Doctor Gavrilov (42 page)

The airport seemed crowded with holiday makers. They walked past the jasmine sellers; Gertrude stumbled alongside him, her face white, and he wondered whether ever afterwards she would associate the smell of jasmine with fear. He took her to the ticket desk, whispering, ‘Don't look like that… you have had a holiday. You are happy. Smile.' She nodded, but she looked close to tears; her smile was a travesty. She looked so pale and fearful that Dmitry was convinced she would give them away.

The airline agent checked their booking and made out the tickets. Gertrude took out her credit card and he stood, nervous, while she signed. The agent said, ‘Excuse me a moment.' She went back into an office. Dmitry thought Gertrude might have signed wrongly to attract attention to them and went hot and then cold all over. Gertrude too was frightened; he could see the sweat dampening her blouse; her face was white and tense. Dmitry whispered, ‘What is wrong? If you –' but the woman came back, handed him the tickets and told them to go to the check-in desk.

Now he would have to check in the suitcase. He was fairly confident that it would not be scanned here, or that if it was, the metal bars would arouse no suspicion. When he saw the suitcase vanish on the conveyor belt Dmitry felt first acute anxiety and then relief. They negotiated passport control without a hitch and sat in the departure lounge. When they went through the metal detection gate Dmitry saw that Gertrude was puzzled; she was clearly wondering what he had done about the gun, but she said nothing to him.

They sat down. Dmitry wondered what the procedure would be if they searched the baggage prior to loading it. He assumed that they would call him. It was impossible to relax. Gertrude sat next to him, her back straight, trying to read a book; he watched her read the same page over and over again. Dmitry couldn't stand her tense, terrified expression; it made him angry because he couldn't afford to let himself feel sorry for her. He said, ‘You are too obvious. Try to relax. Would you like me to get you a drink?'

‘I want to go to the toilet.'

‘On the plane.'

‘I need to go now.'

‘You will have to wait till you are on the plane.' He looked at her fiercely; he had to conceal from her the terrible truth that he was absolutely powerless and that if she chose to give him away there was nothing he could do about it. On the plane she insisted again that she had to go to the toilet so he went and stood outside. When she came out he grabbed her wrist to keep her with him and peered inside. She asked, ‘What are you doing?' and he said, ‘Just checking.' He thought he had seen a film sometime where someone left a message in lipstick on the mirror. He let go of her hand; she went and sat down. She said, in a low voice, ‘I don't want you to touch me. I can only stand this if you don't actually touch me.'

They sat in silence. As soon as he sat down, Dmitry realised he had a new problem; he was so exhausted that he might fall asleep. The noise and vibration of the plane were soporific; he'd hardly slept for over 40 hours. If he fell asleep surely he would notice if she climbed or leant over him… but he couldn't risk it. He turned to her. He said, ‘Talk to me.'

This seemed to fill her with new horror. ‘Why? I can't. There's nothing to say.'

The stewardess came with drinks. She asked for a Campari and soda; he had coffee. He was trying to think ahead, now. He thought she might try something at Heathrow. She might be afraid that he would break his word, that instead of releasing her he would take her off somewhere and kill her. Perhaps he should try to reassure her. He said, ‘At Heathrow, I will enter the country on your husband's passport. Once we're through customs I will give it back and you will be free to go. You can telephone your husband to say you're safe but you should not attempt to contact the police for 24 hours. After that you are both free to do what you like – though I advise you to do nothing, just in case. Do you understand that?'

‘Yes.' She looked down at her lap; he could not read the expression on her face. She asked, suddenly in a low voice… ‘Please, tell me… it's not drugs, is it? You don't want me to carry something through for you?'

‘No, it's not drugs.'

‘You look ill. Can I give you anything? I have some paracetamol in my bag…' she drew out a bottle and handed it to him. He looked at the bottle carefully, tipped the pills into his hand, and held them out to her. He said, ‘Take one.'

She looked at him, alarmed. Then she took one and swallowed it with her Campari. He watched her for a few moments and then took two himself. He tried to relax, to ease his headache. He started; he must have fallen asleep for an instant. The plane sounded different; perhaps the engines had altered or the air pressure changed. Gertrude hadn't moved. He wondered how long he had been asleep; whether there had been time for her to have said something to the stewardess. He put his hand on her arm. She froze; she looked at him, there were tears in her eyes. He said, ‘Gertrude, I asked you to talk to me.'

‘I can't. I'm very tired… I'd like to sleep.'

‘All right, then, sleep.'

They completed the journey, in silence; she, no doubt feigning sleep, while Dmitry had to force himself to stay awake.

As they left the plane the air hostess hoped they'd had a pleasant flight. Dmitry strode down the long corridor, Gertrude walking meekly by his side. They joined the immigration queue, Dmitry, for once, on the EEC side. He handed Gertrude her passport. He said, ‘I'll be behind you. Don't do anything; just look bored. Wait for me the other side.' He took her arm to prevent her bolting; she let him hold her, unresponsive, stiff. She went ahead of him; there was a moment when he thought she might say something to the officer but she must have thought better of it and walked straight through. Now it was his turn. He stepped forward, handed over the passport and let his legs bend at the knees very slightly to reduce his height. The immigration officer looked at the passport, at Dmitry, at the passport again, then back at Dmitry's face. He said, ‘You had an accident?'

Dmitry put his hand up to feel the bruise. He said, ‘A robbery.'

‘I'm sorry to hear that, sir.' The officer still hesitated, holding the passport. Dmitry turned towards Gertrude, standing with her back to them, a few yards away. He tried to subtly imitate a German accent. ‘Fortunately they didn't hurt my wife.'

This seemed to dispel any doubts the officer might have had; he handed the passport back to Dmitry and he walked through.

Only now that his heart slowed down did Dmitry realise how fast it had been racing. He felt his shirt was damp with sweat. He hurried after Gertrude who was now striding straight ahead. They took the escalator down to the baggage collection area and sat on a bench. Gertrude stared ahead as if she didn't belong to him. Dmitry thought she was probably calculating how she could get away. But now, he had other worries. Looking up, he couldn't help noticing a man staring at him from across the room. He felt a wave of heat sweep over him. Had the Libyans tipped somebody off that he was on the plane? Perhaps they would try to take his baggage or somehow intercept it… perhaps they had men working on the staff at Heathrow airport…

The carousel began to move. Dmitry pushed his way to the spot where the luggage came down; there was no way he wanted anyone else to get hold of his suitcase. A few people stared at him coldly as he pushed his way to the front and heaved the battered suitcase on to the floor. He glanced around for Gertrude and saw her snatching her own suitcase off the carousel.

He went to stand beside her, and handed her the German passport. ‘Remember what I said. They are watching your husband in Tunis.' She nodded and backed away from him, then turned on her heel and began to walk quickly towards customs. As he followed, she increased her pace. He thought, if only she concentrates on getting away from me, doesn't stop to tell anyone, it will be all right. He rounded the corner. She walked ahead of him, glancing neither to left or right, heading for the exit. He followed slowly, trying not to hurry, keeping his eyes fixed ahead, deliberately not looking at the customs officers. He had never been stopped in customs before; it was going to be fine; any moment now he would be through.

Then a voice came from his left, ‘Excuse me, sir.' He knew the voice was speaking to him but he ignored it; then it was repeated, more loudly. Somebody was moving round in front of him. He had to stop. The customs officer smiled politely, coldly. He said, ‘Could you just come over here a moment, sir?'

The hall span round. Dmitry stumbled, collected himself, tried to look calm. Taking a deep breath he hoisted the suitcase in his hand and walked over to the bench.

‘P
UT your suitcase on the table.'

Dmitry lifted up the heavy case, trying not to make it seem too much effort.

‘Where are you coming from, sir?'

‘Tunis.'

‘What were you doing there?'

‘A holiday.'

‘May I see your passport?'

Dmitry hesitated, then he handed over his own Soviet passport. The customs officer looked through it. He said, ‘You have no entry stamp today. You have British residency… but your residency is about to expire. The immigration officer didn't query this?'

‘This is my temporary residency, for one year… I applied for permanent residency, it should have come through, it is automatic, my wife is British. You can telephone her if you need confirmation. You must realise it is a complicated situation with my passport. For some reason I have to go to Moscow to get a Russian Federation passport…'

The officer continued to study the passport. ‘You have no Tunisian stamps either… however, you were recently in Libya. May I ask what you were doing there, sir?'

Dmitry said the first thing that came into his head. ‘I was acting as a business consultant.'

The customs officer nodded to the man standing next to him and went through into a room at the back. He was gone for some minutes. When he came back he said, ‘Would you mind opening your suitcase, sir?'

Dmitry stared at him, not making any move. The officer hesitated. He asked, ‘Did you pack it yourself, sir?'

‘Yes.'

‘There's no reason then to suppose that there's anything in it that would interest us?'

‘No.'

‘Then would you mind opening it for us, sir?'

Dmitry had no idea what would happen to him if he admitted what was in it. He thought the best thing might be to ask to see someone from the intelligence services, to make a clean breast of it and throw himself at their mercy, but he was afraid to do this. He supposed that British intelligence might contact the KGB, but this might not help him; they might deny all knowledge of him. He might be accused of smuggling, might be made an example of. What could he say? Even now he might be lucky and get away with it. Would they even know what the metal bars were? Could he pretend that they were simply lead? He said, to gain time, ‘I've lost the key.'

It sounded ridiculous as soon as he had said it. They were tense, uneasy, looking at him; it was obvious that this situation worried them. The officer said, ‘May I remind you that it is an offence to obstruct a customs officer in the performance of his duty. We want to have a look inside your suitcase. If you're not prepared to open it we shall have to do it ourselves. You can always make a claim for any damages.'

One of the officers muttered something to the other and he went away. The first put out his hands to try the locks on the suitcase and the second suddenly said, with an edge in his voice, ‘No. Don't.' They looked at one another. Then they turned to Dmitry. The first one said, ‘I'm sorry to inform you that you are under arrest. Please come with me. You carry the suitcase.'

They took him to an interview room. It was hot and airless and the light was too bright. Somebody came to search him; they took photographs and fingerprints. When he asked if he had the right to see a lawyer they said this could be arranged, they would call a duty solicitor, but at this time of night it would take some time. He also had the right to inform his embassy of his presence there but again, this would have to wait until the morning.

The officer who had made the arrest sat down opposite him and looked at him across the table. He was young, with a pale, eager face and large dark-framed glasses. He said, ‘It will be easier for us all if you co-operate. You have the right to silence, but if you do not explain yourself it will not look good for you and may stand against you if you have to go to court. We are just trying to establish what you are doing here… we want to know what it is you are carrying in your luggage that you don't wish to reveal to us.' He turned to one of the other officers. ‘You can take it to have it scanned now.'

They went out with the suitcase. Dmitry fidgeted helplessly. He felt angry, impotent; he had so very nearly made it. He wondered if Gertrude had phoned the police; if so, he was undone. He put his hands over his face to shield his eyes from the fluorescent light.