That felt less like fiction to Knox. If this woman was as important as Bennett believed, the KGB would do everything they could to stop her spilling her secrets. And if those secrets were as potentially world-changing as Bennett thought, every Soviet agent west of the Iron Curtain and north of the Alps could be put on her tail.
‘If there is one,’ he said.
‘If,’ she repeated, the smirk back on her face.
‘But why come to me?’ he asked. ‘Why not keep this in Grosvenor Square?’
Bennett decided to tip the last card in her hand. ‘Because you have a vested interest,’ she replied. ‘And so do I.’ She took one last swig of coffee. ‘You need something to get you back in. I’m surrounded by colleagues who think I should be doing their filing. We both need a win.’
She picked up both of their empty cups and put them in the sink. ‘And, besides, what else have you got going on today?’
Knox quickly considered his options. The easiest, of course, was to send Bennett on her way. But he had no more leads beyond the Italians’ equations and passports, and there was every chance the men who had come after him last night were still roaming the streets looking for him – for all he knew, under Manning’s orders. Now he was permanent director general, Knox would need something big to bring Manning down. Something very big. Something like catching him red-handed working for the Russians. Knox might not be able to save Holland from being dethroned, but maybe he could still avenge him. He decided he may as well take a look down Bennett’s rabbit hole and see where it led.
‘Nothing,’ he answered, now smirking himself.
With perfect timing, his front door swung shut. Knox’s overnight companion had finally decided to take their leave.
‘Great,’ Bennett replied. ‘Now go get cleaned up. Our plane leaves in two hours.’
CHAPTER 36
Stockholm looked like a chocolate-box fantasy to Valera. Its ancient buildings and winding streets were immaculate. No cobbles had been pulled up for makeshift weapons, no old doors taken off their hinges for firewood. The bridges between the islands that made up the city were lit up, even late into the night.
Valera had been taken to the Hotel Reisen, on the edge of Gamla Stan, the ancient heart of Stockholm, as soon as she’d arrived in the city. The hotel building dated back to the 1700s, but its rooms were spacious and modern. Valera’s was almost as large as her entire home and lab in Povenets B combined.
After devouring a small plate of meat and cheese and a glass of akvavit that had been sent up to her compliments of the night manager, she was left alone. She’d carefully placed both backpacks in the room’s large closet, which had been filled with more clothes for her, then stood at the window, staring out at the water below her until the adrenaline she’d been running on finally ran out and she crawled into the large, soft bed.
In the morning, she was woken by a knock at the door and a week’s worth of breakfast. She ate all of it. Then she chose an outfit from the closet – a simple, plain tunic and pair of wide-legged trousers – and got dressed. Half an hour later there was a second knock. This time it was a tall, blond, young man.
‘I am Alve,’ he said. No surname. ‘I am from the security service.’
‘What do you want?’ Valera asked.
‘I am here to help you navigate the coming days.’
Alve embodied that unique Scandinavian quality of compassionate pragmatism. When Valera asked him what was going to happen to her, he said, ‘There are many serious conversations that must be had, but we will have them when you are ready.’
She was happy to speak to Alve’s superiors about life in the Soviet Union and, more specifically, about what it was like to live in a closed city. She was also happy to meet with the head of the physics department at Stockholm University in his bright, light-filled office and talk in broad and tantalising terms about the mysteries of spread-spectrum broadcasting and signal code division. But she drew the line when she was introduced to a lady with a large bun of grey hair perched on top of her head who asked her if she’d like to talk about how she was feeling.
Valera didn’t know how to put into words the exhaustion and elation she felt about escaping Russia, or the total and utter despair that consumed her over Ledjo’s death. She didn’t know how to articulate her rage and failure and loss. Or explain how it felt to suddenly have to live without the person you were living for. Or the fear of her memories of him becoming old and faded without any photographs or mementos to keep them alive. Or that last night her recurring dream had returned, monochrome, the lake so flat it felt solid, the boat shrinking smaller and smaller, and Ledjo, no matter how much she grabbed for him, always facing away from her and out of her reach. And if she had known how to talk about any of this, there was no way she was going to discuss it with a psychologist employed by an intelligence agency.
Eventually, Alve returned Valera to the Reisen and informed her that her evening was hers to do what she wanted with. He could arrange for food to be brought to her room, or recommend a restaurant for her, or simply leave her in peace so she could rest or explore the city. Valera was surprised. She’d expected to be kept politely under lock and key while she wasn’t being politely interrogated. But Alve assured her that wasn’t the way things were done in Sweden, and that the security service wanted her to feel as comfortable as possible before another day of meetings tomorrow.
‘How many more will there be?’ she asked him.
‘That I cannot say,’ he replied. ‘As many as it takes for everyone to be…’ He paused, searching for the right word, ‘…satisfied.’
He placed a small stack of Swedish krona and a slip of paper with a phone number on a side table.
‘The hotel staff are at your disposal. If there is anything you want to know you can ask them, or call this number and ask for me.’
‘Am I safe?’ she asked. It was a blunt question.
‘Please do not worry,’ Alve answered. ‘We do not harass the members of the international community who have chosen to make Stockholm their home, and they do not harass us or our guests.’
With a reassuring nod, he withdrew, leaving Valera to decide what to do. She wasn’t used to having options, and for a moment she stood in the middle of the room, paralysed by the possibilities. Then she went to the window and looked out at the city. To her right she could see a grey tangle of roads and walkways that linked Gamla Stan to its southern neighbour, Södermalm, and above them a row of tall buildings clinging to the side of a hill. In front of her was another small island and, beyond it, another much larger one covered only in trees. She decided that was where she wanted to go.
Valera picked up the money and the slip of paper, and a minute later she was on the street, looking out over the water at Djurgården, the tree-covered island she’d seen from her hotel room window. She turned north and walked past the imposing stone and stucco facade of the Royal Palace towards the bridge that would take her to the island. Valera couldn’t make herself com-pletely believe what Alve had said. She’d lived too long under constant, watchful eyes to suddenly imagine them not there. But she told herself she hadn’t come this far to hide, and that if anyone was paying attention to her, then the Swedish security service would be doing the same to them.