Doctor Gavrilov (45 page)

It was the only thing that made sense to him. It explained why Rozanov had expressed no concern that Dmitry had produced so little intelligence, how his warnings that his project was working had not disturbed him. He was never intended to live to complete it. He was to be a sacrificial lamb, whose death would serve to warn others and help prevent the spectre of nuclear proliferation. He wondered for a moment whether, if they had asked him to lay down his life in this great cause, he would have considered it; it was an interesting thought. But one would want to know, to have been given the choice plainly; as it was he felt only betrayal and disgust.

Rozanov, faced with Dmitry's utter dereliction, seemed suddenly to feel a need to justify himself. He turned and waved the two men back, and continued up the path with Dmitry. He said, ‘Dmitry Nikolayevich, let me assure you, it was not our idea. These days, we are not entirely our own masters… it was a deal.'

‘A deal? What do you mean? With whom?'

‘With our new friends across the Atlantic, with the CIA… it was their idea. To be a warning, as you said. They set it up. I believe they even set up the journalist who was to expose you… a pity he didn't do a very good job.'

For a moment the ground seemed to sway under Dmitry's feet. He had distrusted everyone, considered them capable of anything; but even he had not expected this. So everything that had happened, almost, had been planned from the beginning, and he had been the passive victim from the outset. ‘And they asked for your assistance?'

‘Of course… We are co-operating more and more these days. They asked us to find them a scientist, someone the Libyans might approach… You seemed the perfect candidate… we'd had our eye on you for some time. We needed somebody expendable, someone whose career was finished, somebody who didn't matter…'

‘Except of course to his wife and children.'

‘Believe me, it is not pleasant to make these choices… do you think I enjoy it? Dancing to another's music? Wake up. This is the harsh new world in which we live, Dmitry Nikolayevich. As an independent power we are finished. Come, now, you are alive, that is the main thing. In fact, I think you have come out of it rather well. You did us a great service taking this material out of Libya. You showed great resourcefulness – I may even say, courage. The CIA are very pleased with us. If you want to come back to Russia, you know, we can help you find employment. We can get someone to put in a good word for you at the various Institutes.' Rozanov paused. ‘In fact, I would advise you to leave the UK as soon as you can.'

‘I have no passport.'

‘Well, I took the precaution of preparing one for you.' Rozanov withdrew a red Russian Federation passport from his pocket, and handed it to Dmitry, who stared blankly at the double-headed eagle on the front. ‘It is in another name, so you will not alert anyone at the airport. We would like a person of your talent back in Russia. Your country has need of you.'

Dmitry made an exclamation of disgust. He was not flattered in the least by Rozanov's words; he had suffered too much, and besides, what use might they want to put him to now? He turned and grabbed Rozanov's arm. ‘Tell me, how does it feel, to select your victim, get to know him, prepare him, deceive him, look into his eyes and tell him…'

‘Mine is not a pleasant job,' admitted Rozanov. He glanced at his watch. Dmitry could see he had nothing more to say, was anxious for this to be over as quickly as possible. For Rozanov, the matter was finished; it was left to Dmitry to see what he could salvage from his ruined life.

Dmitry turned away. He felt an intense desire to put as much distance as he could between himself and this man, to be rid forever of his influence. As he turned, he saw the two men step out from behind the trees. Overcome with sudden fear, Dmitry turned tail and fled.

D
MITRY ran down to the edge of the Serpentine but nobody seemed to be following him. He turned left and walked hastily, glancing occasionally to right and left, carrying his bag in one hand, the other thrust deep into his pocket. He walked for miles across London, not knowing what to do.

He walked east until in the afternoon he found himself in the City. He went into a pub, sat at the bar, and began to drink. After a few vodkas all he could think about was Katie. He saw now that he had handled it so badly. Why had he not told her when he saw her that he loved her, that she and the children were the only thing that mattered to him, that there was no point at all in him having survived if he couldn't be with her? He had another drink. He was sure that if he could only see her again, explain to her everything that had happened, beg her for forgiveness, she wouldn't turn him away. He would go that evening, now, this minute, take her some flowers. Surely if he went and spoke to her now she would see that he still loved her…

He set off in search of a shop where he could buy her flowers or chocolates. He realised that he was a little drunk but this didn't seem important. He hoped that by the time he got there he would have sobered up. It was late now, beginning to get dark, it was nearly eight o'clock and all the shops were shut. It was a heavy, oppressive evening, hot for the time of year, and he thought that it might thunder.

He bought some chocolates from a late-night store and went to wait at the bus stop. The bus was a long time in coming; he went to get the tube at Bank and went to Oxford Circus, hoping to lose himself in the crowds. He had no idea if anyone was interested in his movements, the Russians, British Intelligence, the CIA. And what about the Libyans? Would they be after him? Did they even know where he had gone? He changed tube trains three or four times, at random, always stepping on or off at the last moment as the doors were closing; he didn't think he was being followed, but how could he be sure?

He reached Kilburn after ten. It was late, he knew it was a stupid time to call, but now he was there he couldn't turn away. He was devoured by a need to be with Katie, to touch her, to see the children. He thought they might be watching the house so he went round the corner, to the path that ran behind a car-park and gave access to the rear of the properties; he could get in that way without being seen. The house was in darkness; he felt in his pocket for the keys. He thought he would just go in, look at the sleeping children and talk to Katie if she was awake. It occurred to him as he took out the back-door key that she might have changed the lock but when he tried it the door opened. He stood in the kitchen and looked around. The place looked strangely familiar but also different; it was tidier and cleaner, and the walls had been freshly painted.

He went upstairs, treading softly so he wouldn't wake them, but the boards creaked, sounding unnaturally loud. He stepped into the children's room. Anna was asleep, lying on her back; her sweet face glowed in the light from the night lamp. Sasha, in his cot, had more than doubled in size. He was not a tiny baby any more, he was a boy; his face had filled out and his hair was thick and curly; when Dmitry looked at him he could see something of himself. Staring down at his son, he was amazed. How could he have forgotten, have neglected, this extraordinary gift? He was overcome with love and wonder, and tears poured into his eyes, temporarily blinding him. He wiped them away, recovered himself, and then turned to look into the front bedroom.

He wondered if he should knock; he didn't want to alarm Katie. But then, he would alarm her in any case. He pushed the door open wider and looked into the room. Katie was not alone in the bed; Tim was there beside her. They were lying back to back, touching, close to one another, like a married couple. Dmitry saw them, and he understood. All the strength drained out of him in a moment; he staggered backwards and Katie, sensing something, sat up suddenly. She saw Dmitry in the doorway and gasped; she put out her hand towards Tim, instinctively covering herself.

Tim woke and sat up, startled; Dmitry saw him lean over and switch on the light. They all stared at one another, blinking in the sudden brightness.

Katie leaned over, reached on to the floor, and pulled on her dressing gown. Dmitry turned and stumbled down the stairs and Katie followed, saying, ‘Please, wait.' She grabbed hold of him and he pushed her away. She pursued him into the living room.

She stood there, staring at him. He could see both anger and pain in her face. She said, ‘Are you mad? Why did you come here? You could at least have warned us, have rung the doorbell.'

Dmitry said, ‘Why? It's my house. After all, I've paid for it, haven't I?' He didn't mean to say those words; he realised as he uttered them that they sounded all wrong. He was completely beside himself, stunned with shock and rage. He thought that until this moment he hadn't known what suffering was. He tried to calm himself, sat down at the table. After a pause he said, ‘Can I have a drink?'

Katie reached up and opened the cupboard. She took down the half empty vodka bottle, untouched since he left, and poured a glass which she put on the table by Dmitry. She said, ‘Please, Mitya, don't get drunk. I couldn't stand it. I can't stand much, these days.'

Dmitry looked towards the stairs. ‘How long has that been going on for?'

‘Since I got your suicide letter.'

‘Not before?'

‘No, Mitya, not before.'

Dmitry drained the glass in one gulp. He said, ‘Oh God, you could have said…'

She turned her back to him, walked over to the sink. She said, ‘What did you expect me to do? We were separated. I was on my own with the children, miserable, unhappy. I needed help, just to get me through each day. Then you told me you were dead. How dare you come back, after everything you've done to us, and accuse me of anything?'

Dmitry tried to keep his voice reasonable. ‘I am not accusing you… I just can't bear it, that's all.'

Katie seemed to have retreated into herself; she seemed fragile, cold, and bitter. ‘Well, you'll just have to bear it. Is it so very terrible, compared with things that you have done? And anyway, what about you? Have you been faithful to me all this time?'

This question seemed so senseless to Dmitry that he couldn't answer her. He heard footsteps on the stairs; Tim came in, fully dressed. He went over to Katie and put his arm round her, deliberately, protectively; Dmitry wanted to pull him away but forced himself to stay still. Katie seemed uncertain how to react; perhaps she didn't want to hurt or provoke Dmitry by an open display of affection but didn't want to rebuff Tim either. She looked awkward, uneasy in his presence.

Dmitry remembered the box of chocolates and put it on the table.

Katie's eyes fell on the beautifully-wrapped package. ‘What is this?'

‘I bought them for you.'

‘Oh, Mitya.' There was so much sadness in her voice that he felt tears welling up in his eyes. This was terrible – whatever happened, he must not weep in front of Tim.

He said, ‘I need another drink. Can you pass the vodka bottle?'

Tim turned to Katie. ‘Don't let him get drunk. He already is drunk, by the look of him. Don't give it to him.'

Dmitry's anger boiled over at the sight of Tim, telling Katie what to do in his own house. ‘I am not drunk. How dare you speak of me like this… It is my vodka after all, and my glass, and my table.' As he said this he banged the flat of his hand on the table in emphasis.

They both stared at him, aghast. Then Katie turned and went to open the window. It was unseasonably warm, like a summer night. The wind rushed loudly in the trees like the sound of the sea. The breeze was a welcome intruder in the hot, still room, though it brought with it threat of thunder. Dmitry could feel his heart thumping.

They sat round the table. There was a long, long silence in which they heard the clock tick, the dry leaves rustle and the distant sound of a night bus grinding up the hill.

It was Dmitry who broke the silence. ‘Katie, I can't talk to you when he is here. I need to talk to you alone.'

Tim said, ‘I don't think that's a very good idea.'

‘Please don't interrupt me.'

‘I am not interrupting you. I think you have a nerve, just coming back here, without so much as ringing the bell… I suppose you think you can just come back and be forgiven for what you've done…'

Katie put her hand on his arm, restraining him. ‘No, Tim, he doesn't… but anyway, why shouldn't he be forgiven? Everyone who is truly sorry should be forgiven.'

Dmitry shook his head. ‘It would be nice if the world really was like that, but… I don't think I can so easily be forgiven. There is no forgiveness in hell, once you are damned, is there, Katie? What did your Catholic teachers say about that?'

‘Look,' said Tim, ‘We don't want a bloody theological discussion… But since you're here, as a matter of fact, I would like some answers to some questions.'

Dmitry found Tim's arrogance astounding. Didn't he understand anything? ‘I have answered enough questions. I have nothing to say to you.'

‘What I don't understand,' said Tim, ignoring this, ‘Is whether Russian intelligence knew all about it, and if so, why they didn't try to stop you. When I talked to this guy Dorokhov in Tripoli…'

Dmitry turned to Tim. ‘Dorokhov? You spoke to him? When?'

‘At the Russian Embassy, the day before the car bomb.'

Dmitry stared at him. What had Tim been thinking of? Now, he thought he could see how all Tim's actions had worked against him. He closed his eyes, then opened them again. He said, very quietly, ‘Yes, of course, they knew all about it, because I was working for them from the beginning.'

Tim looked at him, breathed in sharply, then let out a long breath, almost a whistle. For a moment he was silent, seemed at a loss for what to say. Katie looked bewildered. She jumped up from the table. She said, ‘I don't understand. You mean you were spying for them, in Libya? That you were a sort of – what do they call them –
double agent
?' She made the words sound absurd, like something out of a cheap thriller.