Doctor Gavrilov (41 page)

‘Let me see.'

Dmitry handed his passport over. The official examined it suspiciously. He looked at the page with the British residency stamp, frowned, flipped through the other pages. He picked up the phone and began a conversation about visa requirements for Russians. Then he put down the phone, frowning, and said, ‘You have no entry visa for Tunisia. This is very irregular. Of course you should have been stamped on entry… besides, you have a Soviet passport.'

‘You are right. I have a passport for a country which no longer exists. This too is no doubt irregular.'

The official looked at him for a moment and suddenly laughed. Dmitry laughed with him; the ice was broken; perhaps, he thought, this would do the trick. The official continued to study Dmitry's passport. Then he shrugged and handed it back.

‘I'm sorry, I cannot help you. I think you will have to contact your embassy or the aliens' office in Tunis to sort this out.'

Dmitry threw up his hands in hopeless protest and went out. He stood in the bright sunshine outside, looking around for a taxi. He asked the driver to take him to the Russian Embassy but when they pulled up outside the ugly white building they seemed to be too early, the iron gates were locked and barred. He tried to work out what to do. He should wait and then go in and hand the uranium over to them. But that would mean handing himself over to them too. What would they do with him? He had no idea. Dmitry looked around across the street to where a blue car was parked, with two men sitting in the front. Dmitry immediately said to the driver, ‘Drive on, drive on.' Of course, the Libyans would be expecting him to go there. He was convinced that they were waiting for him, that if he went and stood at the gates, or rang the bell at the closed doors, he would be shot. He couldn't risk it. He had one over-riding desire now, to get back to London and see Katie.

‘Where's a good hotel?'

The taxi driver began to reel off a list of names; the Sheraton, the Hilton… Dmitry said, ‘Try the Hilton.' The driver swung the taxi round. They seemed to be going a long way, right out of town; Dmitry's heart sank, it was going to be expensive, and there was this problem with money. Dmitry fished in his pocket for his last few dollars which were mercifully enough. He declined help with his suitcase and walked into the lobby.

The air conditioning hit him with a cold blast; he realised his shirt was damp with sweat, that he felt dizzy and sick again. He stood still for a moment or two. He was convinced that people were staring at him, that their eyes were following him as he walked across the large expanse of the entrance hall. He knew he looked terrible; in a place like this he was conspicuous. He thought that he must go and tidy himself up. He fought down the sudden nausea which swept over him.

He burst into the men's cloakroom, rushed over to the washbasins, leaned over and was violently sick under the appalled gaze of a man in an elegant suit. Dmitry turned on the tap, rinsed out the basin and then splashed his face with cold water. His head throbbed; perhaps it was just a migraine. Or perhaps it was just the cheap kebab he had eaten at the port earlier… He straightened up and looked at himself in the mirror. There was no denying it; he looked dreadful. Somebody would throw him out of the hotel. He glanced round; he was now alone. He took out his shaving things but it was not easy to make a good job of it because of the bruises on his face and his swollen, painful fingers.

He straightened up, dried himself and went out into the lobby. He went to the bar at the back and ordered a mineral water to drink, sat and sipped it on the terrace. He stayed there for a long time; people started to arrive for lunch. His nausea had now completely vanished; he felt light-headed and dreadfully hungry and thought that perhaps he should try to eat.

He looked around for a waiter. A German couple were sitting at the next table, a man of about fifty and his slightly younger wife. He could over-hear their conversation; a holiday couple, reading their guidebooks, planning a trip to Carthage. He sat in the cool breeze under the sun-umbrella and watched people going about their ordinary business, while here he was, with enough highly enriched uranium to make an atomic bomb in his suitcase, and for all he knew every major intelligence agency in the world on his heels. What was he to do? He could go to the British or the US Embassy. But what would they make of him? They might arrest him for terrorism. They might hand him over to the Tunisian authorities and he could be imprisoned here – he couldn't imagine that their jails were pleasant. No, it would be better to take it back to London to the Russian Embassy there. He must ring the airport and find when the next flight to London was. They would do that from the desk. But here was the terrible thing; he hadn't the money to pay for it. He hadn't even the money to pay for a night at this hotel. Then there was the problem of his passport. He was afraid that he would be on some wanted list, might be stopped by the police. They might notice he had no entry stamp; his luggage might be searched.

He looked again at the couple at the next table. The woman had bleached blonde hair, obviously dyed, and was slightly overweight; the man seemed bored with their conversation. Dmitry could, he supposed, rob them. He could go up to their room and see if they had left any money there. Their key lay temptingly on the table; perhaps if they got up for a moment, went to the bar, he might be able to take it… He tried to read the room number on it but the tag was the wrong side up. He looked at the man again. If he took their money, he could also take the passport… he might get away with it. The man was tall, about the right age… it might do at least to get out of Tunisia. Surely they never looked carefully at passports when you were leaving? With a German passport he could take the first flight, anywhere in Europe. But supposing its theft was immediately discovered? The man would alert the police immediately. It wasn't possible. Unless he could persuade the man not to go to the police. How? Threaten him? Bribe him? Knock him out? But then, his wife… no, it didn't work.

The waiter came to the next table and Dmitry hailed him. He ordered a sandwich. His mouth felt dry and after one bite he had no appetite, but he knew he had to eat. The woman at the next table glanced at him without any interest. Then, as he looked at her, an idea came to him. It seemed insane; it was a plan of utter desperation, but once it had occurred to him, he couldn't shake it out of his head. He went over it again and again, testing it, trying to see if there was any flaw in it, but he couldn't find one. The couple had finished their drinks; they got up from the table and went in through the doors. Dmitry stood up, holding his half-eaten sandwich and still carrying his suitcase, and followed them into the lift. They stood, close to one another, avoiding one another's eyes. The woman pressed the button for the seventh floor and Dmitry, on impulse, the fifth. He got out there and strode quickly up the next two flights. He could see the couple along the corridor, standing outside their room. They opened the door, went in, and he heard it close.

Dmitry's heart started to beat very fast. He thought he could never go through with this; then he thought that he had to. For an instant he remembered Rozanov's mocking laughter and he felt a sudden desire to prove to him that he could carry out this plan. He unlocked his suitcase, took out the gun, and slipped it into his pocket. He locked the suitcase again, walked down the corridor, and, taking a deep breath, knocked at the door. There was a long pause. He thought, supposing they don't open it. Then I will be saved; then I will not have to do this. He felt as if by doing what he planned he was putting himself beyond any moral acceptability, cutting himself off from all ordinary human feelings and becoming, in his desperation, something he despised. He heard a voice inside the room, footsteps, and then the man say, in poor French, ‘Who is it?'

Dmitry hesitated. What was ‘Room service' in French?
Service de chambre
? Would they even know, anyway? He spoke the words, loudly. There was another brief pause; then the door opened. Dmitry immediately stepped inside, forcing his way past, and pushed the door shut behind him. He turned the key and put it in his pocket. Drawing the gun, he stepped back against the wall and looked at them. The woman's face turned white under her tan; the man, too, blanched and stepped backwards, putting out his hands in front of him, palms upwards. The woman sat down heavily on the side of the bed; he saw her look at the phone. Dmitry said, in German, ‘Don't even think about it.'

The man said, ‘What do you want?' His voice was hoarse. He glanced at his wife; they both looked terrified.

Dmitry said, ‘I want money. And I want your passport.'

The man looked almost relieved at this. He said, ‘Yes, of course.' He reached for his jacket, which hung from the back of the chair, and dug into the pocket. He pulled out notes and travellers' cheques. Dmitry said quietly, ‘Put it on the table.' He checked the money; about 500 deutschmarks and some local currency. ‘Now your passport.'

The German placed it carefully on the table. Dmitry snatched it up, examined the first page. Friedrich Gunter Gottlieb of Frankfurt, businessman. Aged 48 years. Height 182 centimetres; ten centimetres too short, but still, tall. The photo was not too bad at all, he thought; I might get away with it. He slid the passport into his pocket. He looked at the two, frightened faces but he felt no pity for them because he was as desperate as they were. He was afraid that something would go wrong, that there was some small detail that he hadn't thought of, or that they would panic and force him to some drastic act.

He said, in a quiet, low voice. ‘I am going to tell you the truth. I find myself in a very serious situation. I am an agent of a foreign power, and I have to get out of this country immediately. That is why I need your passport. But this is not enough. If I leave you now, you will go to the police, and this passport will be worse than useless. So I have to take you –' and here he looked straight into the woman's face – ‘with me.'

It took a few seconds for this to sink in, then she turned with a rapid movement and looked at her husband. He could see that she was trembling. Dmitry pressed on, now looking at Gottlieb, adjusting his grip on the gun as he spoke.

‘I would advise you very strongly against going to the police. You are under surveillance, and if you take any action other than those I instruct you to, I can assure you that you will not see your wife again. We have agents everywhere –' Dmitry paused for effect – ‘and I can assure you that things have not changed quite so much as you might imagine.' He could see Gottlieb trying to work him out, trying to place the accent in Dmitry's voice, an accent which must confuse him because, though no doubt there were Russian sounds or inflections there, he had learned his German in Vienna and had a good ear for languages. He was beginning to warm to the part now, it seemed to be going all right, he sounded convincing, he thought they believed him. He turned to the woman and said ‘And for you, the same thing. If you try anything, something very unpleasant will happen to your husband. I can assure you that if you both co-operate no harm will come to you.'

Gottlieb said, quickly, eagerly, ‘Yes, of course. We understand. We will do exactly what you want.'

Dmitry half sat on the little table; the whole situation seemed unreal; he was gaining confidence with every moment. He said, ‘Once we have arrived at our destination your wife will be free to ring you. You can do what you like, then. You can go to the police, then, of course, but since this is a matter which involves the intelligence services, all you are likely to get out of it is hours of detailed interrogation and no action that you will ever see.'

He watched their faces; they seemed to accept what he told them; what else could they do? ‘Now,' said Dmitry to the woman, ‘Ring the desk and ask them for flights out of Tunis to London tonight.'

There was one to Paris in the afternoon, connecting to London, and one direct flight later to Heathrow. Dmitry asked if there were seats and was told there was no problem. He asked her to book two seats in the name of Gottlieb.

He said, ‘Have you money, traveller's cheques, a credit card? You will need to pay at the airport. I want you to pack, now. Take those things, a change of clothes, whatever you need. Come on, hurry.'

She did as he asked, packing neatly as if from habit, folding up her blouses and pressing them down, glancing from time to time nervously at her husband. When she was ready she kissed her husband's cheek, suppressing tears, and walked across the room where Dmitry opened the door for her. She walked ahead of him down the corridor; in the lift she stood opposite him, staring at the floor. He sensed her revulsion; it both angered and reassured him, because he could see how afraid she was. For once his appearance worked in his favour; if I were a better-looking man she would not be so afraid of me, he thought.

They took a taxi to the airport. She sat, silent, at the other side of the car. Dmitry said, suddenly, in a low voice, ‘Let me see your passport.' She handed it over. He looked at it; her name was Gertrude. She was a teacher. He said, ‘Gertrude, you are my wife. We've been married a long time, so we don't have to talk too much, we don't have to be overly affectionate, but you must not look hostile, you must not look frightened. You must not do anything which will attract attention to us.'

She nodded.

‘Tell me, where do we live?'

She gave him an address in Munich.

‘Do we have children?'

‘Two boys.'

‘How old are they? Their names?'

‘16 and 14. Berthold and Horst.' She looked at him. ‘It's because of them… please don't harm us.'

‘I have no intention of harming you,' he said, and then, with a touch of harshness, ‘Unless I have to.'

He felt for the gun in his pocket. Somehow, before they checked in, he would have to get rid of it. It would be better to do so before they got to the airport. But he didn't want Gertrude to see him dump it; he wanted the threat of it as long as was possible. He glanced at her; she was looking fixedly out of the window. They were in the long road approaching the airport. He took out the passports and pretended to examine them; then, as they turned a corner, he dropped them on the floor. She looked at him; she watched as he leaned down to pick them up and deliberately looked away. He bent down to retrieve the passports and as he did so surreptitiously deposited the gun in the pouch behind the driver's seat.