Sofiya did as was suggested, taking her sweet time to do so. She was halfway through when someone knocked on the door. Alexeïeva went to open it, and Sofiya heard Natasha say, “The Ambassador wants to see you.”
A sigh later, the redhead said, “Leave the form on my desk when you’re done. Natasha will find someone to drive you home.” Sofiya heard no goodbye—only the tip-tapping of the Minister-Counsellor’s heels on the cold, hard floor as she walked away.
The young spy dutifully finished filling in the form, then used the tissues and glass of water to clean herself up. The hobo look did its job, but with the redhead gone, she could start to look like herself again. Svetlana Alexeïeva had eyed her like a hawk, from the minute she got in the office, analysing her posture and tone of voice. But Sofiya had been trained to withstand far more difficult interrogation techniques, and she’d played her role to perfection. Had Petrov been present, her goal would have been more difficult to achieve; knowing him, he’d have come up with questions meant to trip her up and destabilise her. But the ginger-haired diplomat, so busy marking her territory like a dog in heat, had been as easy to fool as a child.
Once again, Sofiya wondered at the strange relationship Petrov and Alexeïeva entertained. If that leather could speak, indeed, she thought, standing up. She placed the form on the diplomat’s desk and returned her pen to the tumbler from which it came. Leaning over the desk as she did so, Sofiya took a long look at the assorted documents on the flat surface. Then, bending down to re-tie her shoelace, she placed the small listening device Serov had given her under Alexeïeva’s desk chair.
FRIDAY, JUNE 13, 1986.
The SSI had its offices on the outskirts of Stockholm, in Solna. Tucked next to Hoga Park and Brunnsviken Lake stood Karolinska Universitetssjukhuset, Sweden’s largest university hospital. And next to it, the Karolinska Institutet, since 1810, one of the world’s leading medical universities. Several pharmaceutical and research companies had their offices on the same street corner, as did the Swedish National Institute of Radiation Protection.
Sofiya wore one of her best disguises to infiltrate the tall glass and concrete office building: that of blandness. She wore a simple pair of dark trousers and an off-white blouse that was a little too large. Her makeup was different, too, and a lot more subtle than usual. She’d applied a matte foundation to hide all kinds of shine and wore no lipstick and various shades of brown eyeshadow to highlight the dark circles beneath her eyes rather than hide them. She’d let her hair loose and brushed it so that the strands had little to no movement to them.
Sofiya knew that beauty attracts attention just as much as ugliness, but that there is a small area between these two qualities where one can achieve true anonymity. For when physical traits are neither pretty nor ugly, they become—unremarkable.
This anonymity wasn’t to be found solely in clothes and makeup; it was in the person’s posture, too. Not so slack that it would seem like one was tired or bored; too straight-backed would lean towards pride or rebelliousness. No, a perfect balance had to be found between the two. It was an extremely fine line that Sofiya had to walk if she wanted to blend in with the background to the point of vanishing from awareness.
She came down the street with the gait and facial expression of someone who’d had the same job for many years, and who acted as if on autopilot. A group of three middle-aged women stood by the entrance door, their ID badges at the ready, and Sofiya narrowed the gap with them. Staying half a step behind them assured her onlookers that she was part of their group.
The man minding security flashed their ID badges one by one before letting the four of them in.
The young spy followed the group of women down a corridor. At the end of it, when they turned left to go back to their office, she turned right and headed for the stairs.
On her way to her target, she passed a door labelled “Office Supplies,” and she stopped on her tracks. Pushing it open, she stole a pencil and an empty manila folder that she tucked beneath her arm. Then she kept moving forward and mingling with the other employees.
To anyone who glanced up from the documents on their desk, Sofiya looked like a regular employee: glad to have a job but slightly bored of it just the same.
Using Serov’s information, she had no trouble finding the office she was looking for. The plaque on the door read, “Regional Director Magnus Sjögren.”
Relaxing her shoulders for a moment, she reached a hand up and knocked twice.
“Come in,” a voice called through the flimsy panel of wood.
“Morning,” she said, pushing the door open. “I need to make copies of,” she opened the empty manila folder in her arms and pretended to look for a reference inside, “Report 86–12, please.”
The office was medium-sized, with two wooden chairs for visitors and a central oak desk with electrical cords dangling off the edge. On the right stood three rows of shelves filled with binders and manuals. There was a window on the other side.
A man sat behind the desk. In his early sixties, he was busy filling in a report by hand.
Director Sjögren paused in his writing to look up at the newcomer. His weathered face had amiable wrinkles. “What do you need it for?” he asked.
“I have to make three copies,” Sofiya said with a shrug of her shoulders. “Don’t know what these will be used for, though.”
“Are you on Lise’s team?” Sjögren asked, standing up.
Though she had no idea who Lise was, the young spy nodded. “It’s my first week.”
“86–12, was it?” the elderly man asked as he stood to reach the highest shelf.
Sofiya hmmed confirmation and stayed where she was.
“Ah, there we are,” Sjögren’s fingers fastened on a thick folder. “The Chernobyl report. Yeah, that’s a popular one. Probably someone at the Riksdag that wants a copy.”
He took it out and handed it to the young woman with a kind smile. “Bring it back when you’re done, will you?”
“Sure thing,” Sofiya said before taking her leave. She was out of the building ten minutes later with the file in her hand.
Serov was parked in a dark-brown Volvo two streets away from the SSI facility. He saw her coming in the rear-view mirror. The engine whirred to life as she opened the passenger door, and they were off before she had time to fasten her seatbelt.
“Everything went all right?” he asked, taking a turn to join a busier street that headed south and into Stockholm.
“Of course,” she said, opening the file she hadn’t had time to inspect more closely.
Report 86–12 had been redacted by one Anders Björkman, an analyst, on May 2, 1986. It contained an early chronology of what the Swedes had dubbed the “Chernobyl Emergency”.
The report accounted for what happened at Forsmark on the morning of April 28 and detailed the radiation levels recorded. Then came the numbers transmitted by the three other nuclear power plants in Sweden, the ones provided by the Finnish Centre for Radiation and Nuclear Safety, and finally, the contribution from the Risö Research Centre in Denmark.
Sofiya flipped the pages and discovered documents from the FOA, the National Defence Research Institute, and the SMHI, the Swedish Metrological and Hydrological Institute. Very thorough, she thought as she kept reading.
Looking at the various timestamps on the documents, Sofiya had to admit the Swedes had been quick to figure things out. The alarms sounded at Forsmark at 10 am, and the FOA and SMHI reports came in at around 1 pm that same day.
“In less than four hours, they had the numbers to prove that it was a severe nuclear reactor accident and that it had to have come from one of five USSR sites,” she said out loud. “What do we need this file for?” she asked.