Work Text:
November 1981
Walter sees Anatoly and Florence off at the airport.
It takes the better part of two days to get the paperwork sorted and get a flight for them. As infuriating as it is, dealing with British bureaucracy, Walter sticks it out, just in case something goes wrong. He doesn’t know how long it will take for the news to travel, but it can’t have escaped anyone’s notice that the new world chess champion has disappeared from Merano.
He sees them off at the airport, then takes the four hour train back from Milan to Merano. It’s nice—with the tournament over, so is Walter’s job, and he can sit back and enjoy the scenery. There are others at Global that will handle breaking the news to the world. He has a couple of days to himself before he needs to be back in the office. He’ll need to check in on Freddie before he leaves town, but…
Walter drops off his bag in his hotel room and walks across the bridge to the Soviet delegation’s hotel. He moves quickly, bundled up in his coat and scarf, hunched against the November chill only made marginally less biting by the afternoon sun. The lobby of the posh hotel is a welcome relief.
He bypasses the front desk, making his way through hallways and up an out-of-the-way elevator. He takes a roundabout route, one he’s taken many times these last few weeks. It leads him to an unassuming corridor lined with the rooms of Soviet agents. He strolls along quietly, listening out until he hears just the sharp curse he’s looking for.
“And what do you expect me to do about that now?” Molokov demands in Russian, so angry he’s forgotten to keep his voice down, which is not a mistake Molokov makes lightly. There’s no answer, so he must be on the phone. “Yes, I understand that—this is why he had security. Were it my responsibility to keep him within my line of sight at all times, I would not have been sent here with so much else to do!”
Walter hears footsteps coming toward the door, and he braces himself for the door to open, but the footsteps go right past—pacing.
“No—yes, I know. I will take care of it,” Molokov says. There is a long pause. “No. No, listen to me—he has won. He will be back next year, he hardly has a choice. I know Sergievsky, he will not refuse to play.”
Molokov makes a frustrated growling sound. “I hardly see why that matters when—”
He stops dead. It’s quiet for a very long time. When Molokov finally speaks again, Walter has to press closer to the door to hear him.
“Yes. I understand,” he says, sounding like he’s chewing glass. “First thing in the morning. Yes.”
There are no goodbyes. Only the crashing sound of the receiver meeting the telephone, and then a second, of the whole thing hitting the ground.
Walter allows himself a moment to feel bad before squashing it as he decides whether or not to knock. Alexander Molokov is a capable man. If anyone can find a way to come back from a setback like this, he can.
Another voice starts to speak, but Molokov cuts him off before he can get a word out. “Leave. Now,” he snaps.
The door opens a few seconds later, and the man that steps out startles at the presence of Walter leaning against the wall next to the door. Walter smiles at him. He thinks this is the “PT expert.” The man turns back to the room, his brows furrowed.
“Molokov,” he says, and Walter pushes off from the wall and slips through the gap into Molokov’s hotel room.
The look he gets is absolutely scathing—bordering on murderous. If Walter were anyone else, he would be worried.
“Chernov. Go,” he orders, and the man shrugs and leaves, letting the door shut behind him. Molokov then turns his attention to another figure, hunched over a chessboard in the corner of the room. “Viigand.”
Viigand’s head pops up, and he surveys the scene for only a moment before standing and exiting as well. As he crosses the room, Walter takes the rare chance to look around Alexander Molokov’s living space. Even though it is just a hotel, it’s still an unusual treat. There’s a hotel wardrobe against one wall with one door ajar, and Walter can see his suit jackets and shirts hanging up. He has a locked briefcase sitting on a desk, and a pile of a few books in Russian. Walter doesn’t have time to decipher the names of all of them. He wonders if they’re all chess, or if Molokov has brought any personal reading material on this trip.
“You have a lot of nerve coming here now,” Molokov says icily, as soon as the door is shut.
Walter smiles brightly, folding his hands easily behind his back. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says. “Congratulations on the win, by the way. Freddie’s been taking it very hard, he’s hardly let me out of his sight for the last two days.”
Molokov takes three steps forward, placing him firmly inside Walter’s personal space, but maybe eastern Europeans have a different sense of that sort of thing. Walter stands his ground, relaxed.
“Not much of a win for me, I’m afraid,” Molokov says coolly.
There’s that ever-so-slight feeling of guilt again. It’s almost funny, really—all’s fair in chess and war. He moves past it, focusing instead on the thrill. Of course he gets angry like any other man, but it’s so rare for him to be this transparent about it. Walter relishes in the experience of a genuinely expressed feeling.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Alexander,” Walter says. He truly doesn’t envy the man of whatever is waiting for him when he gets home.
Molokov sighs, finally relenting—he walks away, to a side table stocked with the usual hotel amenities. There’s a kettle, coffee pot, tea bags, paper cups and napkins, and additionally, a bottle of vodka. Molokov grabs it and pours it into a paper cup for himself. Walter waits for Molokov to offer him a glass, but he doesn’t.
“What do you want?” Molokov finally asks, only after taking a healthy gulp. “You’ve come to gloat? Fine, do it and leave.”
“I would never,” Walter says. Which is true—there’s no need for it. They both know who won this round. “I was hoping you would have dinner with me.”
Molokov snorts. “Try again,” he says, draining the rest of his cup.
“I mean it,” Walter says. “You’re leaving in the morning, right? There’s no telling when we’ll cross paths again.”
“Yes, you have made sure of that,” Molokov says reproachfully.
“Come on, Sasha. Let me make it up to you,” Walter coaxes. Molokov makes a face, and Walter continues before he’s able to protest about the impossibility of making it up to him. “Anywhere you want to go—my treat. You might as well try to have some fun before you leave, right? It's your last night in Italy.”
They have a small staredown. Walter waits patiently, and eventually, he is rewarded. Molokov tosses his empty paper cup in the direction of a trash can and grabs his Merano restaurant guide off the table.
With effort, Walter keeps a satisfied grin off his face. Two wins in two days—any more and it might go to his head.