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Molokov is in Iceland, sent out to another one of these chess championships. It’s the second world championship he’s been sent to monitor, the first with a non-Soviet player in the mix. The first in decades, for that matter. He enjoys being sent to these, enjoys the game. The threat of an American challenger does add an extra layer of stress to things this time around.
Then, he sees the back of a head that he almost recognizes. Someone he almost knows. It takes him a minute to identify them, they’re facing away and making small talk with a group off to the side. Then whoever it is turns around and-
It’s the suit that had thrown Molokov off. Well, it was the first thing. Now it’s a lot of things. He remembers a woman with that face, that height that had been noteworthy on her but seems entirely regular on this person, that voice more or less, remembers being stabbed by her in an alleyway five years ago, slashing the side of her neck, just short of killing her a year later. He hasn’t seen her since then. Is that…
It can’t be. Maybe she has a twin. But then, what are the odds of running into that twin here? Now? So far away from America, where his own old rival is from? There’s one way to know.
This person turns their head to their companions to excuse themself, and Molokov sees it. The scar that he gave her years ago, clear as day, on the side of their neck. So it has to be her. It looks like her, but it doesn’t look like a her, and that’s where he’s struggling on whether to start a conversation or not.
He doesn’t get to think it over before they split off from the group and come over to him. They extend a hand. “Alexander.” They say with a smile.
Molokov shakes their hand. They know him. It’s her, it has to be. “...de Courcey.” He greets indeterminately
“Please, call me Walter.” They hold their polite smile, but their eyes don’t match. There’s something being communicated. It’s as if they’re trying to say, I know what you’re thinking. Don’t ask.
Molokov wants to pry. Maybe it is a relative, for all he knows, but it’s not. He’s certain now. “You look different.” He comments.
“Well, it has been a few years.”
Yes, but people don’t just become men in four years. Or maybe they do. Maybe that’s why Walter- Walter? Really?- doesn’t want to draw attention to it. “Of course. Too long.”
“Can’t be helped. We’re busy men.”
Men. Right, they’re both men. Of course they are. Busy ones. Molokov must give away his surprise in some form or another, a little tell. It could be a fake identity, but Molokov gets the idea Walter’s committing to it for good. Not his problem.
Walter puts his hands in his pockets and nods towards the door, behind Molokov. “I’m running late for a meeting. We’ll be seeing each other?”
“No doubt. Good to see you again, Walter.” Molokov puts emphasis on his name.
Walter starts to leave and stops briefly on passing Molokov. He leans in so Molokov can hear him. “Thanks.” He whispers, then he’s gone.
Molokov is left a bit confused, but ultimately it does nothing for the dynamic. They’re still going to clash somehow and someone might get hurt, but with any luck they’ll both live for the next time around. He doesn’t care. If anything, the gratitude from Walter was nice to receive.
He minds his business and goes about his day.