Page 83 of Winterveil

“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.

“I hope you enjoyed yourself,” Julian said primly. “There’s something so invigorating about cold air from a wind machine, isn’t there?”

Crispin didn’t reply, but his sallow face took on a rosy hue and his gaze dropped to the ground. Got you, you little rat, Julian thought.

The door opened again, this time more violently. Giselle came storming through, her cheeks pink and her eyes glassy. She stared at them through a tangle of red hair and Julian realized with alarm that she had been crying.

“What happened?” Klaudia asked.

“Nothing,” Giselle said tremulously. “I—”

Nadiya appeared in the threshold behind her. It was hard to miss the heated glance that passed between her and Giselle.

Klaudia seemed unmoved by any of it. “Did you find anything of note?”

“We walked all the way up the residential street,” Nadiya said, stepping around Giselle and into the great room. “There’s definitely something strange about the way the houses are numbered. Isn’t there?”

She looked pointedly at Giselle, who stiffened.

“There is,” she replied, swallowing. “Well—they aren’t numbered. They used letters instead.”