When she’d asked Petrov for more serious tasks, this was not what she’d had in mind.
Cursing at the Scandinavian summer nights and the damn sun that no longer disappeared, Sofiya jogged to the fence and then up to the decrepit building that stood a little further ahead. The dim light gave the tall, off-white building an eerie, ominous look that unsettled her. Though it was the middle of the night, the sky looked as though it was early morning already, and the first rays of the sun had just breached the horizon.
Looking up, Sofiya counted four rows of fourteen windows on this side of the building alone, and that was just one barrack out of at least a dozen. Sparing a thought for the thousands of souls who’d been imprisoned here, she searched for the entrance door.
She found it on the side of the building. With one hand at the small of her back, ready to pull out the weapon, she tried the handle. The door opened, and she entered, silent as a mouse.
There was no light inside, except whatever glow passed through the dirty windows, and she had to pull out a torchlight from her pocket. Having an idea of what she’d find in here, she braced herself before turning it on.
The smell hadn’t been enough to prepare her for what lay on the floor just a few feet ahead, and her stomach somersaulted. She recovered quickly and got to work.
From the looks of it, the man Petrov had stabbed in the back hadn’t died right away. He’d left a trail of blood behind him as he tried crawling to the front door. He’d breathed his last breath four steps from his goal and two from Sofiya’s shoes.
Crouching down, the young woman pulled the blade from the body to inspect it. It was a short army knife and had most likely inflicted the wound that she had stitched up earlier.
“So, he killed you with your own weapon, didn’t he?” she said to the corpse before cleaning the weapon on the man’s jacket. “Tough luck.” Then she pushed it in one of his waistcoat pockets before standing up.
“Well—let’s get to it then,” she muttered before placing the butt of the flashlight between her teeth. Then she bent down to grab the man’s outstretched hands, and she pulled until she reached the door.
Following Petrov’s orders, she drove northeast to Östermalm and the docks in the Gärdet district. She easily found her way through the deserted streets and parked the car at the end of a narrow alley between two warehouses.
Leaving her flashlight in the car, she used the bleary midnight sun to open the boot and drag the unknown corpse outside; then, she pulled him to the edge of the pier.
She rolled him on his back and got her first good look at him. He was in his early forties, maybe, with a scruffy beard and hollow cheeks. He had dark hair, and there was a bit of a Mediterranean look to him. Who was he? She wondered. Then she quelled that thought before it led to more questions, like who was waiting for him to come home.
She searched his pockets for his wallet but found none. The only thing her gloved fingers found was a used tissue and several business cards in one of his trousers’ back-pockets. Curiosity made her take one out before she pushed the corpse over the edge.
She heard him break the surface an instant later but didn’t stick around to find out if he would sink or swim. That man, whoever he was, was ancient history, regardless.
It didn’t matter if the police found him in one day or ten. They would never be able to trace him back to the Soviets, anyway.
Returning to the car, she removed her gloves and tossed them on the passenger seat, along with her weapon. She would not need either tonight anymore. Then she reached for the business card in her pockets. “Vittorio Amalfi,” she read aloud. “Architect.” There was a phone number underneath the name and an address in Södermalm.
This gave Sofiya pause. Though the man seemed to reside in Stockholm, his name was anything but local. Vittorio Amalfi sounded Italian to her ears, and this added to her confusion.
Turning the car around, she headed back to Marieberg as questions arose in her brain. What kind of dealings could Petrov possibility have had with Mr Amalfi? And what was it he’d tried buying from him before their deal turned sour?
SUNDAY, JUNE 29, 1986.
After the day she’d just had, anyone who knew Sofiya Litvinova would have expected her to wake up to a pounding headache, a dry mouth, and an empty bottle of vodka on her nightstand. But they’d be wrong.
Sitting up briskly, she stretched and walked to the window. Opening the blinds wide, she heaved in a deep breath as warm rays of lights danced on her skin.
Today, of all days, she was as clear-headed and lucid as an abstinent monk, and twice as determined. Moving to the living room, she placed a phone call to Sonia Johnson to tell her that she wasn’t feeling well and wouldn’t be able to make it to their weekly brunch. When asked if she thought she would be up for it next week, she remained purposefully vague.
Now that it was clear Petrov knew what she’d been up to, Sofiya doubted she would ever enjoy either of the Americans’ company again. Cutting Timothy Johnson out of her life sadly meant cutting his wife out of it, too. With a resigned sigh, she forced herself to think that it was for the better; East and West made for dangerous friendships, after all. But in the privacy of her thoughts, she had to admit that she’d miss their Sunday brunches and the gossiping that came with it. But with the wedding day inching closer and the events of last night still fresh in her mind, she knew she had far more pressing matters to focus on.
For once, Viktor Petrov had shown his true colours, and now, Sofiya knew where she stood with him. Not only had he let her get a glimpse of his true self last night, but he’d also inadvertently given her the description key she badly needed.
Ever since she had met him, she’d been under the impression that Viktor Petrov was playing a role. Day in and day out, that man wore a tight mask that concealed his thoughts as well as his true purpose. Sofiya was certain that everything he said, everything he did, only served to bring him one step closer to his true endgame. Yes, she’d always viewed her fiancé as a chess master executing a careful sequence of moves and countermoves, one scheme at a time.
Ever observant, Sofiya had caught enough tell-tales to make out the outline of his strategy, but the central element that would allow her to unravel the entire structure kept evading her. And thus, she’d remained unable to make sense of the clues she’d gathered.
She chuckled to herself as she sat down on the leather sofa in the living room with a cup of steaming coffee. Who’d have thought the key to unmasking his real persona would be something as tiny and insignificant as a two-inch scar on his lower abdomen. The remnant of an appendectomy; it was the one trace of personal history this secretive man hadn’t been able to erase from his life.
Little did Sofiya expect to find it where she had, and at a time when she wasn’t even looking for it. But find it she had, and now the mystery that was Viktor Petrov had started to unravel for her. She held in her hand the master thread in the web of lies the man had woven around himself, and—determined not to let it go—she was going to pull it all the way. For in Russia, she knew, appendectomy scars were never this thin.
Relaxing on the leather sofa, Sofiya allowed a contented smile to grace her lips; she had just found her exit.
TUESDAY, AUGUST 1, 1986.
Surprise showed on Sofiya’s face when she opened her mailbox. On top of the pile sat a letter addressed to her—the first she’d ever received since moving to Sweden. Inspecting it, she saw that there was no sender, and her name and address had been hastily scribbled in pencil on the front. She tore it open with a fingernail, and her brows furrowed at what she found inside.