The Rocket Man (3 page)

‘But these are not operating?'

‘Not yet. Of course you are aware that the Brazilians have had a lot of problems with their centrifuges. Probably they have been rather unlucky, they are very tricky things to run. So, if we are to believe what they say, they are not very efficient.'

Nihal sat silent, waiting for more; Gavrilov suddenly became more expansive. ‘Of course once the Valadares plant reaches a certain capacity the desirability of safeguards becomes overwhelming. That is why the IAEA was so anxious that there should be a full-scope agreement. Do you want some figures? What is so worrying is that if they had 5,000 centrifuges up and running, which is certainly possible in the not-too- distant future, and if they had stockpiled 150 kilogrammes of 20 per cent enriched uranium, which I'm not saying for a moment is the case, it would not be possible on present performance, but
if
– then Valadares could produce the 20 kilogrammes of highly enriched uranium needed for a bomb within a week.'

A chill went through Nihal. Then he repeated, ‘But why did the Brazilians change their minds, do you think? Have you any ideas?'

‘You are asking the wrong person. I am only a technical man, you should ask someone who was in on the negotiations. But you have your own theories, I expect? What is the drift of your article, anyway? What else are you mentioning?'

‘Well, quotes from the Brazilian representative on the IAEA board last September saying Brazil would never accept international safeguards. And Project Solimões…'

‘Ah, yes, of course,' said Gavrilov, and an amused smile crossed his lips. ‘Project Solimões.' He stood up and walked to his desk. He delved into his jacket pocket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes; then he glanced at his watch. He said, ‘It's six-thirty, they turn the air-conditioning off. Can you believe it? If you work late you suffocate. I'd like to smoke, shall we go down to the bar?'

So they went down to the bar and bought two double whiskies and Gavrilov lit his cigarette. He asked, and Nihal wasn't sure whether he detected irony in his voice or not, ‘You don't have any inside information on Project Solimões, I suppose?'

Nihal shook his head.

Gavrilov leaned forward in his chair, glanced sideways, as if to check the coast was clear, began to talk in a deep, rich voice. His English was really excellent; he spoke fluently, with only an occasional hesitation as he sought for the right word or phrase. ‘Look, I am going to tell you something that I shouldn't. No doubt you have heard other similar stories. I think I can trust you not to use this, not directly. I've read a lot of what you write, and you are not going to compromise your convenient relationship with the IAEA, am I right?'

Nihal raised an eyebrow and smiled.

‘You wanted to know about the visit to Valadares. It was suggested that I go as an observer. As you may know, our names all have to be put forward thirty days before the inspection. No objection was made by the people at the Brazilian Nuclear Energy Commission, the CNEN. But when we got to the Valadares Centre, there was a great deal of arguing. We all stood in the entrance hall for two hours – this is the maximum time that inspectors can be kept waiting according to the agreements that have been drawn up for such inspections.

‘It seemed to be me they objected to. They said, “Why have they sent a bloody Russian?” Of course this is not an unknown humiliation, Russian inspectors are always being turned down all over the world. I explained that I was only an observer, it was not so important that I go, but it was vital that the inspectors went ahead, set up the seals and the cameras, took their readings – so it was agreed that I should stay outside. I stood outside the main centrifuge hall, with two soldiers on either side, then the director came down to see me.

‘He said he was very sorry, took me up to his office. He was a little man. with a moustache and an obviously military bearing – Rear Admiral Gonçalo Oliveira Mourão, if you want his full name. He said there had been a confusion, a breakdown in communication between them and CNEN. They were very sensitive about their technology, there had been much opposition and resentment to the idea of international inspectors, they had not been told there would be an observer too. He himself thought this was quite wrong, there was no reason at all why I should not view the cascades. They were not hiding anything. And here he smiled a charming smile; the kind of smile incidentally you must never trust.'

Dmitry inhaled deeply on the end of his cigarette, stubbed it out, and looked Nihal directly in the eye. Nihal was not taking notes; he didn't want to do anything that might stop Gavrilov in mid-flow; he was in fact astonished that he was telling him all this, not least because he was a Russian, and in his experience Russians always gave away as little as possible.

‘So I went back down to the cascade hall with the director and a soldier. We put on the white coats and the radiation badges and went in. Of course there isn't much to see, the centrifuges are all encased in the outside containers. I was not allowed to go up the steps and look down on the pipework.'

Gavrilov took another cigarette, offered one to Nihal, who accepted, and lit up again. ‘They took me round and Oliveira explained that they had a lot of problems with their centrifuges. There were imbalances in the Maraging steel and he told me they had lost quite a few. One of the centrifuges actually crashed while I was there.'

‘Really? What did it sound like?'

‘Like a gun going off. It gave me quite a shock, I can tell you. Actually it's not a problem, they just leave it there till the plant is finally decommissioned. I remember that Oliveira laughed and said to me, “You see? We have not been so lucky, but we have done nearly as well as you Russians, I think.” “And much better than the Americans,” I replied. One must never miss an opportunity to get at the Americans, you understand. You know about the American attempts to design gas centrifuges, don't you? They tried to build them too big – the Americans always have to do things big. It never worked, of course, and they abandoned this project.' Nihal had the impression that Gavrilov was really enjoying himself; he was intrigued; he had no idea what was coming next. Gavrilov took another gulp of his whisky and carried on.

‘So we went from one end of the hall to the other. We were standing right at the end of the line… it was hard to hear him because of the thump of the hex solidifying against the walls of the containers. I could see Cruz and Müller packing the samples, I was going to go over to them but Oliveira shook his finger at me. ”Let us not interrupt them,” he said. ”They are very busy. Come up to my office.” Of course you do not argue or disagree somehow if there is an armed man standing by your side. So we went back to the office. He got me another cup of this disgusting coffee and after a short chat he left me there in the company of some poker-faced soldier.'

‘Didn't you think this was all a bit suspicious?' asked Nihal.

‘Suspicious? Well, of course, in a way it is suspicious… but this kind of thing goes on all the time, you know that. It's a bit humiliating, I suppose, to be treated as some kind of industrial spy, but then, we Russians are used to such things, well, it's a humiliating thing to be a Russian nowadays.'

He paused for a moment, turning the glass round in his hands. ‘Anyway, the real point of this long story is this; while I was waiting in the office Oliveira told me something I thought you might like to know… please don't attribute it to me. You see, there is no question that these military types would love to build a bomb. He said to me: “Of course, the decision not to make a bomb is purely political. We have the capability. The first nuclear bomb was exploded nearly fifty years ago… it would be inconceivable for Brazil not to master a technology that is fifty years old.”‘

T
he inquest into the death of Hans Müller took place two weeks later in a building near the Rathaus. Bob went with his other colleagues from the IAEA and Katie went with Lieselotte. She sat next to her on the wooden bench, holding her hand, hoping to give support, but Lieselotte sat expressionlessly through the whole proceedings.

The evidence was fairly straightforward. The cause of death was unquestionably the barbiturate capsules which he had taken on a empty stomach, washed down with whisky, which had resulted in death within the hour. Müller's doctor testified that the pills used were not the non-addictive ones he had prescribed recently when Müller had complained of inability to sleep. There was no explanation for where the drugs had come from; the small brown bottle bore no label, so it had not been possible to trace them through the local pharmacies; perhaps he had obtained them on one of his frequent trips abroad. Doctors abroad might prescribe less cautiously, and in some countries it was often possible to obtain such drugs over-the-counter.

Then came the question of the suicide note. It had been written on his own notepaper, with his own pen. It was unquestionably his writing. The fact that the writing had deteriorated at the end of the note could have been due either to emotion or to the fact that he was confused or already slipping into unconsciousness after taking the drug. The coroner made the point that his wife had said that she thought the note was odd; it seemed stilted, not how he would have normally expressed himself. The lawyer's name had been misspelt, though again, this could have been caused by stress or confusion. At this point Lieselotte turned to Katie and she could see that she was hoping something might be made of this; but the coroner did not seem to think this was evidence of any foul play.

The police had found nothing to indicate that it had not been a straightforward suicide. There had been no marks on the body, scratches or bruises, which might have indicated a struggle, and no signs of forced entry or disturbance to the flat. There were no other fingerprints on the bottle. None of the neighbours had seen or heard anything untoward. Müller's colleagues said that he had seemed to have been depressed and stressed recently at work, though none of them could give any reason for this, except the stresses of travel and long periods spent away from home. Reference was made to the arcane nature of his work, but the Deputy Director General, Safeguards, Georges Lascalles, said that Müller had not been involved in anything that could have brought him to this brink; the matter had been looked into internally very thoroughly and nothing suspicious had been uncovered.

The coroner summed up; it appeared to be an open-and-shut case. He said he had sympathy for the wife; often in these cases the bereaved relatives could not see any reason for a suicide. Above all she should not blame herself. A verdict of death by suicide was recorded.

They got up to go. Lieselotte's face was blank. It was all over so quickly; Katie felt cheated, that her friend had deserved more than this. Katie put her arms round her and hugged her; then she asked Lieselotte if she wanted to come back with her for tea but she said she had to go back to baby Jochum. She told Katie she would be leaving Vienna soon; she was going back with her sister to Cologne as soon as everything was arranged so that she could be near her family. Besides, Hans's death meant she lost her diplomatic status and her right of residence in Vienna. She would have to be gone within the month anyway.

On the stairs outside, where one or two journalists, including Nihal, were waiting to catch hold of anyone who might be able to give them a quote, Katie saw Dmitry Gavrilov. He was standing against a pillar, his hands thrust deep into his coat pockets, and he did not look at all happy, in fact, he looked agitated and disturbed. A man she did not recognise, presumably also from the IAEA, came up to him and said something in his ear; he shrugged and shook his head. Then he looked up and saw Katie, he must have seen her, he looked straight into her face, but he did not acknowledge her at all; then he turned suddenly and walked hurriedly down the steps and out of the building. Katie felt shocked, as if she had been cruelly let down; the whole brief scene had made an unpleasant impression on her.

Left unexpectedly on her own, Katie made for the Café Central. She loved this place; it was one of her favourite haunts. The high ceiling was arched like a church, ribbed with gold, supported on gleaming marble columns; the tables too were topped with marble, but despite this, perhaps because it was usually full, it didn't echo too loudly nor seem cold. Katie found a table in the corner; she ordered coffee and took out her book.

She was unable to concentrate. She knew that she was going to miss Lieselotte terribly and she felt suddenly empty and depressed. She put her book away, stared blankly into space, looked around her. Then she saw Gavrilov, over by the window, reading a newspaper. He turned the page and refolded it, glanced up and his eyes met hers. She looked away. A little later she glanced at him again and for the second time their eyes met; this time she smiled to show that she recognised him.

She looked down at her coffee. He got up and came over to her table; she had known that he would. He was a little nervous, made a gesture towards the empty chair beside her. ‘Do you mind…'

‘No… please do.'

The waitress came and they ordered more coffee. He turned to her: ‘Some cake?'

‘No… I shouldn't…'

‘Yes, you should… I hope you're not dieting, like all these other Western women? You are thin enough already.'

She smiled, he ordered and the waitress went away. He said, ‘I'm sorry… we weren't introduced…'

‘I'm Katie Haynes.'

He started slightly. ‘Oh, I see… you're Bob Haynes' wife.' He took out a cigarette, tapped it on the packet. ‘I'm sorry… do you mind if I smoke? I should give up, I know, but you see I have so few other pleasures… I'm Dmitry Gavrilov – you can call me Mitya.'

‘Mitya.' She pronounced the name slowly, as if tasting it, exploring it with her tongue. ‘So you work with Bob? In Safeguards?'