Doctor Gavrilov (36 page)

Tim moved among the guests, sipping the champagne; it was good to have a drink at last. Tim found himself standing in a group of journalists. Some Russian was holding forth, saying that diplomatic contact between Libya and Russia ‘has always been close and productive' and that there was more to be lost than gained by de-stabilising the Gaddafi regime. US policy against Libya in particular was extreme and unfair.

Tim steered the conversation round to nuclear co-operation between Russia and Libya.

‘There has been a great deal of co-operation between Western nations and many other Arab states,' said the Russian. ‘It is hardly fair to point the finger only at Russia. There have been some exchanges between Tajura, and Russian scientists have worked here, on purely peaceful projects, I would stress.'

Tim sighed. Everybody said the same thing; it was hopeless. He said, ‘But there have been some intelligence reports… that there have been other scientists working there, let us say, unofficially…'

The Russian seemed surprised. He said, ‘I don't know of any such reports.'

‘But there was one report… there was a name. It was an expert in uranium enrichment, working here… a Dmitry Gavrilov.'

‘I'm sorry, I don't know of this person. If you will excuse me, there is someone I need to talk to over there.'

Tim was left sipping his drink. He felt weary and annoyed; the trip would turn out to be almost pointless. He was afraid that Rowley's prognostications would turn out to be correct; he would have to justify the money somehow; he needed something concrete. At any rate there was no point in hanging around here. He put his drink down and moved towards the door. As he reached it he was aware of someone following him, stepping out beside him, a short man, with dark hair, middle-aged, nondescript.

‘My name is Dorokhov,' the man said. ‘I couldn't help hearing what you said to the attaché just then. This is a very important subject, worthy of much more attention.'

Tim mumbled a reply; something about the way Dorokhov looked at him made him uneasy.

‘You mentioned some intelligence reports. May I ask, do you mean, British reports?'

Tim looked at him, startled. He was quite sure now that Dorokhov was KGB. He said, ‘You know a journalist always protects his sources.' Dorokhov laughed, drily. They were half-way down the stairs; in front of them was an empty plinth from which the bust of Lenin had probably been removed. Dorokhov went on, ‘So you are writing about this, are you? This man… Gavrilov… he will figure in your report?'

‘Well, yes… unless of course he's not here, has gone back to Russia or is… dead.' Tim threw this out, rather as a desperate last chance, because he didn't want to feel he had failed Katie completely, that at least he had made some real attempt to discover what had happened.

‘Dead?' Dorokhov's face, which must have been trained for impassivity, registered complete amazement and disbelief. He stood still for an instant; then he continued to walk forward, slowly, perhaps anxious not to reach the entrance to the embassy, to risk losing Tim. Tim, now that he had gone so far, and thinking of Katie, asked, ‘Well, is he?'

Dorokhov clearly had no idea what to make of Tim or what to say to him. He said, ‘You are asking me this question? Why? You seem to know everything yourself.' His eyes were narrow, now, hard, calculating. Tim felt that he wanted to get away at once. It struck him that he had made a stupid error; that Dorokhov might wonder how on earth he knew these things, think that he might be a British spy. This might have the most awful, unforeseen consequences. He said hurriedly, ‘Well, of course, not everything… if you excuse me, I have to go…'

They had reached the door; Dorokhov stood in front of him, blocking his way. He said, ‘Well, perhaps, tomorrow, everything will be known. Yes, well, that's very possible. It has been a pleasure to meet you, Mr Finucan.' Tim felt a shock when he heard him use his name. Dorokhov put out his hand and Tim shook it, and found it hard as steel.

Dmitry's car was mired in traffic on the corniche beside the harbour, heading for Tajura. The sun was sinking low in the sky and in the distance he could hear the sound of the muezzin calling people to evening prayer. The sound touched some nerve deep within him; what could it be like to have such faith in God that you could speak of him like this? He lowered the window to hear the sound more clearly and, as he did so, saw a motorcycle drew level with them. It came so close, weaving through the narrow gap between the vehicles, that he felt it touch the car; he felt the slightest impact as it passed. He caught a glimpse of a taut, set face under the rider's helmet; then the motorcycle swerved abruptly in front of them, on to the hard shoulder, where it accelerated away at great speed. Some instinct alerted Dmitry. He shouted to the driver, ‘Get out!' and flung the door open, running as fast as he could between the traffic and on to the side of the road.

There was a bright flash. He was sitting on the tarmac, looking at the car, except that it was not a car any more, the front was a crumpled mass of metal and the bonnet was ablaze as if a fire had been lit under it. He caught a glimpse of the driver, and didn't want to look; he swivelled his head away and instinctively passed his hand in front of his eyes. People were running past him in all directions, abandoning their cars, fleeing for safely. One or two of them were bleeding, holding hands to their heads, others were screaming and waving their arms. He scrambled to his feet, but he couldn't balance properly; he wandered aimlessly up and down the pavement, in front of the crowd which was rapidly gathering, aware that they were staring at him; then he went back towards the car, unable to leave the scene, mesmerised by the flames. The crowd gathered round him, all talking at once, pointing; he followed their gaze and saw for an instant the outline of the driver in the fire, like a charred stick.

This vision was so terrible that he couldn't think straight. It could have been him in the car; it should have been him. It must have been a bomb. They had tried to kill him. A policeman was running along the pavement, shouting at the passers-by to step back. He addressed Dmitry in Arabic, then, when it was clear he didn't understand, in English. He asked, ‘Were you in the car? Please, come here.' His voice sounded as if he was a long way away.

Dmitry heard the police siren, then another; an ambulance arrived; Dmitry sat down suddenly on the pavement, shaking violently all over. With every moment that passed, as the realisation of what had happened hit him, he became more and more panicky. A policeman had knelt down and grabbed hold of him and was asking him questions, but he sounded faint, like a radio turned down too low. Dmitry shook his head; he didn't understand, he couldn't even work out what language he was speaking. He felt something wet dripping down his face, he felt his forehead, which he now saw had blood on it. There was blood coming through his sleeve, too, but he couldn't feel anything, he couldn't understand whether he was hurt or not.

He heard more sirens now, and the crowd was pressing in on him. The policemen took him by the arm and helped him into the back of an ambulance. Dmitry didn't want to go; he didn't want to admit he might be injured. He kept saying, over and over, in English, ‘I'm not hurt, leave me alone,' but nobody took the slightest notice.

Tim heard the dull thud of the explosion in the lobby of the hotel but it was some minutes before he realised what had happened. Lewis, one of the cameramen, ran into the lobby and started picking up his things, surreptitiously, anxious to avoid the gaze of the minders who went with them everywhere. ‘Quick, Tim, there's been a car bomb, on the corniche… come on, let's go the back way.' They ran through the hotel kitchens, past puzzled chefs, assaulted by the smell of frying meat and the sound of clattering saucepans. Outside, in a side-street, they found a taxi. The area near the bomb had been cordoned off and there were police and soldiers everywhere.

Lewis managed to get some shots of the smouldering wreckage, crouching down and filming between the legs of the crowds to try to avoid a confrontation with the police, who would almost certainly confiscate the film if they saw him. Tim managed to find someone who spoke English, who told him that the ambulance had just left for the hospital. He said that the driver of the car had been killed but the passenger, it was remarkable, had seemed almost completely unhurt, but had been wandering up and down the pavement in a state of shock.

Tim didn't think it would be any good, but he thought he might try to go to the hospital and have a look. Lewis said he would come with him.

The nearest hospital was a red brick building near the city centre. An armed man stood at the gate; Tim said he needed to see a doctor urgently, he showed his international press card; finally the guard made them fill out a form and waved them in. They walked down the hospital corridor; nobody stopped them. Tim asked for casualty and a doctor pointed back the way they had come.

They came to a room full of people waiting on long benches. As Tim walked in and moved along the wall, scanning the weary rows of faces, he saw and recognised Gavrilov. Tim knew it was him at once even though he looked different – his hair was much shorter, he was thinner, and his face looked gaunt. It gave him a shock; this was too much good fortune, he couldn't believe his luck. Gavrilov was sitting, staring straight in front of him, with blood smearing his face and staining his white shirt. As Tim started to move towards him a doctor came out of a side-room and nodded at Gavrilov, who stood up and followed him inside.

Tim sat down on one of the chairs, Lewis beside him. Tim said quietly, ‘You'd better go back to the hotel… I'll stay here and catch up with you later.' Lewis nodded and left. Tim, impatient with waiting, wondering how long he would have to stay, and hoping no-one would realise he wasn't injured and had no right to be there, stood up and walked past the open door. Gavrilov was sitting on a chair, his left arm bared, a doctor and nurse were extracting tiny bits of glass and metal. As Tim stood in the doorway, Gavrilov looked up and saw him.

It was extraordinary. Though Gavrilov must obviously have recognised him at once, and though he could not possibly have expected to see Tim here, he did not betray that he knew him with the slightest change of expression on his face. Tim dropped his gaze; he moved away; he went and sat down again among the waiting people. They were sitting, some hopelessly resting their heads on their arms, some moaning, mothers holding grubby-looking children and old men sitting in attitudes of despair. Tim looked at his watch impatiently. He waited well over half an hour; then Gavrilov came out of the room, walking slightly unsteadily, his arm bandaged, a small dressing on his head. He hesitated, looked around the room and along the corridor, and then came and sat down on the vacant chair next to Tim. He didn't look at Tim, he made it look quite casual.

He looked at his watch. The glass was broken; he held it to his ear. He said to Tim, again without looking at him, ‘Do you know what the time is?'

‘It's just after four thirty. Were you in the car?'

‘Are you real?' Gavrilov reached out suddenly and took hold of Tim's arm, then withdrew his hand sharply. He said, ‘I was in the back. Why are you here?'

‘Looking for you.'

Gavrilov did not react. Tim went on, still looking straight ahead, ‘How did you get out. How…?'

Gavrilov made a gesture as if to say, how can I explain it? He glanced sideways at Tim, he looked tense and nervous, and every so often he gave a little shiver, as if he was cold. He said ‘There is something I must tell you. I am going to give you some information. Memorise it, don't write this down, anywhere. Don't phone with this, don't send it by courier, go yourself; I'm sure you will know who to talk to. If you don't want to take the risk you'd better get up and go now.'

Tim said, ‘I'm listening.'

Gavrilov spoke in a low, hurried voice. ‘Libya has somehow imported about 25 kilograms of highly enriched uranium, stolen from the Arzamas 16 facility in Russia. One of my technicians, named Suzarbayev, has seen it. I am convinced this is true because there has been extra security at Tajura since it arrived.'