“What’s stopping you?” Johnson teased her, with an amused smirk at the corner of his lips.
In one movement, Sofiya dropped the shoes from her hand, while she gripped the man’s wrist with the other. Without letting go, she turned on her heel so that she was back to front with him. Using the momentum and years of practice, she flipped him over her shoulder with ease.
Johnson fell flat on his back, in the space between the bed and the wardrobe. As if he’d been expecting it, the American used the woman’s grip on his arm to bring her down with him, rolling them both and inverting their position. Sofiya hadn’t expected him to know that countermove, and surprise was the only reason he managed to gain the upper hand.
Pinning her down with a knee to her stomach, Johnson reached for her second wrist. He brought them both up above the brunette’s head, a wide smile blooming on his lips.
Sofiya tried to wiggle free, but with all of the American’s weight atop her, and her hands imprisoned, there was nothing she could do.
“You’re my sunshine; you know that?” he said before leaning down to kiss her. “And in a city like Stockholm, that’s no small thing.”
Sofiya had no choice but to return the kiss. “If it wasn’t for our Sunday mornings, I’d go crazy,” she confessed when their lips parted. “Alexeïeva is a hellion, and Petrov is colder than Siberia.”
“Let’s not talk about your fiancé, please,” Johnson begged, with another kiss. “There’s something else I want to do.”
Sofiya arched an eyebrow at that. “And what if I don’t?”
The American chuckled. “I don’t think you have much of a choice, Sofiya Litvinova; you’re all mine.” Tightening his hold on her wrists, he moved up to place both of his knees on either side of her shoulders.
“Now, open up,” he commanded, as he lifted his naked hips.
THURSDAY, JUNE 26, 1986.
Coming back from her morning run, Sofiya pondered what Serov had just told her. Moscow had approved her union to Viktor Petrov, and the head of Directorate K thought she should try to bear him a child within a year, thus truly cementing their relationship and dispelling any reserves the diplomat might have for her allegiance.
The sick, twisted smile with which Serov had given her the news had made her want to punch him in the face, and quite possibly, in the nether region too. But she’d only tightened her fists as she nodded, like the good soldier she was. She was a child of the nation, after all. She owed everything to the Communist Party; they’d made her who she was, and it was her honour to serve the Soviet Union—or so they thought.
She needed a way out. Petrov had promised her that in Moscow—a way out—if she agreed to help him. Well, it was time his promise became more concrete. Or else she didn’t mind facing him with a loaded gun again, even if, this time, he didn’t avert his aim.
On the way back to the flat, she pushed herself harder than she normally would. Her legs soon started to burn, and she welcomed the sensation, even as they beat the asphalt harder.
Entering the living room, she removed her trainers and walked straight to the kitchen. She hadn’t expected summers in Sweden to be this hot, and she was parched. Pouring herself a glass of water, she took a minute to breathe in and out to recuperate. Her legs would make her pay for that harsh run for a day or two, but the painful sensation was a welcome distraction for her troubled mind.
On her way back to the living room, she froze when she heard a groan of pain. It seemed to have come from the bedroom area, and she immediately turned to head that way. The door to Petrov’s room was half-open, and she stopped short of it as she quickly checked her memory. Her fiancé had been long gone by the time she woke up, and she was almost certain his bedroom door had been closed when she left the flat to meet Serov.
She heard a loud exhalation of breath followed by a groan, and she pushed the door open all the way. The bedroom was bathed in light but empty. Entering, she found a shirt by the bathroom door. It was torn and soaked in blood. The hell, she thought.
She stepped forward and pulled that door open. Petrov was sitting on the edge of the bathtub with his back to her. Needle in hand, he seemed to be struggling to sew up a large cut on the left side of his torso.
“What happened?” she asked, moving to his side.
He hadn’t heard her approach, and his surprise caused his shaking fingers to almost drop the needle.
“Thought you were out,” he muttered through clenched teeth.
“I was,” Sofiya cleaned her hands at the sink. “And now I’m back.”
She dried her hands and kneeled beside him. Her eyes were level with his wound, and she reached out a hand for the needle. Petrov looked down at her with a doubtful expression.
“KGB training,” she reminded him. “We learned to suture in year one.”
He handed her the needle, and Sofiya took it. Now that she saw the wound from close range, she could tell it came from a knife. A hunting knife, she thought, thick but short blade. Though the cut was long, Petrov could count himself lucky that it wasn’t very deep. His assailant had wounded him on his side, right above the hip bone. There were very few muscle tissues in that area, and the ribcage beneath the skin had probably been what stopped the blade from going deeper and doing any real damage.
Her fiancé had already sutured the lower third of the wound, but he’d made a crude job of it. Leaning closer, she placed a hand on his torso for support, and she felt him shiver. Sofiya ignored it and concentrated on the task at hand, planting the needle in before pulling the black thread through.
Petrov kept his lips sealed while she completed the first stitch. The only signs that he was in pain were the controlled breaths that went in and out of his nose.
“What happened?” she asked, needing to break the silence.
The reply came out through clenched teeth. “Can’t you tell?”
Sofiya sighed before plunging the needle in his flesh again. “I meant, who did this?”
“Someone who disagreed with me.”
She pulled the thread through and pierced his skin again. “About what?”
“Needed something from him,” Petrov said. “We had a difference of opinion on—” he halted to catch a breath “—the price.”
“Want me to take a break?” she asked, looking up.
Heavy beads of sweat pearled on the blonde’s brow, but he shook his head no.
“Have you taken anything for the pain?” Sofiya asked before resuming her work.
“Couple tabs,” he said, in a breath. “Hasn’t kicked in yet.”
“Keep talking,” she advised as she started in on the next stitch. “Focus on something other than the pain.” She pulled the thread through, and Petrov’s hands came down to grip the rim of the porcelain tub. His knuckles soon turned white.
“What were you buying?” Sofiya asked.
“Nice try,” he closed his eyes shut, “little swallow.”
The nickname had been meant to put her back in her place, she knew, and in retaliation, she tugged on the thread a little more than was necessary. A small groan escaped the man’s throat, and the corner of her mouth curled up in silent victory.
“Fine. Tell me something else then.” She finished her stitch. “What about the man who did this to you?”
Petrov reopened his eyes to look down at her, and their gaze met. “I killed him,” he said in a monotone. There was no remorse in his face—no sign he’d just admitted to having ended someone’s life. If anything, Sofiya thought she caught a glimpse of curiousness in his gaze. It felt as if the man’s eyes were searching for something on her face.