Was he trying to gauge her reaction, she wondered; maybe he expected her to be horrified by his confession, to be afraid of him, but she held his gaze without flinching. Death was a common event in their line of work, and she’d seen her fair share of bodies.
She kept holding his gaze, and a hint of surprise reached Petrov’s light blue eyes.
“I’ve got blood on my hands, too,” she said, answering the unasked question. Both literally and figuratively, she thought, glancing down at the man’s blood on her fingers.
The steel behind Petrov’s gaze softened for an instant; then, he blinked and looked away. The moment was over, and Sofiya returned her attention to the needle in her hand.
She finished the stitches in silence.
“Bandages?” she asked once she was done.
“Cabinet, over the sink,” Petrov said, between two breaths. “Top shelf on the right.”
Sofiya stood and cleaned her hands before opening the small cabinet. She found a roll of bandages and tape and brought it back with her.
Petrov was white as a sheet, she noted, and covered in sweat. It made the soft freckles on his skin looked more pronounced than usual. For some reason, he decided to stand up when she reached him, and his legs buckled beneath him. Sofiya had just enough time to catch him and hook a shoulder beneath his good arm.
“Let’s get you to bed,” she said, as she took most of his weight on the way out of the bathroom. “Between the blood loss and those pills you’ve taken, you need to lie down.”
He let her manhandle him into bed, groaning when the change of position pulled at the fresh stitches.
“Don’t lie down right away,” she said, placing a hand at his back to stop him from lying down. “I need to bandage your chest, first, to make sure the stitches stay in place.”
Petrov leaned on her as he nodded. His eyes fluttered, a sure sign that the adrenaline was starting to run on empty, and his body was giving up the fight.
Sofiya helped him stay upright as she secured the bandage. Though she’d done a good job with the stitches, the man was going to carry a scar for the rest of his life.
It’ll be in good company, she thought, glancing at the old bullet wound on his right shoulder. As she fastened the bandage with tape, she noticed another scar she hadn’t yet seen on his lower abdomen. Cutting the tape with her teeth, she took a closer look—that one looked surgical.
“Will this be in your next report?” Petrov asked when Sofiya helped him lie down on his back.
Several answers came to mind. She could play dumb and try to tell him that Moscow had backed off, and she’d been without contact for months. Or she could try to lay a trap and promise him her allegiance, come what may.
In the end, she settled for the truth, “Why shouldn’t I? That night, you said you’d try to help me get free, but so far, all you’ve done is use me as they do.” She sat up and moved to close the blinds. “I feel like I’ve exchanged one cage for another.”
Once the room was plunged in semi-darkness, she returned to sit on the edge of the bed. Enough light filtered through the blind to allow her to see that the steel was back in Petrov’s gaze.
“I haven’t forgotten my promise, Sofiya,” he said. “I’m working on it; I just need a little more time.”
She huffed a laugh. “Then tell me your plan, at least. Hell, maybe I can help.” She motioned at his current state, “What good will it do either of us if you get killed, huh?”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I can’t. There’s too much at stake.”
She placed a deliberate hand on his shoulder to still him when it looked as if he was going to sit up. She let her thumb trace circular patterns on his skin in a soothing rhythm. “We don’t know each other that well, but I’m not as useless as you think.”
“I know. But you are not as free as you think,” he sighed, and his eyelids fluttered close. “Moscow has its eye on you and me both, Sofiya. Any misstep from either of us could cost us our lives.”
When the motion of her thumb went unnoticed long enough, she allowed the rest of her fingers to pick up the pattern while her thumb moved down to caress his collarbone. Petrov’s breathing evened, and he leaned more fully into the mattress and pillows.
Moving closer, Sofiya let the fingers of her right hand graze his stomach, a promise of better things to come. Though the man was wounded, she could think of several ways to help him cope with the pain that didn’t need him to lift a muscle.
The fingers of her right hand moved lower, pushing past the waistband of his denim to outline what lay trapped beneath the thick material. Her feather-light touches became more insistent, and she heard Petrov’s breath hitch in his throat. She smiled knowing, this time, it had nothing to do with the pain of his injuries. She was about to cup him fully through the denim when cold fingers sneaked up on her. She recoiled in surprise when Petrov pulled her hand away.
“You can stop your little game, Sofiya,” he said, without opening his eyes. “I’m not interested.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” She tried pulling her hand out of his grasp, but Petrov held on with surprising strength, given his weakened state.
“You’re more deceitful than I am,” he said bitterly. “At least I’m honest about my feelings, unlike you.”
“Is this what you tell Svetlana Alexeïeva?” Sofiya asked, tugging her arm free. “Is it honesty that drives you between her legs, or are you after something else?”
Petrov’s eyes flashed open at that, and he levelled her with a cold, hard stare.
“That’s what I thought—you use her just like you use me,” she said, with a sour smile. “You can criticise all you want, but you’re no better than me.”
Despite the pain, Petrov sat up with a wince. “And what of your relationship with Timothy Johnson?” he asked, freezing her on the spot with that piercing gaze of his. “Is that any better?”
A dark laugh escaped his lips at her evident surprise. “Oh, did you think that I wouldn’t find out? That I wouldn’t know what happens when his wife leaves? Sonia Johnson may be an ignorant fool, but I’m not. Now tell me, little swallow. Is it just the quick release you are after, or are you playing the long game?” His tone darkened. “Is he your backup plan, should I fail to deliver on my promise? Is that it?”
“We’re done here,” Sofiya said, sitting up.
“No, we’re not.” Petrov leaned back down. “Since you’re so eager to help, I have a mission for you.”
FRIDAY, JUNE 27, 1986.
Dressed entirely in black, Sofiya left the flat at midnight with Petrov’s keys in her hand. She got in the car, turned the ignition on, and the engine roared to life. She was out of the parking lot and heading to the island of Långholmen a minute later.
She took the Västerbron to reach the small island that was just south of Kungsholmen. Once there, she had no trouble finding the right road to reach the remnants of Långholmen Prison. The large building blocks were in the centre of the island. Built between 1874 and 1880, it was once the central prison of Sweden until they’d shut it down in 1975. What was left of it today lay abandoned behind chain-mail fences. There were talks of turning it into a hotel, but for now, it was a popular meeting place of the unsavoury kind.
She parked the car next to some trees and killed the engine. She could see the fence, and the hole in it, from where she was. She reached for the weapon on the passenger seat and placed it in a holster at the small of her back, beneath her black shirt. Then she pulled on a pair of leather gloves and exited the car.