Chapter Text
1989.
Alexander Molokov is always on time.
Tragically, punctuality is something this particular child never learned and the seat across him is still empty. He hears her people never used clocks, but forgive him for thinking time might’ve taught her…
The room is cold and secure and far too small for Alexander and the grown-up child who is now his superior. Management has grown sloppy; they see a scientific prodigy and promote her, as if technical intelligence could rival decades of devotion and demonstrated leadership.
Five minutes later, she inserts her badge and punches her code into the door handle. A commotion enters the room, nearly tripping. Like punctuality, her people have never valued civility. He wears a tailored, well-made, grey suit. She wears a sweater of ridiculous coloring.
On her best days, she’s insufferable.
On her worst…
“Good morning!” Svetlana greets with the energy of a thousand suns (and he has to assume she operates on a different reality). She carries a stack of classified files, but only she would cover national security secrets in stickers.
“I have a meeting after this,” he says, clipped, by way of greeting. “Nikolai gave you the photographs?”
“Oh, yes.” She plops down — yes, plops — across, dropping the files on the table between them. He sorts through: SERGIEVSKY, SERGIEVSKAYA, TRUMPER, and VASSY. “Did you see the cloud above the bridge this morning? I think one of them was shaped like Cheburashka. I hope it’s still there when the day is over… I’d like to capture a picture.”
“Let’s talk shop,” he advises, before she depletes what little patience for her antics remains. She hears his tone, remembers the way he would employ it during her formative years and, to both of their benefits, ceases discussions of a children’s television program.
“Yes, Mr. Molokov.” Even at her thirty-six years, he’s still Mr. Molokov to her, a testament to lingering childish tendencies. She glances at her notebook. To her word and to his relief, she talks shop. “I’m against your proposal.”
She doesn’t shy away. This, he appreciates, even as his heart sinks. Only years have taught him to maintain a pleasant expression in the face of unbalanced negotiation.
“Why?” He won’t shy away either. “List me your concerns, and I’ll counter each. There is no reason to doubt her.”
“Doubt her? Her?” Svetlana shakes her head fervently. “No, no, I could never!”
Damn her. “What do you doubt, then? Surely not the integrity of our mission?”
Her eyes widen in a betrayal of emotion. She makes for an awful negotiator.
Except it isn’t a negotiation, though he approaches it like one. It’s best she forgets the power of her position. It’s best she doesn’t see this as a decision under her direct authority, but rather as something they must agree to together.
And that’s why Alexander is among the Soviet Union’s best negotiators.
“The integrity of…? I don’t imagine where you’d get such an idea.” Her face falls. “Let me be clear: it’s you I doubt.”
She delivers her blows with plenty of hesitation, but she delivers them nonetheless. Kindness is important to her, but their organization demands truth and truth is frequently unkind. He deeply resents her words but appreciates that she makes no attempt at hiding her intentions behind flowery language as some of his agents do.
Svetlana is not an agent. Deceit is not her duty.
“Me.” He’s displeased, but far less than he’d be if it came from anybody else. Yes, she is his superior now, and she also lacks the maturity and sophistication that command respect. “You doubt me. Why is that?”
Svetlana reaches for the SERGIEVSKAYA file, decorated in smiling stickers, cat stickers, and glittering heart stickers. She removes the top document, a picture of the subject both are well-acquainted with: it is Svetlana Mikhailovna Sergievskaya’s headshot, the very same photograph her identification bears. In it, she’s expressionless. The scar among her jawline is visible and a smattering of freckles suggests the picture was taken mid-winter. Her dark eyes are empty and she is pale and her short hair slowly greys despite her young age. Time has not been kind to her because life has not been kind to her.
But she’s long due for her break, something Alexander will attest to without reservation. He recalls a terrified girl of fourteen. He sees her grow into an anxious young woman on her first long-term international mission. After that disaster, he turned her body into a constellation that would never forget failure. And devastated as he’d been for her indiscretion, Svetlana came out stronger. She is now thirty-two and a top performer.
She is potential. Svetlana Sergievskaya will know success. She’ll return from this mission a victor. Everyone will see the glory of a pearl he fashioned.
Svetlana’s fingers ghost over Svetlana Sergievskaya’s picture. Alexander wants to say, She should be in your position. No one’s worked harder than her. But he’s facing the wrong Svetlana, and the wrong Svetlana holds all the aces.
“You ask why I doubt you." Her eyes are lighter than his pearl’s Svetlana’s. “As her fellow child of the KGB—”
He stops her.
“She is not a child of the KGB. She was older when I brought her in. Fourteen.”
Svetlana looks at him curiously.
“You and I must not share definitions of the word ‘child’, then."
“I brought you here when you were eight years old,” he reminds her, but she can’t forget. Her remarkably young age and her loud mouth protected her from discipline. But Svetlana Sergievskaya — Sokolova, then — could not hide behind excuses of age and she could not speak up for herself. She was a quiet, desperate little thing in the way the wrong Svetlana never was.
This Svetlana is a true child of the KGB. Alexander pulled her out of that orphan hut and brought her to Russia. She’s had everything the KGB can offer. But Svetlana Sergievskaya worked for it. Nothing is free, and pearls, especially, must never come free.
“I sometimes have trouble understanding you, Mr. Molokov,” Svetlana admits. “You’ve placed Svetk — Agent Sergievskaya on a pedestal and you constantly belittle her. She is your perfect agent and trophy and a representation of all of your unfulfilled dreams and she’s simultaneously a failure you must beat to forge.”
What Svetlana doesn’t know and Alexander won’t explain is that if it isn’t him, it’ll be someone far worse. But Svetlana must always speak about things she does not understand. His lips want to curl. He doesn’t let them.
“She is not a failure,” he says and his voice only shakes on the last word.
“That is not what I hear when you… discipline her.”
“I tell her I do what I must to prevent her from becoming a failure. I am not saying she — with all due respect, Svetochka, please make your point. We’re discussing your doubts.”
Little girls. Little girls. This Svetlana is not a pearl. She isn’t worth his emotions or explanations.
“A doubt, small or large, could destroy any mission.” Thankfully, Svetlana only presses on the second topic. “Let’s speak rationally: we must minimize risk. Sending Agent Sergievskaya is maximizing, I think.”
He swallows. He’ll fight as necessary to ensure his Svetlana wins the bid for this assignment. She’s primed for it, for God’s sake.
“She’s exceeded expectations.” He does nothing to disguise the pride in his voice. For once, his emotion must show. “She’s no longer the misguided girl she used to be. She’s reliable, dependable, and she delivers the results we need. This mission—“ he stresses this “—will get her the recognition she deserves.”
“I understand the career-trajectory advantage,” Svetlana says, even as Alexander wishes he could tell her that she doesn’t. “I’m concerned about…” She trails off, seeing Svetlana’s medical records, and grimacing. “I’m concerned about her multiple suicide attempts. Three.”
He anticipated this. “She was young. That was years ago, and it’s not uncommon. At that age, I had my own.”
Who among us hasn’t?, he doesn’t ask.
But he realizes his miscalculation too late. The mistake earns him unexpected sympathy. It’s the last thing he wants.
“Well… her last attempt was five years ago,” she quietly says.
“Exactly.” He won’t lose momentum. “Five years ago. Much can change in five years.”
Where will their country be in five years?
Where will he be? Where will Svetlana and Svetlana and Anatoly and Trumper and Vassy be?
“You may know her better than anyone.” Svetlana searches his face. “You really think she’s well?”
“Yes.” Without a doubt. “I’ve taught her well, instilled in her our values. She’s our best.”
“I’m just not confident I share your assessment,” Svetlana mutters as she rifles through the rest of the SERGIEVSKAYA file. Before Alexander can protest, she glances up. “I’m not disputing she’s our best. Believe me, I’m happy to sing Agent Sergievskaya’s praises on my own. I know what a fine agent she is. But given the history between Agent Sergievskaya and Miss Vassy, I worry that—”
“At no point did Agent Sergievskaya harbor legitimate feelings towards Miss Vassy. I won’t deny that mission was unsuccessful, but she learned a valuable lesson and she has grown from it.”
It’s automatic. It’s his rehearsed response and it’s the official story. Svetlana did not succeed on that assignment, but she did not jeopardize the organization’s integrity. She certainly did not fall in love with a western immigrant.
Svetlana opens the VASSY file, which is covered in heart stickers, and produces a photograph. This is a proper headshot; it’s no secret Vassy and the American are capitalizing on everything chess has offered them. He cannot escape their faces in commercials when he travels overseas. They disgrace chess by whoring themselves out to the media.
So Miss Vassy thinks she’s a model, does she? Her hair is long and thick and big. She wears red lipstick and hoop earrings and modern glasses and she looks incredibly youthful. Time has not touched her the way it has robbed his pearl.
Svetlana produces more photographs and some of these include the American.
In one, they wear matching denim jackets with American flag patches over their breast pockets, never mind that Vassy is not an American citizen. In another, they pose with expensive-looking shoes. THE OFFICIAL FOOTWEAR OF FREDDIE TRUMPER AND HIS TEAM — Alexander stops reading. He wonders how much money those two made from a mere photoshoot.
(And the irony of an athletic shoe company partnering with a chess player is not lost. The West never ceases to amuse him.)
Whatever the case, it seems Vassy and the American are the sweethearts of all African-American magazine covers. If Vassy is still broken up about her spat with Svetlana, you wouldn’t know it. Last he heard from their watchers stationed in New York, Vassy and the American live at a very upscale apartment and all of Vassy’s hoop earrings and all of the American’s chain necklaces and dreadlock beads are made of gold. The American has a personal driver and Vassy regularly purchases clean cocaine — not crack.
“Florence Vassy,” Svetlana murmurs, clearly taken by the many glamorous photos of that African-Czechoslovak-French-British-wannabe-American whatever. “Maybe Agent Sergievskaya never felt anything for her. But she must’ve been a pleasure to know…”
Alexander did not miss all of the heart stickers over the VASSY file.
“You’ve always been taken by curly hair, haven’t you?” he asks, and Svetlana’s eyes, in an instant and for an instant, fill with tears. The next, they’re gone and he wonders if he imagined them.
“Let’s recount the facts,” Svetlana says, and now she’s talking shop. “Nine years ago, Miss Vassy was poisoned during a dinner with Agent Sergievskaya, then Sokolova—“
“And just how did she survive that poison?” Alexander asks, but it’s pointless; Svetlana will never admit to saving a life.
“—and, in a hasty exit, Agent Sergievskaya wrote Miss Vassy a letter claiming she had never loved her and that it was Mr. Trumper’s chess skills she’d been interested in all along.”
Alexander grits his teeth.
Yes, he dealt with Svetlana after that. To have come so close to revealing the nature of her ‘studies’ in America was unforgivable. He made it unforgettable. She’ll never make a mistake again.
“That was years ago,” he repeats. “I addressed it. There is no doubt she made a grave error and exhibited poor judgment, but she’s redeemed herself. We need Agent Sergievskaya now more than ever. If anyone can destabilize the American, it’s Vassy.”
And the person who can most destabilize Vassy is…
“Miss Vassy won’t fall for it again.” Svetlana shakes her head. “A first love can’t be forgotten. Agent Sergievskaya can’t reuse a playbook.”
“Vassy,” Alexander counters, “won’t fall for any Soviet except for Agent Sergievskaya. You’re exactly right; Vassy cannot forget her first love. Agent Sergievskaya alone can rekindle it. The American won’t stand a chance if his second is losing her mind over a past flame.”
Svetlana sets the file down and rubs her temple. She closes her eyes and a long time passes. Finally, grappling, she asks, “Have you considered that Anatoly could simply win?”
“Naturally.” He clasps his hands together. “But we have to make certain.”
He notices, for the first time, the shadows under Svetlana’s eyes. He thinks of the energetic child he rescued from one of those -stans. He sees how far she’s come and how far she’s going.
He produces a piece of candy. It’s a strawberry lollipop, wrapped tight with a yellow ribbon.
“Svetochka.” He softens his voice and this prompts her to open her eyes, daring to hope that he, savior, might show a little pride in place of exasperation. And he does. He smiles and pushes the lollipop towards her.
She takes it and looks just like that little girl of eight years, draped in an oversized yellow sweater and playing with robots.
“I took you both,” he reminds her, “and I gave you everything.”
“And look at us now,” Svetlana whispers. They didn’t matter until he made them matter.
He leans in.
“She’s our perfect weapon.”
And as soon as the words leave his mouth, he knows Svetlana will push back on the our. But she argues on the premise of weapon.
“She is your shield, Mr. Molokov, and she may not know it, but I do.” She dips her head and studies Svetlana’s headshot. Her hand rests over Svetlana’s pale cheek, trying to reach her, but she is unreachable and has been for years.
“I just don’t want to see her hurt again,” she finally admits with a quivering voice and Alexander finds a pinprick he can exploit and expand to the size of a well.
“I want to see her succeed,” he says, and he means it. “I know you want that too, Svetochka. Her success lies in your hands. Approve Agent Sergievskaya for this assignment. I’ll be with her the whole time, and I promise you I’ll let no harm come to her. I love her as much as you do.”
His voice is soft, gentle, pleading, urging. Svetlana puts her hands over her face and nods. “Friendship of people is a reliable stronghold,” she murmurs.
And with that, Alexander has made Svetlana’s decision for her.
“Why don’t you share with her the good news, hmm?”
“Me?” Svetlana recoils, an uncharacteristic sign of meekness. “She loathes me. She loves you.”
“I have other matters to attend to.”
“Of course, Mr. Molokov.” She stands. It’s then that he catches a whiff of alcohol behind the minty freshness of toothpaste.
As she gathers her things, he considers asking if she’s still upset about Anatoly. She puts her files away and takes a newspaper; it’s one declaring that the next chess championship will be held in Merano, Italy, and it’ll be an affair between an American and a Russian.
“I hope you’re doing better,” he says instead, and Svetlana giggles that grating laugh of hers and skips away, newspaper in hand.
She skips to her favorite desk to visit, knowing she’s eternally unwelcome.
"Look!"
She holds the newspaper out for Svetlana. There, on the cover, is the announcement that Freddie Trumper will be facing Anatoly Sergievsky at the next championship.
Svetlana takes the newspaper and examines it, nothing perceptible passing through her face. Maybe Mr. Molokov is right; maybe she really is equipped to take on such a mission.
"Hmm," she merely says. "Thank you, dear."
She sets the paper down. Svetlana eyes her ring. She wishes she had one for herself.
“Ooh, very pretty!" For a moment she’s terrified she’s done the wrong thing. "Are you... ready?"
She sets a pawn on Svetlana's desk. It’s standard practice; when agents are issued a mission, they’re given their kill pill — but science has far advanced. In lieu of a pill, Svetlana’s innocent pawn is supposed to carry her to a comforting and easy death, should she need it.
She hopes Svetlana’s suicidal tendencies are truly behind her. But one can never be certain.
“I’m sure it’ll be an interesting match and an interesting assignment, love," Svetlana calmly says, and Svetlana nods. She can tell when she’s not wanted.
"Good luck, Sveta! We're all counting on you." Before she skips away, she turns her head back. “Did you notice there was a Cheburashka cloud outside?”
Suddenly, she’s eighteen and waiting to greet the new Svetlana. The new Svetlana, future shield, is fourteen, terrified, pale and hurting. They’d watched Cheburashka together. That was a long time ago.
“No, I didn’t notice,” Svetlana says. She’s busy writing something, far too disengaged to spare Svetlana any further glances.
Svetlana swallows.
“A shame. Maybe it’ll be there on your way out.”
And this time, she skips away without hesitation, a blur of yellow sweater and long, curly brown hair bouncing everywhere as she descends into the depths of the KGB.
Her laboratory is dark. She has to make her own sunshine.