Doctor Gavrilov (16 page)

Tim left the office with Mike at seven and they walked together to the metro station. Near the entrance snaked a long line of people selling things; cheap cigarettes, drink, sometimes displaying just one item, perhaps a bag of flour or a pair of shoes, offering anything they had for a bit of extra money. They passed a market being packed up; trays of tomatoes, potatoes, fruit. Tim said, ‘There doesn't seem to be any shortage of food.'

‘No, but the curious thing is, there are these stalls everywhere and you never see anyone buying anything. They say the stalls are controlled by the mafia and they keep the prices too high… I don't know why. Most people just can't afford it.' They had reached the entrance to the metro; Mike left him there. ‘You go in to Park Kultury and change to the circle line. I'll see you later.'

Tim walked through the gates and the wind hit him, that and a peculiar smell he could not identify. The price of a token had just doubled, the third rise in a few months. A train was waiting and left at once; the metro, at least, was still efficient.

At Taganskaya three lines converged and he thought he would get lost. The dome, however, was unmistakable, huge and elaborately carved with a painting on a dark blue ground showing a red flag and fireworks. Little stalls clustered beneath it selling books and magazines. Someone took his elbow; he turned around.

Larissa was thin and pale with fair, crinkly hair cut short; she seemed nervous, but took hold of his arm with surprising force. ‘You are Tim Finucan?'

He shook her hand. She looked at him, appraising him. She said, ‘We can go to the Kosmos Hotel, if you like. That is where the man in question hangs out. Of course, because I was involved in the film… I'm not sure if I want to be seen there. But I've cut my hair… also I have some dark glasses.' She looked at him sideways as they started down the escalator. ‘It might be dangerous, you see.'

Conversation on the metro was difficult because of the noise of the train, but Larissa told him a little of the background to the story. The dealer operated out of the Kosmos hotel, like a lot of the black marketeers, together with prostitutes and other members of Moscow's new low-life fraternity. Larissa was not sure that he actually had much of the material he was supposedly selling. She had a long list of substances he had offered for sale, including foetal material, and military equipment. Although the film which she had taken had been used on French television to illustrate a programme on the sale of nuclear materials she personally didn't think he was selling uranium at all, more likely Red Mercury. Had he heard about Red Mercury?

Tim said, ‘Only vaguely. I was told it didn't exist.'

Larissa laughed. She said this was a headache for those who had been trying to follow the movement of nuclear materials after the Soviet Union had broken up. Across Europe there was a whole network of people – mostly criminals, in fact – offering this mysterious substance for sale at enormous prices, up to $300,000 per kilo. Red Mercury was said to be a highly explosive substance – chemically mercury antimony oxide – believed to be a vital ingredient in detonating certain types of Russian nuclear warheads. International bodies such as the IAEA were claiming it was useless and much of what had been offered on sale was useless too.

The problem was, said Larissa, that those who had so far been arrested for selling Red Mercury had also been trying to sell small quantities of uranium or plutonium.

Tim asked, ‘But this guy who we're going to see, Grebishev… if they know who he is and what he's doing, why haven't they arrested him?'

Larissa looked at him, clearly uncertain whether he could really be naive enough to ask that question. She said, ‘One possibility is because they are waiting to see if he will lead them to something bigger. I am sure they are watching him, of course. But also he is very powerful and he has many friends… Half the mafia are paying the police and as far as we know the KGB too… don't ask for anything to make sense here. Look, we get off here.'

Tim followed Larissa off the train. He wondered how he would manage to find his way without her. She let him draw level with her and went on talking. ‘He is not, of course, the only one. I could give you other names… There are plenty of people who, if they could only lay their hand on the real stuff, would be quite willing to sell nuclear material into the hands of anyone who is able to pay for it.'

They came out of the metro beside a huge titanium obelisk, a monument to Soviet space flight. Larissa put on her glasses as she emerged into the open; she looked at Tim and said, ‘What do you think? They are very stylish, they were very expensive, they are of Western make.' As they crossed the huge square, heading towards the vast semi-circular modern monolith that was the Kosmos Hotel, she pointed out a large gateway in white stone behind which lay pavilions, sculptures and statues to their left. ‘That is the USSR Economic Achievements Exhibition,' she said, with that bitterness Tim was to hear so often. ‘Well, since we have no economic achievements, maybe they are going to knock it down now.'

They entered the hotel lobby and Larissa led him through to one of the bars. It was dark and crowded and there was a dreadful band playing. Larissa said, ‘Buy me a drink. I don't mind what I have. They only take dollars.' She went and sat down while he ordered two beers and carried them to the table. Larissa was putting on some bright red lipstick. With the lipstick, and the glasses, she looked quite different.

She smiled at him and sipped the beer. ‘Don't look round, please,' she said. ‘He's behind me. By the bar. He is balding, wearing a dark suit… there is a man next to him in a grey jacket.'

Tim said, ‘I think I see him.'

Larissa leaned forward. ‘He conducts his business here quite openly. Do you have the recorder? If you go up to the bar and get some more drinks you can record his conversation. Maybe there will be something interesting. You are English, so he'll think you can't understand anything…'

Tim got up, fiddling with the tape recorder in his pocket, switching it on. He went to the bar; you had to wait a long time to be served. He gave his order, trying to speak Russian, because he knew his Russian was so bad that nobody who had a better grasp of the language could imitate it. The bargirl repeated it in English. Grebeshev glanced at him, obviously thinking him of no consequence, and continued with his conversation.

The bar-girl came back. Tim, to prolong the exchange, ordered something else. She went away again. He stood, staring into space. Larissa, in the corner, didn't look round. She was clearly afraid of being spotted. Tim leaned on the bar. A blonde woman came up, eyed him, then looked at Grebeshev, who suddenly went off with his companion to another table.

When Tim sat down Larissa asked, ‘Is that enough? Do you want to go?'

They finished their drinks quickly and left the hotel; Tim insisted on getting a taxi. In the back of the cab Tim got out the machine to check that it had recorded. Larissa took it from him and listened. She pulled a face, either at the poor quality of the recording or at what he was saying. He asked, ‘What –' and she cut him off. ‘It's very boring…' Then she held up her hand. ‘Let me listen.'

As they drove along, the light from the street-lamps flickered across her face. The pale light seemed to emphasise the white skin and the high cheekbones, the lack of any spare flesh on her. She said, ‘He is saying… he says he has the real thing. 25 kilos, 90 per cent enriched. He says he can prove where it came from, from Sarov, Arzamas 16… then the other man asks what is the price. He says, there is no price, it's priceless, and he laughs.'

She started up the tape again… Tim could hear the laugh, the same laugh he had overheard at the bar. Larissa paused the tape again and turned to Tim. ‘He says he is taking offers… he says, if your government is interested…'

‘Then the man asks where the material is and he says, don't worry, it's quite safe. He asks if there are any guarantees… then I can't hear this, wait a minute…' she wound back the tape and listened again. Tim could hear his own voice ordering the drinks. She shook her head… then she went on. ‘He asks how they get it out and he says, don't worry, there's no problem, you just drive it out in the boot of a car – now what's happening?'

The taxi had stopped. The driver got out; he opened the bonnet. Larissa sighed. She listened to the end of the tape and slipped the recorder in her bag. She said, ‘That's it. You must have the luck of the devil, you hit gold the first time… I don't know if you can use it, it doesn't prove anything.'

Tim said, ‘Who was the other guy? I should have looked at him more closely. Grebeshev said, ‘Your Government…''

Larissa wound down the window and exchanged some words with the driver. She said, ‘The idiot… he has run out of benzene.'

‘Benzene?' Tim, not concentrating, was nonplussed for a moment. ‘Oh, you mean petrol.'

‘Yes, exactly. Petrol. Benzene. Come on, let's get out and go by metro… it's not so far away.'

Larissa left the taxi driver standing bewildered by his car and they walked down the side of the long avenue. Traffic roared past them; Larissa walked fast, determinedly. Tim said, ‘But that can't be right… 25 kilos. That's enormous… that's more than enough to make a bomb.'

‘Yes, of course… but that's how they operate. The other man asks for a sample and they can produce that. Then they take some money against the real thing and it doesn't materialise… but they've still done pretty well out of it.'

‘Don't they ever get shot?'

‘Yes, of course, several people have been shot. But Grebeshev must come up with something at least part of the time; otherwise he can't still be in business.'

Someone was walking along behind them, at a distance of about twenty feet. Tim glanced round, saw a youth in a bulky jacket. He suddenly felt very vulnerable, walking down the dark avenue, with long distances between the big buildings and nobody much in sight. He was relieved to leave the vast thoroughfare and plunge down into the warm depths of the metro.

At Taganskaya station Larissa paused as they were crossing one of the bridges over the track, resting her arm on the stone balustrade as she adjusted her shoe. From the bridge Tim could see over the tracks down to the end of the platform where, above the dark mouth of the tunnel, a digital display clocked up the number of minutes and seconds since the departure of the last train, a time which was seldom more than three minutes, and, in the rush hour, often only a minute. The clock stood at 1.23.

Then everything happened in an instant. He heard running footsteps behind them and turned to see a young man grab Larissa's bag and, with a fierce shove, propel her against and over the balustrade. Her body lay on top of it, her head flung back, her long white throat exposed; he saw her hands flailing; somehow he grabbed her; another woman by his side reached out and seized her arm. There was confusion, shouting, two or three people ran after the youth, others stood around while Tim helped Larissa back on to the bridge where she sat trembling on the floor. As she did the train roared into the station, an implacable mass of solid steel, rushing under the bridge beneath them and coming to a halt with a harsh, metallic scream.

Larissa sat with her head in her hands. The woman who had helped her stood, issuing a torrent of invective at whoever was listening; Tim could imagine what she was saying, how bad things were getting, how nobody was safe these days. After a minute or two Larissa got to her feet. She swore. She had lost her glasses; they must have fallen on to the track below. Fear gave way to anger; she was furious about the loss of her bag and everything that was in it; she said it would take days to get back some of the information and some names and numbers she might never get again.

Tim said, ‘Come on. Let's not stay here.' He held her hand; it seemed quite natural. As they went up the escalator she said to him, ‘That was not just anybody, you know that, don't you? They thought I had been taking more film… They were watching me, following me. They meant to stop me… It is just the same, we are still all afraid… first it was the KGB and now it is the mafia.'

There seemed a strangeness in the light as they glided up the escalator; perhaps the lights were dimmer than Tim expected, perhaps fear had also altered Tim's perceptions. Larissa was shaking. She said, ‘Will you come with me back to the flat?' He said, ‘Of course.' She looked at him and smiled. Perhaps she hadn't smiled at him before; he hadn't noticed that her upper lip came up very high, exposing the gum line, nor that her teeth, like those of so many Russians, were mottled grey and marked by poor diet and poor dentistry. It didn't make her any less attractive; perhaps it was just that he felt protective, but he suddenly wanted to kiss her.

They came out of the metro into the square and walked down the hill in the warm night. They turned off the main road and into the side streets. Two men were coming up the road behind them; Larissa didn't say anything but she glanced around once and Tim knew that she was frightened. They came into a square surrounded by old apartment blocks; in the centre stood a small white church. There were lights on inside it; Tim could hear, very faint on the night air, the eerie sound of high-pitched singing. His hair almost stood on end.

Tim said, ‘Let's go inside.' Larissa nodded. She said, ‘There's a service now on Wednesdays.' Surely, if someone was following them, they would be safe in a church. They entered by the door and stood at the back. A mass of candles gleamed in the darkness; the congregation, mostly old women with headscarves, stood dotted around; there were no chairs. Tim stood near the door, holding Larissa's arm, and no-one came in after them.

The service seemed to be going on behind the highly decorated wall of icons; he heard a priest chanting in a deep bass voice, and occasionally a chorus of high, ethereal voices. The singers were not good, there was a roughness in their voices, but it seemed overpoweringly mysterious and exotic all the same. Tim looked at Larissa, but she pulled a face; she clearly wasn't moved at all. The women crossed themselves; the singing reached a crescendo and the gold doors opened and a priest in white popped out, carrying something on a plate.