Doctor Gavrilov (17 page)

Larissa whispered, firmly, ‘Let's go. There's a door on the other side.' They walked across the courtyard, past a group of youths smoking, down some steps and into a dismal entrance. Battered mailboxes lined the wall inside the doorway and the stairwell was filled with rubbish. Garlicky smells from a restaurant next door hung heavily in the air.

They went upstairs. Larissa's flat was on the fourth floor; a huge, reinforced door yielded to a sequence of locks. Inside, she banged the door shut with relief. They were in a different world. The flat had bare, polished wood floors, walls of glass shelves, a large table of bleached wood and a modern, open plan kitchen. Tim walked round and stared admiringly.

‘We've just moved in,' said Larissa. ‘Are you hungry? I'm sorry about your tape. I should have put it in your pocket.'

‘Yes,' said Tim, who had been thinking the same thing, ‘I know.'

‘Do you want something to drink? Coffee? Tea? A glass of wine?'

‘Wine would be very nice.'

‘My husband is back later,' said Larissa, pouring him a glass of red Georgian wine. ‘He's in Nizhny Novgorod, you know, used to be Gorky.' She sat opposite him. She said, ‘I'm sorry, I am really frightened. These people mean it, they're not just playing games. I can't help you any more, it's too dangerous for me, I don't think I can see you again. But if there's anything you want to know, if I can help at all, please ring me at work.'

In the morning Alya from the Channel 4 office rang to say that she had managed to arrange an interview with Gennady Federov, the scientist whose name had been quoted in a small paragraph in
The Times
in London. They were to meet at eleven. She said that she would meet Tim at the metro at Park Kultury at ten and they would go from there.

The address he had been given, like most Moscow addresses, he was to discover, wasn't easy to find. They went first to the Kurchatov Institute, past the big iron gates and the bronze bust of Igor Kurchatov standing on a patch of straggly grass outside. Down a side-street they found one of the apartment blocks used by staff from the Institute, and, unmarked by any sign or visible number, a white door. Tim pushed it open and they found themselves in a corridor piled high with books, packing cases and stacks of papers. They were shown by a secretary into a room and offered tea. It was mint tea, from mint grown in her grandmother's garden, she explained, and Alya translated. They sipped it in delicate china cups and waited for Federov to arrive.

‘Actually it's rather rude of him,' said Alya, tapping her watch, ‘He is rather late.' She glanced around her. Tim tilted his head sideways, trying to read the spines on the covers of the books, which mostly seemed to be works by Marx and Engels. He asked, ‘What is this place?'

‘It was the Communist Party library,' said Alya. ‘Now they are clearing it all out and throwing it away.'

A young man appeared suddenly in the doorway and stared at them. He had dark, untidy hair, was scruffily dressed, and slightly plump with a pale, unhealthy-looking complexion. There was a pause, in which no-one quite knew how to proceed; Tim had expected someone older, but Alya asked a quick question and then said, ‘This is him.' Tim shook hands. Federov nodded and did not look him in the eyes; he gestured for them to sit down at the table.

‘So,' said Federov, with obvious irony, ‘Another Western journalist.' Alya translated. The conversation went backwards and forwards between them, very slowly, very stilted. Tim explained what he wanted. Federov sat, expressionless, then nodded and began to talk. Tim asked: ‘I saw you were quoted, in a London paper, saying that two of your colleagues were approached by the Libyans.'

‘Yes, this is true…'

‘How?'

He looked blank. Tim said, impatient, to Alya, ‘Ask him; by letter, by telephone…'

‘On the international circuit, at conferences… I heard this from them personally.'

‘What were they being offered? What was their area of expertise?'

‘They were experts in reactor design.'

‘Can you give me their names?'

‘I would not like to give their names.'

‘And they said no.'

‘Yes, of course… for the moment. But consider the situation for most of us here, with prices rising, and problems in getting the equipment needed to do their work. Actually, I did them a favour, because after these reports appeared our salaries were increased from 1500 roubles a month to 4000, so it was quite good for us I think… even though we can't of course manage on 4000.'

‘Would you be prepared to appear, on Western television, saying this?'

Federov looked uncomfortable. He spread out his plump, pale hands somewhat helplessly and said, ‘I would rather not.'

‘And you don't know if any others have been approached?'

‘No. I believe there have been others.'

‘I have been given various names of scientists who I might be able to contact… for instance, Vassily Kunitsin… '

‘He is working here. I don't know anything about it. You could ring him.'

Tim glanced at Alya. He could see that she, like him, realised there wasn't much point in prolonging the interview – Federov was not what he wanted. He asked, as a final question, out of curiosity, ‘There's someone else I wanted to contact in Moscow… he used to work here. Dmitry Gavrilov.'

Federov frowned. ‘He is not working here now. He went to the IAEA in Vienna.'

‘Yes, but he's left there now. I was told he was in Moscow.'

‘I don't know then.'

‘But you knew him? Did he…' Tim didn't know quite how to put this… ‘Have a good reputation?'

Federov became a little more talkative. ‘Oh, yes, well I knew Mitya Gavrilov a little, I would recognise him if I met him again… he was very conscientious, hard-working, came to the party meetings, didn't say very much. I don't think he was very happy.' Federov smiled for the first time in the whole interview. ‘I believe he had awful trouble with his wife.'

‘What kind of trouble?'

Alya, not understanding the reasons for his digression, translated the question, eyebrows raised. Federov shrugged. Then he said, ‘Mind you, he has a sister… I met his sister once. She is a paediatrician. She works in a clinic somewhere in the north, near Babushkinskaya I think. She would know where he is.' He got up, glanced at his watch, indicating that enough of his time had been wasted.

As he and Alya walked out along the red corridor, past a room where a massive marble bust of Lenin sat disconsolately in a corner, Alya said, ‘So he didn't give you any names. Well, either he was not being level with you, or he has not been reading the papers, because their names were published in
Izvestia
only this morning.'

‘T
hey won't give any interviews.' Alya put the piece of paper with the scientists' names on Tim's desk.

‘You've spoken to them both?'

‘To Petrovsky, yes, and he says no. And the other one, his assistant said he won't talk to the press. I'm sorry. They are very sensitive.'

‘They didn't ask for money? Did you offer any?' It was becoming the thing these days for people to ask Western journalists for hard currency when granting interviews.

‘They didn't ask and I didn't offer. I think that would have made it even worse.'

Tim sighed. He said, ‘Alya, there's one last thing; I wanted to get in touch with Dr Gavrilova. Could you phone for me and see if you could make an appointment?'

The hospital was, as Tim had expected, a miserable place, a monolithic slab of concrete on a wide boulevard in the northern suburbs. Worn lino covered the floor and the air smelt of what seemed to be a mixture of disinfectant and urine. At the reception he had the greatest difficulty making himself understood; he thought, I should have brought Alya with me. He was told to go upstairs and sat on a bench in the corridor for perhaps half an hour. Nobody came. A woman was wheeled past on a trolley, still wearing a thin blue summer dress, blood trickling between her thighs.

Tim got to his feet, found a nurse and discovered he was on the wrong floor. He was taken downstairs and again sat for a long time outside an office. Outside the window tall trees heavily in leaf obscured the view and cast a dingy greenness over everything. A woman carrying a sick-looking child came and sat beside him; the child started to cry, then began to cough, a deep, unhealthy sound. Tim turned his head away.

The door opposite opened and another woman and child came out, and behind them a woman in a white coat who he knew at once to be Dr Gavrilova. She was very tall, thin and angular, had soft, fair hair pulled back from her face in a kind of bun. She had the same high brow and broad mouth as her brother, but her features were much finer and her nose was flat, almost oriental. Her skin was very pale, even paler in this grey-green light, and she looked tired and harassed, but in spite of this she was a striking-looking woman.

She looked at the woman with the child and then at Tim. She said, in slightly halting English, to Tim, ‘I understand you wanted to talk to me. You are a journalist from London? You want to make an interview?'

‘Yes. But that's not why I'm here… I'm a friend… I live in the flat underneath your brother's.'

‘Ah.' Her face lightened; her eyes shone for a moment. ‘You have brought me something from Mitya? A letter…'

‘No…'

‘Come in… Sit down.' She said something to the woman in Russian who nodded resignedly and Tim felt the briefest pang of guilt, knowing that she was going to have to sit there and wait because of him. He followed Dr Gavrilova into her office and sat on a chair. The room was stark and bare, with a few tired-looking posters on the walls; light filtering through the trees flickered on the dusty walls. She sat and looked at him, eager, expectant.

Tim said, ‘Actually, he's not in London at the moment, he's over here; I was hoping you would be able to put me in touch with him.'

‘Mitya? Over here?' she frowned, puzzled. ‘When did he come? I didn't know… he has just arrived, perhaps?'

Tim said, ‘Two weeks ago.'

‘I see.' She looked down at the file she was holding in her hands; a lock of fair hair broke away from the bun and fell in front of her face. He sensed her puzzlement, her disappointment. He began to feel more than unkind. He went on, ‘So he hasn't contacted you?'

‘Me? No, no he has not…'

They looked at one another. There was an uncomfortable silence. She asked, ‘You are here on business? You are writing about Russia?'

‘I'm making a television programme.'

‘On health?'

‘No, not on health…'

She looked at him for a long moment, as if trying to work him out. ‘Look, I would like to talk to you, but this is not the place. I have people waiting… perhaps we can meet later. If you are a friend of Mitya's, I would like to invite you to my apartment… Please ring me later, this is my home number. Excuse me, I must see my patient now.'