The habitual programming resumed, and Petrov got up to turn the TV off.
“Is that why the alarms went off at Forsmark?” asked Sofiya, confused.
“It’s not just Forsmark,” the diplomat confirmed. “There were radiation spikes all over Sweden. They couldn’t figure out what it was, so they called their neighbours and discovered it was the same in Finland, Norway, and Denmark.”
He returned to sit on the sofa with a worried look on his face. “The ambassador’s been juggling phone calls with the Swedish government and Moscow all afternoon.”
Sofiya, who hadn’t missed the fact that an investigative commission had been created, sat up straighter; they wouldn’t do that over nothing. “How bad is it, really?”
“We’re not sure yet, but it’s worse than what they’re letting on.” He shrugged. “The Swedes refused to keep quiet about it, so Moscow was forced to make that announcement.”
“Should we start stocking up on iodine pills?”
Petrov shook his head. “I’ve seen the numbers the SSI sent us. They’re high, but not that high. There’s no cause for alarm just yet.”
The Statens strålskyddsinstitut, or SSI, was the Swedish National Institute of Radiation Protection and a far trustier source of information than the Soviet Union, thought Sofiya. She knew all about her country’s communist propaganda and their habit of twisting the truth until it aligned with the Party’s political views.
“Funny they didn’t try to pin it on the Americans,” she said. “A faulty nuclear submarine, or an unauthorized missile launch, perhaps?”
“There weren’t any close by,” Petrov indicated. “It’s a good thing we gave them that inventory, or else they may well have tried that tactic, only to see it backfire in their face.”
Sofiya sat up and walked to the liquor cabinet. She poured herself a glass of vodka and decided to fill another one for her fiancé. “Should I keep staying indoors?” she asked on her way back to the couch.
The diplomat took the drink without thanking her. “The SSI is still compiling data and doing the maths, but they’re pretty sure it’s safe to go outside.”
They emptied their drink in silence, and Sofiya pondered this new change in the situation. The relations between Stockholm and Moscow were already tense, but she feared it would only get worse now. If there was one thing her government didn’t tolerate, it was foreigners to try and force their hand. And Sweden had done just that—in a big way.
SUNDAY, MAY 4, 1986.
Per request from Petrov, Sofiya had to cancel her plans to meet with Sonia Johnson. And instead of spending her time in more pleasurable company, she found herself seated on Petrov’s living room sofa, listening to the diplomat read extracts from an American news article.
“‘For people exposed to the heaviest doses of radiation at Chernobyl, death within weeks or months was predicted by public health specialists in Sweden and Italy.’” Petrov paused before resuming further down the paragraph. “‘Sweden’s radiation protection agency reported that everyone who was within a mile of the reactor might have been exposed to a potentially lethal dose.’”
“This is hardly surprising,” Sofiya commented, once it was clear he’d finished reading. “It’s what usually happens after a nuclear explosion.”
“That’s not the point.” Petrov threw the paper on the coffee table with more strength than was necessary. “This is.”
“The New York Times?” she asked, referring to the item in question.
“The Americans wrote that yesterday, but it’s the same everywhere in Europe.” He heaved a deep sigh. “Moscow wants this to stop. Yes, there’s been a catastrophe; we’ve admitted to it. Now we don’t need everyone looking over our shoulder and judging how we choose to deal with it.”
Sweeping it all under the rug, as usual, she thought. “Fine, what’s that got to do with us?” she demanded. “I’m guessing you’re not bringing this—” she gestured at the paper, “—up for the sake of conversation.”
“Indeed not,” he said. “Moscow is sending someone to oversee the problem. General Ilia Igorov—1st Main Directorate.”
Sofiya sat up straighter. “FCD? But that’s External Intelligence.” She’d expected someone from Public Relations or Government Communications, not her own main department—and especially not one of the highest-ranking operatives like Igorov. Though the General wasn’t Directorate K, his name was well known throughout the service. A veteran of the Great Patriotic War, he had taken part in Operation Uranus in 1942, successfully trapping three hundred thousand Axis troops behind Red Army lines at Kalach. And in November 1943, he was part of the regiments who took Kyiv, earning himself a medal when he was wounded in action.
But more than his acts of war, the man was known for his sharp mind and cunning tactics. Sofiya guessed his involvement in this issue showed how much attention Moscow devoted to the matter.
“His plane took off from Moscow this morning; he’ll be here in a matter of hours. All senior staff are expected at the embassy this afternoon for a special meeting.”
Sofiya nodded, certain the man would arrive with an airtight plan to pull all the necessary strings to put Sweden back in its place discreetly. What was more interesting, however, was how unsettled Petrov seemed to be at the FCD general’s imminent arrival. She wondered if it was the prospect of someone new bossing embassy employees around that rattled him. Or was it was the fear of having someone as sharp as Igorov snooping into his private business?
MONDAY, MAY 5, 1986.
Decorated General Ilia Igorov hadn’t disappointed. True to his reputation, he’d come prepared with a plan—several plans, actually. But Sofiya had been surprised to learn, late last night, that one of them involved her.
Once she’d recovered from the news, it wasn’t hard for her to make the connections and understand that as FCD himself, Igorov had been informed of the presence of a Directorate K agent in Stockholm—and that being the man he was, the general had sought to put her skills to good use right away.
Thus, Sofiya found herself donning a long blonde wig with wavy curls over a snug black turtleneck. Knowing she’d have a lot of walking around to do today, she put on a pair of white sneakers and a tight-fitting, light-blue pair of high-waisted denim.
The Swedish office of Credit Suisse International on Norrmalmstorg 12 was easy to find. Niched between jewellery shops and haute-couture boutiques, the Swiss bank had a welcoming front window that betrayed a lavish interior.
Sofiya used her alias of Malin Waldenström once more to open a secure bank account with the company. It was a brisk affair, and she was surprised at how little paperwork was involved. But then again, she had a little over fifty million Swedish kronor in cash with her that she wished to deposit in her brand-new account, so the bank director proved to be swiftly efficient. She left within an hour with an account number written on a sheet of stationery and a lengthy password that she’d had to memorize in the director’s office.
It was a good thing she had a brilliant memory, for she didn’t think the FCD would appreciate her losing their money.
Her next stop was south of Norrmalm, on the island of Helgeandsholmen. One of the smallest islands of Stockholm, it housed the Parliament House of Sweden—the Riksdagshuset. The building complex—consisting of a large rectangular ornate stone building on the east and a semi-circular one on the west—took up nearly half the island. What was left of the small body of ground of Helgeandsholmen was covered in trees and manicured lawns.