Doctor Gavrilov (44 page)

She answered, ‘I can send you some of your clothes, I can ring the bank and ask them to transfer some money into the account. How much do you need?'

‘I don't know.'

‘£500? Would that do for now?'

‘Yes… all right… that will be fine. Can't you bring it to me? I would rather have cash. I don't have a card…'

There was silence. This was terrible; she would think he had only rung her because he needed money. He said, softly, pleading, ‘Katie.'

‘Mitya, I'm sorry, but I can't see you. You must understand, that after everything that's happened, it's too dangerous. If you want to see the children I understand, you have that right, I will arrange for it somehow, perhaps some some sort of supervised access, but please don't ask me to see you again like this. I thought it was all over – in fact, as you well know, I thought you were
dead
.'

Dmitry said nothing; the sudden violence in her voice shook him. After a few moments Katie said more softly, ‘Tell me where you are. I'll ring the bank straight away and you can go and collect the money. I'll send you the clothes in a taxi later on.'

Dmitry accepted her fear at seeing him. He realised that he wasn't at all sure of his situation; he understood that she might think her line might be tapped, and it was of course likely that he would be followed. He said, ‘You told me once, where you were born, don't say the name. Can you meet me there? It's imperative that I talk to you.'

Sasha's crying in the background had reached intolerable levels. Katie said, ‘I must go; all right, wait for me there. Give me a couple of hours. I need to find someone to look after Sasha.'

Katie knew where he meant; the hotel on Hyde Park Corner. She had been born, upstairs on the top floor, when it was St George's Hospital, and was surprised that if he needed money so desperately he would be staying in such luxury. She felt the terrible irony as she walked towards it that her life had begun there, and now felt as if it were about to end in the same place. The pain she felt in her heart was overwhelming. Hearing Mitya's voice had taken her straight back to the anguish she had felt in those last few days before he'd left them. She felt sick with anxiety. The leather bag with his things in it weighed heavily on her arm and she felt as if in telling him what she had resolved to say, that there was no going back and they had to finalise their affairs, that she was going to destroy him.

She found him waiting in the hotel lounge, pretending to read the newspaper. When she came in he stood up and they stared at one another. It was so strange for her to see him living, after thinking him dead. He was the same; but he was not the same. He looked haggard, ill, his face was badly bruised, and seemed to have aged several years in the months since she'd last seen him. The moment she saw him he had, as always, this terrible, devastating effect on her; she had to struggle with herself not to abandon all her resolve and throw herself into his arms.

She put the bag on the floor beside the chair and sat down, quickly, before he was able to reach out and embrace her; she folded her hands protectively across her lap. She was uneasy, feeling the falseness of her position, and didn't know what to say to him. She fiddled nervously with the fringes of her fine wool shawl.

‘I bought some clothes… there are some papers and things, about your residency… And your coat, I thought you'd need that. I didn't know what else you wanted… perhaps you had better look…'

He looked at her intently; she couldn't meet his gaze. He said, ‘We don't have to stay here. We could go for a walk.'

‘No, Mitya, I don't want to.' She didn't want to be alone with him; she was afraid that there would be some terrible scene or worse, that he would want to kiss her or plead with her to give him another chance and that she might want that, too. Rebuffed, he sat heavily on the chair opposite her. He seemed altogether wrong, out of place, in the grand, expensive room, with its Chinese vases, plush sofas, chintz curtains and Persian carpets.

He asked, ‘Would you like some tea? I can ask them to bring some…'

‘No, it's all right, please don't bother… I can't stay long, I left Sasha with a friend…'

She sat, helplessly, trying to think of something to say. He asked, ‘Are the children all right? Has anyone been helping you…'

‘Yes, they're fine. We've managed, somehow.' She didn't want to mention Tim; of course she knew she should tell him, but how could she, now? It would be too cruel; she couldn't, on top of everything else that had obviously happened to him, deal him this blow. Dmitry asked, ‘Can I see them?' and she softened for a moment. She said, ‘Yes, of course you can see them, in time. Anna…' and suddenly she found herself on the point of tears. How could she say, ‘Anna misses you?' Rather than let herself cry, she instantly became angry; ‘I didn't know what to tell her. What could I say? She has been very withdrawn, she has nightmares… don't you realise what this has done to her?'

‘Katie… don't.' He hung his head. ‘I am not trying to excuse myself… but I need to talk to you. We have to sort everything out… what do you want? Do you think there is any chance –'

She didn't want to talk about this; she didn't know what to say. She felt frozen, unable to deal with the confused emotions which were sweeping through her. She said ‘Mitya, how can I answer these questions now? I don't know. If you want the truth I'm frightened of you, I'm afraid of being seen with you, God knows what might happen. Our phone has been tapped, we've been watched, the KGB came round to search the flat… I can't live like this. It's been a kind of hell.'

‘That will soon be over.'

He looked ashamed as soon as he had said this; anyway, she didn't believe him. She asked softly, ‘Will it?' She looked at him and he dropped his gaze, staring at the glass-topped table. She went on. ‘How could you write me that letter? Don't you realise what I've suffered? How could you let me believe…'

‘I meant it. I tried to kill myself. It was because… it was to make you safe.' He loosened his shirt cuffs and held out his wrists to display the scars. She saw the red marks scoring the skin and felt a moment of pity and revulsion; the anguish he was feeling radiated from him like something palpable. Looking into his eyes now was like looking into a vortex, an abyss; it was like the
liebestod
, love-in-death or death-in-love or whatever you called it in English; she had to save herself.

She shifted backwards in her chair. She said, ‘You said you'd been ill. Are you going to see someone? You look terrible, Mitya. You need help…'

The waiter came and stood by her elbow, delicately clearing this throat. He asked them if they wanted anything; Katie couldn't tolerate the thought of sitting there, sipping tea, trying to make any kind of normal conversation, and jumped to her feet. There were so many things she wanted to ask him; what had happened after he had written his letter, whether he had been at Tajura at the time of the raid, how he had got away, but she didn't want to ask him now, she wanted to get away as fast as possible. She said, ‘I have to go, Mitya… look, I'll see you again soon. I will arrange something, with the children, once I feel it's safe for them to see you… but you must accept that we can't live together anymore.'

He followed her to the door. On the steps of the hotel she felt a sense of panic. She didn't want to leave him; she was afraid that if she left him now something would happen and she would never see him again, and that her last words to him would haunt her forever. She turned to him and said, ‘Please, let me know what you are doing… will you call me, tomorrow…'

‘Katie –'

He put out his hand to take hold of her and she jumped away. Her shawl fluttered to the ground and he stooped to pick it up; she turned and started to run so that he wouldn't see her crying. When she got to the entrance of the underground she turned and saw him looking after her, letting the shawl run helplessly through his fingers.

Dmitry stood on the pavement outside the hotel, holding the shawl to his nostrils so that he could inhale the faint trace of perfume. He thought it wasn't possible to feel more desperate. Once again he felt the only thing to do was die. Yet he couldn't give up hope of having Katie; he had to do something, to make his position safe. He went back into the hotel to collect his things, then down to the payphones in the station to dial the number he had used to contact Rozanov.

It was unobtainable. He rang the Russian consulate. He said, ‘I want to speak to Gleb Rozanov.'

‘There is no one of that name here.'

‘He works upstairs. You know who I mean. You must put me through at once.'

‘I am not able to do so.'

‘I don't have time to play these games. Give me the head of the foreign intelligence service. Tell him it is Dmitry Gavrilov.'

‘Please give me your telephone number. Maybe someone will call you back.'

He gave his number and hung up. He waited for a while, but no-one called. He rang again and repeated his demand, and again the woman said she couldn't connect him.

Dmitry said, ‘Tell him that I have a gun, and that I will come over and shoot myself on the steps of the consulate if he doesn't see me. Then you will have some explaining to do.'

She said sharply, ‘Please ring off.'

‘I have valuable intelligence from Libya. They will want to hear it.'

‘I do not think they will be interested in your intelligence. Don't call again. You are becoming a nuisance.' There was a terrible threat in those simple words; Dmitry felt a chill go through him. The line had gone dead; he hung up. He didn't know what he would do, but he walked through the pedestrian underpass and out of the northern exit, and began to walk all the way across the park, towards the Russian embassy. The trees were beginning to turn, and as he walked, some dead leaves blew along the path. He knew he looked disreputable; he was unshaven, wore his old black coat wrapped about him, and could not suppress the desire to curse out loud. He was aware that anyone seeing him would probably have taken him for a drunk, and yet he didn't care.

As he neared the north side of the park, he stopped. He blinked, passed a hand before his eyes. In front of him, on the path, he saw Rozanov. Behind him stood two thick-set men.

Rozanov turned and walked towards him, the men following behind him.

‘Are you armed?'

The two men searched him. When they had finished, they fell back and Rozanov turned and walked beside him. He did not waste any time with formalities. ‘What is this information?'

‘Did British Intelligence contact you? Did they tell you what I was carrying at Heathrow?

Rozanov lit himself a cigarette with an elegant lighter; he smiled and said, ‘Believe me, we know everything. I doubt if there is anything you could tell us… This business is closed now. I imagine you want money.'

‘But I have done the job you wanted, I have the information, more than you could have hoped for, not just about Tajura, but other procurement… why are you not interested?

Rozanov said, ‘After the events of the last few days it is probably only of historical importance. By all means, we can arrange a debriefing. I have received permission to make a payment to you if you if you agree to be co-operative… the money could be in your account tomorrow.'

‘You think you can just pay me off.'

‘Dmitry Nikolayevich, don't sound so ungrateful; this is extremely generous. You realise that we could have you killed, indeed that in some quarters this would have been thought the best thing? Consider yourself very lucky.'

Dmitry's voice was icy cold. He saw the whole thing, now. ‘You wanted me dead all along, didn't you? That was all part of the plan. I was to be a scapegoat, to show the world what would happen to any Russian scientist foolish enough to go and sell their secrets in the Middle East. You could point the finger at me and say, look, how dangerous this is. This will happen to you, too. You tried to kill me in Tripoli. That was what you intended, wasn't it? Admit it.'