Knowing now what fate would befall her should she get caught, she slowed her pace even more to not make a sound at all. The corridor turned left and started to incline upwards. Glancing down at the map, Sofiya knew she had to be close to the exit now.
When the ground beneath her feet started to shake, and dust fell off the stone walls, the air became even more difficult to breathe. The young woman froze as a low rumble grew nearer, reverberating off the walls and echoing down the entire length of the corridor. Sofiya flicked her flashlight off as she waited, motionless. The burbling noise built up, louder and louder before it faded to nothingness again.
“Metro–2,” muttered Sofiya in a reedy whisper. It was the only thing that made sense. Flicking the flashlight back on, she got going again. More than an urban legend, Metro–2 was believed to have been built simultaneously with the Moscow Metro to ensure emergency transport links between the most important defence and government facilities and to evacuate the staff of senior state structures in the event of an attack. The secret lines ran deep beneath the city and, she guessed, right below this very tunnel.
When the incline beneath her feet steepened, and the air became more breathable, Sofiya’s anticipation of finding the way out intensified. Her long trek through the past was rewarded when, at the next turn, a large wooden door was revealed. She tried pushing it open, but the thick iron hinges refused to move.
Peering at it more closely, she noticed there was a key in the lock; it was made of iron, too, and looked old and rusty. Praying that the room on the other side was empty, she turned it as slowly and softly as she could, only to realise the key wasn’t the only part that was old and rusty. The entire mechanism was gritted, and she struggled to move the key. It finally turned, and the latch opened with a loud clang.
Sofiya held her breath—if someone was on the other side, there was no way they didn’t hear her. She let a full minute pass by before she dared to open the door.
She was surprised to find herself in a cellar. On both sides, and as far as the eye could see, were tall shelves stacked to the brim with a variety of dust-covered wine bottles. She moved closer to inspect the labels and found French red wines dating as far back as the 17th Century.
“And they call this an Armoury,” she tsked.
She was tempted to open one at random for a sip or two. The journey through the tunnels, with its dry, stale air and age-old dust, had left her parched. She fought the instinct; the mission wasn’t over, and she needed to keep her wits about her. On the way back, though…
Folding the map, she placed it back in her pocket. Crossing through the cellar, she found a staircase that led into the north wing of the Armoury. She climbed up as silently as she could and used Petrov’s intel to navigate the building until she reached her target.
The next door she found in her path wasn’t as easy to crack as the last one had been. This one had a biometric lock, and there was no tool in her leather pouch that would allow her to circumvent such an advanced system. She reached for a little zipped bag that she had in her bag and, with careful movements, pulled out a small piece of silicone.
“This had better work,” she muttered to herself as she turned it face down before pressing it to the sensor with her thumb.
A little green light moved up and down as it scanned what the machine perceived to be a human finger. When the machine bipped, and a red light appeared, Sofiya cursed beneath her breath.
She lifted the piece of silicone, counted to ten in her head, and applied it to the surface again, this time adding a little more pressure. The scanner activated again, moving up and down, and the wait seemed infinite. A bip later, the door unlocked, and Sofiya let out the breath she’d been holding in with relief. She pocketed the fake fingerprint and entered the Armoury’s secured vault number 3.
She had General Igorov to thank for granting her access to the Ministry of Defence’s private vault. Not that he would ever know he had—but what else did the man expect, leaving his vodka glass behind after leaving the Marieberg flat? Actually, a small part of her hoped that officers with a higher rank than Igorov would one day figure out that it was him that the enemy had used to get to the file; then, there truly would be karma justice to this world.
The room wasn’t as large as she’d imagined, but then again, this was one vault out of the six hidden at the Armoury, so there was still plenty of space for the Motherland to hide its dirty laundry. Barely three-by-four metres, the room was stacked with shelves from floor to ceiling on both sides. All of them were full of cardboard archive boxes with handwritten labels. According to Petrov’s intel, she needed the one that said ‘Pegasus’ on the front. It was the codename for the list of all the Soviet spies undercover outside of the USSR at the present time. The list was updated once a week and existed in only two exemplars: one that was encoded on a medallion that the KGB director kept on him at all times, and another that was hidden here, in a place where no one would ever think to look—well, almost no one.
Viktor Petrov was waiting for her return in the bedroom when Sofiya climbed back in through the window. Serov must have given him the key, she thought. It probably came with a scathing comment about her behaviour during the reception.
The young spy smiled to herself; the irony of the situation hadn’t escaped her. For all intents and purposes, Mikhaïl Serov was her alibi for the night. The Directorate K officer had escorted her to a bedroom on the second floor and locked her inside himself. Should there ever be an inquiry as to the guests’ whereabouts tonight, Sofiya would be cleared without second thoughts, thanks to him.
Though he’d removed his custom-tailored black jacket, Petrov still wore the rest of his wedding suit. Beneath the perfectly groomed exterior, he looked tired and worried.
“How did it go?” he asked, unable to hide his eagerness to know the answer. Whether he worried for his wife’s safety or the completion of the mission, Sofiya wasn’t sure—knowing the man, she figured it was for the latter.
“Fine,” she said, patting the backpack that she now balanced on one shoulder. “I took pictures of everything.”
She closed the window behind her and turned to see something she had never seen before. Petrov smiled. It was not one of his faked, politician smiles, but rather, an honest gesture that betrayed happiness, relief, and pride—all at once.
“It’s over?” he said, in a breath. “It’s truly over.”
He moved backwards until the back of his legs hit the bed, and he let himself fall on the soft mattress. The wave of relief that hit him was so intense, it looked as if all energy had been drained out of him.
Sofiya remained by the window, unsure of what to do. This was a new side of Petrov, human and without a mask. She wasn’t used to it, and it left her unsettled. As she looked around, she noticed that both their suitcases had been brought to the room. She hoped he’d been the one to take them there, rather than a bellboy who may have noticed her absence. She was tempted to ask him about it, then thought better of it. It was Viktor Petrov, after alclass="underline" the man with plans within plans. His name and such a stupid mistake didn’t belong in the same sentence.
She moved to her suitcase and knelt down to open it. Moving her stuff to one side, she pulled at the lining at the back until the Velcro strap released its hold. She placed the small backpack there, along with every precious thing it contained. Then she fastened the lining back in place and spread the clothes in front of it evenly.