Johnson adjusted his position so he could hold himself upright with one hand. Without slowing the rhythm of his thrusts, he grabbed a fistful of her left breast and Sofiya moaned in delight at the mix of pleasure and pain she was so fond of.
She was struck with a second orgasm when he pinched her nipple hard between two fingers. Her pussy clenched his cock tightly, and Johnson wasn’t long to join her, exploding deep inside her. He came long and hard and slumped down on her when he was done.
Sofiya wrapped her arms around him as their breathing returned to normal. The American’s flaccid cock was still in her, and the smell of sex was thick in the air. She smiled at the thought, enjoying the masculine essence of the man lying on top of her.
He did the same, his face buried in the hollow of her neck. Nothing could disturb this moment of peace and filled emptiness.
Sunday morning was definitely her favourite time of the week.
MONDAY, JUNE 9, 1986.
On her way to the Russian Embassy, Sofiya tossed her empty wallet in a bin, along with her purse. Bending down, she grabbed a fistful of dirt and small rubble and pressed it against the side of her face. She rubbed it in, making sure that some of the dirt stayed tucked to her hair. Reaching for a sharp rock, she used it to scratch at her arm, leaving two superficial cuts along her forearm. Then she used it to add strategical cuts to her denim and blouse. When she was done preparing herself, Sofiya looked like she’d been thrown to the ground on a hilltop before she rolled all the way down to the valley below. Reaching a street with a lot of traffic, she hailed a cab, and with tears in her eyes, begged the driver to take her to the Russian Embassy.
Returning home from her meeting with Mikhaïl Serov, Sofiya had spent long hours thinking of an excuse to go to the embassy. Petrov had never invited her to visit his office, and she feared that without a proper excuse, he wouldn’t welcome any surprise visits. She had finally settled on faking a mugging, and the subsequent loss of her identity papers.
When the guard minding the Embassy gate told her he couldn’t let her in without proper ID, she requested he call Counsellor Petrov, who’d vouch for her.
As she waited for the guard to come back out, she was careful to lean against the side of the security booth as if she were favouring her left foot. She could feel her tears drying up in the caked dirt that hung to her face.
“I’m sorry; the Counsellor isn’t in the Embassy at the moment,” the guard said, as he came back out.
Sofiya scrunched up her brow, as if deep in thought. “Could you maybe try Minister-Counsellor Alexeïeva, please? I know her, too.”
The guard nodded, and he returned inside to place another phone call.
She had no idea where Petrov was, but his absence would only make things easier for her. Her plan was unfolding to perfection. When the guard came back out to tell her that Alexeïeva was going to see her, she feigned a relieved expression.
A plump secretary with thick glasses and greying hair scrunched up in a ponytail soon came to get her. She escorted Sofiya to Madame Minister-Counsellor’s office, and Sofiya limped all the way.
“My dear Sofiya,” exclaimed Alexeïeva when she first caught sight of her. “What the devil happened to you?”
The young Russian looked up to face the newcomer. “Two men in the park,” Sofiya said, panting. “They grabbed my bag.”
“Get her glass of water, Natasha,” Alexeïeva ordered, “and some tissues.” Then she helped Sofiya to her office, indicating that the young woman should sit down in the small leather couch that sat below a window, opposite her desk.
Sofiya obeyed with obvious relief. When Natasha returned with the glass of water, a dried biscuit, and some tissue, the young spy gave her one of her warmest smiles. Anyone who was at the redhead’s beck and call deserved a little kindness.
“Oh, you’re quite welcome, dear,” Natasha said before seeing herself out.
Alexeïeva closed the glass door behind her before shutting off the blinds. Then she came to sit on her desk, perching on its edge like a panther ready to pounce. The kindness with which she had welcomed Sofiya was gone, and a sour fury kindled to life in her eyes.
Sofiya remained silent as she waited for her to open the hostilities. She studied her opponent while she waited. The Minister-Counsellor had untied her hair, and the long, wavy ginger locks cascaded on her shoulders before coming to rest on both sides of her steep v-shaped cleavage. The top of her generous breasts showed above the rim of her black silk blouse. She wore matching high-heeled boots and a pair of very tight-fitting dark-brown corduroy trousers. As always, Alexeïeva was dressed to impress, and the heavily accented makeup she had painted on her face was on par with the rest.
On a woman of her age, that kind of look was borderline vulgar, thought Sofiya, wondering again why Petrov would want to go anywhere near that kind of person.
“How do you like the couch?” asked Alexeïeva. “Comfortable?”
Of all the tools at her disposal, that hadn’t been the opening salvo Sofiya expected. She nodded cautiously, “It’s—okay.”
Alexeïeva smiled a predatory smile. “Yes, Viktor likes it too. We’ve shared more than one ‘comfortable’ moment on it.” With a chuckle that was more akin to a purr, she added. “Ah, if that leather could talk—”
Sofiya was tempted to laugh in her face. She couldn’t care less about how her fiancé spent his free time, and if his standards stooped low enough to include someone at Alexeïeva’s level, then so be it.
“Not the kind of story I’m interested in hearing,” she said, with an indifferent air.
“Oh, is it not? Then why are you here?”
“As I said,” she shrugged her shoulder, wincing when it pulled at one of the cuts on her side, “I was assaulted.”
“Oh, yes, so you were. And—” Alexeïeva crossed her arms over her chest, and Sofiya worried that the top buttons of the blouse would pop. “You can cut off the damsel-in-distress act. As you can see, your fiancé isn’t here, and I’m not a middle-aged man looking for a cheap fuck.”
Always the kind word, thought Sofiya, as she wiped away at what was left of her crocodile tears. Fine, if that was how the redhead wanted to play it.
“That’s not why I came looking for Viktor; besides, I think he’s already getting all the cheap fucks he needs.” Eat that! she thought. “A bunch of drunk teens caught me by surprise in the park; they grabbed my bag and threw me in the bushes.”
Alexeïeva’s jaw tightened at her retort, and scorn coloured her next words, “You could have gone to the police; I believe that’s what people do.”
“I would have, but my identification papers were in that bag—to my real name.” Sofiya sighed. “I’m not sure what the Swedish police would have found had I given it to them, but I thought it best not to risk it.”
“You could have gone to them; there’s nothing out of the ordinary in your file,” said Alexeïeva.
Sofiya let an eyebrow rise at that. Checking up the competition are you, Svetlana? she thought with an amused smile.
A soft blush crept up in the redhead’s cheeks when she realised what she’d inadvertently revealed. “Well it was a good thing you came to us, then,” she hastily said, in a vain attempt to cover up her slip-up. She moved to a nearby cabinet and pulled out a form.
She handed the document to Sofiya along with a pen. “Fill that in. We’ll have new papers ready for you by the end of the week.”