It took the printer six minutes to finish its job. Sofiya spent twenty seconds to fold the long sheet of paper. Unbuttoning her dress shirt, she placed it around her fake belly before doing the buttons back up. She was out of the office with one minute to spare, and she used it to lock the door behind her.
There was a bit of a commotion on the ground floor; two guards in uniform stood on each side of the entrance door, and a grey-haired man in a designer suit was animatedly talking to a third guard at the foot of the stairs.
Sofiya ducked her head as she walked past them.
“What are you still doing here, Starck?” the grey-haired man called after her. “I thought you’d gone home already.”
Sofiya made sure to take another two or three steps before stopping and turning to face them. There was a large column on her left, and it blocked most of the ceiling lamps. She hoped the distance and the shadows on her face would be enough to sell the lie, for not even her relationship with Minister-Counsellor Johnson would be enough to save her skin if she got caught now.
“Yeah, I’d forgotten to send a fax,” she said in a low tone before coughing twice. “S’all good now.”
“Sir, the situation at hand?” the officer cut in, drawing the grey-haired man’s attention away from the young spy.
“Yes, of course, Lemk,” he said, his attention returning to his subordinate. “How long before you can get the system back on?”
Their conversation continued, but Sofiya didn’t wait for that man—whom she was fairly certain was the ambassador—to remember she was there. She turned on her heel and was outside the gate within minutes.
Sofiya lost a few of her own eyebrows when the fake ones came off. Her skin itched where the moustache had been glued, and she was glad to be back in her own clothes.
She had made it back to the parking lot without any obstacles. And Alexeïeva had taken the documents from her before leaving in the van she had come with.
Sofiya climbed into Petrov’s car, and they drove home.
“What happens to the documents now?” she asked, as they embarked on Ekelundsbron.
“The Komitet sent someone from Moscow; Svetlana’s going to meet him tonight.”
“Do you think the Americans will believe a power surge took down their security equipment?”
“Maybe they’ll believe it; maybe they won’t,” Petrov said, glancing in the rear-view mirror every so often. “It doesn’t matter.”
It ought to matter, thought Sofiya. “What if they suspect something? The first thing they’ll do is change all their codes and protocols, no?”
“Probably, but it’ll take them time to coordinate with the entire float,” he explained. “We won’t be able to follow their ships for long, but we’ll know their position for a short while. And more importantly, we’ll know how many there are.”
So that was what they’d been after, she thought: a complete inventory of the deployed American fleet. While she could certainly see the value that such information could have to Moscow, she wondered if it was truly worth risking two high-ranking Soviet diplomats’ careers. Besides, had it been up to her, she would have never used a trump card like Minister-Counsellor Johnson for something so trivial.
Petrov was no fool and must have come to the same conclusions she did. Sure, he was in a tight spot, and the eye of Moscow was upon him, but there were better ways for him to gain a little leeway. That left only one explanation—he hadn’t been honest with her and got something more in the bargain.
Now that Sofiya thought about it, she realised she should have seen it coming. Something about Svetlana Alexeïeva had rubbed her the wrong way since day one, and if that crooked diplomat was in on it, it was a safe bet their plan had an ulterior motive.
Try as she might, she couldn’t understand the relationship between those two. Alexeïeva was as fiery as Petrov was cold. The annoying redhead craved attention. Wherever she went, she seemed to possess a primal need to be the centre of attention and to be desired by all men present, while Petrov was her polar opposite; discreet by nature, he did his best to stay out of the spotlight. Though it was said that ‘opposites attract’, Sofiya couldn’t fathom what their relationship was like in the privacy of Alexeïeva’s bedroom.
As for the information they’d just stolen, well, she wouldn’t be surprised to discover the duo kept some of it for themselves; the kind that they could later sell at a good price on the black market.
MONDAY, APRIL 28, 1986.
Though the day had started normally enough, Sofiya could never have guessed at how it would unfold and the impact this would have on her future.
After her habitual morning jog and a quick shower, she turned on the local radio as she relaxed in the living room.
Instead of the habitual western music, she caught the end of a special bulletin. “…like we said earlier, there is no need to panic at this stage,” a reporter said in a serious tone. “All non-essential personnel have been evacuated as a safety precaution while further tests are being conducted. A representative of the Forsmark Nuclear Power Plant has confirmed that the installation situated north of Stockholm hasn’t suffered any visible damage. We will, of course, keep you informed of any further developments.”
The special bulletin ended, and the regular programming resumed, with Queen’s latest hit, A Kind of Magic. Having no idea what this had been about, Sofiya relaxed on the sofa with a fashion magazine in hand.
The phone rang two hours later, and she was surprised to hear Petrov’s voice on the line.
“Have you gone out?” he asked her, instead of a greeting.
“For a quick jog,” she confirmed, “like every other day. Why?”
“Don’t go out again,” he said, and she hated how it sounded like an order.
“Why the hell not?”
“Don’t be difficult, Sofiya. Just listen to me, will you?”
“I’m not being difficult; you are,” she replied. It was one thing for him to control how she ought to dress and which haircut was best for her. But damn, she would not let him dictate how she should spend her free time.
He blew out an exasperated sigh. “Just stay inside, will you? For your safety.”
Something in the man’s voice told her this was serious, and she was reminded of the special bulletin on the radio. “Is it about what happened at Forsmark?” she asked. “Is it more serious than they said?”
“No, there’s nothing wrong with their power plant.” Petrov paused, and there was real concern in his voice when he continued, “Look, we don’t have all the information yet. I—I’ll tell you more when I can, okay? Just, please—stay home, Sofiya.”
“Fine, I will,” she agreed. “Take care,” she added before hanging up the phone—a sign Petrov’s concern had unsettled her.
Ever since she’d moved to Stockholm, the man had been on his guard with her. Their conversations had been kept to a minimum, and neither had volunteered anything personal to the other.
Not once had the diplomat given her any impression he cared about her or her well-being. Rather, he acted as if they were mere colleagues who’d been assigned a task that required two pairs of hands to be completed—until today.
Fearing that something terrible had happened, Sofiya moved to close the balcony door.
Her fears were confirmed when that very evening, the Soviet government issued the following 20-second announcement on the TV news program Vremya: “There has been an accident at the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant. One of the nuclear reactors was damaged. The effects of the accident are being remedied. Assistance has been provided for any affected people. An investigative commission has been set up.”