Peter and Bridget drove along an isolated road near a canal, where several old freighters were tied up. It was a desolate area, wind-swept and near the open sea.
“How are you feeling?” Peter asked Bridget.
“I’m feeling elated. It felt so good to bring down that bitch.”
“I am too. Let’s see what we can make of it.”
They drove on until Peter spotted a phone box on the road.
“Are you sure we’ll be safe?” Bridget asked.
“Once we’re on the boat, they’ll never find us.”
“I’ll miss Stockholm.”
“I’m sure you will.”
Peter stepped out of the car and opened the boot. Evdokia started to scream.
“Svoloch, you bastard,” Evdokia yelled.
“Hello, Mrs Petrov. I wonder what happened to you?”
“Svoloch.”
“Now calm down, Mrs Petrov. We’re stopping here so you can ring your husband.”
“Svoloch.”
“I have a very nice photograph of you with our journalist friend on the street. I am sure that your Russian colleagues in Moscow will understand perfectly when it is published on the front page of the newspaper with the title: ‘NKVD agent linked to the assassination of British Legation employee’.”
“Why do you do this?”
“The NKVD killed my friend Bernie Dixon and his wife, Sabrina. A particularly gruesome murder.”
“That is not us, Mr Faye. That is Moscow,” Evdokia pleaded. “They send an assassination squad.”
“Who are they? I want their names.”
Evdokia remained silent, refusing to comply.
“We can call your husband to have you picked up, Mrs Petrov, or we can leave you locked in the boot of the car for a few days until the journal publishes your criminal activity.”
Evdokia struggled to sit up.
“There’s a man with white hair. His name is Sasha. That’s all I know.”
“What about the kidnapping of Wilho Tikander? That was Moscow too?”
Evdokia remained silent as Peter bound her hands behind her back with wire, before pulling her roughly out of the boot.
“Come with me. We’re going to talk to your husband.”
Bridget remained in the car as Peter slammed the boot closed and dragged Evdokia over to the phone booth. He kept a firm grip on her arm as he dialled the number.
“Hello, I would like to talk to Vladimir Petrov, please,” Peter said into the phone.
A black car pulled up near them. Mads and Hendrik got out and went over to talk to Bridget.
“Hello, Mr Petrov. Peter Faye here. I have your lovely wife with me.”
In the failing light, Peter and Bridget returned to the city in the Opel, followed by Mads and Hendrik in the second car, with Evdokia in the back seat.
“Let’s just leave, Peter,” Bridget said. “We don’t have to do this.”
“This Sasha chap will not give up, Bridget,” Peter said. “They will hunt us down wherever we go.”
“If we go home, we can hide. You can return to teaching.”
“I’m not going to hide, darling. I want my life back, and I want them to pay for what they did to Bernie and Sabrina.”
Bridget looked at Peter with a curious look.
“These people are animals,” he said. “Bernie would have wanted us to do something, to strike back at them. That’s the least we can do. We may not win this war, but we will still have our self-esteem. And if we fail, well, we will still have the option to run for it.”
Bridget took Peter’s hand in hers.
“OK, Peter. Let’s do it.”
Bridget thought her decision was insane. I’m the daughter of a diplomat. I don’t do revenge. I don’t do violence. I don’t strike back against NKVD assassins. It was absurd, but she felt lighthearted and at peace as she chose to help Peter accomplish his plan.
Peter pulled over near a restaurant on a side street off Stortorget Square in old Gamla Stan. Mads stopped his car and came over to Bridget’s window.
“Hello, Peter, Bridget,” Mads said. “Hendrik and I want to offer you our condolences for Bernie and his wife.”
“Thank you, Mads,” Peter replied.
“Bernie was a good person and a fighter.”
Peter nodded his thanks.
“I’m worried about one thing,” Bridget said to Peter. ”How do you know they won’t shoot at you?”
“Not with Evdokia next to me,” Peter said.
“I’ll be watching,” Mads said.
“Listen to me, Bridget,” Peter said. “We have a good plan. Mads will take care of you. They won’t dare shoot at us in the middle of a square in neutral Sweden.”
Bridget embraced Peter and reluctantly got out of the car. She joined Mads, who was carrying a long wooden box under his arm. Peter quickly drove away followed by Hendrik in the second car.
In a side street off the famous square, Peter waited near the car with Evdokia dressed in a grey raincoat. Her head was covered with a black cloth bag. The street lights had come on and a car pulled up on the opposite side of the square. Two men emerged from the vehicle.
Peter recognized one of the men as the NKVD head of station, Major Vladimir Petrov, in a business suit and a fedora. He led the way into the square, followed by a second man wearing a workman’s cap over his white hair. They advanced toward Peter and Evdokia, who approached from the side street. Hendrik was nowhere to be seen.
The hand-off was to happen in the middle of the square. Evdokia stumbled badly on the cobblestones in her heels and grabbed Peter’s arm to support herself as they waited for the NKVD to arrive. Peter brought up his Webley revolver to show that he was taking no chances with Evdokia.
“Mr Faye. Thank you so much for bringing my wife,” Vladimir said. “Why have you put a bag on her head?”
“To shut the bitch up, Mr Petrov.”
“Ha, ha. You have a sense of humour, I think. You don’t intend to shoot her, do you?”
“Maybe I will, Mr Petrov. The woman is a lot of trouble.”
“Please don’t, Mr Faye. Evdokia is very dear to me.”
“Is this your man, Sasha?”
“Yes, this is Sasha from Moscow.”
“Tell him to hold up his arms while you search him.”
Vladimir searched Sasha, who grinned at Peter as he put his hands on his head.
“He’s unarmed, Mr Faye. We take no risk with my wife’s safety. We’re good.”
“You will not live long, Mr Faye,” Sasha said. “You remember your friend Bernie. He screamed like a pig. We do the same to you.”
“Zatknis, Sasha. Shut up, he has my wife,” Vladimir said.
“Send him over, Petrov.”
Vladimir pushed Sasha forward. The man grinned, stumbling forward like the whole thing was a joke showing his empty hands. All of a sudden, he surged forward, pulling a stiletto from his sleeve. He put the knife very close to Peter’s ashen face.
“Don’t move, Mr Faye,” Sasha said. “Give me your gun. My men have you covered.”
On the second floor of the darkened restaurant overlooking the square, Bridget was seized with fright. Peter’s prisoner exchange was unravelling before her eyes. Bridget and Mads had watched the events unfold from a window where Mads has installed his Soviet M91 sniper rifle. At this distance, he could easily take out Sasha with a headshot.
“He’s got a knife, Mads,” Bridget said in a panic at Peter's precarious situation.
“Shoot the bastard, Mads.”