Doctor Gavrilov (40 page)

Dmitry straightened up. A sudden cool wind blew at him from out of the desert. He felt utterly deserted and alone. Now he had burned his boats; he had only one thought, and that was to get out of Libya. He turned to the driver. He said, ‘There are fishing boats, boats who will take people to Malta or Tunisia… where do they go from? Can you take me? And get off this road.'

The driver stared at him blankly; he spoke little English, didn't understand. Dmitry, holding the gun, pointed to the driver's seat and he scrambled in. Dmitry rummaged in the front; there was a map. He showed it to the driver, pointed to a road running along the coast. He drew a picture of a fishing boat, fish, and drew a line to Malta. The driver suddenly nodded. He turned the vehicle and headed back along the road, driving much faster than before.

There was very little traffic. Dmitry thought that they were too conspicuous, was afraid all the time that someone would stop them. In the aftermath of the explosion, he imagined he would have some time before they realised he and the colonel were missing. The driver pointed ahead; they were approaching a small fishing village. The white buildings were huddled down by the sea; on the front the fishermen were refolding their nets.

Dmitry asked the driver to turn off the road and they left the jeep hidden behind the ruined wall of an old house. He put the gun in his pocket but let the driver know he would use it if he had to. Then they walked down to the village. People looked up and stared as they approached. The driver stopped outside one of the houses near the water and stepped in through the curtain of pink plastic strips which hung in the doorway.

The curtain rattled as they passed through.

They stood in the dark interior. A middle-aged woman came in, looked surprised to see them, at Dmitry so large and foreign-looking, clutching his heavy suitcase. The driver asked her something and she went out at the back. Dmitry thought that he could easily betray him, have asked her to go to the police, but knew he was unlikely to because he knew that Dmitry was desperate enough to kill and that he had a gun. It was cool in the room but he was sweating. The driver too was nervous; he kept touching his lips with the tip of his tongue; sweat beaded his forehead.

The woman came back and offered them a drink. They sat at the little table and drank some herbal drink in chipped glasses. The woman put out some little pastries; Dmitry, not knowing when he would next have a chance to eat, forced himself to eat one. A fly darted backwards and forwards across the table; in the distance a radio was playing some kind of Arab music, interspersed by a loud voice which sounded as if it were exhorting people to work harder, no doubt to help the revolution or some such nonsense.

Dmitry sipped the tea. It tasted faintly unpleasant; Dmitry thought that it might make him sick.

Nausea is the first symptom of radiation sickness.

Dmitry pushed this thought aside as soon as it had come to him; he would not allow himself to think of this. The door at the back opened and a grizzled man came in, in a tattered shirt and short trousers. The driver pointed to Dmitry and spoke, in Arabic. The fisherman nodded, turned to Dmitry, and said, in broken English, ‘I am Nabil. I cannot go to Malta today, I have not enough petrol. I can go to Zarzis.'

‘Zarzis?'

‘Tunisia. Much nearer. You pay me dollars two hundred, now, I take you.'

Dmitry nodded. He took the money from his wallet and handed it over. Now he saw another problem; what should he do with the driver? If he stayed behind, as soon as they were at sea he would tell the army or police. Dmitry either had to kill him or take him with him. He said to Nabil, ‘He comes too.'

‘Two people, three hundred dollars.'

Dmitry shook his head. He didn't want to part with everything he had; he would need some money in Tunisia. He opened his wallet, took out another fifty dollars and some dinars, saying this was all he had. Supposing he refused to take them, just because he was short of fifty dollars? Would he then have to take the driver somewhere and shoot him after all? Nabil took the money, fingered it, and nodded. He took them out of the back of the house and down to the sea.

He felt, waiting as the fisherman prepared the boat, as if everyone was staring at them, even though there were only a few fishermen in sight. The boat was small and sleek with a metal hull, a small cabin and an outboard motor; it bobbed up and down on the surface of the water and a strong smell of rotting fish came from the nets. Dmitry again felt slightly nauseous. He wished that he could shower, change his clothes. He wondered for a moment whether to wash in the sea but he couldn't risk leaving the driver or the suitcase even for a moment.

Nabil said, ‘Come.' The driver, realising that he was expected to come too, began to protest. Dmitry gave him a look which silenced him instantly.

They sat on the cross-pieces inside the boat. The floor was swilling with sea-water and seaweed and some dead fish which stank appallingly. Nabil fiddled with the engine – Dmitry thought his luck was against him when it failed to start, but after a few minutes it reluctantly spluttered into life. Once Nabil had manoeuvred clear of the shore and powered up to full speed the noise was deafening; conversation would be almost impossible. This was a relief to Dmitry, because he didn't want to risk the driver talking to Nabil. As they got out to sea the breeze sprung up and buffeted him; the vibrations from the engine penetrated deep inside him, seeming to jangle his bones and jar even his teeth in their sockets. His hand still hurt and was badly swollen; he wasn't at all sure that one finger wasn't broken, it was so painful when he moved it. But perhaps this was the least of his problems. He had very little money; what was he to do in Zarzis? He felt suddenly exhausted. Hunched beside him, the driver seemed to fall asleep.

The sun was right overhead now; there was no shade, it beat down on him relentlessly. He thought again of the colonel, lying underneath the tree. He glanced down at his arms, which seemed to darken even as he looked at them. A terrible thought struck him and he pulled back his sleeves, but to his relief there was a sharp mark where the cuff fell; this was not, then a nuclear tan, caused by radiation that would have penetrated the thin fabric of his shirt. And the nausea, which he now felt more strongly, that could easily be a mixture of stress and sea-sickness.

The situation he found himself in was beyond anything he could have imagined. He wondered what he could do with the uranium. It occurred to him that the easiest thing for him might be to just throw it overboard, bar by bar, and let it be lost forever at the bottom of the sea. But they were still within sight of the shore; they would still be in Libya's territorial waters, Gaddafi's infamous ‘line of death.' Perhaps they would be able to recover it. In any case, to discard it was impossible; it went against all his training. You did not just release nuclear materials into the environment. They could be dredged up by a trawler, could get into the food chain. Besides, his whole career had been dedicated to the production of this priceless substance. It was unthinkable. No, he had to somehow restore it to the proper authorities.

He looked up at the sky. He expected to see a spotter plane along the coast, or naval boats, patrolling, but there was nothing. Perhaps it was better not to look; he could do nothing about it. He wondered how long it would take before they put out an alarm. Perhaps they would expect him to go to Malta, not to Tunis along the coast; perhaps once they were in Tunisian waters they would be less able to act.

The afternoon passed; the sun slipped down into the sea. It became cooler, but Dmitry could feel his face and the back of his neck were burnt by the sun. The coast was closer now, bending round to the north; as it got dark the lights along the shore became visible, from little towns or villages, and then, right ahead, the brighter lights of some bigger conurbation. Nabil pointed, and said, with satisfaction in his voice, ‘Zarzis.'

They landed at a jetty in the fishing harbour, among a clutter of brightly-coloured boats. Large empty oil jars were stacked up along the quay with huge crates of fish. Again, there was the stench of fish, so strong it almost made Dmitry retch. He wondered if there would be any officials patrolling the harbour but he didn't see any. The driver stayed sitting where he was; he spoke to Nabil and indicated that they would go straight back to Libya. Dmitry let him go. He wondered what the driver might say and whether Nabil might come back and report him, but he heard the sound of the engine fading as they headed right out to sea. He took his suitcase and walked up the quay in the darkness, cursing its weight.

To the right of the port lay a long expanse of beach, shining whitely in the moonlight. Dmitry went down, took off his clothes and plunged briefly into the sea. The shock of the water revived him; he washed his hands, his hair, rubbing his body, washing off any traces of dust. The bruises on his face and his fingers from his struggle with the colonel smarted painfully. He waded out of the sea and sat naked on the beach, waiting for his skin to dry, then took a clean set of clothes out of his suitcase and put them on, burying the others in the sand. He checked the gun to see how many rounds were left, then put it away in the suitcase.

The sea lapped gently on the beach, made little gurgling sounds. He was so tired that for a moment he wanted to sleep. He forced himself to his feet, and walked towards the front; along the shore the lights of the big hotels gleamed. At last, he was back in civilisation. He looked in his wallet; he had about 50 dollars, but he did have his old credit card. He peered at it in the light of a streetlamp and saw the date had expired.

He picked up his suitcase, and went to find the bus to Tunis.

‘T
im, is there any news?'

Katie was waiting for him by the door. She had put the children to bed and was standing in her dressing gown, her hair unkempt, and her face a harsh chalky white. Tim had been dreading coming home, had put it off as late as possible; now that he was here, he didn't know what to say to her.

The news that day had been full of the usual reactions to the US raid. The US justified its action, backed up by the UK, and there was condemnation from the Arab states and, more mutedly, from Russia. There were articles and reports speculating on Libya's nuclear potential; Tim had been working on this all day.

He went over to the kitchen and poured himself a drink. ‘The Libyans haven't released any reliable casualty figures. They are exaggerating, apparently, they say hundreds of people have been admitted to hospital and villages near Tajura have been evacuated but our correspondent here thinks that's not the case.'

‘You're talking like a news report. What about Mitya? Did you ask? –'

Tim took a deep breath. How was he to break this to Katie? There was no easy way – perhaps better just to come out with it. ‘There was one CNN report which said that a number of nuclear scientists known to have been working at Tajura had probably been killed in the bombing. But it's only guesswork at this stage, Katie. There's nothing definite.'

But Katie, having only just adjusted to the fact that Dmitry was alive, could not deal with this new blow. She was awake all night in great distress and at Tim's insistence went straight to the doctor in the morning to ask for tranquillisers. Tim waited with Sasha till she came home but then she clung to him and begged him not to go to work and leave her on her own. Tim was beside himself.

‘Katie, I have to go. You don't understand, it's my job. For God's sake, there's a briefing at the Foreign Office with Douglas Hurd and I have to be there at eleven.' He pulled Katie's arms off him and stared down at her pale, blotchy face. He said, ‘I've already taken too much time off for you. If you can't be on your own you have to call your parents. I can't help it. If I don't go in I'll get the sack.' He felt trapped, desperate, not knowing what to do with her; he began to regret that he had ever started a relationship with her. None of this was what he had bargained for. He had become involved with Katie thinking of her as she used to be, a warm, capable, lovely woman, but now instead he found himself saddled with a nervous wreck.

There was a cheap overnight bus from Zarzis which left at nine and deposited Dmitry in the centre of Tunis at six-thirty the following morning. He decided to avoid the airport and catch a ferry; it would be easier, more anonymous, to travel by sea.

He took a taxi from the bus station to the port, where, feeling dizzy with hunger, he bought a roll and a kebab to eat. He stood in the hot, stuffy office, in a small queue, shuffling the suitcase across the floor as he inched forwards. He had managed only the briefest sleep on the bus; now, he felt exhausted. In his rusty French he asked for a one-way ticket to Marseilles. The official nodded. ‘You are not French? May I see your passport? You have a visa?'

Dmitry knew at once that the man was going to be difficult. Sweat broke out on his forehead and he wiped it with his sleeve. He said, ‘No, no visa… I have residence in Britain, look, it's here in my passport…'