Doctor Gavrilov (11 page)

Geneva lay beneath a thick layer of cloud. Dmitry took the bus from the airport through the grey, aseptic streets to the bus-stop in front of the Palais de Nations, and then took another down into the town. The Libyans had offered to have someone meet him at the airport, but he had declined, preferring to make his own way to the hotel. He knew that he would probably be followed, he thought that Rozanov's men would surely want to ensure his safety, but he saw no evidence of it, which reassured him because he was sure that the men he was to meet would themselves be watching for any signs that he was under surveillance. And if they saw it, what then? He swallowed, tried to suppress the convoluted chains of thought which constantly overtook him and from time to time made him feel that he might go mad.

Sitting on the bus which ran from the Palais des Nations into the centre he was afraid, conscious of how alone and vulnerable he was in this foreign city. His meeting was at two, he had nearly an hour in hand; he got off the bus and wandered down towards the far end of the lake, where the Rhone flows out under a small stone bridge. He stopped to look over the parapet at the water sweeping underneath in a powerful torrent. Dmitry felt for an instant that he would like to dive into it; he was sure the shock of the rapid, freezing water would numb him instantly, and that, dressed in his heavy coat, he would instantly sink and soon drown. He could see himself rapidly borne, a dark blob in the water, swiftly out of sight.

He looked up from the bridge. While he had been walking, the weather had changed, and a cold, dry wind had sprung up. Lake Geneva lay before him, a deep, cold blue, the surface pulled into little stiff peaks like icing by the wind. This, he had been told, was the
Föhn
, which came down from the north off the mountains, scouring the air and throwing everything into a sharp focus. Across the lake the crisp snowy outlines of the Alps suddenly appeared as if revealed by the drawing back of a vast grey curtain. It was astonishing to see what had previously been invisible so huge and close at hand.

The wind was so dry that it seemed to scratch his face and the sun felt suddenly warm on his skin. He drew in a deep breath; the spray from the water seemed to invigorate him. He turned left and walked down the street, back to the side of the lake, where the
jet d'eau
rose in a huge plume ahead of him, and behind him, the sharp peaks of the mountains glowed in the sunlight.

The hotel seemed almost empty. It was modern, expensive, and the lobby was decorated in a dusky shade of pink. At the desk Dmitry said that he was expected by a Mr Ghesuda. The reception clerk asked for his name but Dmitry did not give it. He said that Mr Ghesuda would know who he was.

The clerk made a call and said, ‘He will be coming down shortly. Would you like to sit down?'

Dmitry sat in a pink armchair by the window and waited. Two men came out of the lift, saw him, and came over; Ghesuda introduced himself and his colleague, Farzad, who was, he said, from the Ministry of Atomic Energy. Ghesuda was a small man with a mass of dark hair and an off-hand manner; the other man was older, with greying hair. He smiled much more warmly and shook Dmitry's hand.

Ghesuda said, ‘We can talk here, in the bar, or if you prefer, we can take a walk… There is a terrace outside where we can be quite comfortable…'

It was sheltered out on the terrace, the wind felt almost warm; diluted sunshine lay in patches over the white metal table. The beer came cold in tall, frosted glasses and if it had not been for the company he was in Dmitry would have found it all very pleasant.

Farzad said, ‘My superiors are very anxious to set this project up, Dr Gavrilov. They are expecting you in Libya. We would like to arrange this as soon as possible.'

Dmitry nearly choked as he swallowed his beer. He said, ‘What about these sanctions, the air embargo… doesn't that make problems?'

Ghesuda shrugged. ‘It would probably be best in any case if you did not fly by the direct route. What would you like to have as your cover? A trip to Moscow? You can fly London-Moscow, then on to some intermediate point – let us say, Bucharest, then Rome, Malta, boat to Libya. You can book the London-Moscow return ticket and we will arrange the rest for you. Someone will meet you at Heathrow airport in the departure lounge to hand you the ticket and we will have someone meet you off the plane from Malta to take care of you once you arrive there.'

This was going too fast for Dmitry, and it was not going to plan. Why had Rozanov assumed that he was likely to get the slightest scrap of information from them? Of course it was most likely that he hadn't; that he, Dmitry, had been set up; that Rozanov had intended, all the time, that he should go to Libya. He felt faint and cast around wildly for any way to slow this down. ‘But there is a problem here… If I enter Russia I have to get an exit visa… my passport is an old one, a Soviet one… I have no idea how things are at the moment but this may be a problem.'

‘Surely not if you are only in transit at Moscow airport? Well, we can look into this… we can always get you another passport, in another name, perhaps. And there are other routes. The journey will be a little exhausting, of course, but you will be well looked after in Libya, you will have plenty of time to recuperate, I assure you everything will be laid on to make your stay a very pleasant one.'

Dmitry made a soundless gesture of approval and drained his glass. They ordered another; Farzad said, ‘Your proposal has created some considerable interest. The director of our research centre at Tajura is very anxious to discuss it with you.'

Ghesuda said, with a slight edge to his voice, ‘I take it that you are still anxious to continue with this project?'

Dmitry said, ‘Of course. I'm here, aren't I?'

‘We have the contract for you to sign upstairs.'

‘Contract?' Dmitry could only echo the word, stunned by his own stupidity. The two men accompanied him in the lift to a bedroom on the sixth floor. The bland impersonality of these hotel rooms disgusted him; he thought the ante-rooms of hell would look like this. By the window stood a little desk and lamp and a gilded chair which one of the men pulled back for him. Ghesuda took a document out of his briefcase and laid it on the table. Dmitry's hand trembled as he took hold of it, and the letters blurred in front of his eyes. It was in English, setting out that he was contracted for a minimum of two years to provide services as an energy consultant to the Libyan government, to carry out research and supervision of the project outlined in his proposal of 14. April. The money – $10,000 a month – would be paid regularly into his bank account and there would be a terminal bonus. He turned the pages; he couldn't take anything in. He felt hot and clammy; of course, the room was heated, and he hadn't taken off his coat.

Ghesuda said, ‘As you will see, there are regular payments but a large proportion of the money you will receive at the end of the two years… during that time you will be free to come and go as often as you like. We realise you have family commitments… we can't expect you to stay in Libya all the time.'

Dmitry said, ‘This is rather awkward, with my family… I would like to consider it in more detail… The salary…'

‘But, Dr Gavrilov, as you understand, we can't let you show this to anyone… it is quite straightforward. Please, read it now. We are in no hurry. If you are not happy with the salary, we can discuss this.'

Dmitry said, ‘But I am not sure… until I have seen the facilities at Tajura…'

‘I can assure you the facilities are excellent. You must be aware of this… with your contacts in Russia and at the IAEA.'

Dmitry swallowed. It sounded to him like a great gulp in the noiseless room. ‘Yes, but I must be assured that you have the basic materials for me to work with… that you have the capacity to manufacture or import the parts I will need…'

‘But we are quite confident of all this,' said Farzad, reasonably. ‘Otherwise we would not be offering you the contract.'

Dmitry picked up the document and read it through again, more carefully, but still absorbing only part of it. It was curious how easy it was to be pressured into signing something. It was expected of him; if he was what he pretended to be, what possible excuse did he have not to sign it? The money was good, he had come this far. What should he do? Of course he could refuse, he could say he needed time to think, and then, in London, he could say he had changed his mind. He looked at Ghesuda's stone-hard face and instantly thought better of it. How was he ever going to get out of this? If he refused, he might never get out of this room. They might kill him. Or they might drug him and put him on a plane; he knew of such things. He did not know what meaning signing this document had; he did not understand anything about business, about contracts, still less about contracts to undertake work which must be illegal under international law.

He took a deep breath. He thought that to sign the contract in any case had no validity if he was doing it under duress, and of course he could argue, at least to himself, that he was; but this was playing games with himself. If he broke the contract, what agency would ever enforce it? Only the Libyans, and their enforcement might be an execution squad in some desert spot… He realised that he was sweating. He wiped his forehead and put the contract down on the table. He said, ‘Yes, this all seems to be all right.' They held out a pen for him and he took it. He looked at them; at their expectant, wary faces, and knew they wouldn't understand such hesitation, that they would be suspecting that all was not as it seemed. He took the pen, and paused with it above the paper; his head swam; then he put the pen down again. He couldn't do this.

Ghesuda sat down on the chair opposite him. He said, in a low, threatening voice, ‘There is a problem?'

Dmitry thought, I must explain myself, I must think of something. But moments passed, and he could think of nothing to say. He stared at the paper, the pen in his hand, as if paralysed. Then suddenly an inspiration hit him. He said, ‘Well, there is just one small thing… it is stupid, but… I understand that in your country alcohol is prohibited. I have a weakness for Russian vodka… I was wondering…'

Abruptly the atmosphere changed. They roared with laughter, and after a moment he joined them; perhaps they were, all of them, laughing with relief. Ghesuda said, ‘This is no problem, no problem. Of course, we would not expect you… We shall fly in a personal supply…' He laughed again and then, looking at Dmitry, fell silent. His glance fell again on the contract, still lying on the table.

It was so easy now. With a flourish of the pen, Dmitry signed both copies. Ghesuda took his copy, folded it neatly and tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket. Dmitry took his own; what could he do with it? He couldn't carry anything so incriminating, he would need to destroy it. He looked at the Libyans. Now they were all smiles, joking and laughing. Dmitry wasn't sure what they were laughing about, but he joined in with it. They patted him on the back. Farzad said, ‘Now we will go to the bank. We have arranged to open an account for you.'

The wind was colder now as they strolled through the main streets. The windows of the shops were filled with luxury goods; jewellery, clothes, watches; gleaming dark chocolates and gilded antiques. They passed bars, restaurants, cafés. Dmitry passed by them as if in a dream. It reminded him of when he was a child, visiting Moscow, staring in through the windows of the elite shops and restaurants; he felt as barred from indulging in them now as he had ever been. A shudder went through him; Ghesuda took his elbow.

‘Of course you know that the bank secrecy laws here do not mean that the police or security services can't investigate. We can open the account in your name; or, if you prefer, we can form a company for you in Liberia, which is registered in such a way that your name cannot be traced –'

Dmitry said, ‘Is that really necessary?' He couldn't cope with this; he resisted any further complications. Ghesuda shrugged. He said, ‘It is an option, if you are concerned about security, that's all.'

Dmitry now just wanted to get this over. They entered a private bank in the Rue du Rhone. The man they saw was pleasant, unctuous, welcoming his new customer enthusiastically; how different, Dmitry thought, from the manager in London. They went into an office and Dmitry was handed various forms. Details of the account were explained to him, though he could barely understand what they were saying. He was told that the account would be operated under the number 29690, and he should give an identification code – one word only would be fine – which he should quote with the number to make a withdrawal. Could he put the specimen signature here?

Dmitry signed twice, in Roman script and in Cyrillic. The code word defeated him for a few moments; he thought of putting ‘bomb' or ‘uranium' but this seemed foolish; as he sought for something that might be appropriate the word ‘Faustus' came into his head, so that was what he put. It only occurred to him afterwards that Ghesuda might have been looking over his shoulder and seen what he had written, but it was too late to do anything about that. After a brief discussion he also signed a discharge for orders given by telephone or fax. When the transaction was complete Dmitry folded his copy of the papers and stuffed them deep into his jacket pocket.

They returned to the hotel. A waiter brought champagne and smoked salmon sandwiches. Dmitry had a glass; he felt he had to. It went to his head instantly; he wondered if they would try to get him drunk and then start asking him questions. He felt light-headed with relief that this was over, followed by a strange, half-mad desire to confess everything to them and beg them not to make him go to Libya. No sooner had this thought entered his head than he was struck with fear, a realisation that in his feverish, overwrought state he might actually forget himself. Instantly he wanted to leave; he looked at his watch. He said, ‘I must be at the airport at eight.' They said, ‘Of course, of course. We can organise a taxi for you… Please, do not worry about anything. From now on… trust us. You are in our hands.'