The Soviet diplomat had his arms crossed over his dark turtleneck sweater, and his pistol was on full display in his shoulder holster. He was leaning against the tiled wall, and he stayed where he was while the couple entered the tight space.
“Um, I—uh,” the Swede stammered as his brain tried and failed to come up with an explanation for the young woman at his arm.
Sofiya saved him from the bother. Closing the door behind her, she let go of his arm and came to stand next to her fiancé.
“Out of respect for your position, Mr Nilsson, we won’t take this any further,” Petrov said without trying to hide his Russian accent. “And anyway, I think the pictures we took of you in the art gallery with your nose down my friend’s shirt, and the ones we have of the two of you entering this room are more than enough, don’t you think?”
Nilsson became livid as his dreams of a good time evaporated, and reality returned to figuratively kick him in the balls. “Wha—what do you want?”
“We need Sweden to back off,” Petrov explained. “The SSI is officially done meddling in our affairs.”
It took a little while for the elderly man to work things out. “What? The SSI— Chernobyl? Is this what this is about?”
The Soviet diplomat nodded, and he moved closer to the politician. The balding man took a step back, and that made Sofiya smile.
“We haven’t lied; the numbers we reported are the truth,” Nilsson started defending himself. “It can’t just be a little accident, not with so much radiation reaching our coasts.”
Petrov’s voice darkened, and the r’s became thicker on his tongue, like that of a James Bond villain. “What happened in the Republic of Ukraine is none of your concern, Comrade Nilsson. Moscow will handle this crisis as it sees fit. Now stop feeding the world’s paranoia mill.”
“If you don’t want to have to go through divorce number three, I suggest you do what the man says,” added Sofiya, with a pout of her rosy lips.
“Shame on you!” Nilsson said, with a cold stare aimed at the woman. But resignation could be read on his face, and she knew he would do what had been asked of him. “Both of you.”
“And a good day to you too,” Petrov said, placing his hand at the small of Sofiya’s back as he escorted her out.
“That was almost too easy,” Sofiya said as they reached their apartment in Marieberg.
“Would you have rather spread your legs for him?” questioned Petrov, as he unlocked the front door.
The question felt like an insult, and she was pretty sure he had meant it as one. “Of course not! I only meant he was an easy mark,” she said, almost adding, not all men keep as close a lid on their emotions as you do.
“It needed to be done,” Petrov said. “All of Europe trembles in fear, and they’re pointing their fingers at Moscow, demanding explanations and wondering what truth is being kept from them. It must stop.”
Sofiya knew the Motherland was trying hard to keep Europe’s prying nose out of its business, as it dealt with an unprecedented crisis. But the USSR had never been known for its political transparency, and she, too, wondered what was being kept off the news.
“Nilsson wasn’t wrong, though; was he?” Sofiya asked, cautiously. “They evacuated hundreds of thousands of people. They wouldn’t have done that over nothing.”
Petrov remained silent as he moved to the liquor cabinet. He poured himself a glass before moving to sit on the sofa. He’d left the cabinet and the vodka bottle open, and Sofiya moved in to pour herself a large glass.
“How long will General Igorov stay in Stockholm?” she asked. Her real question was, ‘how many more missions will I have to do for that pig?’, but she chose to be polite about it.
“He’s leaving tomorrow,” Petrov said, and Sofiya relaxed a fraction. “This was the last part of his plan to put Sweden back in its place.” He took a long sip of his drink. “Hopefully, it’ll be enough; if not, Igorov will be back for phase two.”
And we would not want that, would we? thought Sofiya bitterly. Now that they’d dealt with one crisis, maybe it was time for them to get back on schedule and work at freeing her from the clutches of the Motherland.
“What about Chernobyl?” she asked instead. “How bad is it really, for the people who live there?”
Sofiya moved to sit facing him, on the coffee table. She still wore her thin white blouse and checked skirt, but the pigtails were gone, and now, loose brown waves cascaded freely over her shoulders. Sofiya could have tried spreading her legs to get Petrov to talk, but she knew that would be a waste of her time. She did push her shoulders back a little so that her nipples showed through the blouse again.
The gesture didn’t go unnoticed, and the diplomat made a point to only look at her face as he said, “It will take them months, if not years, to clean up the radioactive waste. A lot of people will lose their lives over that. That’s all I know.”
Sofiya sighed before taking a long sip of her vodka. “This is bad, isn’t it? For the Soviet Union, I mean.”
Petrov nodded before finishing his glass. He remained silent, his icy blue eyes locked on hers. The man’s expression betrayed nothing of his thoughts, and she looked away.
She instead gazed out the window on her left and to the horizon that stretched on the other side. She looked past Lake Mälaren and its islands, to the East and what lay beyond. The Cold War between her country and the West had been going on for over forty years, longer than she’d been alive. But never had the USSR faced a disaster like this one. The resettlements, the cleaning up—all of that would weaken an already ailing economy. But the true test was going to be the Kremlin’s loyal supporters’ reactions to how the Communist Party chose to deal with the crisis. In the privacy of her own thoughts, Sofiya feared Chernobyl could be the event that tipped the scale and hastened the decline of the Soviet Union.
Emptying her glass, she muttered, “All wars must end, I suppose.”
FRIDAY, JUNE 6, 1986.
The festivities of Sveriges nationaldagh—Sweden’s national day, were in full swing when Sofiya left the Marieberg flat. She had planned on joining the celebrations at Kungsträdgården, one of the city’s largest and most central parks.
It was a warm Friday, and she chose to walk rather than take the bus. Turning left, she crossed through Rålambshovsparken and continued east on Norr Mälarstrand. The mile-long street followed the waterfront, and Sofiya let her gaze wander over the glistening waters of Lake Mälaren.
She passed a group of teenagers seated on a bench and heard them humming the country’s national anthem, “Du gamla, du fria.” The two youngest had their cheeks painted blue and yellow, while the other four wore matching shirts with the national flag painted on them.
This surge of patriotism made Sofiya feel oddly nostalgic; it reminded her of Moscow and the communist propaganda that was pinned to the walls throughout most streets. She had never thought she would come to miss the colourful posters designed to encourage the enthusiasm of working masses, but she did. Her childhood had been lulled by propaganda featuring either Vietnam, the space race, or imperialism. More recently, she’d seen the focus shift towards economic restructuring, defeating bureaucracy and Stalinist reactionaries, and her personal favourite: the Party’s ongoing battle against alcoholism. There was one image that never failed to bring a smile to her lips; it had a baby girl on the right, a bottle of vodka on the left, and the words “either, or” written in the middle. Only the colour-balance was off, and the little child, with her rosy cheeks and full red lips, looked like she was the one who’d had one drink too many.