Doctor Gavrilov (35 page)

Dmitry, Senussi, and Suzarbayev all stared at one another awkwardly. Then Dmitry said, ‘Excuse me,' and walked out into the corridor to join Senussi.

They stepped into the courtyard. There was a powerful smell of plants in the sun, of lavender and rosemary. Dmitry was silent, feeling no impulse to say anything; this was a curious feature of their relationship, the fact that Dmitry felt as comfortable with him in silence as in conversation. Senussi suggested they went to the canteen and had something to drink.

Dmitry took an espresso coffee. Senussi pointed to the small cup with its inky, poisonous liquid. ‘It's bad for your migraines.'

‘I haven't had a migraine for months.'

‘Perhaps you have no more need of them.' Senussi produced two cassette tapes and slid them over the table. He said, ‘I have brought these for you. Please keep them as a gift. You will enjoy them – they are sublime. May it be that in happier times they will remind you of me.'

Dmitry was moved by this statement and didn't know how to respond. It had been Senussi's kindness, he felt, that had helped him more than anything, more than the drugs or the enforced rest. He took the tapes and slipped them into his pocket, saying, ‘I shall treasure them.'

Senussi drained his own cup and pushed it away from him, produced a long, thin cigarette and turned it over in his fingers. He cleared this throat, hesitated as if he were about to say something difficult. ‘I have been told that as you do not need any more treatment, there is no need for me to come and visit you again.'

Dmitry said, ‘I'm sorry.'

Senussi said, ‘I too am sorry that we cannot meet again. I must make it clear that this is not my wish. I still think that you are… vulnerable. I have warned them of this.'

Dmitry looked up at him. He realised now that the doctor really meant this; that Senussi had his orders and could not overturn them. He realised that he was, in fact, very upset. He saw that Senussi's help was like a lifeline to him, and its withdrawal, in combination with the information he had just received, was deeply disturbing to him. He was distracted; he was thinking about what Suzarbayev had let slip, whether there could be any reason why Suzarbayev had told him what he had. Had he simply let it slip out in an unguarded moment, or had he told him deliberately, thinking he would pass it on? Would he tell others that he had let him know? Would that compromise his own position?

He needed something desperately to do with his hands; impulsively he put out his hand to Senussi and said, ‘Give me a cigarette.' As he took the cigarette he could see his hand tremble; he looked at Senussi and laughed. ‘Too much caffeine.'

Senussi's eyes narrowed just a fraction. Dmitry could feel them resting on him, looking far beneath his skin; he would not be fooled for a moment. Dmitry turned and looked out of the window. Senussi went on softly, ‘In particular, I have warned them there is a risk of a relapse six to eight weeks after stopping the medication. You should be aware of this, yourself.'

Dmitry said, ‘It must be nearly six weeks.'

‘Exactly.'

Dmitry looked away. A guard came over and stood behind them; Senussi, perhaps realising that all hope of meaningful conversation was at an end, rose and held out his hand.

‘I must go,' he said. ‘It has been a pleasure… I wish you well.'

Dmitry took his hand and held it for a moment firmly. He realised that he would never be able to express his gratitude, but that Senussi would understand it anyway. Senussi turned and walked away; Dmitry sat down and stared at his empty coffee cup. This did not make sense. Why, if they were concerned about his mental state, would they do this to him?

He went back to the lab, looking for Suzarbayev. But Suzarbayev was not there.

D
MITRY noticed that security at Tajura had increased. There were more guards patrolling, more tanks outside; now there was someone standing outside the laboratory, and the block itself was more heavily guarded. When he went to ask Masoud where Suzarbayev was he was told simply that he had been assigned to another project. When Dmitry protested, Masoud said that there had been a breach of security and that Suzarbayev was suspected.

He had a new technician, a young Libyan who did not speak Russian but had excellent English. He wore thick glasses, seemed arrogant and was not particularly competent, and Dmitry immediately suspected that his main purpose was not to work but to keep his eye on him. He did not know whether Suzarbayev might have confessed to them what he had told Dmitry and that therefore Masoud knew that he knew.

Dmitry found he could not concentrate on his work. He went to Masoud and asked if he could see Senussi. Masoud put his work down on his desk, took off his glasses, and gave him a long, penetrating look.

‘Senussi is not available. If you are feeling ill, we can arrange for another doctor to see you.'

‘It must be Senussi. He knows my whole history. No-one else will do.'

‘I regret that this is not possible.'

Dmitry did not argue; he knew that he would get nowhere. He was afraid, for a moment, that something terrible had happened to Senussi and that his asking for him would only make things worse. He felt that they were separating him deliberately from anyone with whom he might confide. The sense of isolation was overwhelming. Dmitry knew now that there was something going on; he became convinced that Suzarbayev had told the truth. Was that why Rozanov had sent him there? Perhaps they knew the Libyans were trying to get nuclear material from Russia. They wanted someone on the spot to find out. Then why hadn't they told him about it? Or did they not trust him? Or were they afraid that if he knew he would somehow give it away? He decided that if he could, despite the risk, he must make contact with Russian intelligence.

Rozanov had told him, before he left London, what he had to do if in any emergency he wanted to arrange a meeting with the residency in Tripoli. He was to call the consulate – from a safe phone – to speak to Andrei in the visa section, to say that Yerenkov needed to collect his passport urgently and would be there at a specified time. They would meet in a certain bookshop. It was up to him to ensure he wasn't under surveillance.

But how was he to do this? There was too much risk. He
was
under surveillance and any attempt to evade it would in itself be suspicious. Even to find a telephone from which to ring the embassy would be difficult. The bookshop might be closed, and he was afraid that so long might have elapsed since he'd been briefed that the meeting place would have been changed or the arrangement forgotten.

He went into Tripoli on the Friday afternoon and told the driver he was going to do some shopping. He knew that many shops would be closed earlier for the midday prayers. The driver pulled over on to an empty building site which was being used as a temporary car-park. Dmitry pointed to a café across the road and told him to wait for him there.

Dmitry wandered down the street. He went to Green Square, walking south down Sharah Mohammed Magarief, towards the post office and the old cathedral. He passed clothes shops, travel agents and an abundance of cafés. Then he turned right and right again into one of the main commercial thoroughfares, past small Arab lock-up shops. He walked fast, mixing with the crowds.

He found a modern pharmacy in a side street and went in. The pharmacist stood behind a counter, staring into space; Dmitry explained, half in English and half in sign language, that he wanted something for a headache. The pharmacist produced a box of pills. Then Dmitry indicated that he wanted to use the phone.

The pharmacist shook his head. Dmitry persisted, offered him some money. Eventually the pharmacist lifted a telephone from under the counter and handed it to Dmitry. He dialled the number he'd committed to memory and a Russian voice answered. He asked for Andrei, gave his message, which meant they would meet in two hours' time. He was afraid that anything shorter would be impossible; perhaps even this was stretching things too far, but he didn't want to hang around in Tripoli any longer than this. He had no idea what the procedure was. Would the person the other end have to seek permission? Would he too need time to avoid surveillance?

The bookshop, Ferghiani's, was near the roundabout off Green Square near Sharah 1 September. He stood by the magazine rack, thumbing through a copy of Newsweek. He tried to stop glancing at his watch, but every so often his concentration would slip and he would find himself touching his wrist. The hour came and went and no-one showed. Dmitry began to sweat with agitation. He felt that everyone who went past was watching him and knew what he was there for. He looked again at his watch.

If he complied with the instructions Rozanov had given him, he should wait no more than ten minutes, go away, and try again in two more hours. It might mean that his contact had been unable to make the time, had perhaps found himself under surveillance. Or it could mean that he himself was still under surveillance, and they knew it, and would then abort the meeting. How long could he stand in this bookshop, browsing along the shelves, trying to pretend he was looking for something? His behaviour was odd; if they were watching him, it would certainly seem strange, he was so obviously waiting for a contact. But then, did he have so much to lose by waiting longer? He waited twenty minutes, then twenty-five, then abruptly gave up and went out into the street.

It was hotter than ever outside. Dmitry didn't know what to do; he couldn't easily spend two more hours in Tripoli. His driver would be wondering what had happened, might even report him missing. He felt angry, upset at the thought that he had been exposed to all this stress and danger for nothing. And yet; so far he was safe. He hadn't made a contact; sitting in a bookshop looking at your watch might be suspicious, but it was not a crime.

He walked the streets, confused. Why had they not responded to his request? Wasn't he important to them? Nothing made any sense; he felt more and more uneasy. He could wait another hour and a half, or he could call it off and try again another day. Perhaps they knew that he had failed to shake off his watchers, and that was why they not made contact. He would have to wait, even if it was another week till he had the chance to come back into Tripoli.

He was walking back towards the café where he had left his driver when a car flashed past, the brilliant sunshine reflecting off the metal and dazzling him. He stepped back, into a recessed doorway; the darkness and coolness gave him some relief. The dots in front of his eyes became brighter, then more complex, triangles and hexagons spiralling out of one another, white inside but refracting around the edge to the pure colours of the spectrum. After a few minutes the aura faded. Dmitry was already inwardly tensing himself to meet the headache. He'd felt his trapped anger boiling inside him, but now a feeling of passive helplessness overwhelmed it.

His driver was still waiting at the café. Dmitry stepped into the back of the air-conditioned car with relief. He said, ‘Take me straight to Tajura.'

It was the only place now where he could feel safe.

Tim sat in the lobby of the Libyan Palace Hotel, drinking Coca-Cola and wondering how soon he could go home. Tripoli was worse than he had expected. It had been a hellish journey to Libya, by road from Tunis. The van had broken down and there had been problems at the border. The camera crew had arrived in his wake in bad spirits, and then there were all the bureaucratic difficulties. He felt he had got hardly anything they needed; the only thing that had gone right was that they had been allowed a brief interview with Gaddafi. This was something of a coup, because in recent years Gaddafi had become more reclusive, paranoid, and reluctant to appear before the press.

The scene had been a complete set-up for the cameras. They had assembled early in the morning to be taken to some secret location outside Tripoli. Before they left everything was thoroughly searched, cameras were dismantled, film canisters checked. They were driven for an hour by armed guards to the outskirts of Tripoli where Gaddafi was waiting in his tent. A wood fire and camels were on hand, specially arranged for the occasion. Tim found it hard to take it seriously. They were allowed to film the scene and talk to Gaddafi only for a few minutes. Gaddafi, who looked subdued and somewhat aged, no longer quite the handsome playboy, stressed that Libya's atomic energy programme was purely peaceful. Libya, he said, was pursuing knowledge for its own sake. Everything was under international safeguards.

In the afternoon the film crew took some general views of Tripoli, of closed-up shops, affected by the sanctions, of the harbour, of the coast. This was all they were going to get. As to asking any questions about Tajura, or being able to visit it, they met only with blank silence.

On his third day, through another journalist he knew, Tim managed to get an invitation to a reception at the Russian embassy. He wanted to talk to the ambassador, perhaps persuade him to grant an interview outlining Russia's policy on Libya.