Why can’t any of the other Soviet spies he interacts with be so polite? If they were, maybe Walter really would do this until the day he dies.
He heads straight to the embassy to send a secure cable to the United States government with the information he’s gained, just as Molokov wants him to. On the way, he thinks about their conversation.
If anyone could needle Walter into a game of chess, it’s Molokov. He should probably start practicing.