“You’re not the only one under scrutiny, you know,” she said eventually. “They have me on a tight leash too. Stockholm was a disaster, and the director’s making me pay for it,” she admitted, looking away from him. “By the looks of it, this, too, will be another black mark on my file.”
A humourless chuckle escaped Petrov’s lips. “Some honesty, at last.”
“You want honesty?” she asked, turning back to face him with a raised accusing finger. “How many black marks do you think the Komitet will tolerate?” Sensing an opening, Sofiya continued with renewed passion, “If I go back to them empty-handed, Viktor, I’ll be marching to my own death.”
“Sofiya, I—”
“You might as well kill me yourself,” she cut in. “I know you have a pistol with you, so go ahead and use it.”
“Don’t be dramatic,” Petrov said, taking a step closer to her.
She turned her back on him, hiding her face and the tears that she could feel pooling in her eyes. “There’s no other way for it. You either give me something, or you can kill me.” She took a step away, then another, and her silky auburn dress undulated in the car lights. “Here and now, Viktor. Make your choice.”
The open road faced her, and she wondered if she could walk away. In less than ten minutes, she’d be home. But what good would that do you? she asked herself. She was on assignment from the director himself, and he would know if she failed. Mikhaïl Serov may tolerate another black mark, but she knew the director wouldn’t.
Behind her, she heard the familiar sound of a pistol being cocked. Viktor Petrov had made his choice then, and Sofiya turned to face him with all the dignity and determination that years of training had ingrained in her. The only thing betraying her emotions was the brightness in her green eyes as she faced the weapon in Petrov’s hand.
“I can’t give you what you want,” he said.
Little emotion showed on the tall man’s face, and Sofiya knew he had as little choice as she did. Both of them were pawns—disposable pieces used and abused in a game they had no control over.
“It’s all right; I understand,” she nodded. “For what it’s worth, I don’t blame you.”
She took a step closer and another, coming to stop inches away from the muzzle of the pistol. From this distance, she knew the shot would be fatal.
Petrov nodded, and Sofiya looked up. The sky was bright tonight, and she wondered when she had last taken the time to look at the stars.
Not a bad sight to die to, she thought, and a shot rang out in the night.
SATURDAY, APRIL 5, 1986.
Sofiya knew something wasn’t right when she felt no pain.
She looked down at the pistol in Petrov’s hand and saw plumes of smoke leaping out of the barrel. It was aimed at the empty parking lot on her right, she noted. He’d averted his shot, but “Why?” she breathed out, with what little air she had left in her lungs.
“Come with me,” he entreated her, raising his hand to aim at her again. “Work for me.”
Was he offering her a third option, she wondered, go rogue, leave the KGB?
The Communist Party would never forgive her for that; they would hunt her down, and then go after her entire family, just to make an example.
“They won’t let me go, Viktor. They made me who I am; I belong to them.”
“Don’t tell them; let them think they’ve won.” The pistol in Petrov’s hand didn’t waver. “You’ve given this country more than it deserves. Come back to Sweden with me—work for me. In exchange, I promise to find a way to get you out.”
Then, using her own words against her, he said, “Make. Your. Choice.”
The alarm clock beeped at eight, and Sofiya groaned in her pillow. She had a dry mouth and a killer headache, and it took a while for the room to come into focus after she’d opened her eyes.
Before going to bed, she’d downed half of the bottle of vodka she kept in her fridge, and it hadn’t agreed with the champagne, oysters and other delicacies of the evening. After a long moment in the bathroom, she’d finally managed to fall asleep, but her dreams had been plagued by tormented memories and nightmares of the future that awaited her.
With a groan, she stood and stretched her taut back before slipping out of bed. The auburn dress was pooled by the foot of the bed, and she left it there with her high-heel shoes and faux-leather purse. Crossing through the room naked, she entered the kitchen and aimed straight for the fridge. A cold shot of vodka with ginger and lime was the best hangover cure she knew.
She froze when she noticed a familiar figure sitting on her sofa: Mikhaïl Serov.
“Wild night?” he asked, taking in her messy mop of hair and smudged mascara.
She cursed at the sight of him. “Don’t you know how to knock anymore, Misha?”
Forcing an innocent look, he leaned forward and said, “Had to make sure you were alone before I showed my face.”
“Fuck you,” she muttered into the fridge. Uncapping a bottle, she took a long swallow which burned all the way down.
“Have to say, I was a bit disappointed not to find the Counsellor here, sprawled between your porcelain white legs,” Serov continued, “or were you too wasted to perform?”
Sofiya closed the fridge hard, then she turned on her heel and left the room. She didn’t need to look up to know that Serov’s gaze followed her retreating back’s every move. Bet seeing me this way gives him a hard-on, she thought bitterly before pushing the bathroom door open.
Serov was still on the sofa when she came out of the shower some twenty minutes later. He still hadn’t moved when she entered the kitchen dressed in black pants and a thick woollen grey jumper.
She placed a suitcase at her feet. “I’m expected at the airport at eleven. Petrov is taking me back to Sweden with him.”
“Wonderful, my little bird,” Serov said, with mock pride. “I never once doubted you.”
Sofiya chose to ignore his comment. “What’s the contact protocol?”
“If you need help, send a letter to your dearly departed aunt,” he said, getting to his feet. “I’ll know what it means. Then wait two days, and I’ll give you a signal to arrange a meeting.”
She nodded. “Fine.”
“But that’s only if something urgent comes up,” he cautioned her. “Otherwise, I want you to stay dormant for the first two months. Once that period has elapsed, we can arrange regular information drops and figure out a way for me to give you your instructions.”
Two months without having to see this pervert’s face! Now that sounded like a real holiday. “Anything else?” she asked.
“Not that I can think of, no.” Serov opened the door to see himself out. “Thank you for serving the cause, little bird. And don’t mess this up.”
She didn’t need to be told that twice. Closing the door, she felt trapped between a rock and a hard place. On the one hand was the devil she knew: Serov, the Komitet and a world of red lies and deceit. On the other, shrouded in darkness, was the riddle that was Viktor Petrov and his untold secrets. And somewhere between the two, almost invisible to the naked eye, stood the very fine line she’d have to walk if she wanted to get out of this mess alive.
SUNDAY, APRIL 6, 1986.
The Soviet embassy was situated at Gjörwellsgatan number 31, in the district of Marieberg, on the island of Kungsholmen. Looking at its dreary austere exterior, you’d never guess that it had once been a porcelain factory.