Before the doors closed, he reached a hand inside to press the top-floor button for her. Forcing herself not to think of what had nearly happened in that lift before, Sofiya focused on relaxing her features as the tiny compartment rode up.
When the doors opened on the fifth floor, the young woman stepped into a small corridor with unadorned white walls. Predictably, there was only one door to knock on. She did, and before bringing her hand back down, passed it through her detached hair to give it more volume. She readied her best smile as she waited.
Timothy Johnson opened the door before letting her in without a word. The American was in a foul mood, and it showed. He hadn’t shaved that morning, she noticed, and dark stubble haloed the contours of his round face.
Sofiya removed her coat as she crossed the hallway and placed it atop one of the sofas in the luminous living room. Two large white leather sofas stood facing a television. Bookshelves had been installed on either side of the entertainment unit, and they were filled to the brim. On the other end of the room, a piano stood next to a chimney. It was lit, and Sofiya could feel its warmth reach her even from where she stood. Further away, two large glass doors opened onto a roof terrace that was the size of her flat in Moscow.
The corridor she had taken to get here continued on the other end of the room, presumably leading to the bedrooms, while a passage on her right gave way to the kitchen.
Sonia Johnson was nowhere to be seen, and Sofiya sat herself down in one of the sofas uninvited.
“My wife isn’t here,” Johnson said. “She’s left the city to visit a friend and won’t be back until Saturday.”
The brown-haired man remained at the living room entrance with his arms crossed over his chest. Anger radiated off him in waves.
Determined to stay on top of that exchange, Sofiya leaned back more comfortably. “I know; Sonia mentioned it yesterday.” She winked at him. “If anyone asks, say that I’d forgotten about it.”
The chatty American had told her everything about her friend Lena who’d been taken ill and her plan to go visit her in Gotland. She’d even told her new best friend that she would take the 8 am train and that her husband had taken the morning off to see her to the station.
Sofiya, who had phoned ahead to let Sonia know she would be calling in on her later that morning, had timed her call to reach the answering machine. She’d left Sonia a message she would never get, but that had ensured her husband would remain in the flat until she arrived.
The American blew air through his nose before taking a couple of steps closer. “What are you here for?”
Reaching for her bag, Sofiya took hold of the items she’d been entrusted with. She placed them both on the glass top of the coffee table. “I trust you know what this is,” she said, leaning back against the sofa. “And what to do with it.”
Johnson pounced like a snake, reaching the envelope, and tearing it open. It contained several small photographs, two rolls of negatives, and a cassette tape.
“No need to tell you, I suppose, that it is more than likely Petrov made copies.”
The American moved to the fireplace and threw the tape and the negatives in the fire. He kept the small photographs, though, and pushed them in his back pocket.
Kinky, thought Sofiya, allowing the corner of her lips to lift for an instant.
Some of the anger seemed to have evaporated when Johnson returned to the coffee table to pick up the kill switch. As he bent down to retrieve it, he let his gaze wander to the side, taking in the young woman’s bare legs.
Sofiya caught his gaze and held it to let him know she’d noticed.
“Nice dress,” he said, as if that explained it, before moving to the kitchen. She heard him open and close several cupboards. When he returned, the little black device was nowhere to be seen, and he had two glasses of liquor in his hands.
“A gift,” Sofiya uncrossed her legs and spread them a little; the low-cut raspberry gown rose, revealing the lower half of her thighs, “from your wife.”
If that was supposed to give the diplomat pause, it did not affect him, and he let his gaze wander higher up when he handed her a glass.
She took it and dipped her lips in the amber liquid, discovering that it was whiskey. Taking a large swallow, she hummed appreciatively when it burned on the way down.
Johnson imitated her, before sitting down on the edge of the coffee table. “You’re an interesting woman, Ms Litvinova. But the company you keep—I’d be careful if I were you. They’re extremely dangerous.”
She took another swallow and shrugged, “I do what I must.”
“Don’t we all,” Johnson mused. “Comes with the job, I suppose.”
He emptied his glass and placed it next to him on the table. When Sofiya had emptied hers, he reached forward to get it, brushing his fingers down the length of her thigh as he did.
The American’s lack of subtlety was evident, and Sofiya sat up straighter, pressing both of her legs closed. “Don’t you think Petrov has enough on you?”
A dark chuckle escaped the man’s throat. “He does, but I haven’t had enough. I only got a quick taste last time; I want more—seems only fair given the price I’m about to pay for it.”
Sofiya frowned at him, curious to know what that price was. “Is that so?” she asked, hoping that he might divulge some of the Soviets’ plan.
“I want the rest of you.” Johnson used both hands to spread her legs open again. “The real you.”
“Don’t be stupid; I’ll soon be Mrs Petrov,” Sofiya said in a sharp tone. “Surely, there are enough doe-eyed secretaries around the American embassy for you to get your weekly quota.”
Despite her harsh words, the young woman made no attempt to close her legs, and Johnson let his hands wander higher up.
“There are,” he said, “but none of them are as captivating as you.”
“And who says I’d be interested?” asked Sofiya, without acknowledging either the compliment or the man’s bold actions.
“You’re lost here and alone. I can see that.” Johnson’s hands reached further up, pushing the raspberry material out of the way. “Who else but a desperate person would want to spend the day with my wife?”
Sofiya scoffed. “You know nothing about me.”
“Oh, but I do,” he said, his fingers reaching their destination. “Or else, why would you have chosen to wear a dress like this one to come see me.” He punctuated his words with a graze of her most sensitive spot, and Sofiya shivered.
She knew she should have stood up and left, knew that giving in to whatever folly this was could cost her life. But Johnson had pushed her panties to the side, and the promise of what was to come had awoken something deep inside her. That feeling of liveliness she’d felt in that hotel room was surging back up, and she wanted more of it.
“Let me know you, Sofiya Litvinova,” the American murmured as his fingers sought entrance. “Bodies speak louder than words.”
“This could be the death of us,” she whispered, spreading her legs further apart.
It was all the invitation Johnson needed. Removing his fingers quickly, he reached for the woman’s ankles and pulled until her back was flat on the sofa. Without wasting time, he climbed on top of her and pressed a knee to her stomach. He trapped her under his weight, a sure way to stop her from leaving should she change her mind.
In the whirlwind of motion, Sofiya’s left breast escaped the confines of her dress, and Johnson plunged forward to take the erect nipple between his teeth. He bit down hard, while he freed himself from the confines of his trousers and underwear.
The American needn’t have worried about entrapping her; the Soviet agent had no intention of leaving anytime soon.