Johnson increased the rhythm with each stroke, and Sofiya feared the window at her back wasn’t going to last much longer. Lifting her hips, she pushed up against her lover to allow him to bury himself deeper inside her, even as she relieved some of the strain forced upon the fragile surface behind her.
Sofiya remained in control while Johnson surrendered his body and will to her. Grunting and groaning, he was at her complete mercy, and she relished the thought, feeling more alive at that moment than she had felt the whole week.
Sensing him close to the edge, she brought their lips together. Clenching her pussy, she faked an orgasm, and he exploded deep inside her. Out of breath, he crumbled on her an instant later.
“God, you’re good,” he whispered in English before slipping out of her.
A contented smile bloomed on his moist lips as he bent down to reach for his discarded clothes. Sofiya gave him back that same satisfied smile as she pulled her dress back up.
Though she was covered in sweat, and her body showed all the signs of having had a great time, the young spy only wanted one thing: to return to Moscow.
SUNDAY, APRIL 13, 1986.
At eight, the alarm clock buzzed to life, and Sofiya turned it off with a sigh. Pushing the covers off her, she sat up and wondered where Saturday had gone.
She hadn’t seen hide nor hair of her fiancé yesterday. He hadn’t been home when a cab deposited her at the building’s entrance in the early hours of the morning. She surmised he must have gone to the hotel to recuperate the listening device he’d planted in the room earlier that day. Dragging herself through the apartment, she nabbed a bottle of vodka from the liquor cabinet and took it with her to the bathroom. She drank straight from the bottle as she waited for the hot water to fill the bath. Half a bottle of soap later, she fell asleep in the tub.
Standing up, Sofiya vaguely remembered waking up at some point and fixing herself a quick lunch before she dragged herself back to bed again.
She moved to the bathroom, desperate to brush her teeth, and found an empty vodka bottle on the flowery floor mat. Reaching down, she placed it in the bin before turning the faucet and dunking her face under the ice-cold spray.
Despite all the sleep she’d had, she looked like shit. She wasn’t twenty anymore, and her bad habits were starting to show. She brushed her teeth, untangled her messy hair, and applied a thick layer of foundation and makeup to her skin. When she entered the living room, it was a quarter to ten, and she now looked radiant.
Viktor Petrov and his fiancé were expected at a garden party at eleven, and she was right on time for the happy couple to make their debut into the Stockholmian social scene.
Petrov parked his car along the alley of a large Manor in Östermalm. Though the clouds hung low in the sky, the sun’s thick rays shone through. There was a comfortable spring warmth to that April day that even the light wind coming in from Lake Mälaren couldn’t dispel.
A small gathering of smartly dressed men and women pooled out of a dozen cars parked before and after them. The couple followed them to the entrance.
“Ready?” Petrov asked as they arrived at the front gate of the Manor’s park.
Sofiya tightened her light-beige coat and nodded. “Of course.”
They had rehearsed their story on the way, deciding to keep it as close to the truth as possible to avoid stupid mistakes. Sofiya worked for the government in Moscow; the two had met during his last trip back home. He’d asked her to accompany him to an evening at the Kremlin, and when he’d seen her, waiting shyly by the entrance in that long auburn dress, he’d fallen in love.
The tall wrought-iron gate opened to a large, manicured park. Several flowerbeds dotted the lawn at intervals, swirling left and right. A central gravel path, lined on both sides by symmetrical grooves, led the visitors to the Manor’s entrance.
Petrov placed his arm around Sofiya’s back, and they stepped onto the gravel path. Under his black coat, the diplomat wore another of his navy suits and an off-white shirt. Sofiya had opted for a long chocolate-coloured dress with a slit down one side. She’d left her hair loose and tried to push some of the bangs to the side with hair gel.
At the Manor’s entrance, a red carpet led them to a large reception hall; it was nowhere as big as the Kremlin’s, Sofiya noticed, but it was no less stunning. One length of the room was entirely made of large windows that opened to the gardens, while the wall on the opposite side was covered in large paintings depicting various Stockholmian landscapes.
Turning to look on her left, Sofiya noted a large chimney with an intricately carved, gold-plated mantelpiece. The fire in the hearth hadn’t been lit; instead, several buffet tables stood in front of the area.
The sun that shone through the windows brought a certain warmth to the atmosphere, and Sofiya noted that two of the glass doors had been left open so the guests could move in and out of the garden. The happy couple mingled with the crowd, offering the guests a twin set of amiable features and relaxed smiles.
A ginger-haired woman in a tight-fitting, low-cut black dress zeroed in on them with an exaggerated smile. “Viktor, so glad you could come,” she said in Russian-tinged Swedish. “How are you, dear?” Svetlana Alexeïeva reached for Petrov’s arm before leaning forward to kiss him on both cheeks. In doing so, she managed to put some distance between the young diplomat and his fiancé, and Sofiya couldn’t help but wonder if this older woman was subtlety attempting to mark her territory.
Petrov pushed her back a little before turning to Sofiya to make the required introductions. “This is Svetlana Alexeïeva, the Minister-Counsellor of the embassy and my superior.”
Sofiya acted as if that was news to her and reached a hand forward, even as she bowed her head politely. “Pleasure to meet you.”
Though the Minister-Counsellor was in her fifties, you wouldn’t have guessed it—not with the heavy layer of foundation she’d applied on her face and around her almond-shaped brown eyes. Unlike Sofiya’s makeup, which gave her a fresh look, Alexeïeva’s was too heavy and, therefore, almost vulgar.
The ginger-haired woman shook her hand with a strong grip. “You must be Sofiya,” she said, her artificial smile unwavering, “I’ve heard so much about you.”
“Oh, I’ve heard of you, too,” she couldn’t help but add. Let her read whatever she wants into that, thought Sofiya.
Alexeïeva saw the threat for what it was and replied in kind, turning to Petrov with childlike eagerness. “Oh, Viktor, you will never guess who I ran into earlier.”
Sofiya’s fiancé, who appeared all but blasé at the girls’ antics, merely raised a questioning eyebrow.
“Oh, come on, dear,” she purred. “You have to try to guess. No?” Returning her attention to the crowd, Alexeïeva searched the various groups present in the room. When she found who she was looking for, her smile widened. “There,” she said, with a nod of her head. “By that large painting of a bridge.”