Characters: Alex Rider, Yassen Gregorovich, Ian Rider

Synopsis: Chess prodigy Alex Rider is attending the 1981 Moscow Invitational when a moment of curiosity leads him into trouble, and lands him an impromptu rematch with the World Champion, Soviet Grandmaster Yassen Gregorovich.

A/N: Written for this prompt for the Alex in Chains Fest on Tumblr: "Improvised restraints - a belt, a tie, etc. Someone needs to tie him up in a hurry and has to make it work".

You don't need to know anything about chess to read this, anything that's really important is explained and the rest is either just set set dressing or can be understood from the context.

Adjournment

It was already starting to get dark by the time Alex stood up from the chessboard and stretched.

He had been playing through some of Alexei Sarov's games from Shakhmaty v SSSR, preparing for his game with the Red Army general and international grandmaster tomorrow. It was the third round of the Moscow Invitational, and it was clear that the level of this tournament was higher than the ones Alex had played in before. The Soviet players had been dominating the world of chess for decades, and finally being here in Moscow, Alex could see why.

The Russians took chess very seriously. On the first day of the tournament, the director had introduced them one by one to the audience, and there had been a polite and even slightly enthusiastic applause for Alex, as well as the other three foreign players. And then when the Russian grandmasters were introduced, the excitement in the hall had been palpable. When Yassen Gregorovich had been introduced last, as the current World Champion, the applause had been deafening.

It was a completely different level of popularity, and like nothing Alex had ever experienced. Back in England, some people in Alex's school had looked at him strangely when Ian was allowed to take him out of school to fly to some international tournament. Alex doubted that Yassen had ever faced the same puzzlement when he'd played and won in Soviet tournaments at fourteen.

Even the hotel the chess players had been put up in was grand, standing as a relic of pre-revolutionary opulence, with large halls with dark wood and crystal chandeliers. Uniformed staff had been friendly and eager to help with anything he might require, although they spoke little English. Alex was never more thankful for the lessons in basic Russian Ian had given him, which at least allowed him to read some of the signs.

The Soviet government clearly wanted to show off to its foreign visitors. Both the hotel and the hall where the tournament were held were meant to impress and intimidate, but Alex refused to let it throw him off.

He ought to study some more, then go to bed early. He needed to be well-rested tomorrow. Sarov would be a tough opponent to beat. From studying his games, Alex knew the general was a methodical player, and he rarely made mistakes. He had been World Champion before Yassen had beaten him some years ago, and he was still formidable.

As Alex flipped through some of the issues of Shakhmaty v SSSR that he'd brought, however, he instead found himself looking at the match between Yassen Gregorovich and Herod Sayle. Alex had beaten Sayle in a tournament himself a few months back in Cornwall, but Yassen had completely finished him. Alex doubted Sayle would return to the board any time soon.

Even simply reading the neat Cyrillic notation of the game, Alex's heart beat faster. He could see the moves in his mind, and felt the overwhelming power behind Yassen's every move, from the imminent threats lurking behind the single, delicate forward push of a pawn, opening new opportunities for attack, to the brutal precision with which Yassen took Sayle's pieces, until the man had no choice but to topple his king and resign.

Yassen was a killer on the board, and even off the chessboard there was something cold and dangerous about him. Alex had only met the Russian twice before, but their meetings were ingrained in his memory.

The first time had been in Zürich in 1976, when Alex was fourteen and playing in one of his first international tournaments. Yassen had been World Champion for some years already back then, and he had crushed Alex without any apparent effort, his impassive face giving little away. His cool, blue eyes had merely watched Alex as he got up and forced out the words announcing his resignation. And Yassen had nodded calmly.

Ian had told him not to let the defeat get to him. Alex had still come third place in the tournament, and he had played well. But the utter confidence of Yassen had shaken him. The Russian had been completely unruffled, in his neat suit like the rest of the Soviet players, exuding coldness as his sharp eyes focused on the board, seeing through any attack Alex tried to make and cutting it off before he could even begin. The difference in level had been obvious.

Alex had thrown himself into studying chess with a new resolve, determined that he wouldn't be made to feel helpless like that ever again. Next time, he would be ready.

When he met Yassen again for a rematch at a tournament in Paris two years later, Alex had put up a better fight. He'd played white that time, and he'd been able to hold off Yassen, even pressure him, for the first hour and a half. But then Yassen had made a bold move, sacrificing his queen. They had traded pieces for a while, and to his sinking horror, Alex realised Yassen would come out of it two pawns ahead. After the 37th move, he'd been forced to resign.

Alex shook his head now, shaking off the memory of his defeats. The first half year after Paris had been rough. Alex had taken a break from chess for a while, focusing on school and doing well for his A-levels. But slowly, he'd been drawn back into the game.

He'd studied more seriously than he ever had before, going over old games, not just by Yassen, but by all the Soviet grandmasters. He was older now, and more focused. Already, he'd won his first two games of the tournament, including one against a Russian grandmaster, Viktor Ivanov. Tomorrow, he would face Sarov. And the day after that, on Friday, he would have his rematch against Yassen Gregorovich.

Alex wasn't quite sure how he felt about the man any more. He wanted to beat him, of course, to pay him back for the defeats in Zürich and Paris. But something else had happened since their last match and it left Alex feeling more conflicted than ever.

As he'd studied older and older games, getting his hands on specially ordered issues of Shakhmaty v SSSR going back all the way to the early 1960s, he came across a familiar name. There had been Yassen, of course, a chess prodigy who was already beating grandmasters in his early teens. But mentioned alongside him in some of those very early bulletins, was a man called John Rider, an English grandmaster who had defected to the USSR.

Part of Alex hoped it was a coincidence. He had never known his parents. John and Helen Rider had died in a plane crash when Alex was just a baby, but Ian had told him once that John had played chess. That he'd been good at it.

Alex didn't want to believe it, but when he confronted Ian with the article, his uncle's face went grim.

In the course of the next hour, Alex learned the truth about his father, who had indeed lived in Moscow for over a year with Alex's mother, joining the Soviets at their chess school. In fact, Alex was shocked to learn that he himself had been born while they were still in Moscow.

But with Alex's birth things had changed.

"I don't know if he ever really defected, Alex," Ian told him. "Even later, I couldn't discover the truth of it, and John refused to speak of it. But I know that he was passing on secrets to MI6 for a while before they were able to exfiltrate you and your parents."

The young family had found themselves back in London by the time Alex was a few months old, living quietly. But then secret intelligence had received word that the KGB had learned of John's return to England and encouraged them to disappear for a while. And when Alex's parents boarded the plane that would take them to the south of France, there was a bomb in the cargo hold. His parents had died instantly, and Alex had gone to live with his uncle.

It was a lot to take in, a story with heavy words like treason and assassination. But there had been one other detail that had caught Alex's attention, and that somehow seemed to explain everything, like a puzzle piece clicking into place.

Because while his dad had been with the Soviet chess school, he'd been assigned as a mentor to a young prodigy who was already causing waves in the world of chess: Yassen Gregorovich. The two of them had studied together, and played together, for months, and by all accounts had got along well.

Suddenly, Alex understood some of the looks Yassen had given him the last time they met, the way he had seemed to know Alex. They had never really spoken, simply started their games without preliminary conversation.

Outside of the games, the Russian players were always accompanied during the tournaments, two men in serious suits with them at all times. KGB agents, Ian had whispered to him. Alex hadn't even known Yassen spoke English until the reception the morning after their game in Paris, when he had suddenly found himself standing next to the Russian at the table where tea was served.

Alex had stiffened, his recent loss still fresh in his mind. The only reason he was even attending was because Ian had insisted, reminding him that he'd come second place, and they would be giving out awards after the reception.

Yassen had noticed him and nodded politely.

Alex nodded back shortly, then started to turn away, only to be taken off-guard when Yassen spoke in English with a surprising lack of an accent.

"That move you made with your rook," Yassen said, his voice quiet. "Where did you learn it?"

He was referring to the rook move Alex had made towards the end, the one he'd been hoping would change the tide and halt Yassen's advance.

"I didn't learn it," Alex said, taken aback by the sudden question. "It just seemed like a good move to make."

Yassen nodded. And then he'd accepted his tea from the garçon and walked off, joining the other two Soviet players who had attended the tournament, and leaving Alex frowning at his back.

Even that exchange made more sense after Alex found a bulletin covering a Rider vs Gregorovich game from 1961. His father had made the exact same move, and won. It was a surprising move, rarely applicable, but effective if the opponent was unfamiliar with it.

No wonder Yassen's eyes had sharpened as Alex had moved his rook. Alex now saw the faint smile that had appeared on his face for what it was: recognition. He had seen Alex play and been reminded of his old mentor.

How had Yassen felt when his mentor had defected back? Had Alex's dad told his student what he was going to do or had they simply disappeared in the middle of the night, never to be seen again?

Suddenly, Alex couldn't think of chess any longer. He had put the story about his parents out of his mind as he came here, trying to focus on the tournament. But it was hard to forget when he was here, in Moscow, in the very heart of the Soviet Union. The place where nineteen years ago, Alex himself had been born.

He went over to the window and opened it, letting in the cooler evening air. His room was on the seventh floor, and overlooked a green park, where earlier today he'd heard the sound of children playing.

Had his mother visited a park like that with him as a baby?

A small breeze rustled his hair as Alex leaned on the window sill and looked out over the city, seeing the street lights coming on. He decided he would go for a walk, if that was allowed so late.

He put on a clean white T-shirt to go with his jeans, and left his room.

It was a warm evening, and some of the doors in the hallway were open to let the breeze through. As he walked towards the lift at the end of the hallway, the sound of voices drifted towards him from one of the rooms, a quiet conversation in Russian.

He drew even with the doorway and glanced inside, and his breath caught.

It was a large room, larger than even his own, and opulently decorated, with dark wooden furniture and heavy leather sofas. On the back wall, a large oil painting dominated the room.

Three men were gathered around the coffee table between the sofas, looking down at the chessboard that had been set up. They were in shirtsleeves, their ties and collars undone. Two of the men were standing, and Alex recognised them as Nikolai Drevin, who Alex would face on Sunday, and Viktor Ivanov.

The third man, sitting on the sofa and moving the pieces on the board, was Yassen Gregorovich, looking more casual than Alex had ever seen him.

The game had to be Yassen's adjourned game against Nile, the handsome young Frenchman that Alex would face in round five. The two other men were commenting as Yassen moved the pieces, clearly working together to analyse the position and determine the best strategy for him to use to win the next day.

Alex felt strange, seeing them like that. It was a glimpse into the Soviet establishment, the gathering of talented chess players who dominated world chess. This was where part of their power came from: these grandmasters analysing games together.

But at the same time, they looked more… human, than Alex had ever seen them before.

Against his will, his eyes kept drifting back to Yassen. He had taken off his tie, the white shirt open at the neck, and there was a look of concentration on the man's face as he studied the board, unaware of Alex observing him.

As he stood there watching them, Alex wished his uncle could have come with him for this tournament.

Ian had been meant to accompany him, but he'd broken his leg a week ago, and he'd had to stay home. Back when he was first starting out at fourteen, Jack Starbright might have taken him instead, but the American housekeeper had returned to the US when Alex had turned sixteen.

He wasn't entirely alone. There was a man from the foreign office, a Mr John Crawley, who had travelled with Alex on the plane. He had been useful in getting through customs, as the man's Russian was better than Alex's, but Alex didn't like him. Mr Crawley had a perfectly bland smile, that somehow said he knew things Alex didn't, and he seemed to care very little about chess.

Alex had been glad on the second day to receive a note that Mr Crawley was meeting some people from the embassy and would be too busy to accompany him for a while.

The thought of Mr Crawley shook Alex from his musings, and he was about to continue down the hallway when he noticed the Russians getting up and preparing to leave the room.

Acting on instinct, Alex drew back, hiding behind a pillar sticking out from the wall.

A few moments later, the quiet voices left the room, thankfully going the other direction. Most likely towards the lift, as Alex had suspected they might.

He took a peek around the pillar to see the three men's backs, Ivanov and Drevin with their suit jackets back on, Yassen still in shirtsleeves.

They were leaving.

Alex was about to follow them–he still wanted to go for a walk–when a thought struck him. He recalled the chessboard, still set up in the room, and curiosity got the better of him.

He slipped from behind the pillar and quickly and soundlessly hurried over to the doorway that had been left open due to the heat. Few people were allowed into this hotel, Yassen had little to fear from anyone trying to steal his belongings.

The room was even bigger than Alex had seen from the doorway, with a high ceiling from which a crystal chandelier hung, and a large double bed set against the far wall, with a sturdy wooden headboard.

Despite the luxury of the room, Alex found himself immediately drawn to the chessboard set up on the coffee table.

It was a proper chess set, with finely-crafted and polished wooden pieces that had a satisfying weight to them, and a green felt circle at the bottom. Of course, Yassen would never be satisfied with the plastic pieces that came with cheaper chess sets.

Alex put the king back on the board and took a moment to examine the position. Yassen had been playing black, and he was ahead, but not by much. There was still a chance for white to turn the game around, if Yassen made any mistakes.

Something else caught his attention. On the other side of the coffee table lay a number of chess magazines. And there, half covered by an issue of Shakhmaty v SSSR, was a copy of British Chess Magazine, with Alex's own face staring back at him from the cover. It was the issue from May, from when Alex had played all the students in the Point Blanc Chess Academy in a simultaneous, before defeating grandmaster Hugo Grief himself.

Had Yassen been reading about him?

He had been so caught up in the magazines and the chessboard that he missed the single set of footsteps returning down the hall. They paused in the doorway, as if surprised to find Alex there, then stepped inside.

Alex only realised he wasn't alone when he reached out for the magazine, and he found his wrist grabbed and twisted behind his back.

He cried out, but it was more from surprise than pain. He instinctively twisted to take pressure off his shoulder, going up to his toes as his arm was pulled up further.

Hot breath tickled his ear as his attacker stepped closer and spoke in perfect English, with only the barest trace of a Russian accent.

"Did no one ever tell you that it's impolite to enter someone's room without invitation, Alex Rider?"

A thrill of fear went through Alex. He'd always been intimidated by Yassen, but it was another thing entirely to be at his mercy like this. He was very aware of Yassen's presence behind him, and despite not being able to see him, he could smell the man's cologne.

"I only wanted to see the board," Alex said, his breath catching in his throat.

The excuse sounded weak even to his own ears. He should never have gone in, but as always his curiosity had got him in trouble.

Yassen pushed him forward, still twisting Alex's arm, so that Alex had no choice but to move or risk dislocating his shoulder.

"You should be careful, Alex," Yassen said, the casual use of his first name sending a jolt of surprise through Alex. "You are a guest in this country. You don't want to be seen betraying the hospitality you are shown. It has been known to get people killed."

He was referring to Alex's dad, Alex realised with a sudden flash of insight.

Cold dread settled in his stomach at the words, and the sudden threat shocked him enough that he was taken off guard when they reached the bed and Yassen let go of his wrist to grab him under the arms, bodily throwing him on the bed.

Alex landed face down, the breath driven out of him. He tried to get up, but Yassen was already on him, straddling him from behind. Panic shot through Alex.

"What are you doing?!" he demanded, struggling to free himself. Fear grabbed him by the throat, making his voice come out strangled.

Yassen easily took hold of his wrists and twisted his arms behind him again, pinning him to the bed.

"Teaching you a lesson," Yassen said calmly.

The tone unnerved Alex, the placidity almost more frightening than if Yassen had been angry. He went very still, his heart beating loudly.

"What are you going to do to me?"

Yassen was quiet for a moment, his hand tightening on Alex's wrists. He had very strong fingers. Shifting to hold Alex's wrists in his other hand, Yassen reached to the side, grabbing something from the bed. A dressing gown. He let go of Alex entirely to pull the cloth belt from around the middle.

Alex didn't quite dare move. Even to make a sound seemed like a bad idea. He felt like a small animal, frozen in the gaze of a predator, hoping the danger would pass if he just kept still.

Yassen tied the rope around Alex's wrists, binding them at the small of Alex's back.

"Let's play a game," Yassen said, when he seemed satisfied that Alex was unable to escape.

Alex swallowed. "What sort of game?"

Yassen's hand rested on his back for a moment, then he got off Alex, and walked across the room.

"Chess, of course," he said over his shoulder. "Can you play without looking at the board?"

"Yes." Alex had always been able to visualise the pieces in his mind when he tried to work out his next move, but Ian had taught him how to play whole games without ever needing a board.

"Let's play speed chess," Yassen said. Alex could hear him setting the pieces on the board. "I believe you English call it Blitz, yes?"

"Are you going to untie me?"

"Not yet," Yassen said calmly. "Left or right?"

Alex hesitated for a moment. This was a bizarre situation, and fear still lingered in his stomach. But he had been wanting to play Yassen again for some time now. Uncomfortable as the situation was, this was an opportunity to play the World Champion in an informal game and Alex was curious how he would compare after all the studying he'd done since their last match.

"Left."

"You play white."

Alex heard the soft thuds as Yassen placed the pawns back on the board.

"I'll give you ten minutes, since you're at a disadvantage," Yassen said. He started the clock.

"Pawn to king four," Alex said instantly.

Yassen moved the pawn, tapped the clock, then made his own move.

"Pawn to queen bishop four."

The Sicilian. Alex hesitated for a moment, remembering how Yassen had used his superior knowledge of the opening to best him back in Zürich. Then he moved his knight. Yassen instantly replied by moving his queen's pawn to the fourth row.

These were still the opening moves, and they required little thought. Alex was easily able to move the pieces in his mind, keeping track of the moves. Yassen didn't make it any more difficult than it already was, stating his moves with a clear and calm voice, and making Alex's moves as soon as he'd said them.

Part of him was still nervous from the situation he'd found himself in, tied up on Yassen Gregorovich's bed. There was a tightness in the pit of his stomach, and his fingers were curled into fists where they were tied behind his back. But Alex forced himself to concentrate on the game. He closed his eyes and let the world narrow down to the black and white pieces on the board and the endless possibilities of attacks and counters in chess.

Yassen played the Najdorf variation, and Alex castled on his queen's side. There was no other talk beyond the soft thuds of the pieces being moved and the tick of the clock as Yassen marked the time.

Alex bit his lip for a moment as he considered his options, but this was speed chess, there was no real time to think. Yassen was pressuring him on his queen's side. He was able to set up a few attacks, but Yassen easily countered them, his voice as calm as always.

Things got more complicated towards the middle, and Alex struggled at times to keep track of the positions. It wasn't just holding them in his head that took effort, but it was keeping track of the current position while also trying to think through the next few moves. Twice, he had to take precious seconds to focus on getting the board back in his mind's eye.

When he'd played blindfolded with Ian before, it had always been fun, merely a way to challenge himself. A few times, Ian had played him without a board at all, just saying the moves to each other as they sat in a car or on the plane. But there had been no time limits then. And he'd certainly never been tied up, or done it while facing the current world champion.

Despite his disadvantage, Alex didn't play poorly. He was able to tie up Yassen's bishop and hold off on his advance for some time. It was good chess, but it wasn't good enough.

"Check," Yassen's quiet voice said. "Mate in three."

Alex stiffened, but he could already see the moves playing out in his head and he knew Yassen was right.

A wave of anger went through him. It was like Paris all over again, but even as the blow of the defeat hit him, his dominant feeling was righteous anger rather than despair, and it burned away the last remnants of fear.

It hadn't been a fair game. With his hands tied and unable to see the board, odds had been against him from the start, no matter how much more time Yassen had granted him. Yassen had just been playing with him, trying to humiliate him after catching Alex breaking into his suite.

Alex wouldn't give him the satisfaction of humiliating him further.

"Are you going to untie me now?"

He felt more than heard Yassen move. The bed dipped down as Yassen knelt behind him, and warm fingers touched his wrists to untie him.

Alex pulled his arms free as soon as the ropes loosened. He wanted to go back to his room, but his pride wouldn't allow him to run away from Yassen with his tail between his legs. So instead he rolled over and sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing his wrists to get the circulation back.

"You played well, Alex."

"I lost." Alex grit out the words, glaring down at his hands.

"You were at a disadvantage," Yassen said dismissively.

Something in his voice made Alex glance up.

Yassen still kneeled on the bed where Alex had lain, but now he rolled off the bed, moving with a fluid grace. There was something so different about seeing him like this, in his own country, in his private space, wearing only shirtsleeves rather than the neat suits all the Soviet players seemed to favour.

With a sudden thrill, Alex realised that this was the first time they had ever been alone together.

"You've become stronger," Yassen stated. "I've studied your games from the past year, your victories against Herod Sayle and Hugo Grief. I wanted to see how you would perform under a different sort of pressure."

Yassen's blue eyes watched Alex intently, studying him like he was a fascinating position on a chessboard. A faint smile appeared on his usually so impassive face.

"I look forward to our rematch in this tournament."

Alex was speechless.

He had studied Yassen's games for years now, and of course he'd noticed Yassen watching him during their games before, but he hadn't realised he'd held the Russian grandmaster's attention in any real capacity. He'd thought the interest was merely due to Yassen's connection to his father.

"You were testing me?"

Yassen shrugged. "Speed chess is good for testing the mettle of someone. I played a lot of it when I was younger."

Alex hesitated, but he couldn't stop his next words even if he wanted to. This might be the only chance he'd ever have to ask.

"Did my dad teach you that?"

Yassen went still at the question, his face blank.

"Your uncle told you," he murmured at last.

"He told me my dad was your mentor for a time. Is it true, then?"

Yassen considered him for a moment, then went over to the sofas. Alex followed him, sensing that the conversation wasn't over yet, but that Yassen was merely taking the time to consider before answering.

There was a decanter in the corner with several crystal glasses. Yassen removed the stopper and held it up to Alex in an unspoken offer. Alex shook his head. With a shrug, Yassen poured a bottom in one of the crystal glasses and settled on the sofa facing Alex, gazing down at his drink.

Alex sat down quietly on the other sofa, not wanting to pressure Yassen, but also desperate to learn more.

After a moment, Yassen's eyes flicked up to his face.

"Your father taught me many things," Yassen told him. "I knew how to play Blitz before, but he was fond of it. He said it developed good instincts."

Yassen fell silent again.

"Ian always said that too," Alex said, when the silence stretched on.

Yassen took a sip of the liquor–whisky from the smell of it.

"We always met at the school," he murmured, the words so soft that Alex had to strain to hear them. "I went by his apartment only once, in late February, 1962. You had just been born. Your father told me they were going on a holiday to the Crimea. It was sudden. Something seemed off."

Silence fell for a moment as Yassen sipped his drink, eyes distant.

"When I arrived, someone was just leaving. Your father said it was someone from the government, but I could tell he was lying. The man looked foreign. And then your parents left for their holiday a few days earlier…" He trailed off.

"You knew?" Alex asked.

"I suspected." Yassen took another sip. "I heard of your parents' death a week after it happened." A strange smile flashed across his face. "There was an article about the plane crash. But I knew enough to put the pieces together then."

Something seemed to be stuck in Alex's throat.

"I meant what I said, Alex," Yassen said quietly, meeting Alex's eyes. "Don't go looking for trouble, not while you're here. Focus on playing, and be careful."

Alex swallowed, feeling the heaviness of his family history weighing him down, the tragedy of his parents' fate looming over him. It had been naive to think he could come to Moscow and not find himself confronted by the past in some form, but still, he was grateful to Yassen for telling him more about his father.

"You should go back to your room," Yassen said, as the silence stretched on. He rose to his feet. "It would be best if we weren't seen talking like this. Leave the door open when you leave."

Alex stood up too. He only now noticed that Yassen had closed the door when he'd come in while Alex had been distracted by the chessboard.

In the doorway, Alex paused, and turned back. Yassen was standing by the chessboard, holding his empty glass and looking down at the pieces that still showed Yassen's victory.

Would they get a chance to talk like this again? Yassen was right about the dangers, but perhaps in a different place, at a different tournament, Alex could ask him more about his dad's time in Moscow.

But first, there was the tournament. Five more matches to go, and none of them would be easy. Despite the small moment of connection they may have shared here and the kindness Yassen had shown him in speaking of his father, Alex knew the Russian would not go easy on him on the board.

Yassen must have sensed Alex still lingering, because he looked up, tilting his head in question.

"I'll beat you on Friday," Alex told him.

Yassen smiled. "We'll see."

Alex felt his spirits lift slightly. He could beat Yassen, he just had to keep his calm and his head clear. And he had to be prepared. Perhaps he would return to his room to study some more old games, after all.

A/N: I've never written an AU like this before, so please let me know what you think!