The Final Game

"He who dwells only on what’s gone blinds himself to what still shines." O.B.

Kiev, autumn 1929. Rain tapped against the window of Ostap Bender's rented room, a melancholy rhythm that matched his mood. Two months since his miraculous escape from Lubyanka's cells—a tale involving a sympathetic guard, three gold watches, and a forged transfer order that even he could scarcely believe had worked. Two months of looking over his shoulder, sleeping with a knife under his pillow, and knowing that sooner or later, his luck would thin like winter ice.

On the small desk before him lay the tools of his survival: a half-empty bottle of Armenian cognac, three different sets of identity papers, a stack of rubles earned from small cons that barely kept him fed, and a deck of cards worn smooth from countless shuffles. The cards were old friends—the implements of his first and most enduring love. Not the honest card games of workers' clubs, but the elegant dance of deception that fleeced marks from Odessa to Vladivostok.

Ostap ran his fingers over the familiar pasteboard, feeling the subtle nicks and marks invisible to any eye but his own. These cards had built his reputation, funded his escapes, and kept him in cigarettes and vodka through the harshest winters. More than tools—they were extensions of himself, the physical manifestation of the gambler's art he had perfected since boyhood.

A sharp knock interrupted his reverie. Ostap tensed, sliding the knife from beneath his pillow into his sleeve before approaching the door.

"Who is it?" he called, keeping his voice casual.

"Delivery," came the reply, the voice low and female.

Ostap peered through a crack in the door frame. A woman in a delivery uniform stood in the dim hallway, a small package in her gloved hands. Not OGPU—they wouldn't bother with disguises for a man like him. He opened the door a cautious few inches.

"I didn't order anything."

The woman looked up, and recognition jolted through him. Behind the cap pulled low over her face, Nadia's coal-black eyes met his.

"You should really check your deliveries more carefully, Comrade Bender," she said, pushing past him into the room and closing the door quickly. "Never know what might arrive unannounced."

Ostap stared at her in disbelief. "Are you mad? If they followed you—"

"No one followed me. I've learned a few things since Odessa." She removed her cap, dark hair tumbling free. "Though apparently not as much as you. The great escape from Lubyanka is becoming quite the legend."

"Exaggerated, I'm sure." He tucked the knife back under the pillow, still wary. "Why are you here, Nadia? I thought you'd be smart enough to stay far from me after Moscow."

She unwrapped the package, revealing a thick envelope. "Information. About a manhunt—specifically, yours."

Ostap's expression hardened. "I'm already aware the OGPU wants me."

"Not just them." She laid out several papers—internal bulletins, telegraph transcripts, handwritten notes. "Petrov survived the warehouse, as you know. But you don't know that he's now Deputy Chief of Customs Enforcement, with an obsession for finding you. He's formed a special task unit, separate from OGPU. They've tracked you through four cities."

Ostap leafed through the documents, his stomach tightening. Detailed descriptions, recent sightings, names of his known associates. "How did you get these?"

"My brother works as a clerk in the Customs office now. Part of his... rehabilitation." Her mouth twisted. "He owes you his freedom, even if he doesn't know it."

Ostap poured two glasses of cognac, handing one to Nadia. "This doesn't explain why you'd risk your neck for me. Again."

"I pay my debts." She sipped the amber liquid. "And perhaps I have a proposition for you as well."

"A proposition?" Ostap laughed darkly. "I'm a walking target, Nadia. Not the best business partner at the moment."

"Which is why you need to disappear. Completely." Her eyes fixed on his. "Ostap Bender must die."

He raised an eyebrow. "Figuratively, I hope."

"Literally—to the world, at least." She tapped one of the documents. "Petrov hunts Ostap Bender, the notorious card sharp and confidence man. If that man no longer exists..."

"A death certificate? Body identification? Not easily arranged."

"Already arranged." She slid a death certificate across the table. "One body, pulled from the Dnieper tomorrow morning. Wallet, your identity papers, distinctive scars matching your description."

"Whose body?" he asked sharply.

"A homeless man who died of pneumonia last night. No family, no one to claim him." She held up a hand as Ostap started to object. "My brother handles such cases. No one was murdered for this."

Ostap studied the certificate, mind racing through implications. "And after my 'death'? Where does a ghost go?"

"West. To Poland, then perhaps Germany. The Soviet reach is long, but not infinite." She leaned forward. "I have connections now—people who move others across borders for the right price."

"Which brings us to your proposition, I imagine."

Nadia nodded. "I need certain items moved from Soviet territory. Items the government considers its exclusive property."

"Art? Jewelry?"

"Information." Her voice lowered. "Documents that could embarrass certain officials. Leverage for people I represent."

"You've changed, Nadia from Odessa." Ostap studied her face, searching for the desperate girl who had once pushed her last kopecks across a tavern table.

"We all change or we die." Her gaze was steady. "Will you do it?"

Ostap turned to the window, watching raindrops race down the glass. Freedom beckoned—a new identity, a clean break from the hunters at his heels. But the price...

He looked back at the worn deck of cards on his desk. The gambler's life was the only one he'd ever known—the thrill of the con, the dance of deception, the shuffle and deal that had defined his existence. To survive, he would have to destroy not just Ostap Bender the man, but everything that made him who he was.

"I'll need time to prepare," he said finally.

"Not much. The body will be 'discovered' at dawn." She rose to leave. "Tomorrow night, southern edge of town. A car will be waiting."

After she left, Ostap sat alone in the deepening twilight. He picked up the deck, shuffling it with the fluid grace that had amazed marks and emptied pockets from the Black Sea to the Baltic. One last game, perhaps—one final flourish before Ostap Bender, master of the cards, took his final bow.

The gambling den operated from the basement of what had once been a nobleman's townhouse, now subdivided into cramped apartments. A series of knocks, a password, a bouncer's suspicious glare, and Ostap descended into the smoky underground room where Kiev's riskier games unfolded nightly.

He spotted his target immediately—Viktor Kozlov, a notorious tax collector known for skimming from state coffers and spending his ill-gotten gains at the card table. A vain man with a weakness for proving his cleverness against renowned players.

"Is that the famous Bender?" Viktor called out when Ostap approached his table. "The man who cleaned out Count Orlov's son in '26?"

Ostap smiled modestly. "The count's son had more rubles than skill, I'm afraid."

"Join us! Unless you fear real competition?" Viktor patted the empty chair beside him, his gold tooth gleaming in the dim light.

For three hours, Ostap played with deliberate inconsistency—winning small pots, losing larger ones, appearing slightly drunk and increasingly desperate. Other players dropped away until only he and Viktor remained, the tax collector's pile of money growing as Ostap's dwindled.

"Perhaps you're not the legend they claim," Viktor gloated, shuffling for the next hand. "One more round before you're broke?"

Ostap swayed slightly, the picture of a man drowning his losses in vodka. "Double stakes. I have... collateral."

"Oh?" Viktor's eyes gleamed with greed. "What collateral?"

From his pocket, Ostap withdrew a small leather case. Inside, nestled on velvet, lay an ornate pocket watch—gold with intricate engravings and a chain of fine craftsmanship.

"Imperial eagle," Viktor murmured, examining the crest on the back. "Pre-revolution. Worth a small fortune to the right buyer."

"Family heirloom." Ostap's voice carried just the right note of desperation. "Against everything you've won tonight."

Viktor hesitated only briefly before nodding. "Deal."

Ostap lost the first hand deliberately, cursing with convincing frustration. The second hand, he won narrowly. By the third hand, Viktor was leaning forward, eyes narrowed in concentration.

This was the moment—the culmination of a lifetime's skill. With movements too subtle to detect, Ostap dealt from the bottom of the deck, palmed cards, and executed sleights that would have dazzled stage magicians. Not to win, but to create a specific situation: one where Viktor would believe he held an unbeatable hand.

"All in," Viktor declared, pushing forward his entire stack.

Ostap hesitated, feigning uncertainty before matching the bet. When the cards were revealed, Viktor's triumphant smile froze as Ostap's superior hand took the pot.

"Impossible," Viktor whispered.

"Just fortunate," Ostap replied, gathering the money with practiced nonchalance.

Viktor's face darkened. "No one's that fortunate. Turn out your sleeves, Bender."

Ostap raised an eyebrow. "Careful, friend. Accusations in places like this—"

"Cheat!" Viktor bellowed, flipping the table. Cards scattered across the floor as he lunged for Ostap, who sidestepped with a gambler's reflexes.

The bouncer moved quickly, pinning Viktor's arms. "Take your winnings and go," he told Ostap gruffly. "He's a regular. Don't come back."

"He's a cheat!" Viktor struggled against the bouncer's grip. "Check his hands, his sleeves!"

Ostap gathered the money calmly, leaving the scattered cards on the floor. As he climbed the stairs, Viktor's shouts followed him: "I'll find you, Bender! The whole city will know your tricks!"

Outside, the rain had stopped, leaving puddles that reflected the streetlights like fallen stars. Ostap walked briskly, counting silently. Three... two... one...

Behind him, the door of the gambling den burst open. Viktor emerged, red-faced and searching the street. Spotting Ostap, he pointed dramatically. "Stop that man! Thief! Cheat!"

Two policemen on patrol turned at the commotion. Ostap increased his pace, making sure they saw him clearly before ducking into an alley. The pursuit was immediate—boots splashing through puddles, whistles shrilling in the night.

Ostap led them on a calculated chase through Kiev's winding streets, always visible enough to keep them following, but never close enough to be caught. Finally, he reached the river embankment, where he'd stashed a bundle earlier that day.

Glancing back to ensure the policemen were still following, he tossed his coat onto the stones near the water's edge. From his pocket, he withdrew his identity papers and wallet, dropping them beside the coat. Then he slipped into the shadows of a maintenance tunnel, changing quickly into workman's clothes from the bundle.

When he emerged, a different man in appearance, the policemen were examining his abandoned possessions by the river's edge. One peered into the dark water, calling for backup. By morning, the story would spread: Ostap Bender, cornered by police, had chosen the Dnieper's cold embrace over capture.

The car waited at the appointed place—a nondescript black GAZ with tinted windows. Nadia sat in the back, her face unreadable as Ostap slid in beside her.

"It's done?" she asked.

"Ostap Bender drowned in the Dnieper tonight, fleeing arrest for cheating at cards." He gazed out the window as the car pulled away, watching Kiev's lights recede. "A fitting end for a notorious gambler."

"And the real Ostap Bender?" Her eyes searched his face.

He touched his breast pocket, where a single playing card resided—the ace of spades, salvaged from his abandoned deck. "Destroyed. Left behind in the river's depths."

The car moved westward through the Ukrainian night, carrying him toward a border crossing where new papers, a new name, and a new life awaited. He would learn new skills, craft new schemes, become someone that neither Petrov nor the OGPU would recognize.

But as the Soviet Union faded behind him, Ostap mourned silently for what he'd sacrificed. The cards had been more than tools—they were his identity, his art form, the one true love of a life built on falsehoods. To survive, he had destroyed not just his name but the very essence of who he was.

"The gambler's greatest sacrifice," he murmured to himself as the border approached, "is knowing which part of himself he must lose to keep on living."

Beside him, Nadia pretended not to notice the single tear that traced down his cheek—a final tribute to Ostap Bender, the master of cards who now existed only in whispered legends and police reports of a body never found.