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Ivan waved away the accusation. “That word implies there are sides to be betrayed. There aren’t. There isn’t your side or my side. There’s only the bratva and who is best equipped to run it.”
“If you thought you would make such a good leader, why didn’t you put yourself forward?” Lyon asked. “At least then you would have come by it honestly.”
“A member of the council appointed pakhan where there were others in line? Men who had been on the street? Who had enforced our rule with blood and violence when blood and violence is our currency?” The disdain in Ivan’s voice made it clear what he thought of the idea.
“So you used me,” Lyon said, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice. “You let me be knight to your king, clearing the board so you could take the game.”
“I knew there was more than one aspirant to the throne,” Ivan said. “I couldn’t compete with you on the street. It would have been… unseemly.”
“And betraying me isn’t?”
Ivan shook his head sadly. “It was a necessary sacrifice. I’m actually quite fond of you.”
“Why not seize control after I killed Musa?” Lyon asked. He didn’t want the consolation prize of Ivan’s supposed affection.
“You were still strong,” Ivan said. “I wouldn’t have gotten buy-in from the council. I had to break you. And I needed you to break the bratva, temporarily anyway.”
“So you hired Vadim.”
“Hired isn’t entirely accurate. We were partners of a sort,” Ivan said.
“I take it he didn’t know that he was also a necessary sacrifice?”
“Pawns are the soul of the game,” Ivan said, quoting Danican-Philidor
“Easy to say when you’re not a pawn,” Lyon said. “You figured Vadim would kill me and weaken the bratva enough that when you offered your help bringing it under control, the Spies would appoint you pakhan, in the interim at least. And then you’d cut Vadim in.”
He didn’t mention his mother, although Lyon had no doubt she was on the payroll too.
“Except he didn’t,” Ivan said. “Against all odds, you prevailed.”
Lyon thought of Kira, of her determination to bring him home. If not for her, he wouldn’t be alive.
“So this is the end of the line? No more pawns up your sleeve? No more moves?” Lyon asked.
“You must also have a sense of when to stop,” Ivan said.
“That’s it?” Lynn asked. “You’re forfeiting on Kasparov?”
Ivan shrugged, then downed the last of his vodka. “Who better?”
He rose to his feet and extended a hand across the desk.
Lyon looked at it, remembering all the times Ivan had extended his hand after a game, all the times Lyon had taken it.
“Thank you for playing,” Ivan said.
It was his standard post-game statement, whether he won or lost, and Lyon was surprised to find emotion clogging his throat.
The Seasonsbuilt to a crescendo as he raised his gun and aimed between Ivan’s eyes.
It seemed too simple, and yet, it was exactly as it should be. Ivan was at heart a simple man, a man who believed in the rules of the game. He’d always been gracious when bested by Lyon at chess. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise that he would close out their final game not in a hail of gunfire, but with his favorite music playing in the background, a glass of vodka at his side, and a handshake.
“Thank you for playing.” Lyon squeezed the trigger.
It wasn’t as difficult as he’d expected.
44
