The envelope contained a single sheet of white paper, a letter written in the same quick, masculine, blue ink. It wasn’t signed, but Sofiya had no trouble guessing at the sender’s identity—Timothy Johnson requested a meeting for that very evening.
“Stupid fool,” she muttered as she hastened to climb the steps to return to the apartment. Sure, the American had used code-words that she was sure he thought were very clever, but a man like Petrov would have seen through them plain as day.
Sofiya was glad to have come back home before her fiancé did, for she’d have had a hard time explaining the letter’s content to him should he have chosen to open her mail—something he probably would have done.
“I missed seeing you during our last communion with the Lord—” it read. “Meet me tonight at the place where I took my first bite of the body of Christ.” It was so foolish; it was almost laughable. Retrieving a lighter and an ashtray from a cupboard, Sofiya burned the incriminating letter to ashes.
Looking up at Storkyrkan, the cathedral in the centre of Gamla Stan, Sofiya saw that it was nearly seven in the evening. She hurried her steps, mindful of the cobblestones beneath her feet, and reached the hotel right on time. It was the place where Minister-Counsellor Timothy Johnson had taken her nipple between his teeth for the first time and enjoyed “the first bite” he’d mentioned in his letter.
She rode the elevator alone to the top floor with a stiff back, and her hands pushed deep in her coat pockets. She had chosen to dress simply for the encounter. A pair of black jeans and white sneakers with a light-brown raincoat over a simple white t-shirt. She’d also let her hair down and wore little makeup.
Sofiya had no trouble remembering the number of the room the couple had shared for an hour that night. Gathering her thoughts, she tightened the belt of her coat around her waist and inhaled deeply before knocking at the door.
When the American opened, he was shirtless, and he welcomed her with a glass of champagne in his hand.
She declined the offer with a wave of her hand. “I’m not staying,” she said, with little warmth.
“What do you mean?” he asked, placing the glass on the bedside table before coming to stand in front of her. The button of his denim was already undone, and the outline of his penis was starting to show against the fabric.
Sofiya sighed and crossed her arms. She didn’t want to have to spell it out for him, but it looked like there’d be no other way. “I only came to tell you that it’s over.” Johnson’s face told her he had a hard time connecting the dots, and she wondered how many glasses of champagne he’d already had. “Us, Timothy,” she added. “We’re over.”
“Is this a new game?” He smiled, drawing closer. “Playing hard to get, are we?” With a chuckle, he pounced on her, encircling her torso with both of his arms.
“Gotcha!” he said, pressing his lips to hers. His tongue sought entrance between her lips, but Sofiya refused it to him. She remained cold and unmoving until realisation dawned on the American that she wasn’t playing, and he let go of her.
Sofiya uncrossed her arms and rearranged her coat. “As I said, we’re over.” She gave him one last emotionless stare before turning on her heel. “Good night.”
“What the hell are you playing at, Sofiya?” Johnson reached for her right arm to stop her. With a strong pull, he forced her to turn back. Incomprehension was painted all over his round face. “You can’t just say that.”
“We are done; get over it!” Working her arm free, she used both hands to push him back. “It was just sex, Tim—an itch that needed to be scratched.”
The pain was easy to read in the man’s brown eyes. However strange and twisted their relationship had been, he’d made the mistake of letting himself care about her. “You can’t mean that, Sofiya. Please, you must come to your senses.”
“It’s over,” she repeated, her tone harder.
“No, you can’t mean that. I know you, Sofiya. I know what you need.” He was downright begging her now. “We were good together.”
Was he pleading for her or himself? Sofiya wondered. With her gone, Timothy Johnson would have no choice but to return to the Stockholm underground scene for faceless birds to fuck in drab hotel rooms. The kind that offered little challenge and whose taste was quickly forgettable.
“You don’t know me!” Sofiya all but cried as she forced her cold mask to swallow any sign of sentiment that might show on her face.
“I do know you; I know what you need. What you crave.” Johnson took another step closer, his hands outstretched and reaching out for her. “I can give it to you.”
Sofiya knew that he could, and therein lay the problem. Despite his inadequacies, the American had managed to bring some colour back to her life. But indulging in her need to fill the void inside her had become too dangerous. It was safer if she went back to her monotonous life of black and white, where she felt like she was half dying and half already dead.
Avoiding his reaching hands, she shoved him back, hard. “Get off me, Counsellor Johnson. We are over; get that through your head.”
The use of his formal title and her tone broke something inside the man, and the pleading stopped. Something akin to rage took its place.
“And how will you satisfy it now? That craving?” He asked, with a sneer. “With Petrov? Do you plan on filling that emptiness inside with his fat cock now?”
“Shut—”
He cut her off, his tone rising in volume, “Does he know how much of a depraved slut you are? Does he know what it takes to get you off?”
“You don’t know me,” Sofiya tried again, but she’d lost some of her countenance.
“Oh, but I do. Bodies speak better than words, remember. You’re just like me, Sofiya Litvinova.”
“You were a mission!” she shouted in his face. “From the first night in this room, I let you fuck me the way you wanted. I gave you what you needed, so you would keep me close to you—so I would have access to your apartment, to your private office where you keep official embassy documents.” She sneered at him with all the contempt she could muster. “Of course, you thought I liked it, too; that’s what I was trained to make you believe. But make no mistake, Minister-Counsellor, I was on orders from Moscow the whole time!”
That seemed to do the trick, and Johnson’s rage disappeared as fast as it had come. His face fell, and tears welled up in his eyes as he fought to keep his composure.
“Why are you stopping now, then?” he asked in a small voice, like that of a child begging his mother not to leave him. “When you have what you wanted?”
“Chernobyl changed everything. The Party had to adapt and modify its program as a consequence.” With a nasty smile, she said. “Count your blessings and be glad that you have become of no use to us.”
“Sofiya—I—”
“Goodbye,” she said, turning on her heel for the last time.
This time, the American did nothing to hold her back, and the door closed behind her with loud finality.
The taste of Timothy Johnson still lingered on her mouth when she entered the apartment on Marieberg at eight in the evening. Despite the later hour, the flat was empty, and she wondered at Petrov’s absence. Was he busy enjoying some quality time with his mistress while she’d just had to rip out a part of her soul?
She kicked her shoes off before heading barefoot to the liquor cabinet. She cursed when she found the vodka bottle nearly empty. She unscrewed the cap and brought it to her lips.