Work Text:
September 1982
Leonid doesn’t expect to see Svetlana on the plane.
Molokov always has an ace up his sleeve, Leonid has known him long enough to know that. Sometimes he tells Leonid about his plans, sometimes he doesn’t. This one was a surprise—the traitor’s abandoned wife, sitting by herself, staring out the window of the private jet Molokov has commandeered. Her children aren’t with her. Leonid hopes they’re somewhere safe.
He doesn’t know Svetlana well, but he knows that none of this is her fault. Leonid does, however, know Molokov. There’s an empty seat next to Svetlana. There is no way of knowing what the next few weeks have in store for her, but the last thing she needs is to be bothered on the journey.
“May I sit here?” he asks her once he reaches her row. She looks up at him, a little startled, and he feels bad about it, but her face smooths out quickly.
There are plenty of other open seats—even the entourage of government agents and one very real chef aren’t enough to fill up the whole plane. But Molokov is standing at the head, speaking with the pilot, and Leonid watches her eye him warily. She seems to understand. “Yes, of course,” she says, sitting up straighter.
The plane starts to move. Molokov walks up and down the aisle a couple of times, doing whatever last-minute business he needs to do, before settling down at the front. Leonid feels better once they’re in the air.
He and Svetlana spend the next few hours not talking, which is fine by Leonid. He has work to do. Once, he knew Anatoly’s play style better than anyone. He knows he could hold his own against the Anatoly from a year ago. Now, though? Who could say what sort of influences have affected his games? He hasn’t entered any competitions since Merano. Leonid feels a little like he’s going into this blind—the transition from second to challenger hasn’t been the easiest.
But, in the end, chess is chess. This is what matters. This is what he’s here for.
Aside from bathroom breaks and meals, the two of them make it through most of the flight without interruption. It’s when they’re about an hour away from the airport that Molokov approaches. Leonid can feel Svetlana tense in the seat next to him.
“I hope you’re both traveling comfortably,” he says pleasantly as he leans against the empty seat in front of Leonid. “This may be the last time Viigand and I get the chance to relax until the tournament is over. Hopefully the same cannot be said for you, Mrs. Sergievskaya.”
“I hope not,” Svetlana agrees. “I was promised a luxurious hotel, if nothing else.”
Molokov smiles, all sharp edges. Can Svetlana tell? She doesn’t know him as well as her husband. “And you will get your hotel,” he says. “But you must know this trip is not only for pleasure.”
“In what way do you mean?” she asks neutrally. It’s smart—let him spell it out, and see exactly how much he’s willing to say.
“I’m certain this year has been hard for you and your family. I have provided all the assistance I can, after my mistake in losing your husband,” Molokov continues, unperturbed, as if Anatoly were simply misplaced by accident. “When we arrive, I’m confident I will be able to find a way for you to return the favor. After all, we both want the same thing, I think.”
There’s an underlying threat there, unstated but obvious. Leonid is caught between this, silent, like he isn’t even there. He glances at Svetlana just in time to watch a series of emotions flit across her face, and feels strangely like he’s seeing something that should be private.
There is so much she doesn’t say. “All you want is to use me as a pawn in your game,” or “you haven’t done me any favors and I owe you nothing,” or maybe “nothing you want from me is going to fix any of what is broken.” She knows she can’t say any of that, and she stays silent.
She is a pawn, and so is Leonid. But pawns have a power all their own, especially when played in concert.
“We all must do our duty to serve the union,” Leonid says, which lands two sets of eyes on him. He glances to Svetlana.
“Of course,” she agrees with minimal delay. “I will do what I must, of course.”
Molokov nods. “I am relieved to hear that,” he says. “We will speak later.”
He leaves them be without ceremony. A minute passes before he senses Svetlana start to relax again.
“Thank you,” she says quietly. Leonid just nods.
The rest of the flight is quiet. Leonid has a lot to prepare for. So too, it seems, does Svetlana.