“We don’t,” Serov said. “We just need the Swedes not to have it anymore.”
“I thought they’d backed off and stopped asking embarrassing questions?” Or had Erik Nilsson not kept his word?
“They have,” the man confirmed. “But Moscow would prefer these types of documents to disappear, regardless.”
Of course, they did, thought Sofiya; they wouldn’t want historians contradicting their version of the truth. She knew it was soon to be time for the scholars to update the history books and, as per the Soviet tradition, it was up to the Communist Party to decide what had happened, and no one else.
They kept driving through town, and a thick silence fell on the two Directorate K operatives.
“Anything good come out of the microphone in Svetlana’s office?” Sofiya asked to distract herself.
“Her day job is pretty boring,” Serov said, a smirk blooming at the corner of his lips. “But what happens when most people leave, and your fiancé drops by, is more interesting—if you’re into that kind of stuff.”
From the expression on the short man’s hawk-like face, Sofiya guessed he was into that kind of stuff. “And aside from that?” she asked. “Anything that can be of use to us?”
“Not yet, no—but I would be tempted to trust your instinct on Svetlana Alexeïeva. I’ve been tailing her most of the week, and something doesn’t add up.”
That piqued Sofiya’s curiosity. “What do you mean?”
“Her car, the way she dresses, her lifestyle—she shouldn’t be able to afford all of that with her salary.”
“Have you checked her bank accounts?”
“They’re clean, but there aren’t that many withdrawals—which is strange, given the wads of cash she keeps handing out to pay for all the Westerners privileges she indulges in.”
“She wouldn’t be stupid enough to scam off the embassy’s accounts,” Sofiya spoke her thoughts aloud. “She must have her own sources of income on the side.”
“My thinking exactly.” Serov took St. Erik’s bridge to get onto Kungsholmen island. “And that’s what I will focus on.”
Once they reached Marieberg, he parked the car two streets away from Sofiya’s apartment. “See you on Tuesday,” he said as she opened the door to exit. “And congratulations!”
Sofiya froze, the door still in her hand and half-closed.
“I’ve just learned that your fiancé contacted the civil registry office to ask for a marriage license.” Feigning chagrin, Serov added, “I thought we were friends, little bird. And yet, you didn’t even tell me the good—”
Sofiya shut the door in his face before turning her back on the car and the man at the wheel. She walked away at a brisk pace, a sour fury coursing through her veins.
Petrov hadn’t mentioned the wedding again, and what with the recent events, she thought she’d have more time—guess she was wrong.
SUNDAY, JUNE 22, 1986.
The wedding of Sofiya Litvinova and Viktor Petrov was scheduled to take place on Sunday, August 11, 1986, in Moscow. The ceremony would be held in the Cathedral of the Dormition in the Kremlin.
Sofiya had thought that nothing short of a natural catastrophe would stop it from happening. But such an event had occurred, and it did not affect the schedule in the slightest. It would seem that a couple of hundred miles of radioactive wasteland weren’t enough to alter Petrov’s plans. Even when people all over Europe were advised not to go within 100 kilometres of the Chernobyl site, and that any trip within 500 kilometres of the site should be seriously reconsidered, her fiancé gave no indication of wanting to alter their plans—besides, Moscow was 800 kilometres northeast of Chernobyl, so it really ought to be of no consequence.
Thus, Petrov had chosen which type of dress she should wear and commissioned a tailor, and one of the embassy’s secretaries had sent the invitations. Everything had been sorted out in a single day, and Sofiya’s input hadn’t been needed at all. That night, she drank her fill of vodka to numb the rage.
The nightmare was still real when she woke up the next morning. But the night had allowed her to gain a new perspective. She’d been surprised when Petrov told her where the ceremony was to take place. If asked, she’d have imagined one of Moscow’s smallest Russian Orthodox churches, but she’d have been wrong. Not only had her fiancé managed to gain access to a Cathedral, but he’d landed one of the Kremlin’s largest.
That was so unlike Petrov. The diplomat thrived on discretion and always made sure to never stand out when in a crowd. Why was he suddenly so determined to make a grand affair out of their farce of a wedding? She knew he had no feelings for her and that their union was only one more part of his stratagem to get the Komitet off his back. Why go to such extreme length to sell the lie?
Did this have to do with him being part of the Nomenklatura? Was such an extravaganza expected out of someone of his rank? Surely, this couldn’t be the only explanation. No—Sofiya was certain her fiancé had an ulterior motive.
The more she thought about it, the more it became obvious to her that this whole thing was a smokescreen meant to hide a darker, more sinister plot, and that everything Petrov had done so far had led him to that point.
That last realisation opened the door to one more question. That night in Moscow, had he decided to let her live because he knew he needed to have a bride on his arm come the summer?
These thoughts followed her as she made her way to Östermalm for her weekly meeting with the Johnsons. She kept trying to figure out Petrov’s plans as she listened to Sonia Johnson’s advice on marital life. The American woman was so certain that her own marriage was an example of success that she turned into a well of information of spousal dos and don’ts.
Sofiya smiled kindly as she took in her advice with a distracted ear. And she fought not to let her face give away what she would soon be doing in the Johnsons’ marital bed, and with whom. When Timothy Johnson removed her lace panties with his teeth only three minutes after his wife had left for church, Sofiya’s gruelling thoughts finally quieted.
“Is something bothering you?” the American asked when he’d had enough of the young Soviet staring at the ceiling in silence. Though their little playtime had been passionate and wild, it hadn’t been enough to dispel the shadow that hung over Sofiya’s face.
“It’s nothing,” she lied, but in the distance, she could still hear wedding bells ringing.
“It’s not nothing; you can confide in me, you know.”
If only I could, she thought. Blowing out a deep breath, she straightened and went to look for her discarded clothes.
Johnson pushed himself up on his elbows, “What did I say?”
“Just because we’re fucking each other doesn’t mean we have to talk to each other!” Sofiya hastened to put on her underwear and green pleated skirt. “I’m going home.”
“But what will Sonia say?” asked Johnson as he got out of bed.
“You’ll think of some excuse. You lie to her all the time; that’s nothing new to you.”
The barb had been intended to hurt, and it did. Still naked, the American reached for her. “Oh, that’s rich, coming from you.” Holding onto one of her wrists, he stopped her from leaving the bedroom.
“Let me go!” Sofiya was fully clothed, and a pair of stilettos dangled from her hand. “You know I can have you down on the ground in no time.”