"Bravo, Pavel!"

Affectionately, he mussed his son's blond hair. For an eleven-year-old, Pavel was learning quickly.

The boy glanced silently over the board, then moved his rook. Nordeshenko saw what his son was up to. He had once been in the third tier of Glasskov's chess academy in Kiev. Still, he pretended to ignore it and pushed forward his attack on the opposite side, exposing a pawn.

"You're letting me win, Father," the boy declared, refusing to take it."Besides, you said just one game. Then you would teach me…"

"Teachyou? " Nordeshenko teased him, knowing precisely what he meant."You can teachme. "

"Not chess, Father." The boy looked up."Poker."

"Ah,poker? " Nordeshenko feigned surprise."To play poker, Pavel, you must have something to bet."

"I have something," the boy insisted."I have six dollars in coins. I've been saving up. And over a hundred soccer cards. Perfect condition."

Nordeshenko smiled. He understood what the boy was feeling. He had studied how to seize the advantage his whole life. Chess was hard. Solitary. Like playing an instrument. Scales, drills, practice. Until every eventuality became absorbed, memorized. Until you didn't have to think.

A little like learning to kill a man with your bare hands.

But poker, poker was liberating.Alive. Unlike in chess, you never played the same way twice. You broke the rules. It required an unusual combination: discipline and risk.

Suddenly, the chime of Nordeshenko's mobile phone cut in. He was expecting the call."We'll pick it up in a moment," Nordeshenko said to Pavel.

"But, Father," the boy whined, disappointed.

"In a moment," Nordeshenko said again, picking up his son by the armpits, spanking him lightly on his way."I have to take this call. Not another word."

"Okay."

Nordeshenko walked out to the terrace overlooking the sea and flipped open the phone. Only a handful of people in the world had this number. He settled into a chaise.