“The government might …” Sasha tried.
“No,” said Yuri, pacing again. “I called people this morning, early, before you came. The government cannot be a part of this, will not. The embarrassment-no, it is clear. The government has enough problems. It will not get involved in a possible cultural disaster. I am alone.”
He ran his right hand through his hair as he paced in anguish.
“When do they want the money?” asked Elena.
“Tomorrow. I told you. They want the money tomorrow or they will destroy the negatives and kill me, or so they say. They will call tomorrow in the morning, early, at home, and tell me what to do.”
“How are you to deliver it?” asked Sasha.
“Cash, American dollars, nothing less than hundred-dollar bills and nothing more than thousand-dollar bills. They said they will meet with me alone and will give me phone directions about where to bring the money. I’m to have it ready at my home and be prepared to move quickly. They warned me that they would know if there was anything traceable on the bills, any markings or any dyes in the bag, they would come back and kill me and my family.”
“Unfortunately, you will be unable to go to this meeting,” said Sasha.
“Of course I can’t. I don’t have the money.”
“You will tell them you have the money but you can’t go,” said Sasha. “You have a bad heart. You had a sudden attack today, angina because of all this. You will send your nephew in your place.”
“You will send your niece,” Elena said.
“Nephew would be more convincing,” said Sasha.
“Do I get a vote?” asked Yuri.
“No,” said Sasha.
The two detectives were looking at each other now and not at the confused producer.
“We will discuss it and tell you in a few hours,” said Elena. “If the thieves call before the morning, tell them you are getting the money together. Say nothing about your bad heart, tell them you’ll be home and waiting for their call. We will be with you. They said they will call early. We’ll be at your home at five in the morning. If the phone rings before we arrive, don’t answer it.”
“But …”
“Don’t answer it,” Sasha said.
“All right,” said Yuri, going back to his space at the end of the table. “This is a great movie, a truly great movie. They’ve stolen the life of Tolstoy. Could anything be worse for a Russian to do? What has happened to national pride?”
“We will get your negative back,” said Elena, rising.
“We’ll get it back,” echoed Sasha, rising.
“Here,” said Yuri, pushing some papers across his desk and picking something up. He moved to the seated detectives and handed two yellow cardboard rectangles to Sasha. “Tickets for tonight. The Khudozhestvenny Theater. I don’t know what the movie is.”
“Thank you,” said Sasha, pocketing the tickets.
“And now,” Elena said. “We would like a list of everyone who had access to the negative and we would like to meet them.”
“Then,” said Yuri with alarm, “they’ll know I’ve brought in the police.”
“We are not the police,” said Sasha. “We are potential investors in your next film. We represent a French production company. Gaumont. No, Canal Plus.”
“I don’t know,” said Yuri, lighting a new cigarette, his hands shaking.
“Fortunately,” said Elena, “we do.”
“The list is long,” said Yuri. “Editors, assistant editors, me, cleaning ladies. The list is long. And who knows who these people might let in? We keep the negatives locked in a cabinet in a temperature-controlled room, but we don’t do anything particular to keep people out except for the sign on the door that says Keep Out.”
“Humor us,” said Sasha. “Make the list. Take us on a tour.”
“A tour and a list,” Yuri said, shaking his head. “A list and a tour. Yesterday I was happy, ecstatic. Today I am despondent. Tomorrow I may well be dead.”
And with that they left. Yuri Kriskov or Kriskoff led the two detectives out of the room, walking in front of them, smoking nervously, and pondering his fate.
Valery Grachev pondered his next move. He did not look up at the fat, bald old man across the table who sat with his arms folded, no expression, his large lower lip pouting out. Was it a trap? The path was too open. His opponent too clever. No, he would not move his queen to check the old man’s king. He would wait. Valery moved his queen’s knight’s pawn two spaces forward.
The Central Chess Club was crowded. It usually was. This was the home of Russian chess champions. The photos of those champions lined the gray walls, lit by chandeliers hanging from the center of the room. Though there were many people, there was almost total silence, with the exception of someone moving a chair to rise or sit, or the occasional cough, throat clearing, or sneeze.
The fat man wore an incongruous red blazer. It looked new. He was probably uncomfortable but he didn’t show it. Two gangly boys with strangely colored hair played at the table next to that of Valery and the fat man. Both boys wore T-shirts. On the shirt of the boy next to Valery was the word Guts in English and the colorful picture of a full-lipped mouth open wide and a massive tongue protruding from it. The boy’s hair was red and green. His opponents T-shirt bore the words Bad Ass and depicted a woman leaning over to reveal her naked rear end. This boy’s hair was orange with white streaks. He also had a tattoo on his left biceps. It was the picture of a woman winking.
Valery had played against the boy with the tattoo several times in Timiryazevsky Park. They were even in games.
On the other side of Valery and the fat man, two women, intense, dark, maybe in their forties, wearing dreary dresses and short hair, were glaring at each other, only a few pieces remaining on their board.
Gary Kasparov, the world champion, had played here. Vladimir Kramnik, the second-ranked player in the world, played here.
The old man still had not moved. Valery should have insisted on a clock, but, if he had, the old man would probably not have accepted his challenge and Valery would be standing and watching others play. The old man was good, probably better than Valery, but the old man could make mistakes. He had already done so trading pawns at mid-board.
Valery was twenty-four. He was five-feet four-inches tall, had the build and face of a bulldog, and a passion for chess which led to the nickname he bore proudly-Kon, “the Knight.” He lived in a small apartment with his uncle, who sold used goods from a cart in a small open-air market in the rubble of a fallen building on Yauzsky Street. Valery’s salary was more than his uncle earned, and so Valery contributed a bit and had a place to live and no privacy. Soon Valery would have more than enough money to move out.
Valery was playing two games at the same time, one with the fat man, the other with Yuri Kriskov. He was not certain that he would beat the fat man, but Kriskov was a fool, a clever fool but a fool nonetheless.
The game had begun. The bulky rolls of negative were well hidden along with the gun, which he fully intended to use if Kriskov did not pay. Tomorrow he would call, make the next move. He had already anticipated that Kriskov would turn to the police, that a simple exchange would not be possible. He would change the direction of the game, make moves Kriskov could not follow. Check was close by and checkmate not far behind. Valery had an advantage his opponent did not anticipate, an advantage that would make the next move and even the entire defensive game of Yuri Kriskov known to him.
The fat man grunted. His left hand hovered over the board for an instant and then he moved his king’s knight over the pawn to the left.
Valery didn’t hesitate. Before the fat man’s hand was back across the chest of his red blazer, Valery moved his queen’s bishop across the board to a square at the left side of the board.