The security guards didn’t bother him. He would be gone before they had time to react. He had planned this well. Move by move. But somehow that young one, probably about Valery’s age, had been there almost immediately, outside the rear door, shooting at him. It made no sense. The policeman’s appearance had been a move he had not anticipated by whatever fate was playing against him, a fate that told him the game was not over even though the king was dead.
There were children playing outside the nearest tall building. These were not the homes of the wealthy but of those who worked and those who did not or could not. Laundry hung on lines from many of the windows, hung from one window to the next. He moved toward the children and saw a group of women, one with a baby carriage in front of her, sitting on a bench and talking. On another bench an old man sat, eyes closed, a workman’s cap on his head, an unlit pipe in his mouth. He appeared to be dozing.
The woman didn’t pay much attention to Valery, who had slung his jacket over his shoulder to hide the wound and forced his legs to move normally. He approached the old man on the bench and sat next to him, biting back the pain and fever.
For the women across the concrete square where small boys had moved to kick a sickly-looking soccer ball, Valery smiled as he spoke to the old man, trying to give the impression that they knew each other.
The old man, startled, opened his eyes and looked at Valery.
“I need something from you,” Valery said, still smiling, putting his arm around the old man. “I’ll pay.”
“I have nothing,” the old man said, looking at Valery as if he were mad, which, Valery admitted to himself, he might at this point be. “I have only a corner in my son’s apartment and this bench when the weather permits and no one comes to sit next to me.”
“One hundred and fifty new rubles,” Valery said. “You bring me a shirt, two shirts, and tell me how I get back to the city, and I give you one hundred and fifty new rubles.”
“You killed someone,” the old man said.
“What?”
“If you didn’t kill someone, why are you offering me all that money for two shirts?”
“I killed no one,” Valery said with a laugh. “I’m playing a game. Like a game of chess with some friends of mine. They are trying to find me.”
“I worked on the railroad,” said the old man, spitting on a crack in the concrete in front of him and looking up to watch the soccer game before him. “You are lying. But I need two hundred rubles.”
“I said … yes, two hundred rubles, when you get back with the shirts and tell me where I can catch a bus or find a metro station or a train.”
The old man nodded and said, “Wait.”
“Skahryehyeh, ‘be quick,’” said Valery.
The old man rose and walked toward the nearest apartment building.
Valery did his best to look like a man who had nothing to do but smile, spread his arms along the back of the bench, and watch the children play. He wiped his brow. It was drenched and hot. He would use one shirt to cover the wound as best he could and the other to wear over … The man who had shot him.
He knew the man who had shot him. It was the one Yuri Kriskov had brought to the editing room, the French producer. It made no sense. Why had a French producer been behind that building with a gun? Because he was not a French producer. He was the police. If he was the police, he knew that Valery had shot Yuri Kriskov and he would then know that Valery had the negative.
Valery could not go home.
Valery could not go anywhere.
But there had to be a move. Bargain with the negative? Vera, could she help? No, she would be surrounded by the police. He would have to protect her. He was her protector, Kon. They were attacking. He was, yes, now he was the king.
A helicopter spun overhead against the sun. Valery and the women and some of the children looked up, shading their eyes, and watched it follow the road beyond the trees.
Were they looking for him? Probably.
Valery closed his eyes. When he opened them, the old man had returned with two shirts. The women beyond the soccer game looked at the two men and wondered about the shirts. Was this a relative? It really didn’t matter.
The old man handed him the shirts and sat exactly where he had before.
The shirts were old, frayed, both a faded blue. They looked as if they might fit, but Valery wouldn’t know until he tried them on. No matter. They would have to do. Hiding the pain as best he could, Valery took out his wallet and found two hundred rubles. That left him with very little.
The old man reached for the bills. Valery held them tight and pulled them back. The women looked at the odd exchange taking place and wondered again.
“Transport,” said Valery as the soccer ball sailed over their heads and small boys ran to retrieve it.
“On the other side of the buildings,” the old man said, pointing at the buildings. “A bus stop. One will be there in …”
The old man took out a pocket watch.
“… in sixteen minutes, if it is on time. You know I used to work on the railroad.”
He reached for the money again and Valery let him take it.
“Do you play chess?” asked Valery.
“Everyone plays chess,” the old man replied, pocketing the money and digging his pipe out of his pocket.
“What do you do if you are trapped? You have no place to go. All you can do is buy a little time but you are bound to lose.” Valery rose and looked down at the old man, who cupped a hand over the brim of his cap to block the sun as he looked up at Valery.
“What do I do? I attack. Suicidal, my son and grandson call it. Grandfather is suicidal again. Grandfather doesn’t know when to quit. I attack, do something bold, take out an attacker even if it means ending the game five moves earlier than is essential. I do not concede. I do not tip over my king. You know why? Because I used to work on the railroad.”
Valery nodded.
“Tell no one of me,” said Valery. “They might take the money from you.”
“I’ll tell no one. My son could have worked on the railroad. Instead, he sells fish at the market. At least he has work.”
Valery made a show of shaking the old man’s hand and patting him on the shoulder.
The old man was a bit mad perhaps, but, Valery decided as he walked, so am I. And his advice had been good. There would be no concession. If he were to lose the game, it would be with panache. It would be with a flurry of ribbons and a shout over Moscow.
Tsimion Vladovka did not protest, did not grow angry, did not laugh and say that the block of a policeman who stood before him was insane or mistaken. Instead he wiped his hands on his pants and said, “What now?”
“We talk.”
“Here?” asked Tsimion, looking around.
“Yes, I like it here,” said Rostnikov.
“So do I, and we can see anyone approaching for more than two hundred yards in any direction. We are alone.”
“What happened to your brother?”
“Konstantin had been sick for more than a year,” the man said, looking toward the farmhouse. “Liver cancer. I sent money so he could go to St. Petersburg for treatment. He went a few times. My father called, told me Konstantin was dying. I knew sooner or later they would decide to kill me, so I came here, I came home. I didn’t plan to stay, take my brothers life. It was my father’s idea.”
“A good one,” said Rostnikov, “but it had problems. You and your brother look similar. The beard helps, but the photograph of you that was given to me shows a white mark on the back of your hand. A scar?”
Tsimion looked at his hand. “Yes.”
“I must tell you that the man who calls himself Primazon may have noticed, as I did,” said Rostnikov.
“Then I will have to run,” said Tsimion, with a small sigh and a grunt.
“Not necessarily,” said Rostnikov. “Tell me the secret of that space flight. I will tell my director. He will talk to the proper people, protect you, let you stay here.”