Doctor Gavrilov (13 page)

‘Is there pain?' asked Rozanov. His eyes were cold, calculating the extent of his error. Dmitry's heart, which had seemed to miss a beat, was pounding now and he felt the blood rush to his face.

‘No,' said Dmitry, getting control of himself, quiet, sardonic, ‘No, don't worry, you have not given me a heart attack.'

Relief flooded Rozanov's features. He took his hand away and shook his head at the man who, poised by the telephone, was no doubt about to call an ambulance. Dmitry wondered if this had happened to Rozanov before, if he had inadvertently killed someone in this way; he sensed from his momentary panic that it had. Dmitry leaned forward and put his face in his hands. If this incident didn't convince them that he was no use for this kind of job, what would?

Rozanov did not speak for some time; perhaps he was considering this very point. Dmitry wondered if he had reprieved himself; whether Rozanov would think he was too weak or unstable to continue with this venture; but Rozanov seemed unconcerned. No doubt spies, after all, saw human beings at their weakest; blackmailed, deceived, breaking down and confessing from some inner need or under threat of death or torture.

Rozanov asked, off-hand, ‘Have you visited a doctor recently? You don't have any problems with your blood pressure? Maybe you should arrange to have a check-up.'

‘I'm fine. I have migraines… I think that I am getting one now.'

Rozanov shrugged. He said, ‘Well, then, let's proceed. The Libyans will make all the arrangements for you to go… we will not need to be involved. Of course, when you are there it will be better if you have no contact with our people in the embassy, although your presence will be made known to them. Libya, as I'm sure you are aware, is one of the most closed societies in the world. You must understand that all telephones, houses and hotels used by foreigners are bugged and monitored with the latest European technology. People are everywhere on the lookout for anything strange which they will report to the security services. You will not be free simply to go off on your own… that is why it is much better if you have no contact with us out there but wait till you are back for your debriefing…'

‘Yes, of course.'

‘However, we will run through the procedure to make contact in case there is an emergency. Please, don't make any notes. It must all be in your head. If you have to write something down, remember to conceal it in some way… For example, the name of the person at the consulate you must ask for. Put it here, in your diary, and then a Moscow phone number… of course this person does not exist.' He ran through what Dmitry should do, the procedures to be followed if he had to have a meeting, pass any urgent information over. Rozanov went on; ‘At Tajura, keep your eyes and ears open. You may have access to material others have been denied, places, persons involved in any parallel military programme. We can also give you a miniature camera so that you can photograph any documents…'

Dmitry sat back suddenly in his chair. He said, ‘No… no, I'm sorry. This is ridiculous… it is exposing me to too much risk. I'm not going to sneak around the place at night with a spy camera… if I am searched it would completely give the game away… besides, it is not necessary. I have an exceptional memory.'

Rozanov raised his eyebrows. ‘Do you? I have heard this. It is in your file. Together with some surprising mathematical abilities too.' He turned to Dmitry and suddenly snapped, ‘What are 698 times 143?'

After the briefest pause, Dmitry answered back, ‘99,814.'

One of the other men reached for his calculator. He raised his eyebrows, nodded at Rozanov, and then his eyes turned with puzzlement to Dmitry. Rozanov began to laugh. He said, ‘They were right about you, after all. You were a child genius, a walking computer. Yet in the age of a pocket calculator, what a useless skill. What a pity that for various reasons you did not live up to your childhood promise.'

Dmitry felt the anger rise in him. ‘On the contrary, this sum was far too easy. 698 is just two short of 700. Multiply 143 by 700 and you get 100,100. Subtract twice 143 – 286 – from this and there is your answer. A child could do it.'

He snatched his coat from the hat-stand, turned and ran straight out of the flat and down to the entrance hall, pursued by Rozanov's almost diabolic laughter echoing down the stairs.

T
he phone on Tim's desk rang and when he answered it was Ingrid, with her cool, slightly hesitant voice, talking as if nothing at all had happened in the weeks since he had seen her. Tim was so taken aback that he agreed to meet her for lunch that very day despite all his intentions, if she had phoned, to refuse to see her. When he hung up he stared at the phone for a few moments, surprised at his reaction. He realised that he now hardly cared whether he saw her or not.

He picked up the fax from Mike Harris in Moscow which lay on his desk. Dmitry Nikolayevich Gavrilov, born 1948, Archangelsk, educated at Moscow State University, degree in nuclear physics, researcher at the Kurchatov Institute, had also worked at the Physico-Power Institute, Obninsk… Mike added that this information wasn't up to date, because Gavrilov wasn't at the Kurchatov Institute any longer, he had checked that. He suggested Tim contact the IAEA if he thought that he had worked there.

Tim thought, on reflection, that this was puzzling. Why had neither Dmitry nor Katie said when they had their conversation the other night that he was a nuclear scientist himself? Why had the suggestion that scientists might sell their services abroad made him so angry? Or perhaps it was obvious, perhaps someone in his position would be over-sensitive to the issue. He wondered how he had ended up here. Had he married Katie for a passport to the West after his spell in Vienna, rather than return to his disintegrating country? He supposed it was very possible. In which case… he wondered whether it had been, for Gavrilov, partly a marriage of convenience. He wondered whether there was a way he might find this out.

He put the fax in his file on nuclear issues, and with an effort turned his mind away from this particular problem to today's news story.

Ingrid was a little late for lunch, as usual. Tim had suggested a new restaurant near the ITN building, which had plain wooden tables and the kind of spartan vegetarian menu which Ingrid would approve of. He saw her walk through the door; she looked just the same; tall, slim, stylish, as collected as ever. He rose when she came in and she kissed both cheeks, slipped into the chair opposite him and regarded him frankly. She said, without any preliminaries, that when Tim had refused even to talk to her about what had happened (in case he didn't remember, his exact words when she told him she had met someone else were ‘Right, fine,') she had decided the only thing to do was walk out and not come back. She said she realised now that this was cowardly. Tim, unable to admit that he had not even heard what she had said to him, had said, ‘Right, fine,' because he thought she'd just said she was going out, simply nodded. She went on to say that she'd been having an intense affair but she didn't think her lover was going to leave his wife and she wasn't sure what would happen. She didn't regret anything she had done, but was sorry about the way she had treated Tim. She said it had been immature and cruel and she had wanted to apologise.

The waiter came and they ordered; then Tim said, as casually as he could, that he didn't really mind, that it didn't matter anyway now because he, too, had met someone else.

Ingrid looked slightly disconcerted. She put out her thin, nervous hand and lifted the glass of mineral water. ‘Have you?' she asked him. ‘Is it going all right?'

‘Well, it's not really going yet at all, really… she's married too.'

Ingrid laughed, a little bitterly. ‘It's not your landlady, Katie, is it?'

Tim, not wanting to admit that he was this transparent, found himself denying this. He munched his way through his plate of veggie burger and mashed potato while Ingrid seemed defeated by her salad. He couldn't think of anything to say. He asked, more for the sake of breaking the silence than from real curiosity, ‘What does he do? This man of yours.'

‘He works for the Foreign Office.'

‘Doing what?'

‘I don't know, exactly. A desk officer, something to do with the Middle East I think.'

‘I see.' Tim couldn't really understand why Ingrid had wanted to see him. He had assumed that she might have regretted walking out and wanted to see if he wanted her back, but that wasn't it at all. Tim began to feel restless. ‘Look, I'm sorry I can't make this a long lunch. I'm rather busy at work… I'm probably going to Moscow in a week or two… It's really good to see you, I'm glad you decided to get in touch, but I can't see things going back to how they were…'

‘No; no, of course not. I wouldn't have wanted it to.' She said this hurriedly, as if she wanted to make it clear that wasn't why she had come. ‘I just wanted to… well, sort out unfinished business.'

‘Well, there isn't much to sort out… only the question of the rent you owe me.' Tim felt a small sense of triumph as he saw her flinch at this remark; he knew she probably couldn't afford to pay it and that this would hurt and humiliate her. Ingrid stared at him for a moment, then said, coldly, ‘I'm sorry, I thought that it was right for us to stay friends. That was naïve of me.' She took a card out of her bag and slipped it to him. She said, ‘Here's my new number in case you need it for anything. Otherwise don't bother.' She stood up. ‘I'll send you the rent. And don't worry, I'll pay for this on the way out.'

Tim reached into his pocket to get out his wallet but she'd already left the table. He watched her go to the till and settle up; then she went out of the restaurant without a backwards glance. Tim watched her go; for a moment he felt a sharp pang of regret, wondering for an instant whether he hadn't missed out on something. Yes, perhaps they could have become friends. Then he dismissed the thought and drained the remnants of fruit juice in his glass.

He went straight back into the office and put a call through to the IAEA in Vienna. He asked to speak to their press officer, who had just taken up his post, a Norwegian called Wahren. He asked if a Russian called Dmitry Gavrilov had worked there, perhaps one or two years ago.

‘Well, I don't know… that was before my time. If you hold on I can check for you.'

Tim held on. After a few moments Wahren came back on the line and said… ‘Yes. He was here, as you say, in 1990, '91, just for one year.'

‘What position did he hold there?'

‘He was in the Department of Safeguards… His exact position is not listed, probably he was some kind of consultant…'

‘And he was only there a year? Isn't that unusual? I thought they all had three-year contracts.'

‘Yes, that is usual.'

‘Do you know why he left?'

‘I think perhaps he left for personal reasons… why do you want to know?'

‘I'm trying to contact him. Do you know where he is now?'

‘I'm afraid for security reasons we can't give you any information on that. But I assume he returned to Russia. Many of the scientists we have here are from the major institutes… I am sure it would not be too difficult for you to trace him.'

Tim thanked him and hung up. Unhelpful bastard. Resigned for personal reasons… that was slightly intriguing. It could mean anything, including a dismissal. Still, there was a limit to the amount of work time he could put in to satisfying his curiosity about Gavrilov. He had other, more urgent things to do… He'd let it rest for now.

Dmitry knew that the moment was approaching when he would have to tell Katie that he was planning to go abroad. He had tried to raise the issue several times, but each time his courage had failed him. Now he stood by the window, coffee in hand, looking out over the garden. The weather had suddenly turned warm; the early sun shone on the damp grass and lit the new green shoots. Anna was eating her breakfast; Sasha, lying on the rug, was temporarily contented. Katie was making Anna's packed lunch. It was very quiet and still, unusually so, and he felt as if they were all waiting for him to speak out and ruin everything. But there was nothing for it; he had to do it. He said, very quietly, ‘Katie… I need to go to Moscow for two or three weeks.'

Katie had not been expecting anything like this. She looked up, suddenly, her mouth falling open. ‘When?'

‘Well… at the end of next week.'

Katie asked, ‘But why so soon? Why didn't they give you more notice? Is this connected with this UN thing?' She looked harassed, searching around for Anna's lunch-box.

‘Yes, it's to do with the new START treaty, dismantling nuclear warheads… I have to go to this big meeting.'

‘As a translator?'

He must be very careful what he said, give as few details as possible, so he wouldn't be caught out later. ‘It's more than a translation… they want me to draft this part of the report.' He hesitated. ‘And there may be other meetings.'