Cristelle Comby - Red Lies

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.

Petrov had driven past it on the way to his apartment. And he’d explained to Sofiya that the ambassador and most of the embassy staff lived within walking distance of the chancery, in houses and flats paid for by the Motherland.

Petrov himself had been granted the use of a two-bedroom flat located on the fourth and last floor of an apartment building situated on a bay that overlooked Lake Mälaren, the third-largest freshwater lake in Sweden that flows through the capital.

On the living room balcony, Sofiya stood facing the horizon with a map of the city in one hand and a coffee in the other. Committing landmarks to memory, she took in the scenery left to right. A corner of the Västerbron Bridge in the distance, and then the island of Längholmen. A glimpse at the southern suburban part of Stockholm right in front of her, and to her right the island of Lilla Essingen. The landscape here was so different from home, and she knew it would take her time to get used to this meandering city that stretched across fourteen islands. The smallest ones only had two or three roads crisscrossing their surface, while the larger ones housed up to a dozen districts. Moving around town also came with a lot of complications, seeing as there were only so many bridges. With no direct routes, people often had to hop on and off two or three islands to reach their destination.

A cold gust of wind coming in from the south blew her hair in her face, and she shivered. Cradling the coffee mug in her hands, she returned to the warm confines of Petrov’s living room.

Though there was nothing ostentatious about the place, it was elegantly decorated. A light-brown couch and two assorted armchairs sat around a hand-carved wooden coffee table. A tall buffet and several wooden shelves completed the ensemble.

On the right, a small corridor led to the front door, and on the left, a longer one led to the twin bedroom suites.

She’d been relieved to discover there were two separate bedrooms and that she wouldn’t be required to share a bed with Petrov. Since their discussion in the alley, the diplomat had shone his true colours. Gone was the kind smile and warm face he’d offered her at the Kremlin. Now she was faced with a cold, controlled man who preferred the sound of silence over idle conversation.

That last part suited her fine, and she was relieved to learn that he would be spending most of his time out of the apartment during weekdays. Even better, his position saw him forced to attend several social events in the evenings, and sometimes, during the weekends.

“Of course, it will be expected that I take my girlfriend to the most important ones,” he’d said without looking up from the newspaper he was sifting through.

“I will need clothes,” she’d replied from where she sat on the sofa.

“I’ll give you money for that.” He turned a page. “Oh, and go to the hairdresser, too; do something about those bangs—your hair looks too Russian.”

Reaching a hand up to brush at the short hair that stopped just above her eyebrows, she’d wondered what a hairdresser could do about it—aside from letting it grow.

“Use your free time to brush up on your Swedish,” he’d continued, as he neared the end of the newspaper. “You need to be perfectly eloquent, but keep a slight Russian accent for now. After all, you haven’t been here for long.”

Their conversation had naturally come to an end when the phone rang. Petrov got up to answer from the privacy of his bedroom, rather than use the unit in the living room. Sofiya hadn’t dared try to listen in on it. He left her alone in the flat soon afterwards.

Closing the balcony door shut behind her, she took her empty mug of coffee to the kitchen sink and left it there. She hadn’t been here for a day, but already, she felt restless.

After she unpacked, she spent the better part of the afternoon inspecting the flat, on the lookout for hidden cameras or miniature microphones. She found none and had been left with nothing more to do. Itching for some action, she shrugged on her boots and reached for her coat. Petrov wanted her to be familiar with the city and the local language? Well, she only knew one efficient way to do that.

She jogged down the steps, two at a time, buttoning her thick woollen coat as she went. She crossed the lobby, pushed the large glass door open, and froze when she recognised a familiar silhouette in the parking lot.

She ducked behind a low hedge of cypress trees before Petrov had the time to see her. The blonde diplomat stood by the boot of his car, with his hands deep in the pockets of his black coat. He wasn’t alone; a woman stood facing him.

Sofiya didn’t have time to see her face. Cautiously, she inched closer to the last tree and peered through the needles. She could make out her slim, medium-height silhouette and long, flowing red hair, but she was looking out on the parking lot, and Sofiya couldn’t see her face. The anger that radiated from the woman was easy to spot, though. It showed in the tensed arms that she’d crossed over her chest and the nervous booted foot that kept tapping the sidewalk. Petrov had a more relaxed stance, and Sofiya strained her ears to try and make out his words.

“…ready for Friday, don’t worry…” the words came and went, carried on the wind, “…natural talent at this…”

The redhead turned her head to face him again, allowing the young spy to discern her features. They were those of a mature woman who’d probably already reached fifty. She had a round face, almond-shaped, coal-rimmed eyes, thick, glossy lips, and a clear penchant to overdo things in the makeup department.

A deep frown creased her brow. “Talent enough to stab you in the back,” she said, anger in her tone. She wasn’t as soft-spoken as Petrov, and Sofiya had no trouble hearing her side of the conversation. “She is Directorate K, Viktor. You know what that means—everything she sees and hears she will report back to Moscow.”

“…long as the assignments are in line with the cause…to worry.” Petrov took a step forward and reached for the woman with both hands. He forced her to uncross her arms and took both of her hands in his. “You…too much,” he muttered before leaning in close to kiss her fully on the lips. When they parted, he inched closer and murmured something in her ear. The words were lost on Sofiya, but the reactions they had on the woman weren’t. The corners of her mouth relaxed, and her eyelids drooped. Whatever he’d just offered was appealing to her. And the way she reached forward, letting go of one of his hands to brush hers against his crotch made the nature of the offer abundantly clear.

Stepping away briskly, the redhead turned on her heel and headed for a light grey Volvo parked a little ahead. She got in, turned the engine on, and drove away. Petrov was right behind her, following her in his own car.

Once they’d both disappeared down the road, Sofiya moved out of her hideout, hands in her pockets as she pondered this new turn of events. Viktor Petrov was having an affair with Svetlana Anatolieva Alexeïeva, the Minister-Counsellor of the Soviet Embassy.

Well, well, well, she thought, unable to keep from smiling, what in the world am I going to do with that information ?

Petrov was still absent when Sofiya returned from her hour-long walk. She surmised that he wouldn’t be there for another hour, at least, and she took a long bath to warm up. She found him in the living room afterwards when she went to the kitchen to prepare an evening snack.