Fall of a Cosmonaut

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.

The fat man had made exactly the move Valery had hoped for. The game would not be quick, but the advantage definitely belonged to Valery Grachev.

Chapter Three

Mikhail Stoltz was a very big, bulky man with close-cropped white hair, a bit younger than Rostnikov. He wore a blue tailored suit, a light blue button-down shirt, and a red-and-blue diagonally striped tie. His black patent-leather shoes were well polished. Stoltz, Porfiry Petrovich, and Iosef were seated on a bench in Pushkin Square outside of the McDonald’s. The meeting place was Stoltz’s idea. The rain had long stopped and the park looked as if the storm had not touched it.

Stoltz smoked a cigarette and looked at the father-and-son detectives.

“You recognize me?” Stoltz said.

“Three years ago. The Sokolniki Recreation Park,” said Rostnikov. “Senior weight-lifting competition.”

Stoltz nodded, looked at his cigarette, and said, “You easily won the bench press, but, as I recall, you couldn’t compete in some of the other events because of …”

Stoltz looked down at “legs. The day was warm and humid. Rostnikov was sweating under his lightest suit. He would prefer to be in the air-conditioned noise of McDonald’s, eating a Big Mac.

“My leg is gone,” said Rostnikov. “It is in a large bottle two floors below ground-level in Petrovka. We have an eccentric technician who collects such trophies.”

“Paulinin,” said Stoltz.

“Paulinin,” Rostnikov confirmed.

“His eccentricity and skill are known to many of us,” said Stoltz. “Your leg?”

“It has been replaced by a leg of metal and plastic,” said Rostnikov. “Perhaps I can persuade it to cooperate so that I can compete in other events this year. As I recall, you won both the dead lift and the clean and jerk.”

Stoltz nodded.

Iosef tried to keep his mind on this foreplay, but his thoughts were of Elena Timofeyeva. She had agreed to marry him. He was sure she did not think it a particularly good idea, at least not a good idea for either of their careers. The Office of Special Investigation would have three Rostnikovs. That might be one too many for Yaklovev, who, Iosef knew, was not particularly fond of him.

Iosef was a bit taller and certainly leaner than his father. His father’s hair was dark. Iosef’s was light. His father had the face of hundreds, no, thousands of Russians one sees on the street. Iosef had the look of Scandinavia. His looks were certainly the gift of his mother.

“… why he would disappear,” Stoltz was saying when Iosef managed to rejoin the conversation.

A man in a ragged coat far too warm for the weather staggered to the bench and paused, hands in his pockets. The man was bearded. His hair was a bush of dirty darkness and his eyes were red with alcohol.

Stoltz paused and looked up at the man. “What?”

“This is my bench,” the ragged man said. “I need to sleep.”

“You need to go away,” said Stoltz with irritation. “These men are the police.”

“Then,” said the man, “they should take responsibility for vacating this bench. This bench is mine. Ask anyone. This bench is mine by virtue of the law of primogeniture.”