Doctor Gavrilov (29 page)

Adding to his distress was the fear that Suzarbayev had reported his suspicions and that at any time the Libyans might decide to question him about it. Even if they didn't, it meant they would be very careful with him, to deny him access to anything he might want to know; in other words, he would be blown, useless, finished. The whole thing had been hopeless from start to finish. What was the point of struggling on, of doing anything?

He was crossing the courtyard one morning, looking at his shadow moving before him in the harsh light of the sun, when the idea came to him with blinding clarity, like a blaze of light itself; that he could kill himself.

He jumped with astonishment at the thought. It was almost as if someone's voice had whispered in his ear, a soft, sinister voice, like that of Rozanov; he shook his head as if to dislodge it. As soon as he had this thought he knew it was the answer. The thought of suicide had crossed his mind before, in moments of despair; but this time it was different. This was not an emotional decision; it seemed to him that this was the only, the obvious, the rational solution. But how to do it? The most pleasant way, the way that he would prefer, would be to get some drug, perhaps some sleeping pills. He was not sure how much he would have to take, how he would get hold of them, whether in doing this he might give himself away. There was no way he could get hold of a gun; he couldn't throw himself from a high building. He didn't want to bungle it; he had to get it right first time because he knew he would never have the courage for a second attempt, and who knew what the Libyans would do if he tried and failed.

But then, he had the knife. He could cut his wrists. It wouldn't be difficult. He could do it tonight. He would do it tonight. There; it was decided. That was the end of it.

He continued with his work, going through everything methodically, making sure he did not behave in any way that was unusual. He ran through the problems with Suzarbayev again, tried to see if he would come up with any solution; but Suzarbayev clearly had nothing to contribute. At the end of the day he left the laboratory and went out into the sunshine. A wind was blowing from the sea; everything seemed unusually sharp and clear, the sounds separate and distinct, the light seemed to have a peculiar quality of clarity about it. He went back to his room and sat on the bed. He thought at once about Katie. He couldn't do this without saying something to Katie; it would be too cruel. He had to say goodbye to her; he had to explain in case she was otherwise left wondering whether he was alive or not, or in case she found out what happened; he knew she had been brought up as a Catholic and that she would have a particular horror of suicide. He went and sat at the table, took out his pen, reached for a sheaf of papers and began to write.

He wrote: My beautiful, my beloved, my dearest Katie.'

His hand shook; he was convulsed, suddenly, with anguish; he couldn't write this. He thought of Katie, he could see her face so clearly, remember the scent of her skin, the sound of her voice; he could almost hear her voice now, begging him not to do this. He shut it out, forced himself to carry on. He wrote: ‘Everything has gone wrong; I am out of my depth. I have tried everything I can to retrieve this situation but this is the only solution I can think of. I am doing this to spare you any further pain, to ensure your safety, for Anna and Sasha, to take with me this knowledge I possess which can do so much harm.' He stopped again; he realised he had not said what ‘this' was; what could he say? How could he put it? What was the point of trying to soften the blow? ‘When you read this letter I will be dead. In this act I am seeking redemption not annihilation. I am doing it because I believe it is the only solution to this mess which I have created. I know that you have always loved me; I can't bear to think of what I have done to you. I know that once you have got over the shock you will be happier without me. Please, my love, be happy.' He had to wipe the tears from his eyes to stop them wetting the page. ‘I offer no excuses for what I have done but please believe me when I tell you that I have not been as corrupt as you must think. Try to remember the good things that have been between us and not the pain. You know I do not believe that anything will follow death but we have had our moments of bliss, you and I, and these I believe will be eternal. Look after yourself and the children. I love you all. Mitya.'

He did not read it through. He knew he mustn't look at the letter, must not redraft it; it was not a work of art, and besides, he didn't think he could read what he had written. He was afraid that it would sound cheap and that he would feel diminished by it. If he read it again he would want to change it; he could think of a thousand different words to say but in the end it would come to the same thing. It would do; it was done. Now he had to get it to her. He would have to find some way of posting it that would mean it would not be intercepted.

He stood up, sealed the paper into an envelope and slid it into his jacket pocket. He would go into Tripoli. He would go to one of the international hotels and find someone going back to Europe who would mail it for him. He would be watched, of course; it would be difficult to do, but surely, possible.

He took out the knife and felt the blade. It was blunt; he had never sharpened it. He thought, it would be easier with a razor blade. He told his driver he wanted to go into Tripoli.

In the bar of the Libyan Palace Hotel he sat at a table and waited for someone to come and serve him. A waitress came from the bar to take his order. She was tall and slim, with honey-coloured skin and golden eyes. When she smiled at Dmitry he saw that her front teeth were slightly too far apart, but this flaw only added to her attractiveness.

He ordered his drink. She walked back to the bar, her hips swaying. For a moment, Dmitry felt a twinge of desire, as if some force of life was struggling to come awake in him. The waitress came back to the table and smiled at him, a knowing smile, as if some understanding lay between them. She placed his drink carefully on the table. ‘Let me know if you want anything else,' she said.

The bar was crowded, and after a while a man came and sat beside him. They began to talk. The man was Danish, he worked for the UN; he was flying back to Geneva in two days. This was perfect. Dmitry asked if he would take a letter to post to his wife and the man said, ‘Sure.' Dmitry thought he could see the waitress watching him from the bar. He felt suddenly uneasy. He glanced down at the pile of UN papers and documents the Dane had left on the table, including a report on the status of women in Libya. Instead of handing it to him, which he thought someone might notice, he placed the letter carefully on top of the report. He said, ‘It's my wife's birthday. You'll post it directly, won't you?'

As the man nodded Dmitry suppressed all thoughts of what would happen when Katie got the letter. He stood up to leave, and saw the waitress start to approach him from behind the bar. For some reason, he felt uneasy. He hurried out into the street, walked past a string of meagrely stocked shops; in one window unopened boxes were piled high, in another a dusty mannequin leaned disconsolately against the window. He found a pharmacy, went inside, walked down the brightly-lit rows filled with shampoo, soap, toothpaste, cosmetics, hair dye. The absurdity, the vanity of the world struck him suddenly and for a moment he felt like laughing. He had assumed that his driver would stay in the car, but as he reached out for a packet of the old-fashioned oblong razor blades he saw the driver coming in through the door and glance towards him. Had he been asked to keep an eye on what he was doing? Dmitry picked up a packet of shaving cream instead and stared at the instructions. It was ridiculous; surely the driver wouldn't suspect or report anything; but he felt acutely, transparently vulnerable, as if his thoughts and intentions must be obvious to anyone.

Dmitry bought the shaving cream and left the blades; he thought that he would use his penknife after all. They returned to the car and sped through the darkness along the corniche. He looked at the lights shining on the dark water, the moon sinking low towards the earth and its reflection breaking up into slabs of light on the sluggish waves. Dmitry found that he was thinking about Katie after all. He wondered how long she would be faithful to him, after his death, whether she would marry again, and if so, who. He thought of her, lying beneath him, naked, her skin flushed a rosy pink, asking for more, please, more… he cut off such thoughts instantly, it was like a door slamming shut.

At Tajura there was one last thing he had to do. He was tired; it was dangerous; perhaps it would be a mistake. He crossed the courtyard, heading for the laboratory. The moonlight cast long, strange shadows over the plants in the courtyard; the water trickled gently, that sweet, luscious sound in the desert; the wind rustled in the leaves of the tree. At the entrance to the building the guard stared at him, curious. Dmitry's heart began to pound; he thought they might not let him in, might question him as to what he was doing.

The guard recognised him and let him in.

The building was in darkness. He went into the lab, put on the light, switched on the computer screen. He often worked late, not usually as late as this, but there was no reason why anyone should think it strange; it was only his own sense of guilt. He began to call up the files, and then to delete them, one by one. At first it pained him to do this, to destroy the work he had so laboriously created, but it had to be done. After a while, as again and again the screen flashed up, delete Yes/No? as if it questioned his own determination, he felt a sense of savage satisfaction, like the child's pleasure in destruction. As he did this he could almost hear Rozanov's fiendish laughter, goading him on.

He knew as he did this that he was not entirely obliterating what he had done. Perhaps the information, at least some of it, existed somewhere on back-up tapes which the Libyans would surely make. Further, until the discs were overwritten there was information there which could be retrieved. He was only making it more difficult for them; and there was a chance that they would not be able to get it all back. He went on, doggedly, file after file, to the end, then sat back, giddy and relieved.

Next he unlocked the filing cabinet and began to go through the paperwork. Most of it was a mess, scribbled notes, half-formed ideas; he wondered if anyone would be able to make sense of it. He took file after file, put the paper in the sink. He found a bottle of alcohol-based cleaning fluid, soaked the paper, and tossed in a match. The flames shot up; he stood ready with a cloth.

He heard the footsteps of the guard coming along the corridor. In haste, he threw down the cloth. The flames extinguished themselves; there was a smell of burning. The guard opened the door.

Dmitry sat by the bench in the brightly illuminated lab. The guard looked at him; he spoke no Russian or English. Dmitry spoke barely a word of Arabic. The guard raised his eyebrows, sniffed the air; Dmitry grinned. The guard shrugged and went away again.

Dmitry felt that he had done enough. He left the lab, locked the door behind him. He went back, across the moonlit courtyard, to his room. He shut the door and leaned against it for a moment. So, this was it; there was no point in delaying any longer; he had to do it.

He sat on the bed, his limbs heavy, exhausted. So, he was going to die. He did not believe that there was anything to follow; if he felt no hope on earth, how could he have hope of heaven? He tried to think, for a moment, of nothingness, but realised he couldn't; what he imagined was a black, velvety darkness, and darkness had colour, texture. He realised that his heart was racing, that his hands were damp with sweat, that his breathing had quickened. He must not think about it; if he thought at all, he would be lost. He went over to the cupboard, took out another bottle, wrenched off the top and poured himself a vodka. He drank it, poured another, and drank that too. It didn't make him feel any better and he didn't want to get drunk; maybe if he did he wouldn't be able to steel himself to go through with this. He put the bottle back in the cupboard.

He went into the bathroom. He knew, he didn't know how, that you were supposed to cut your wrists under warm water; perhaps it was to ease the pain, perhaps to encourage the blood to flow. He thought he would do it in the bath, but he couldn't face the idea of taking off his clothes, of dying and being found naked, nor could he see himself getting into the bath in wet clothes. Perhaps the basin would do. He ran the hot water into the basin. Then he went to get his knife. He ran his finger again along the blade. He supposed that it would do. He felt a momentary sense of nausea; he wiped his hand across his forehead.

He thought he heard again that whispered voice behind his ear, crackling like a radio, saying, ‘Go on, do it.'

There was a sharp knock on the door.

Dmitry's heart leaped and landed with a heavy thump. He decided he wouldn't open it; whoever it was would go away. He stood, frozen, making no sound, but the knock came again, louder. Who was it? Perhaps they would break the door down. He called out, ‘Yes? Who's there?'

‘It's me, Djambul.'

Dmitry hesitated. He put the knife down on the table, opened the door. Suzarbayev stood there, the catalyst of his decision, grinning in blissful ignorance. Dmitry knew he should have said, ‘Go away; I'm not well.' But he couldn't.

‘I had an idea. About the withdrawal pipes… can I come in?'

‘What? Yes… yes, come in. I was just going to bed…'

Suzarbayev sat at the table, picked up a pen, began drawing a diagram. Dmitry stared at him, unable to understand. What was Suzarbayev doing there? He had never come here so late before. Why did he have to sit here listening to this trivia? He knew he should tell him to stop, but he didn't want to do anything which seemed odd or out of character, so he endured him a little longer. Suzarbayev got to the end of his explanation. He handed the paper to Dmitry. ‘What do you think?'