Both newcomers followed her gaze, and Sofiya’s heart sunk when she recognised the round face, deep-set brown eyes, and youthful smile. Timothy Johnson, the American diplomat she’d been forced to sleep with two nights before, stood in the middle of a group of on the opposite side of the room.
“Isn’t it a small world,” crooned the ginger-haired woman, and Sofiya understood that this had been part of the plan—Petrov and Alexeïeva’s plan—all along, it would seem.
Johnson was busy shaking hands with an elderly couple and didn’t notice them until Alexeïeva waved her hand to him to get his attention. He turned a smiling face her way and made his excuse before moving in their direction.
Surprise froze his step when he caught sight of Sofiya. He was quick to recover himself, and a blank mask settled on his features as he reached their group.
“Minister-Counsellor Johnson,” purred Alexeïeva as she extended a hand. “How’s my American counterpart doing?”
“Very well,” Johnson shook her hand and then Petrov’s. “Counsellor.”
There was a slight hesitation when he came upon Sofiya. She saved him from embarrassment by reaching her hand forward and introducing herself.
“My fiancé,” Petrov indicated, as the two shook hands like it was the first time they’d met.
“Oh! Oh, that’s—” A slight blush crept in the brown-haired man’s cheek as he faltered to finish his sentence. “Oh, congratulations, Counsellor Petrov.” He was saved from having to speak further by the arrival of his wife.
Sonia Johnson was a thirty-nine-year-old, short, raspberry blonde woman. Troubled light-blue eyes shone out of her freckled face as she took her husband’s arm.
“There you are, Timmy. I thought I’d lost you,” she said, relief evident on her emaciated face. Though she’d spent several years in Sweden, her American accent was impossible to miss.
Sofiya regarded her with interest. There hadn’t been much information about Mrs Johnson in the file she’d been given. All that she knew was that the two had met in college and gotten married when they were nineteen. A note had also been made of the woman’s frail health and subsequent weekly medical appointments, including one with a psychiatrist.
“My wife, Sonia,” Johnson said before he introduced her to the three Soviets.
“My fiancé is new to Stockholm,” Petrov added at the end of the introduction. “She only arrived last week.”
“Oh welcome, dear,” Sonia said, sounding sincere. “If you need someone to show you around, let me know.”
“Sonia, dear,” mumbled an embarrassed Johnson, “Please remember who you’re talking to.”
His wife seemed upset he’d interrupted her. “The war is over, Timmy. And we’re all civilized people. We should behave as such; don’t you think?”
“Absolutely,” purred Alexeïeva. “There are, after all, certain areas in which our two countries share the same tastes.”
The subtext was lost on the frail American woman, but her husband heard it loud and clear. Red tinged his cheeks, and he faked a cough to hide his embarrassment. Sofiya didn’t blink, neither did Petrov.
“Darling,” said Johnson, putting an arm around his wife’s shoulders. “I need to speak privately with my Soviet counterparts. Would you excuse us, please?”
“Of course,” replied Sonia; reaching for Sofiya’s hand, she said, “Us girls will keep each other company while you all talk shop.”
Sofiya forced a relaxed smile on her face as she was led away by the wife of the man who had mercilessly taken her against a cold hotel room window only two days before. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Petrov and Alexeïeva head to the entrance door, followed closely by Minister-Counsellor Johnson. The two Soviets wore bright smiles as they left the room, but the American’s head hung low. He’d been had; this was not a mere indiscretion he had to keep from his wife—no, the American ambassador’s second-in-command had just made the mistake of sleeping with a Soviet diplomat’s fiancé. Sofiya had little doubt that the photographs and recordings of what happened in that hotel room were going to be handed to him in one of the Manor’s secluded corners, along with an offer of blackmail.
Sonia Johnson led them both to the terrace and onto the gravel path that snaked through the gardens. Though she looked thin and tired beneath her makeup, Sofiya discovered the American was a chatterbox, and she emanated genuine kindness. She was curious to know how her new acquaintance had met Petrov, and she volunteered her own love story once Sofiya was done recounting her made-up fairytale. This lasted them the entire walk through the garden. When they reached the terrace again, Sofiya snagged a champagne glass from a passing waiter. She drank it in one go before reaching for another one.
“Thirsty, are you?” asked Sonia with mirth.
“Sorry, did you want one?” Sofiya asked, realising the waiter was gone.
“No, I can’t—not with my medication.” The American looked chagrined for an instant before she recovered herself. “You enjoy it for me. But don’t throw the glass behind your shoulder when you’re done.”
“Don’t worry,” Sofiya chuckled, taking a sip, “We only do that with cheap vodka glasses.”
“That reminds me, I wanted to ask you something. Our names are the same, are they not?”
The young Russian thought about it for an instant before nodding. “Yes, Sonia is the common hypocoristic of Sofiya.”
That coincidence seemed to delight the American greatly. Our first name’s not all we share, thought the Soviet spy bitterly as she finished her drink.
TUESDAY, APRIL 15, 1986.
Sofiya woke up early and ate breakfast alone.
Her fiancé had already left for work, and she took her plate with her to the living room balcony to enjoy the view as she ate.
Once she was done, she prepared a quick letter to her ‘aunt’—one that would assure her that she had made it safely to Stockholm, and all was going well. She chose not to use any of the code-words that would request Serov set up a meeting. She figured it was too early for that, and she had nothing substantial to report anyway. Though she wholeheartedly shared Moscow’s opinion of Viktor Petrov, she had nothing incriminating to offer them. His plan to use Timothy Johnson was in line with the Komitet’s directives, and his affair with Svetlana Alexeïeva would be of little interest to Directorate K.
As she wrapped up the missive, Sofiya pondered her next move. Since their talk in the alley and Petrov’s promise to her of a fresh start, the diplomat hadn’t broached the subject again. Ten days she’d been here, and for over ten days, he’d given her little more than discontent and a cold shoulder. The truth was, Sofiya was nowhere closer to figuring him out than when she first met him, and that drove her crazy. Petrov’s controlled manners and guarded face gave nothing away—and to think she was normally an expert at understanding what made people tick. All she could do was wait; loath as she was to admit it, the ball was in Petrov’s court. Should he decide to hint at wanting to fulfil his promise, she would help him. If not, she’d have no choice but to do what Moscow expected from her—even if it meant throwing him to the wolves.
On her way to Östermalm, she dropped the letter in a box. As she neared her destination, she braced herself for what awaited her. She had plans to spend the day with Sonia Johnson, of all people. The American had apparently taken a liking to her at the garden party and offered to take her for a shopping trip in town. She’d bragged about knowing all the best boutiques, and she apparently couldn’t wait to help the newcomer broaden her sense of fashion. Not wanting to appear rude, Sofiya had no choice but to accept the invitation. Besides, she needed to buy some clothes anyway.