Cristelle Comby
RED LIES
To my cousin, Virginie, who decided one day to move to Sweden and on whose shoulders befell the responsibility to introduce me to this charmingly beautiful country and its kind and welcoming people.
Tack så mycket!
“The worst lies are the lies we tell ourselves.”
MAP OF EUROPE DURING THE COLD WAR ERA
MAP OF CENTRAL STOCKHOLM
WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 19, 1986.
Sofiya Viktorovna Litvinova awoke with a start, her eyes popping open. It took her a few moments to realise someone was pounding on the door. Pushing her tangled dark hair out of her face, she grimaced at the bad taste in her mouth. Glancing at the alarm clock on the bedside table, she had to blink several times to make out the time: it was four in the morning.
Struggling to get out of bed without tripping on the bedsheets, she left the warmth behind and groaned when her bare feet touched the cold concrete floor. Sitting up, she noticed from her bedroom window that snow was falling outside. Though it was almost the end of February, spring was still a long way away in the Soviet capital.
The furious drumming continued; she wrapped herself in a blanket to hide her nudity before crossing through the bedroom. Entering the small kitchen, which doubled as a living room with a couch and a bookshelf, she flicked the single ceiling lamp on. The drumming only stopped when she opened the front door.
In the doorway was a short-legged forty-something man with sharp features and calculating dark eyes. He was dressed in a crisp uniform, impeccable despite the early hour.
Mikhaïl Alexandrovitch Serov set foot in the doorway without asking permission.
“Pack your bags, my little bird. We’re going to Sweden.” Entering the flat further like he owned the place, the black-haired man moved to the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water.
Sofiya, who still had the door handle in her hand, blinked back her surprise. Serov was her superior at the Komitet Gossoudarstvennoï Bezopasnosti—the KGB, and when she was in the field, he acted as her liaison officer. But this week, he was supposed to be on leave—and so was she. Closing the front door, the young woman turned back to him, a puzzled expression marring her delicate face.
Serov seemed to notice her outfit—or lack thereof—for the first time. Without bothering to hide it, he gave her slim figure an appreciative glance before continuing, “We have a new mission.”
“No one to charm this time, I hope?” she asked, though she feared she already knew the answer.
Serov’s twisted thin-lipped smile was all the answer she needed. “They are sending you, little bird, aren’t they?”
The FCD—the First Chief Directorate—had singled her out when she was only a teenager. With her long legs, blossoming curves, and wide green eyes, they’d known right away that they could put her looks to good use. She hadn’t disappointed, growing up to become a very alluring woman. She had lean, toned limbs and curves in all the right places, a long slender neck, and an oval face with delicate features. Her deep green eyes shone above high cheekbones and a charmingly innocent smile that could brighten even the gloomiest of days.
As the youngest daughter of two farmers living in the outskirts of Moscow, joining the service was the best future that the fifteen-year-old girl could have hoped for. Her mother had been thrilled at the prospect of having one mouth less to feed. Better still, her sweet daughter would be serving the nation with warm clothes on her back and a full belly—courtesy of the Motherland. No, Yelena Litvinova could not have dreamt of a better future for her baby girl.
Little did the old woman know that after a rigorous—at times torturous—training, Sofia would join the flock of ravens and swallows at Directorate K: the secret Counter-Intelligence Department of the FCD. Behind the innocent bird monikers hid the most deceitful spies the Soviet Union had on offer. Polyglots, cultured, and natural-born liars, the agents of Directorate K were trained to blend in and adapt to the most demanding of surroundings, be it a palace’s dining hall or a prison cell. Versatile, charming, and masters of disguise, they used everything and everyone to reach their goals, be that an innocent mark or their own bodies.
Her mother had gotten it partially right: her daughter’s belly was full most of the time. But she rarely had clothes on her back when she performed her duties for the Motherland.
Sofiya leaned back against the front door. “I’m supposed to be on leave,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest.
“As am I,” Serov replied. “But our presence has been requested.”
What’s new? she thought bitterly. At thirty-four years old, she’d spent nearly a third of her life infiltrating foreign networks to gain information and ensure the safety of Soviet embassies all over the world. By now, she knew days off were a rare commodity.
“What’s the mission?” she asked, moving to the bedroom.
“Things are tense between Moscow and Stockholm right now. The FCD has been asked to take a closer look at our embassy employees and their allegiance.”
Sofiya frowned as she reached for the suitcase she kept under her bed, ready to leave at all times. “I thought Sweden was neutral.”
“It is,” Serov confirmed, “But they’re a little ticked about some of our submarines darting a little too close to their coast or something.”
Serov’s voice was too loud for him to be speaking from the kitchen, and Sofiya turned to look over her shoulder; she found him leaning against the bedroom doorframe.
“Our embassy is only twenty minutes away from the Americans. And our little investigation has revealed some irregularities.” He sighed. “Moscow wants us to take a closer look at one of the diplomats.”
Sofiya moved to the wardrobe. “Why don’t they just eliminate him?” She pulled out a pair of fresh underwear and her grey-brown uniform. “Or is it no longer the standard response?”
Serov gave no intention of moving or averting his gaze. “He’s from the Nomenklatura.”
Sofiya was no prude, and she’d done worse with her body than strip in front of a man, but she was loath to give Serov a free show. The blanket only came off after she’d pulled on her panties and bra. The shorter man’s lustful gaze followed her every move.
“I thought the time of the Tsars was over,” she said, stepping into her pencil skirt, which fell just below her knees.
“Except that he has connections and money—a lot of it. He was born into it.” Serov smiled an appreciative smile when she bent down to tie her boots. “The Motherland wishes that this fortune stays within its confine rather than fall into the wrong hands.”
“Perish the thought,” she muttered as she reached for her cap.
They were in Serov’s car less than five minutes later, northbound to the FCD offices where they would be presented with a full briefing.
Sofiya should have relished this opportunity to cross the Iron Curtain, but she was in a foul mood at having seen yet another day off cancelled. She knew she was expected to feel pride at doing her duty for her nation and her comrades, but, deep down, she felt used. Nowadays, it seemed that no matter how pretty she looked or how nicely she dressed, she always felt dirty. Truth was, she hadn’t felt really clean in years, despite lathering up with a good many bars of soap when she got back from a mission.