When she reached the end of Norr Mälarstrand, Sofiya turned north to head for Stadshusbron, the bridge that would allow her to hop to the next island. From there, it would be a short five-minute walk to Kungsträdgården. Leaving the road, she took a shortcut and entered a small alleyway between two tall buildings. She was halfway through when she felt the presence of a man at her back. It could have been another Swede on his way to the festivities, but she wasn’t taking any chances. She hastened her steps, even as she readied to fight.
She’d almost gotten to the other end of the alley when cold fingers encircled her right wrist to halt her. Using her momentum, she turned on her heel. Raising her free arm, she closed her fist and punched the assailant with all the strength she had. She clocked him square in the jaw, eliciting a loud curse in Russian.
Stepping back in surprise, Mikhaïl Serov let go of her arm to bring a hand up to massage his tender jaw.
Sofiya had been ready to follow her punch with a kick to the guts, but she relaxed when she recognised him. “What are you doing here?”
“Is that any way to greet an old friend?” asked her liaison officer before spitting out a mix of saliva and blood. “Did you have to hit me that hard?”
If he expected an apology, he was bang out of luck, thought Sofiya, as she crossed her arms on her chest. “Most people say hi when they run into someone they know.” She had no idea where this conversation was going, but she was already pissed off. “They don’t try and grab you from behind.”
“Point taken,” Serov said, pushing both of his hands into his denim pockets with a half shrug.
He had cut his dark-brown hair shorter, Sofiya noted, and that seemed to accentuate his sharp crow-like features even more. His dark, beady eyes moved quickly left and right as he took in her appearance.
“You look nice in that westerner dress,” he said, complimenting the light-green, flowery summer dress she wore. “Lost some weight, too, have you?”
“What do you want, Comrade Serov?” asked Sofiya, putting an end to the pleasantries.
Feigning mock hurt, he said, “It’s been two months, and not a word from you. I was getting worried.”
Sofiya was in no mood to play. “It’s what we agreed on,” she reminded him tersely.
“Ah, yes, it is.” Serov sighed, and his face lost all traces of humour. “Status update?”
“It’s going well,” Sofiya lied. “I don’t think Petrov suspects anything.”
“Noticed anything of interest to Moscow?” he asked.
“I took part in the JT–9 operation, which was successful. I believe the Komitet got what it wanted.” Serov nodded, and Sofiya continued. “I am not aware of any other mission. But everything else I have seen or heard only proves Petrov’s loyalty to the Party. I have no evidence that—”
In the distance, Sofiya heard the familiar opening lines of “Du gamla, du fria,” and she paused mid-sentence. Looking up, past the shorter man’s shoulder, she noticed the group of boys she’d walked past had just entered the alley.
Serov was quick to react. Reaching up with both hands, he pushed Sofiya back until she was flat against the wall. Taking advantage of her surprise, he pressed his lips to hers with eagerness. While any other man in their situation would have kept it at that until the coast cleared, Serov seized the opportunity to force his tongue inside her mouth, even as he tried parting her legs with his knee. With her arms still crossed over her chest, the young woman was powerless to stop him.
As they walked by, some of the boys snickered and whistled at them while the others kept singing.
The instant the group turned the corner at the end of the alley, Sofiya bit Serov’s tongue and stomped his foot with the tip of her heel. Her liaison officer backed off with a howl of pain.
Blood mixed with saliva again, and he spat out once more. “Was that necessary?”
With a cold, dark stare, Sofiya moved to stand in the middle of the alley and well out of Serov’s reach. “As I was saying, I think Petrov is clean.”
“Why do you protect him? Is it because you like him?” he chuckled. “We know he is having an affair with Svetlana Alexeïeva.”
Without missing a beat, Sofiya said, “I know that. But you asked about the man’s loyalties, not his sex partners.”
“You must not satisfy him completely if he still needs other ‘sex partners’,” Serov said. “I hope you’re not getting lazy in your old age, little bird.”
Sofiya felt like punching him again, but she reigned it in. “I haven’t tried getting between them,” she explained. “I don’t trust Alexeïeva—something doesn’t sit right with me about that woman. And I think she may try to use Petrov to fulfil her own schemes.”
“Ah, so you’re using your fiancé to get to her—very good.” Serov reached for something in his back pocket. An instant later, he threw a small plastic box in her hands. “Standard listening devices. Place one in her office. I want to know what those two lovebirds talk about behind closed doors.”
Sofiya dropped the box in her shoulder bag with a nod. “Anything else?”
“That’ll be all for now, but I’ll be in touch.” At her curious look, he continued. “We can meet in the park when you go out for a run. Stop at the bench, east of the amphitheatre. I’ll hide in the bushes on the other side of the path.” He paused an instant. “Twice a week ought to do it—so Tuesdays and Thursdays.”
With that, Serov left her. He pushed his hands back in his pockets and relaxed his shoulders. He was dressed casually, and nothing was striking about him. As he disappeared down the alley, he looked like any other Swede out on a stroll.
Sofiya waited a full minute before retracing her steps and exiting the alley the way she’d entered. Serov had revealed that he knew her habits—knew where she liked to run and when. Damn, she hadn’t noticed him watching her, and now, she wondered what else she had missed—and what else that sleazy heel knew.
Her plans for the day and Sveriges nationaldagh’s festivities no longer held any interest for her. Right now, what she needed was mouthwash, a hot shower, and a double dose of vodka.
SUNDAY, JUNE 8, 1986.
The American Minister-Counsellor’s wife and the Russian Counsellor’s fiancé enjoyed a hearty breakfast on the Johnsons’ terrace rooftop. As always, Sonia commandeered the conversation and seemed delighted to have found such a pleasant audience. Theirs was the most incongruous of friendships, but both women had agreed that, so long as they stayed clear of politics and their partners’ jobs, they weren’t doing anything wrong.
Petrov had asked if the good-natured woman could be turned and used to serve the Soviets’ agendas, but Sofiya had been quick to dispel the idea. Sonia Johnson was naive to a fault, couldn’t harm a fly, and wouldn’t be able to tell a lie to save her life.
“She’d probably faint before she got to the end of the first sentence,” Sofiya told him.
“Then why continue this masquerade?” asked the Russian diplomat.
“Because I like her.” A curious eyebrow rose at that. “Yes, she’s dull and naive, and everything else you may think of her. But—she’s also the only person I know who is honest with me. It’s refreshing.”