Serov had spent the last two days organising everything. For all his sleaziness, Sofiya had to admit that when on a mission, he was efficient. While she’d brushed up on her Swedish at the hotel, he’d procured them with a means of transportation and greased enough hands to ensure she’d make it to her target without question.
The house she was in—which many would call a small palace—belonged to a local nobleman, Lars de Cointreau. He was the descendant of a French Marquis, and he liked to flaunt his title at every opportunity. To that effect, he frequently hosted eccentric parties to which most of the Stockholmian upper crust was invited. Tonight, the guest list included the Russian ambassador, his chief of staff, and their target.
The reception hall was impressive: a vaulted ceiling embellished with scalloped edging, plaster medallions, and custom mouldings loomed over a glossy hardwood floor. Four large marble columns lined the room on both sides.
Sofiya acted like she’d just returned from a trip to the restroom and moved like she belonged here as much as any other guest. Entering the hall, she discovered that next to each column stood a caged animal. The closest one held a jet-black panther that seemed to want to be here as much as the Soviet secret agent did.
With her head held high and her shoulders tucked back, she mingled with the other guests. The results of years of posture training were in full display when she reached for a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. She brought it to her lips with grace and a delicate arching of her hand—a gesture not unlike that of a seasoned ballerina. Beauty could easily catch the attention of men, but she knew it took something more to ensnare them. And she’d spent years perfecting that something more.
Moving to another marble column, she discovered, at its feet, a white tiger. The caged animal was nervous, roaming left and right as much as it could within the confined space. It was obvious the poor beast wanted out, and it would have gladly sunk its teeth into the first fat bourgeois it found.
A man got a little too close to the cage, and the tiger roared in his direction. The two women by his side giggled in delight. Disgusted, Sofiya thought the two tarts in fluffy dresses looked like ostriches and could have benefited from having their own cages.
Moving forward, she kept looking for the face of the man she was after: he had short-cropped blond hair, high cheekbones, an aquiline nose, and hard-set lips. She had memorised the photograph she’d been given down to the last freckle, but the diplomat was nowhere to be found. It didn’t help that a lot of the local Scandinavian guests shared many of the Slavic traits she was looking for.
It was the eyes that she recognised first—calculating, icy blue pupils that felt like a cold street on a winter morning. Viktor Petrov, Counsellor at the Soviet embassy to the Kingdom of Sweden, stepped into her field of vision, and she took an instant to assess her target. The uprightness with which the tall, athletic man walked was impossible to miss, and evidence of his aristocratic ancestry shone in his every move. Dressed in a dark blue suit with fine white lines, the thirty-nine-year-old diplomat stood out from the crowd with his height and allure.
Sofiya aimed for the red panda caged to the man’s right. Timing her steps so that their paths were sure to cross, she missed a step midway and tripped on purpose.
As intended, Petrov caught her with ease, and she clung to his rescuing arms more than was necessary. Through the rich fabric of his suit, she felt strong muscles undulate beneath her fingers as he helped her find her balance.
“Förlåt mig,” she said, in flawless Swedish. “Two drinks, and I cannot walk straight anymore.” Still half in his embrace, she looked up to thank him and found a face unlike what she expected. There was no smile on the man’s lips, no warmth to his features. It was as if he’d caught her more out of reflex than out of any real interest.
Well, thought Sofiya, this will be more difficult than I thought.
Untangling herself, she blinked her coal-circled, moist green eyes at him. “Malin Waldenström,” she said, reaching out a delicate hand to him. “And whom might you be?”
His voice was deep and cold, as he replied, “Viktor Petrov—but you already knew that.”
She blinked her incomprehension at him, lowering her hand when it became obvious that he had no intention of shaking it.
“You can drop the act; I know what you are,” he continued in Russian, sotto voce. “With your tight-fitting dress and swan-like face that would drive any lesser man crazy, what are you, Directorate K?”
Sofiya swallowed thickly and fought not to let her mask slip. Who the hell was this man, she wondered, and how could he have seen through her so quickly? Or had he been warned that someone from Moscow was coming?
“I’m loyal to the Motherland and the cause,” Counsellor Petrov continued. “If there’s a leak at the embassy, it’s not coming from me. Now go home, little swallow.”
The demeaning nickname and the acerbic tone with which it was said grated on her nerves, but she fought not to let that show. Giving up on any plans to seduce her mark, she quickly switched tactics and reverted to her native language, too.
“Fine, you know why I’m here. Then also know this: I will not go home empty-handed.” Inching closer to him, she whispered in his ear, “Give me something, or I’ll stick to you like a second shadow.”
When next she crossed his gaze, she seemed to catch a hint of challenge in Petrov’s light-blue eyes.
“You know what it’ll be like,” she continued. “Wiretaps, photographs — I’ll have my eyes on you like a satellite in the sky, just like that new MIR station they launched yesterday.”
“I am, and have always been, loyal to my country.” Petrov looked down his nose at her, contempt dripping from his every pore. “If they want proof, tell your superiors that I have devised a way to activate plan TJ–9; that ought to do it.”
The code-word meant nothing to her, but Sofiya committed it to memory.
“I believe this concludes our little discussion,” he said, before reverting to Swedish. “God kväll, fru Waldenström.”
Before she had time to reply, Petrov had already stepped away to join a group of men massed in front of the white tiger. Sofiya had no choice but to let him go. Before leaving, she reached for another glass of champagne, which she downed in one go. TJ–9 better mean something to her superiors, or she’d be walking home empty-handed.
WEDNESDAY, APRIL 2, 1986.
Leaving the bourgeoning warmth of spring behind, Sofiya pushed open the wrought-iron gates of the unwelcoming FCD building. It was a massive concrete building punctured by rows of small barred windows and made up entirely of sharp angles and straight lines.
Dressed in a crisp uniform, she saluted the young officer minding the security checkpoint without stopping. In the foyer, she drew in a breath before taking the stone steps to the higher floors two at a time. It wasn’t often than an officer like her was summoned to the top floor, and she wondered what fresh hell awaited her there.
She reached her destination at the end of a long, carpeted corridor, lined with pictures of the highest-ranking members of the Komitet—past and present. She took a minute to rearrange her uniform before knocking on the door. The order to enter was immediate, and she stepped inside.
The rectangular office was large and sparsely decorated. A window on the left-hand side illuminated the room, and a corkboard took up nearly all the space on the opposite wall. Maps, pictures, and a variety of documents were pinned to it in an assortment of clean rows and columns. On the wall opposite the door stood three filing cabinets and a large oak desk.