“Well, well, well—wouldn’t that be my little swallow?” Viktor Petrov asked, in a tone she couldn’t decipher. He’d stopped at the beginning of the section in which Sofiya crouched.
Opening the box’s flap with one finger, Sofiya turned to face him with a controlled mix of surprise and annoyance.
“Comrade Petrov,” she noted, pushing a folder inside the box. “I’m going to end up thinking you’re following me.”
Leaning against a row of cardboard boxes, the diplomat chuckled. “If I remember correctly when we last met, it was you who was looking for me.”
Standing back up, box in hand, Sofiya let him think he’d won the point. “May I know what a gentleman such as yourself comes to do in the archives?” she asked, her tone forcefully cold. “Don’t you have any dust-free hands to shake?”
“I have some documents to consult,” he said. “And what is your reason for being here? I didn’t know field agents archived.”
“They don’t,” confirmed Sofiya, feigning annoyance. “Except, of course, when they get reprimanded for coming back from a mission empty-handed.” She punctuated her words with a dark look in the man’s direction before stretching to place the box back on the top shelf. Guilt-tripping the mark was a classic ploy, and it worked every time.
Petrov hesitated for a moment before stepping closer to her. “Oh, is it because of the Stockholm mission?”
The young spy wasn’t lying when she said, “Yes, it’s all your fault.”
“You see my confusion,” he admitted, thinking it true. “How can I make it up to you?”
“You could help me with the archiving,” she suggested, turning back to face him, hands on her hips, an eyebrow raised in a mock challenge.
He burst out laughing, which pissed her off. These noble-born, they’re all the same, she thought disdainfully—too good for grunt work.
“I can’t do this,” he said, serious again, “but I can try to make up for it later. How about I invite you for dinner?”
“I’m not interested in you.” Sofiya started to turn her back on him. Playing hard to get was also high in her book of tricks.
“I said invite you, that is to have a drink or eat something, not sleep with you.”
With a seductive pout that was intended to be perceived as fake, she turned back to face him. “Oh, so you’re not interested in that last part, are you?”
“No,” Petrov shook his head. “You’re out of my league; I know that much.”
Turning on his heel, he called out over his shoulder, “But the invite still stands. Call me for the details; I’m sure you’ll have no trouble finding my number.”
“Damn Nomenklatura,” she muttered between clenched teeth as she retrieved her empty cart and pushed it towards the exit. “Always feeling so entitled.”
Predictably, Viktor Petrov had taken the bait, but Sofiya refused to smile at her victory. She would have preferred that her little mind-game was discovered and that this whole charade was put to a premature end.
In a vacant office of one of the Kremlin eastern towers, Mikhaïl Serov finished cleaning his Makarov pistol with a small piece of cloth. He and Sofiya had been cooped up in the austere room for two hours, and he’d chosen to use this opportunity to clean his service weapon.
“He’s leaving tomorrow,” Serov said, loading a fresh magazine. “Tonight’s your only chance to persuade him to take you with him, little bird.” He pressed the lever on the left side of the frame, and the slide released, loading a cartridge into the chamber. “I suggest you play the damsel in distress and let him be the one who saves you from this cruel life.”
“Thanks for your help,” she said with an eye roll. “But I know what I’m supposed to do.”
Eight o’clock was fast approaching, and Sofiya paced the room in circles like a caged animal. Her mind flashed back to the panther and tiger at the Marquis’ home, and she wondered at what had happened to the wild creatures. They had probably been moved to other iron cages they so desperately wanted to escape from. She knew how they felt and shared their yearning for a taste of freedom.
Inspecting his handiwork with an approving nod, Serov said, “Our first meet-up will be in two months unless you have something urgent to communicate.” He engaged the manual safety mechanism before placing the Makarov back in its shoulder holster. “We need him to lower his guard first before you can activate.”
“I know how it works,” Sofiya confirmed. “Make him fall in love, marry him, and then stab him in the back.”
Serov raised an eyebrow at that.
“Figuratively,” she amended.
“For now,” the senior officer said, standing up.
The wall clock ticked eight, and he opened the door for his colleague. Feigning sincerity, he said, “I’m going to miss you, little bird.”
She turned on her heel and walked out without sparing him a glance. “I’m afraid I can’t return the compliment,” she tossed over her shoulder.
Sofiya had never been in the Grand Kremlin Palace before, and she marvelled at the opulence she discovered inside. It was so unusual for her country.
Georgievsky Hall, one of the palace’s five reception halls, was longer than most churches she knew. Named to commemorate the Order of St. George, the long rectangular hall was lined with snow-white columns and intricately carved niches. A dozen massive golden chandeliers hung from the high arched ceiling, their light reflecting in the glazed, ornate wooden parquet.
The massive hall felt oppressive to her, and she would have felt lost in the sea of dignitaries massed around the various buffets had she not been at Petrov’s arm. The tall, blond man was dressed in a clean-cut navy suit. For once, Sofiya had been allowed to wear something more feminine than her service uniform. The clothes had been selected for her by Serov, and looking at the other women present, she saw that they suited the event.
It wouldn’t do to be too provocative at such a prestigious event, and a large mink cape covered her bare shoulders; even her hands were gloved in black velvet. Beneath the cape, she wore a long auburn dress, a little larger fit than she was used to, but one that still offered ample cleavage.
“Well, Comrade Litvinova, how do you like your evening?” Petrov asked as he directed them to a buffet filled with toasts and caviar. He took two pieces of bread, placed a large spoonful of black eggs on each, and handed one to his guest.
“It’s all right,” she said before taking a bite. “I’ve seen better.”
“All the elite of the Soviet Union in one room,” Petrov chuckled. “And my date is jaded.”
Sofiya finished her toast and said, “I’m hard to please.”
Petrov saluted an elderly man in a uniform who had just arrived at the caviar stand, and they moved forward, aiming for a buffet covered in assorted seafood.
“Ever tried oysters?” Petrov asked as he grabbed one for himself. Licking the shell bare, he swallowed it, and Sofiya raised a curious eyebrow at him.
Rising to the challenge, she looked at the variety of toppings and sauces on display and grabbed a shell. She covered the oyster with some onions and a strawberry and swallowed it. The flavours blended together on her tongue in an exquisite mix. Smiling at the man’s disbelief, she said, “A French chef taught me all the best ways to enjoy their taste.”
“Aren’t you full of surprises?” Petrov nodded. “I have to say, you have rather piqued my curiosity,” he continued. “And now, I wonder: how does one become a spy?”
“The traditional way,” she replied, as they kept moving forward in the grand hall. “They noticed me when I was in school; my parents, who are farmers, agreed to let me go. The next thing I knew, I was enrolled in the FCD program.” It was the truth, mostly. She’d only left out the part where she had to abandon everything she knew, her family, and her friends—all to come to live in a secret military compound where she was tortured and pushed beyond her limits—but the Motherland called that training, so what was there to complain about. And she’d gotten out eventually, and into a proper apartment, once she graduated.