Doctor Gavrilov (10 page)

‘He was working there?'

‘Yes, at the UN.'

‘As a translator?'

Anna was poking the baby; Katie told her to leave him alone. She seemed already to have lost the thread of the conversation; Tim thought how easy it was to avoid answering a question you didn't want to when there were children around. Katie poured out the tea, Russian style, into glasses with ornate metal holders and passed one to Tim. He tried again. ‘What was he doing at the UN?'

He didn't know whether she was deliberate in being evasive. ‘Oh, I don't know… it's just a hopeless bureaucracy. They spend their time writing memos and going to meetings…'

Tim pressed on, ‘But he was at the IAEA?'

‘What?' She looked at Tim, still distracted, then swivelled round to address Anna who had just hit Sasha with a rattle. ‘Go upstairs! Go on! Now!' Anna went to the foot of the stairs and sat there; Katie, having won a partial victory, turned back to Tim with a sigh. ‘It's hard for her. Did I tell you; she's not Mitya's child, she's from my first marriage.'

‘And your first husband? Do you have any contact with him?'

Katie said, staring down at her tea, ‘No, I don't.'

Tim didn't know if he could ask anything further, but he tried. ‘Not at all?'

Katie looked at him and shook her head. ‘No, not at all. I don't ever want to talk about it, Tim, actually, please don't ask me. I'm afraid I'm a rather private person.'

Tim was silent. Yes, I remember that, he thought, and that's one reason why I'm drawn towards you. He felt a sense with her of something hidden, held back, to which he would like to find the key. She was one of the few women he had really wanted who he'd never been to bed with; perhaps that was also what had kept his interest in her alive. He wouldn't ask her anything more, not now, anyway. He must tread carefully. It was not just she who intrigued him, either, but the whole situation; her rather odd, mysterious husband, who he was sure she couldn't really be happy with, and who might be useful for his work.

He sipped his tea. A silence had fallen between them, but it was not an unpleasant one. He said, ‘Well, then, I promise not to ask you any more questions.'

As he spoke the front door opened and Gavrilov walked into the living room. He stopped, stared at Tim, clearly taken aback, and said, abruptly, ‘What are you doing here?'

Tim looked at Katie to see what she would say; she pushed her tea way and half rose from her chair. ‘Mitya, Tim was just looking after Sasha while I went to pick up Anna from school.' He could see that she was angry, but suppressed it. Gavrilov turned away and went to sit next to Anna on the sofa, put his arm around her, turned on the television and sat watching a cartoon. It was far too loud and the inane noise filled the room, making conversation impossible. Katie got up and took him a cup of tea; they did not exchange a word or glance.

She came back to the table. Tim couldn't help looking at Gavrilov; he could see the coloured light from the television flickering over his drawn face. Anna, clearly bored with the dreadful programme, slid to the floor and began drawing on a piece of paper; Gavrilov suddenly sat up and turned down the volume. He said, in a voice which was oddly sharp, ‘Anna, what are you doing with that pen?'

‘I found it in your pocket.'

‘Well give it back. You'll break it.'

‘I won't. I'm just…'

‘Give it to me!' He held out his hand. The whole force of his will seemed directed at the child and she crumpled suddenly, as if she sensed there was something that she didn't understand; Tim too couldn't work out why the sudden anger. Anna threw the pen at him and ran out of the room and up the stairs; Gavrilov picked it up from the floor and put it in his jacket pocket; he leaned over and switched off the television, and a deep and uncomfortable silence fell over the room.

Tim felt it was time to go and stood up awkwardly. ‘Look, I ought to be getting on. Thanks for the tea. If you need me again…'

Katie showed him to the door.

In the morning Tim put a call through to their man in Vienna, Mike Warburton. He said he wanted to check if a Russian, Dmitry Gavrilov, now a translator, possibly trained as a nuclear scientist, had worked for the IAEA in Vienna in 1990 or 1991. He said he just wanted to know his background; it wasn't urgent.

Mike said cheerfully, ‘OK, will do.'

Rozanov appeared out of the crowds on the northbound Victoria line platform at Oxford Circus to stand beside Dmitry.

Although Dmitry had been expecting him, he almost jumped as Rozanov brushed his elbow. His voice half whispered close to Dmitry's ear; instinctively he stepped back, away from the platform's vertiginous edge.

‘Well done. You were inspired. Perfect.'

Dmitry stared straight ahead. ‘On the contrary, I got nothing out of them.'

‘That doesn't matter. You'll get another chance. You were very good; very convincing.'

‘They need a proposal. I'm working on it now. It's not too technical… I'm not giving anything away.'

‘Excellent. We'll make your next payment when you meet them again.'

Dmitry handed Rozanov the pen-transmitter, anxious to be rid of it. ‘It's no good. They want me to go to Geneva.'

‘Geneva is very pleasant at this time of year, I believe,' Rozanov said mildly.

The wind had started to gather in the tunnel; the sign above them swayed and trembled and there was the distant tang of electricity. ‘How can I go? I couldn't afford it. What excuse can I make? My wife is not an idiot –'

‘This is no problem, Dmitry Nikolayevich. You can get very cheap fares to Geneva. You can say you need to visit the various agencies there to see if they have translating work… there's the UN, OPEC, the Intellectual Property Organisation… and then you will get the work and be amply reimbursed. We have it all worked out.'

Dmitry, thought, yes, of course you have. He felt completely exposed in front of Rozanov; felt that he predicted everything he said or did, and expected, was actually amused by, his muted, almost pathetic signs of protest. Rozanov slipped the pen transmitter into his pocket and turned towards the lights of the oncoming train. ‘Of course, you must be careful what you say. Some wives are easy to deceive, and will not notice an infidelity when it is staring them in the face, while others can spot the first sign of it. What kind of wife do you have, Dmitry Nikolayevich?'

Dmitry sat up late that night, writing his proposal. He had no idea what degree of detail was expected; he decided in any case he must keep it to the broadest possible terms. He translated his original proposal from years back, drew diagrams, made a summary; he could not believe that he was doing this.

He wrote:

This technique offers a low cost alternative for the enrichment of uranium and provides many advantages to existing techniques. Materials of construction are mostly available from the mass entertainment and military electronics markets.

Construction time would be shortened.

Power consumption would be minimised.

Costs – materially lower than for a centrifuge process.

There followed two pages of technical discussion about the new gas separation process. The major problem, he admitted to himself, would be, having separated the Uranium 253 from 258, how to remove them from the chamber separately. He decided to rather gloss over this difficulty; no doubt they would pick this up later. Probably their people at Tajura would turn the whole thing down as unworkable, and that would suit him very well. On the other hand, they might see him just to talk it over, and then ask him if he would be willing to pursue more conventional methods. Well, he would have to see. He couldn't look beyond this; he just had to take this step by step.

When he went upstairs Katie was still awake. He undressed and got into bed beside her and turned out the light. They lay together in the darkness; she moved towards him and said, ‘Won't you tell me what you're doing?'

‘I've been writing some letters. Katie, I think I'm going to go to Geneva. There might be some work from the UN there… I have some contacts, it sounds quite promising…'

Katie said, ‘Yes, I see, yes, all right then. When will you go?' She sounded reluctant; he could sense she didn't want him to. Dmitry at once sounded vague, half-hearted.

‘I don't know, exactly… perhaps I won't go. It was only an idea.'

As he expected, Katie changed her tone at once. ‘No, I think it's a good idea… I think you should.'

Dmitry was silent, not knowing what to say. Katie said, ‘Mitya, I was thinking… perhaps I should try to get some work.'

‘What kind of work?'

‘Well, I was a translator, too… I could ring up some of my old contacts…'

‘But how could you? You're still feeding Sasha… you would have to pay someone to look after him and that would probably cost more than you would earn. Besides, you said you wanted to be at home with the children.'

Katie shifted in bed and then was silent for so long that he thought she must have fallen asleep. Then she said, ‘I'm starting to go mad. I never see anyone and we hardly know anybody. I just don't think I was cut out to be a full-time mother; I'm no good at it.'

‘No, that's not true. You are a wonderful mother. It's just the children who are difficult at the moment. It will get better, and when Sasha starts at school…'

‘Well, maybe I could put some feelers out. I was talking to Tim and –'

He said, he couldn't stop himself, ‘Oh, not Tim again.'

‘Mitya, you're being impossible. What is all this about Tim? He's the only person who's ever offered me any help… You put me in a very difficult position. He was asking how we met and I had to go through contortions to try not to tell him what you did… why does it matter? If he wanted to know he could look it up easily… You've nothing to hide.'

Dmitry said, ‘No, I'm sorry, I was being unreasonable.'

They were silent for a while; the conversation had gone round, and now they were back at the beginning. Katie said, ‘Well, if I can't work, what can we do about money?'

He turned towards her, put his arm round her. ‘But Katie, I've just told you, I'm trying to do something about it. Don't worry; I'll go to Geneva, and I'm sure I will get some work. Really, I'm certain.' He stroked her hair; he kissed the back of her neck, but she didn't respond to him; she suddenly turned away and started crying.

He said, startled, afraid, ‘What's the matter?'

‘I don't know… you've seemed so preoccupied, so unhappy, these last few weeks… It isn't me, is it? You don't regret…'

He sought at once to reassure her, relieved that for a moment he could give full and fervent expression to the truth. ‘Regret? What, being with you? Katie, if you only knew… you're the one thing in my life I don't regret.'