chesspolitik | If they want a part of you, who can really blame them?

Was it deja-vu if he really had done all of this before? Anatoly couldn't help but ponder this question as he entered the hall and prepared to take his seat in front of the chessboard. His opponent was already at the board, scowling at the board. The Arbiter was skulking behind him, arms crossed, impatient for the game to begin. Molokov and de Courcey were studiously ignoring each other; the reporters were waiting with baited breath for something, anything to happen. Indeed, Lex's calm presence on the sidelines was the only reminder to him that this was not a dream.

He took a deep breath and waited for the Arbiter to finish his speech. This was going to be different then the last time. This time, his mind was clear and unfettered from distractions. If he lost today, it was because Trumper had outplayed him, not out of a sense of duty to Florence or his family. He was done playing games with the CIA and KGB, done being used as a pawn. If he lost, he was the only one to blame.

But then, he did not plan on losing. He'd lost something vital the moment he'd bowed to pressure and deliberately made the wrong move. This game was a chance, perhaps his only chance at redemption, at reclaiming what had made him the most formidable player on the circuit. He needed to prove to himself that he was the best, the very best - and he wanted to show Lex just what he was capable of.

The Arbiter concluded his speech and nodded at them to begin, having long ago given up on making him and Trumper shake hands first. He was playing black, so the first move was Trumper's. The whole world was watching, this was true, but the whole world had no idea what it was about to get.

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Walter wouldn't even look at him. The smug bastard was just sitting in his seat, calm and relaxed like everything was in the bag, eyes hidden by those damn sunglasses. If anything, a still Walter was more unnerving then the usual energy that seemed to slide off him. More like he was trying to figure out a way to salvage a loss rather then waiting anxiously for a win. Like he's given up.

Giving up was not in Freddie's nature. He may play at it occasionally for attention and did in personal matters, but not in chess. He sneered slightly at Anatoly's cough as his own bishop came in to steal the rook that threatened his queen. Such childish tricks, as if the fucking Russian was rubbing it in, that everything was going his way and once again Freddie would be left in the dust. Well, not tonight. His knight advanced on Anatoly's king, ready to make his move.

And missing Anatoly's bishop entirely.

Anatoly had hardly dared to hope that Freddie would actually spring for his obvious trap and had several strategies waiting in the wings to account for that. But fall he had, and therefore, there was only one response he could make to this turn of events.

This was it. He'd been waiting for this moment for two years and the long wait made it all that much sweeter. He moved his bishop decisively, placing Freddie's king in checkmate.

Decorum prevented him from jumping up and causing a commotion, but oh, how he wanted to. It wasn't only Freddie who he'd defeated, it was everyone who would conspire to use him for their own purposes.

Freddie was already seeking out his next move when the Arbitor proclaimed checkmate and the match was over. He blinked and finally truly saw the damn Russian's bishop. Then the light in his eyes just died. That was it.

The fucking Russian had won. Everything. Freddie Trumper had been defeated, in heart, soul and chess.

Throughout the whole match, Lex hadn't been able to take his eyes off Anatoly. He'd planned on keeping a close eye on Molokov and de Courcy to make sure they didn't dare pull anything, but once Anatoly started playing chess, really playing chess unlike Lex had ever seen, it was one of the most beautiful sights he'd ever seen. It was intense and passionate, like a true battle of the mind. Lex only fell more in love.

Yesterday had been hard. Not so much the wheeling and dealing, as Lex could do that in his sleep. It had been convincing Anatoly that he needed to win that had been difficult. Knowing what he did about the Soviet Union, Lex knew there was no way in hell that Florence's father was alive. And as for getting Svetlana out, Lex had promised to do everything he could. He already had a few ideas but he would have to see if they would even work. As it was, she only had to survive a few more years before the Soviet Union fell anyway.

Once the game was won, Lex made sure he was the first to get to Anatoly, just in case anyone dared retribution. Though the main thought going through his mind was how soon he could get Anatoly away so he could snog him stupid for putting on such a brilliant show at doing what he did best.

From the first move on, Florence knew this was going to be the stuff of legends. This wasn't the Anatoly who had struggled for control at every turn in the previous games. This was the defending world champion, clearly on top of his form and eager to fight.

At its conclusion, she looked down at the floor, letting the throng of reporters and well-wishers surge pass her in their zeal to reach Anatoly first. It was over and done with, then. If her father was truly alive, then all hope of her ever seeing him again had toppled with Freddie's king. Someone was surely going to pay for this, and she could only wonder who.

Still... she couldn't help but feel this was the only way things could have gone. He should have never been placed in the position of choosing between his passion and a faint hope, and she should have never been asked to make him choose. For once, he had been the stronger one, unwilling to play by the rules others had imposed. As she watched Lex with Anatoly, she could only wish she could have been the reason he was inspired to do so.

Once the match was clearly decided, Walter saw no reason to stay around. He left two of his men to do some clean up work and get Freddie out before he made a scene, but he wasn't going to stick and around for the Russian rage he knew would be directed at him, not when there were more important things for him to move on too.

Leaving the hotel which had served as the chess arena, Walter hailed a cab and adjusted his sunglasses. There was a situation in Cuba that needed his attention and he'd delayed long enough here. No point in dwelling on a failed mission, just on to the next.

As the Arbiter confirmed Anatoly's victory, Molokov could only stare in shock, his fists clenching uselessly at his side. He was going to kill the bastard and he was going to do it very slowly and painfully. The American would watch and then it would be his turn. And after that, it was Walter's turn.

He barely noticed as his assistant dragged him from the room, frantically murmuring something about self control and keeping his hands away from his gun.

Svetlana didn't know the outcome of the game because she hadn't been there. Nor did she care. Either way, she lost.

If Anatoly lost, it would be for that Hungarian woman's father. If Anatoly won, it would be to impress the American man. Neither for his family, who he should care about above all others. It was one thing to know of it through Molokov...it was an entirely different matter when it was done to her face.

So instead of watching the game, Svetlana was in her room, packing. If she never saw her husband again, it would be to soon. She would find her own to provide for her and her children. Without him.

If they want a part of you, who can really blame them?

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