Twenty-Eight
Camp Peary, Virginia
After circling the town square again and finding nothing of note, Julian and Klaudia made their way back to the lodge. The
snow was falling thickly now, and when it landed on Klaudia’s lashes it melted. Julian watched for a disconcertingly long
time as she licked a flake from her lower lip. She seemed at home in the snow, in the winter, like she belonged to it—or it
to her.
They were halfway up the path to the lodge when Julian heard shouting. He turned to see a man in a bowler hat scrambling up
the hill after them, speaking in rapid-fire Russian.
The hologram stopped before them, slightly breathless, and continued his angry-sounding diatribe. Julian was too taken aback
to do anything except stare at Klaudia in bewilderment. “Klaudia . . . ,” he prompted, waiting for her to reply or to translate.
But her expression was shuttered. “Izvinitye,” she said coolly, and then whirled around, continuing pointedly up the path without looking back. Julian hurried after her.
Once they were at a distance, she hissed, “What were you thinking?”
“What do you mean?”
“We’re supposed to be innocuous American students on spring break. You made it obvious when you looked at me that I knew Russian—you
expected me to answer. Now I seem suspicious.”
Julian’s skin prickled with embarrassment. He hadn’t considered how he might implicate Klaudia; he’d been too flustered.
“It’s just a simulation,” he said. “Deckard’s not going to dock us points for pissing off a hologram.”
“You don’t know that,” Klaudia said tensely. “We have no idea what game Deckard is playing with us.”
After another moment’s consideration, he bent over, gathered a ball of snow in his fist, and then hurled it at the hologram’s
retreating back.
The snowball exploded against the man’s shoulder. Briefly, Julian was shocked that it had actually made contact—that the hologram
was more solid than he’d realized. The man turned, eyes flaring in outrage, but before he could say another word, Julian grasped
Klaudia by the wrist and hauled her the rest of the way toward the lodge. By the time they reached the steps, they were both
panting.
“There,” said Julian, between breaths. “That should give him something to mull over instead.”
Klaudia put a hand to her forehead and sighed.
Klaudia forgave his slipup as they entered the great room. That Nadiya and Giselle hadn’t made it back yet didn’t surprise
Julian, but Crispin’s absence did. In order to be rid of him, Klaudia had requested that he remain at the lodge as a precaution,
to at least guard their things against whatever vague threats Deckard had surely assembled. Yet now Crispin was nowhere to
be found.
“Do you think he’s gone for good?” Julian asked hopefully.
“I can’t imagine we’d be so lucky.” Klaudia regarded the cans that he and Giselle had neatened into stacks on the table. “Deckard
wouldn’t give up his little mole.”
“That’s what you think he is? A mole?”
“There’s no other explanation. Deckard believes we’re naive enough to divulge our plans in front of him. It’s a test.”
“Then Deckard should’ve chosen someone with more charisma,” Julian said. “I’m not giving up my secrets to Casper the Unfriendly
Ghost.”
“We can’t all refine our charms by kissing babies or playing flip cup on The Tonight Show.”
Julian’s stomach dropped. “Tell me you didn’t see that.”
“Mikhail researched his new roommate very thoroughly.”
It was possibly the most asinine thing he had done in pursuit of the party nomination. While the other Democratic candidates
recited their stump speeches outside Faneuil Hall, Julian chugged nonalcoholic beer with the host of The Tonight Show, who was so enamored with the idea of an eighteen-year-old mayor that he had invited Julian on twice.
The first time was a standard interview, with questions Julian had been briefed on in advance. The second—
“I didn’t know that was going to be the show,” Julian said. “It was a ploy by the host to get an authentic reaction. You should feel sorry for me.”
“You looked like you were enjoying yourself.”
“It was a hostage situation.”
“Then you perform well under pressure,” said Klaudia. Her tone was so idle that Julian couldn’t quite be certain, but he thought
it might almost be a compliment.
“It didn’t instantly lose me the nomination, at least,” said Julian. “Cafferty—my campaign manager—pulled off some remarkable
spins.”
“I don’t think it needed a spin.” Klaudia’s voice took on a contemplative quality. “It was . . .”
“Magnetic? Beguiling?”
“A decent strategic move.” She met his gaze. “Your hesitation showed itself as restraint. Your discomfort looked mature in
contrast with the host. If anything, he came off as childish and inane. And you came off as . . . more than eighteen.”
That was definitely a compliment. Or at least as near to one as he was ever likely to get. Julian kept his eyes locked with Klaudia’s
and smiled.
“It wasn’t really strategy,” he said. “It was performance.”
Klaudia shrugged. “They’re more alike than not.”
“Maybe. Conveyance of power is as important as power itself.”
“You paid attention in Professor Narendra’s class.”
“I had to, if I was going to beat you.” Julian felt oddly sheepish as he spoke. Something about the intensity of her gaze
made his stomach flutter, not in the way of intimidation, but in the way of captivation. He liked having her undivided attention.
“In order for a threat to be credible, your enemies have to believe you can make good on it.”
“Therefore it’s rational to engage in some level of showmanship,” Klaudia said. She was almost smiling.
“You’d make a good politician.”
“No,” she said, the faint amusement on her face fading. “I don’t have the charm.”
“I find you charming.”
Admittedly, he only said it because he wanted to make her blush again.
But she didn’t. Instead, she replied dispassionately, “You’re a smooth talker.”
Julian could almost see the mask forming. The vulnerable side of Klaudia armoring itself again. He couldn’t help but feel
disappointed, and maybe that was why he strode over to the table, lifted the inexplicably provided bottle of vodka, and said,
“We might as well find some way to amuse ourselves until Nadiya and Giselle get back.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Why did Deckard include it, if he didn’t want us to enjoy it?”
“Because he saw your performance on The Tonight Show and thought he could tempt you.”
He was pretty sure it was a rare attempt at a joke by Klaudia, but she was probably also right. Deckard’s attention to detail was so exacting it was most likely yet another abstruse test. His expectations of Julian were even lower than he’d initially thought.
“Then what should we do?” he asked. “Stare at each other from our own corners of the room?”
“I had another idea.”
Klaudia strode away, into one of the side rooms. In another moment, she emerged with a glossy wooden box—a chess set.
“Are you sure?” Julian arched a brow. “I am nationally ranked.”
“I know.”
Maybe his strategic inclinations should have led him toward becoming a grandmaster instead of a disgraced politician. Julian
felt a familiar lift in his stomach, a giddy sensation that always accompanied him during tournaments. Both the certainty
of victory and the possibility of loss were thrilling, like the peaks and plummets of a carnival ride.
“All right,” he said, sliding into a chair. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Klaudia’s expression was blithe. “You can have white.”
There was something vaguely unreal about it all, from the false snow gathering on the windowsill to the fire crackling in
the hearth, manufactured coziness in contrast to the pulse-pounding tension of Klaudia Shimonova sitting across the board
from him, carefully arranging her black pieces.
Julian began with his favorite opening, the Ruy López. Klaudia countered with the Berlin Defense, which made them both smile.
“Do you think we can see the wall from here?” Julian asked.
“I think that’s over Deckard’s budget.”
Klaudia’s play was slow and conservative—much like her Ghostly Trap strategy. Still, Julian found himself again and again
on the back foot, forced to make aggressive predictions in order to keep himself in the game. But maybe he shouldn’t have
been surprised.
“How come I never saw you at one of the tournaments? Trinity is in the league.”
“Russians at chess tournaments tend to make people nervous.” Klaudia advanced her knight’s pawn. “But my father would have
disowned me if I couldn’t play.”
It was the first time she had mentioned, even in passing, her father—the dazzling paragon of capitalist supremacy, Ivan Shimonov.
There could be no better American Dream story in the throes of the Cold War: Soviet refugee turned prodigious investment banker,
a bootstraps narrative for the ages. Klaudia’s trial had thrust his legend into the spotlight.
A photo of Ivan Shimonov had accompanied one of the New York Times articles about Klaudia’s case. He had precisely the same gray eyes as his daughter, pitiless and cold.
“I thought chess diplomacy died with Kasparov,” Julian said.
“It did,” said Klaudia. “Now it’s just a holdout of tradition.”
“I wouldn’t imagine your father someone to cling to tradition for its own sake,” Julian ventured, trying to keep his tone
casual.
Klaudia looked up from the board. “You don’t know anything about my father.”
Her gaze was so severe that Julian suddenly decided to study the position of his bishop very closely. Could he hang it and
bait her into an unfavorable trade, into giving up more than she gained? He needed to better control the center of the board.
He could—
At that moment the door to the lodge opened. Both he and Klaudia startled. Julian had been expecting Nadiya and Giselle, but
his heart sank when he saw that it was Crispin.
Klaudia recovered more quickly from her shock. “Where did you go?”
His voice irritatingly light, Crispin replied, “For a walk.”
Unlikely. If Klaudia was right—and she almost always was—then he had doubtless been meeting Deckard somewhere, relaying information.