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Molokov used to read a lot of history books. He was a very fast reader as a young child, and he would sit all day, reading about the greats that came before him. He wasn’t sure why, exactly, he had so desperately wanted to escape into the past, to mingle with all the people he admired. His childhood was fine. Not exceptional, but not traumatic. And yet somehow still, he found himself desperate for a way out. Some place to go that wasn’t there. He often felt like an observer in his own life.
And as he grew, every decision he made had that little string running through it. He didn’t want to be a celebrity, no, he was content with playing games from the sidelines. A good spy knows when to not be noticed, and Molokov was a good spy. He just wanted his name mentioned up there in those books he read. He wanted someone else to read about him one day. He wanted to prove that he existed, he wanted to be able to look at the events that happened in his lifetime and say: I was there. I helped it happen, I have my face in the background of the photographs. I will be remembered for a long time, to the few who look for me.
And Molokov knew that he would be successful. He had to be. The trades would be made, the game would be played, and everything would work out exactly as planned. He loved chess. He admired chess players, he was fascinated to hear Anatoly and Viigand talk about it, but he had long moved on to larger games. It had never quite occurred to Molokov how idolization dehumanizes, how watching the world as if it was a set of pieces to be moved, a story playing out in black-and-white between the pages of a book allowed him to not entirely think about the world as consisting of people with emotions. He saw the lines where others didn’t. That was his gift. That was how he organized people so well.
The other night, he had told a very anxious Viigand all about all of this. About how he knew that they stood no chance against him, about how they would be there, together, listed among the other names, the names of all the chess players to ever shock the world with their brilliance. How they weren't just playing chess, but writing history. How they would be known, and remembered as the ones that did it, while others would be forgotten. It only seemed to make Viigand more anxious.
Molokov knew that he would be successful, he knew that because he was going to grab onto that success with his hands and never let go. He knew that he would have his little victory on the chess board. That was all he wanted. All he wanted was to write his name on the walls. All he wanted was to be spoken of, in the same breath as all the people he admired. It wasn’t too much to ask for. He repeated it to himself over and over sometimes, under his breath. It would all work out. I was there. I was there. I was there. I was there.