The Traitor's Story by Kevin Wignall Page B

gun into the pocket when he got home the night before, and he reminded himself now that he had to get rid of it. For the time being, though, he didn’t even take off his overcoat, just walked on through.
    She hadn’t heard him come in, and he stood in the kitchen doorway for a moment watching her. She was in her stocking feet, wearing her beige woolen dress; he didn’t know what it was called—a sweater dress, perhaps—but he liked the way it looked, the way it hugged her curves. Her hair was pulled back into a simple ponytail, something she only did when she cooked.
    There had been some tension between them this last week or so, never spilling over, never descending into blame, but it was still there, the knowledge that he’d quit, that he’d soon have no job to keep him in Tallinn. Standing there watching her, he knew they had to find a solution, because he didn’t want to be without this woman, couldn’t be without her.
    Throughout his twenties, he’d feared the prospect of “settling down,” a term that had always seemed possessed of its own claustrophobic menace. He’d been in love before, but in retrospect it seemed that one small part of his psyche had always held back, counting down the days, looking to the horizon.
    Perhaps he’d even been like that with Sofi, treating it like a game. And only now did he see the folly of it, because only now did he fully understand that he wanted to spend his life with her, have a family with her, to become middle-aged and dependable.
    As if hearing his thoughts, she finally realized he was behind her and she looked over her shoulder and smiled and said, “How long have you been standing there?”
    “Oh, a little while.”
    “I made a casserole.” She opened the oven and put the dish in, and as she wiped her hands he walked over and kissed her, then again, and put his hands on her hips and pulled her close.
    She laughed a little and said, “Okay, I had intended on a bath, but . . .”
    He pulled away so that he could look her in the eye and said, “I’ve decided on a solution, to our problem.” She looked at him quizzically. “I’ll stay.”
    “In your job?”
    “No, but I’ll stay here, in Tallinn.”
    The quizzical stare turned to confusion. “But how? What about money?”
    “I have a little money.” The lie of it stung him. He wanted to tell her, was desperate to tell her. “I’ve saved some money over the years, maybe enough to start my own business, or tide me over while I write a book—”
    She was about to interrupt, but the doorbell beat her to it. They both hesitated and then Finn said, “Do you want me to stay?”
    “Of course. I want us to be together.” She laughed, as if seeing that the problem really could disappear so easily. The doorbell sounded again, and she pulled away from him, releasing her hair from its ponytail at the same time.
    “Don’t answer it,” he said quietly.
    She smiled, shaking her head. “Easy for you to say—you know it won’t be for you.”
    She made for the door, and he walked over and looked at the bottle of wine she’d taken out. Automatically, he resented whichever friend or relative or colleague had come calling, but after a barely audible exchange there was silence, and then Sofi appeared in the kitchen again.
    She looked slightly bemused as she said, “It’s for you.”
    He walked through into the hallway and took a second to identify the woman standing there, another second to appreciate the implications. He concentrated on staying relaxed as he said, “Louisa—I didn’t hear you were in Tallinn.”
    He was annoyed with himself because they’d been waiting for him, because the car had clearly been on the street when he’d come in a short while before, and he should have spotted it.
    “Hello, Finn.” She smiled, but it veiled over a much graver expression. He wondered if this was it, if the Kremlin source had proved too reliable, if he’d pushed his luck a little too far. Would they