The Teen Miracle

Chapter I: An Old Friend

'Teen Miracle Won Hundred Grand', read the title in the previous week's paper. The news had caught Hallan's attention when it had originally appeared, but he double-checked it anyway. He played the game occasionally too, though he didn't bother too much for its finesses. For him, it was more a sort of brainy pastime and an excuse to have regular meetings with some of his sources. 'A Grand Master Dethroned', read the title in another paper. The man in the armchair skimmed also this one through, but apart from the title, which emphasized the loser rather than the unlikely winner, it didn't add much to the first.

"Yes", said Hallan then, somewhat absent-minded, and put the papers down. "I see what you mean." He tilted his oval face and cast a look through a pair of rounded lenses at the Russian standing on the host's Persian carpet. Smirnov was one of the regular sources.

The Russian spread his hands, pushed his bearded head slightly ahead. Still standing. How could such a man of patience be so impatient that he didn't accept Hallan's repeated offer to sit down in one of the armchairs in the library? Hallan wondered. Then he shrugged and picked up the newest paper. The one that had apparently prompted Smirnov to abandon his routines and rush unannounced to Hallan's wooden villa.

That didn't happen often, Hallan thought. Smirnov would always make an excuse first. Wary of watchers. And certainly not this house.

"You knew the kid?" asked Hallan, but even before the Russian had flashed a fierce look at his host from his brown eyes, Hallan answered his own question: "No, you knew the old grand master, didn't you?"

"Of course", Smirnov snapped. "You aren't concentrating. I knew them both of course, but the kid only very superficially. Stig Stenmark was my friend. An old friend."

"Also outside the chessboard?" Hallan enquired. For some reason, the simple question seemed to enrage the Russian. Though passionate, Smirnov was too civilized to act upon his rage, so only those who knew him well could see it behind his secretive face. Even the bushy beard seemed to be in place for a cover, though for a credible cover, he should rather have shaved it, to be less recognizable.

Hallan had never defeated Smirnov in chess, though he was good enough to provide him some entertainment while he listened to the Russian's information.

"Just read it", sighed Smirnov, and was finally about to sit down in one of the armchairs.

"A drink?" asked Hallan.

"Just read it!" thundered Smirnov, stood up and helped himself for a whisky before finally sitting.

Hallan read, though he had already registered the title: 'Chess Master Dead in Unclear Circumstances.' A side title declared: 'Police Abstain from Comment.' For some reason, Hallan glanced at the latter article first, perhaps because it was shorter. Indeed, the police abstained from comments for investigative reasons. Hallan vaguely knew the policeman who gave the statement about abstaining from statements.

"Not natural death, you think", murmured Hallan. A claim, not a question. Smirnov nodded rigorously and sipped the whisky.

Hallan read the article. Stig Stenmark, retired mathematician, had been discovered dead. Sitting on a bench. In the wooded parts, in Vuosaari. A lonely bench along a lonely patch of pine woods, along a path that would eventually lead to seaside. Stenmark had left his home in Eira the previous afternoon, and was never seen again, until a casual jogger found him, cold and stiff.

"Far from home", Hallan remarked. "What was he doing in the far east?"

"Meeting him", threw Smirnov out. With a wave of his big but delicate hand. "He lives there."

"Who lives there?" asked Hallan, more for convention than truly puzzled. He had an idea.

"The boy!" Smirnov seemed to think Hallan's brain cells were no longer what they used to be.