chesspolitik | Is this the tide in my affairs when I write a little history?

Being mobbed by a vicious pack of reporters was bad enough on any given day. Being mobbed by them in Bangkok during one of the most stressful matches in his life was even worse. Going through it again was nothing less than hell on Earth.

The car ride to the studio was a blur. He heard Walter talking to him, and he knew he was answering, but what was actually said, he couldn't recall afterwards. He went where he was told, going through the motions with as little thought as possible. It'd be over soon enough, and slipping back into his role of emotionless machine was the only way he'd manage.

It was a fine idea, but as the barrage of questions started, from the insipid ("Isn't this a bizarre reunion?") to ridiculous ("Is being homeless affecting your game?"), he felt his self-control slipping away, just as before.

"Your true motivation is something we all want to know," one of the reporters asked, a malicious glint in his eye.

At that, Anatoly's temper flared and he shouted back furiously, "You know damn well what my motivation is!"

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And one of the things Walter didn't like about Molokov was his habit to rant and rave and he wasn't about to make himself the man's target, thank you very much.

"And create more work for myself? I know we don't trust each other as far as we can throw the other, but come on now. We had Sergievsky right where we wanted him." Then he rolled his eyes and bit back a groan. "Not to mention I no doubt now have to go listen to Trumper throw a temper tantrum because he didn't get his promised lime light."

"You could always shoot him," Molokov said unsympathetically. Trumper's hysterics were nothing compared to the current issue before them. "How you have not done so before this is quite beyond me."

He paused for a moment to entertain a delightful fantasy of shooting Trumper, Sergievsky and this new interloper. It would be so easy, so enjoyable - so worth the paperwork. If only... but alas, such a beautiful dream was never meant to be.

Walter just rolled his eyes. "I'm not going to shoot him. Paperwork aside, we need him. Alive and driving me nuts yes, but alive so we can put pressure on Sergievsky so you can get him back and I get some of my men. We had a deal remember?"

That's what was important after all. Now if he could only distract Molokov so he didn't make good on that threat. Walter never did know with his Russian counterpart.

"We had a deal, yes. This - whatever he is - has changed things. Do you think my comrades will be very pleased that our great work has been exposed to the press? They might suspect... things. Very unpleasant things. Who can say what they will wish to do now?"

Molokov scowled, his fingers itching for his gun. He was on thin ice as it was, and this debacle wouldn't help matters any. Who could say there wasn't already a replacement being flown out right this minute? "I know your distaste for certain... tasks, but we cannot have this khuyesos' interfering in our work."

Walter snorted with restrained laughter. While he wasn't fluent in Russian, he'd come to know his counterparts favorite curses well. That one was a particular favorite. Biting his tongue, he gestured his hands in a calming gesture. "Just relax alright? The match is tomorrow. If we move quick, nothing has to change. Not even that damn kid or mother Russia can move fast or know enough to interfere. And when it all goes to plan, your comrades will be praising you, mark my words."

Then he raised an eyebrow. "And keep your hand away from your gun."

"It had better go to plan," Molokov said darkly, his fingers clenching into fists. "Or I will have to take matters into my own hands, regardless of your aversion to paperwork. It is just good business, you understand."

At the remark about his gun, he merely tilted his head and raised an eyebrow. "Are you fearing that I would shoot you? Please, perish the thought. I would never waste such a valuable resource."

"Good business. Is that what they call it in the Soviet Union now?" Walter said sarcastically, but his confident smile didn't waver. He had every confidence that there would be no need for Russian business.

Though when Molokov said that Walter just raised his eyebrows. Then he smirked. "Why Alexander, was that a compliment?"

As a general rule, Molokov discouraged intimacy, particularly one involving the use of his first name. It was simply not done, not for spies who wished to have a long lifespan. Very rarely did he break this rule, and it was only for deserving people. "If it was, Walter, you should feel very honored indeed."

What could Walter say? He liked to live dangerously. So he only kept up his smirk. "Then I am." Realizing they'd been away long enough, and Walter really needed to go reign in Freddie before he did something stupid, he nodded to Molokov. "Tomorrow then."

Is this the tide in my affairs when I write a little history?

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