“There’s a reason Moscow pays such close attention to what goes on in Stockholm,” Petrov said, placing both palms on the table as he faced the young woman. “This country has chosen not to take any sides in the conflict that opposes east and west.”
There had been no ‘how are you?’ or ‘how was your day?’ Rather, Petrov chose to go straight to business, and Sofiya took it in her stride.
“I know that; they’re neutral,” she said, between two bites. “No need for a geography lesson.”
“You don’t understand the importance of this,” Petrov continued. “We can move about this city as freely as the Americans. We go to the same bars and restaurants. We run into each other at parties, while our wives shop at the same boutiques and frequent the same hair salons.”
Sofiya kept chewing as she waited for the punchline.
“The American embassy is in Östermalm, less than twenty minutes away. The ambassador lives in Villa Åkerlund; that’s in the middle of a public park. Anyone can take a stroll around it, even us.”
Petrov paused and waited for Sofiya to join the conversation. She shrugged her shoulders and took another bite that she chewed conscientiously. He kept waiting until she offered, “As I said, I don’t need a geography class.”
Petrov’s hands tensed on the table, but his face remained under control. “This isn’t about geography, Sofiya. It’s about the sense of safety the Americans feel. They’re not on their guard and easy to approach.”
There it was, she thought. There was someone he wanted her to approach.
“I’ve met the American ambassador, and I’m on speaking terms with all the highest-ranking counsellors,” Petrov continued. “I wouldn’t say that we’re friends, far from it, but there’s a mutual understanding between us, in this city. Or so we let them believe.” He paused to make sure he had her entire attention. “We know the Americans have submarines in the Norwegian Sea and above Finland, ready to deploy and shoot at us. But we don’t know where they are, and we can’t crack their communications. There’s a comm relay in the American embassy; if we could get our hands on their code…”
“TJ–9, I suppose,” Sofiya guessed that elusive code was what he’d promised Moscow.
The diplomat nodded. “The weakest link in their ranks is Thomas Johnson, the Minister-Counsellor. With the right kind of leverage, he could be persuaded to let us in.”
Sofiya scoffed at the scope of the task at hand. “You want to turn the Minister-Counsellor? You’re crazier than I thought.”
“Not turn him; that would take more leverage and money than even I can access. With your help, I will only ask him for one small favour.”
Petrov sat up and moved to the living room. He motioned for Sofiya to follow him. She obeyed and found him standing next to the coffee table with a briefcase in hand. He opened it and placed it atop the wooden surface. A manila folder, emblazoned with the Soviet Union logo, sat atop the pile. He reached for it before handing it to Sofiya.
Flipping it open, she discovered the picture of a man who had to be between thirty-five and forty years old. He had a kind, round face, deep brown eyes, and a youthful smile.
“Thomas Johnson,” Petrov confirmed. “And everything we know about him. Including the nightclubs that he likes to frequent and the hotel he takes his mistresses to.”
“What happens when he sees me on your arm at your next cocktail dinner? He’ll recognise me for sure.”
“Don’t worry about that; it’s all part of the plan.”
It was a plan to which she only knew the outline. From the hard set of the man’s jaw, it was obvious he wouldn’t give her more information than what was in the file. Her usefulness had its limits, and Sofiya felt like she had just exchanged one master for another. That realisation left a bitter taste to her mouth, and she felt like washing down her sandwich with a glass of vodka or two.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Petrov broke her musing as he closed the briefcase. “He’s using me like the KGB used me. He only sees me as a thing, as sexual bait, nothing more.”
“Not that far from the truth, is it?” Sofiya said, letting the bitterness she felt colour her words.
“This mission is important,” the diplomat continued, ignoring her interruption. “It will give us a considerable lead over the Americans. We’ll be congratulated by the Motherland for what we’re about to do.”
Sofiya scoffed. “Please give me a break; you’re as much a patriot as I am your beloved girlfriend.”
“Fiancée.” Petrov gave her a smile that was as fake as his devotion to the cause. “I think it best to update your status.”
Hell, now she really needed that drink. Dropping the folder on the sofa, she turned on her heel and marched to the liquor cabinet without a single glance at her betrothed. The vodka she found in there was the expensive kind, and she poured herself a large glass.
Petrov let her have it and left the room without further explanation.
FRIDAY, APRIL 11, 1986.
Petrov was silent as he drove his car through the night. They were going north, Sofiya noticed, and soon left the island of Kungsholmen behind. Turning right after Karlbergs Palace, they entered the Vasastan district and followed the river south until they reached Gamla Stan—the old town. Situated on the Stadsholmen island, Gamla Stan was known to the locals as Staden mellan broarna—the town between bridges. With its medieval alleyways, cobbled streets, and archaic architecture, Gamla Stan was a maze of narrow paths and sharp turns. It was also the home of some of the city’s most secret nightclubs.
Petrov stopped the car at a deserted street corner. Pointing at the entrance of a dark alleyway, he said, “Take that road; the club will be on your left.”
Sofiya nodded and reached for the coat she had left on the backseat.
“Know what you have to do?” the man asked, his gaze surveying their surroundings.
The young woman nodded again and opened the door. She was halfway out of the car when Petrov’s cold fingers wrapped around her wrist.
“I asked you a question, Sofiya,” he said, in a tone that commanded an answer.
“I know what is expected of me.” She shrugged her arm free and left the car. She closed the door with more force than was necessary.
She shivered in the cold night and wrapped her long coat tighter around herself. The weather here wasn’t as cold as Moscow, but that damn humidity had the knack of chilling her to the bone. She hurried to the alleyway and only slowed when pavement gave way to cobblestones. Behind her, she heard Petrov turn the car around and drive away.
She found the club entrance easily. The red neon of its sign glowed vividly in the dark, luring in customers like the wicked sirens of Ancient Greece. She pushed open the door and almost coughed at the smell of stale smoke and sweat that hung inside.
She checked her coat in the locker and used that time to get used to the new surroundings of disco beats and dim lighting.
Tonight, she’d let her long brown hair loose, and wavy strands cascaded on her bare shoulders. The shimmering red sequins of her dress reflected the coloured lights dazzling at various angles. The strapless outfit was very snug, moulding itself to her every curve. Ending mid-thigh, it made her long legs seem even longer. Black pumps with high heels completed the ensemble.
Leaving the locker behind, she tried arranging the front of her dress to make room for her breasts—damn, but she could hardly breathe in this.
There was an animated mass of people, young and old, on the dance floor. Through the loudspeakers, a woman warned that it was going to ‘rain men’ to an upbeat tune, and the dancing crowd tried to keep up with the rhythm on the dance floor.