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Molokov doesn’t just fuck people for a living. He’s actually very good at a variety of things, and maybe that’s why he gets shoved on the chess circuit. All he can think, though, is that he must have fucked up. He was so good and now he’s stuck managing socially dysfunctional assholes for a living.
He’s shit at chess.
He doesn't tell anyone this, not his bosses or the players he moves among, because it doesn't really matter. He's not here to play and they all know it. He's not here to get information, either. He's here to be quietly terrifying and horribly amiable and keep everyone in the line the government wants.
Dealing with chess players isn't like dealing with normal human beings. Molokov's old tricks don't work, because chess players, the good ones, are all mad people.
Anatoly Sergievsky, Molokov is told when he's assigned to the man, is a bit of a wild card. He doesn't know what the hell that means, because as far as he can see, they're all wild cards. When they meet, Anatoly actually seems more stable than the rest of them.
Molokov is not used to underestimating people.
*
They're in Anatoly's hotel room in Merano, the second room they were offered. Molokov complained so hard about the first one that the hotel offered to change it at no change. He thinks he's getting the hang of how this chess thing works already, although he'd still rather be doing proper government work.
Of course, some things here don't have to be so different from his government work, and he's been flirting with Anatoly for a week.
And now they're alone in Anatoly's hotel room, and Molokov can feel the discomfort radiating from the other man. It's gorgeous. "You seem ill at ease, Comrade Sergievsky," he says. He knows Anatoly hates being called comrade.
Anatoly's face goes still. "I need to practice. Perhaps you could leave me in peace."
Molokov isn't really interested in giving a man like Anatoly peace. "I think not, comrade." He steps closer, right into Anatoly's personal space. "Take your jacket off." He's used to studying what turns people on and what makes them balk, and he knows asking Anatoly to remove his jacket will be just pushing the limits of the man's patience.
Anatoly frowns. "I can hardly say no, can I?"
Molokov feels a jolt in the pit of his stomach. He's never been in this position, exactly. He was always seducing foreigners, never Russians, never anyone who knew who, what he was. Now he's KGB and Anatoly is just some chess player. He can have this. He can take this.
But that's not his job. His job is to do whatever will keep Anatoly happy, loyal, and winning. The man's had some unfortunate political opinions in the past, and unfortunately, he's famous enough that he's been getting away with it so far.
Molokov nods. "You simply looked as though you were too hot. Forgive me." He lets himself out, fighting down adrenaline.
*
Molokov keeps things for himself, even if they are dangerous, difficult things. His covert meetings with Walter de Courcey are something Anatoly will never find out about, if all goes well. Chess players are too self-centered to believe anyone's attention could be focused elsewhere as well, anyhow.
*
Then Trumper shows up and ruins absolutely everything by fighting Anatoly. It's not a fist-fight, but it's a near thing. Trumper won't stop mouthing off, and Molokov sees Anatoly's fists clench at his sides. (Trumper is also resolutely pretending he's never seen Molokov before in his life.)
Trumper goes to turn away, disgusted. "Fucking commies. You're all--"
And Anatoly's hands fall over Trumper's wrists like they belong there, gripping vice-tight and stopping Trumper from even jerking away.
This cannot happen. Molokov touches Anatoly's arm. "Anatoly," he says under his breath, rushed and desperate. "Just take me back to the room. You can do whatever you want to me."
Anatoly's face twists, half anger and half fear. He doesn't want to. "I . . . all right," he mutters.
Molokov will make him want to.
*
Back in Anatoly's room, Molokov's head thuds against the wall. Anatoly's hands are like steel around his forearms, pressing hard enough to leave bruises. Molokov curses himself for being so easy for tough guys. But this is still just a game, and he'll pretend to be easy so hard that he'll forget he actually is.
"Fucking do it," Molokov says, slipping into Russian. He's not sure exactly what he's daring Anatoly to do.
Anatoly curses, sounding pained. Then he grabs Molokov roughly and turns him around, shoving his face against the wall.
Molokov winces. It shouldn't be this good.
Anatoly moves fast, no lubrication but spit, and it hurts like hell. Molokov counts the number of times he's been fucked like this, knowing that they're his favorite.
Even better than that is that while Anatoly's fucking Molokov, he's also cursing under his breath, sounding furious with both of them.
And Anatoly comes. They always do, no matter what they think at first. He pulls out, leaving Molokov shaking, just on the edge. Shameless, Molokov jerks himself off once, twice, finally coming so hard that he has to support himself against the wall.
Anatoly has already moved away across the room, doing up his pants.
*
And then Anatoly leaves. He fucking defects, and Molokov can’t understand what happened. He did everything right, and now this. And over a woman. Molokov goes to the airport to watch them board a plane to England, wondering if his supervisors would mind if he shot Anatoly in the head. Or the woman. He could shoot the woman.
He doesn’t, though. After all, he has no orders. Sitting in the car as the plane takes off, he shudders. He’s going to be the agent who let an influential figure run off and leave Russia on national television. If they even let him live, he’ll be lucky.