Doctor Gavrilov (8 page)

Dmitry said, ‘It's Dr Gavrilov.'

There was a pause. Then the voice said, ‘Ah, yes. Please wait one moment. You wish to speak to Mr Hattab.' Another man came to the phone. He said, ‘Dr Gavrilov, this is indeed a pleasure. You have rung to make an appointment?'

Dmitry muttered that he had.

Hattab suggested they meet at the Metropole Hotel. Would Monday evening be all right? say, at eight? They could meet in the bar. It would be possible to have a private conversation upstairs. Someone else who very much wanted to meet him would also be there. He hoped their meeting would be most useful to them both.

Dmitry hung up. He stared at the phone receiver and then picked it up. He rang Rozanov's number.

A woman answered and said Rozanov would call him right back.

When the phone rang Dmitry snatched up the receiver. He said, ‘Eight o'clock. Monday evening.'

‘So soon? Did you have to make it so soon?'

Dmitry sighed. He said, ‘I can ring them back… but I would rather not have this hanging over me.'

‘No, leave it as it is… But we don't have much time. We had better meet today, let's say, at three.' He gave him an address near Baker Street. ‘You are calling on the same number as the last time.'

Dmitry glanced down at the phone. ‘Yes.'

‘Don't do that. Use a different phone each time. Till later, then.'

The line went dead. Dmitry looked at his watch; he had half a day to wait. He forced himself to go to the library to give himself something to do, and by three o'clock he was standing by entrance to a large mansion block. He pressed the brass bell and the door opened instantly. The lift was waiting in its ornate metal cage; Dmitry started up the staircase, his feet soundless on the thick beige carpeting. As he climbed, the lift glided past him all the way up to the fifth floor and as the door opened, he heard voices talking. On the landing he saw two doors; one of them was slightly open. Dmitry pushed it open with his fingertips.

He hesitated before entering.

Rozanov stood by the window, looking out through the net curtains. The flat was sparsely furnished, with a sofa, two chairs and a coffee table, a couple of pot plants, and a few cheap prints of impressionist pictures decorated the walls. Though it was clean, there was a faintly musty smell about it; it was clearly not a place that anyone lived in.

Rozanov cleared his throat. ‘Where will you meet them?'

‘At the Metropole Hotel, in the bar. Then we'll go and talk upstairs.'

Rozanov reached into his briefcase and put a batch of papers on the table. He said, ‘This is some background reading for you. I'm sure you know something of this, but still… take a look.'

Dmitry flicked through the documents, copies of Libya's safeguards agreement with the International Atomic Energy Agency, intelligence reports; information about the Tajura Research Centre; most of it he knew already. He pushed the papers away. So, they were from Libya. It didn't surprise him.

Rozanov handed him a pen. ‘What do you think of this?'

Dmitry took it, examined it, offered it back. Rozanov did not take it. He pointed with his stubby, nicotine-stained finger. ‘This contains a highly sensitive transmitter with a range of a minimum of fifty metres… we shall be able to hear the entire conversation. You activate it like this… This is for your protection, you understand.'

Dmitry shook his head. ‘It's too risky to carry something like this. Suppose they search me and discover it.'

‘They will not search you… remember, you are a highly skilled scientist with exactly the qualifications they require and they are not going to find it easy to find another one. Why should they suspect you of anything?'

Dmitry was determined not to be placated so easily. ‘But if they did… if they turned nasty… if they found –'

‘Look, Dmitry Nikolayevich, don't concern yourself with this end of things. Leave that to us. I can assure you that they will not notice anything and that you will be quite safe. Just be very natural with them. It's expected that you will be nervous, just don't overdo it. Keep asking about the money. Remember it's the money which is important to you.'

Dmitry said, ‘Speaking of this, I need some money in my account right now.'

‘Of course, of course, it will be there on Monday. I think you will be pleasantly surprised.'

Dmitry took the pen, gave it a disgusted glance and tucked it into his jacket pocket. Rozanov grinned. ‘Excellent… perfect. Now then, sit down. Let me just run through the things we would like you to ask…'

It was four o'clock when Dmitry stepped out into the street. Already he was uncertain how he could go through with this. The necessity of lying to Katie upset him. He was more and more worried about the unhappiness which seemed to have sprung up between them; he was already afraid that he had, after all, not been what she wanted, and that she was disappointed in him, and these feelings would only be a mild reflection of what she would feel if she knew what he was doing now. And now he had the weekend to get through. At least, he thought, he had not got to face her parents; Katie had agreed to spare him that.

Katie's mother cut another slice of lamb and put it on her plate. ‘Have some more potatoes, dear. You've lost weight… you look far too thin. Do you really think you should go on feeding that baby yourself?'

‘Mummy, we've discussed this before. Anna, don't get down. You have to wait for pudding.'

‘Can't I play with Sasha? He's unhappy.'

Katie glanced at her mother. Her mother nodded reluctantly and instantly Anna shot from her chair and went to torment Sasha on the carpet. Katie continued to eat, enjoying the expensive joint of lamb and the delicious new potatoes. Sasha cooed and then, as Anna started to lift him, began to cry. Katie turned to her in exasperation; an only child herself, she had no experience of sibling rivalry to help her deal with Anna's jealousy. ‘Stop it!' she shouted. ‘Stop it or we'll go home!'

Sasha only cried more loudly. Katie's mother went into the kitchen to fetch the apple pie, and Katie had to get up and walk Sasha up and down to calm him.

They ate the pie in silence. The clock struck two. Katie's father finished his plateful and still said nothing. Then he stood up and began the Sunday ritual of winding up the clocks.

After lunch Katie went into the kitchen to help wash up.

Her mother, as she had expected, started on her at once. ‘Are you sure everything's all right? This is the third time he hasn't come.'

Katie would never have revealed to her that there was any problem in her marriage. ‘It's just an opportunity to get some work done. It's hard, with the children…'

‘You don't look happy.'

‘It's just worrying about money.'

‘Have you decided about the school?'

‘Yes, I've decided to leave Anna where she is at the moment. She seems more settled…'

‘We wanted her to go to the Catholic school.'

‘I know. But I don't practise, and Mitya is an atheist –'

‘He's not her father. It shouldn't be him who makes the decision.'

Katie decided to ignore this. ‘It's just that I had to change schools so many times, I don't want the same thing to happen to her.'

Katie's mother's mouth formed a thin, hard line. ‘That wasn't our choice. It was your father's job.'

‘I know. I'm not criticising you.' She paused. ‘I'm very grateful you've offered… it helps to know the money's there if we really need it.'

Katie's mother went on scrubbing the saucepan. ‘Is he kind to you? Is he all right with Anna?'

‘Mummy, I've told you, Anna adores him. It's all fine, really.'

Katie could not blame her mother; she felt her pain and confusion. She knew that her husband was not their idea of suitable son-in-law. Her father had been a diplomat, had found it hard to adjust to the end of the old world order and undo a lifetime's thought patterns; Dmitry as a Russian was still threatening to him. White-haired now, and stooped, her father made it clear he didn't understand his daughter and that her second marriage was anathema to him. Her mother, too, instinctively disliked Dmitry.

She was surprised and touched when, as she came to leave, her father pressed a fifty-pound note into her hand.

‘Spend it on yourself,' he said gruffly.

Katie smiled and thanked him warmly, thinking with relief that it would feed them for a week.

At a quarter to eight on Monday evening as Dmitry walked down the Marylebone Road the sky was clear, glowing a deep red colour, and the black outlines of the trees and rooftops stood out against it, like coals in a fire. As he thought of what he was about to do a sharp pang of despair suddenly pierced him, like a physical pain, and for an instant he felt like turning back. Why was he doing this? In the past he'd had to co-operate with the likes of Rozanov, of course, that was the system, but he had always made sure he had done so to the absolutely minimum extent necessary to keep him out of trouble; now he was free of all that, why let himself become enmeshed? He stopped, took a deep breath, and stared up into the sky as if he might spot something there which might save him or give him strength to fight what seemed to be his fate, but it was no good; the sky was already turning dark.

He crossed the road and entered the huge, ugly hotel. He walked to the bar, sat down, fidgeted, listened to the piped music. After a few minutes the young man, Hattab, who had met him in the park came up to him and said, ‘Would you like to come upstairs with me? We are expecting you.' They went up to the tenth floor; in the lift they avoided looking at one another. When he entered the bedroom two men were in the corner, watching a pornographic film on the video. When Dmitry came in they turned the sound down but the shadows still flickered on the screen, distracting him. Then they turned it off. One of the men remained where he was, merely nodded a greeting. The second came to shake Dmitry's hand; he didn't give his name.

‘I'm so pleased you could come, Dr Gavrilov… please, your coat. Sit down… a drink?'

Dmitry let him take his coat but did not sit down. The large bed with its blue counterpane seemed to dominate the room, and Dmitry walked nervously in the narrow spaces round the furniture, wondering how to begin, how to strike the right note. The two men were eyeing him, getting the measure of him; he felt awkward, inept. At any rate he must not have any alcohol to drink.

Hattab went to a tray of drinks on the table top; Dmitry shook his head. He said, ‘No, thank you… look, let's not waste time, let's get to the point…'

The second, older man nodded, and began his obviously rehearsed preamble. ‘My government finds itself in a very difficult situation. We have, as I'm sure you know, this excellent nuclear research centre at Tajura, which your country assisted us to build. We have a research reactor which uses 80 per cent enriched uranium… but because of the uncertainty in the present situation we are not sure that we will be able to guarantee the continuation of fuel supplies for the reactor and so on, which at present we get in a turnkey arrangement with the Kurchatov Institute. The way the West is behaving towards us at the moment we are very anxious to be self-sufficient in this and other areas, such as uranium enrichment technology.'

‘You want me to design gas centrifuges for you.'

This directness was too much for them; they laughed nervously. The senior one gestured again for Dmitry to sit down; some coffee was brought on a tray. Dmitry took a cup and sat on the edge of one of the chairs; his host sat down opposite him. He said, ‘I can see that you are keen to talk business… Well, why not. It is best that we understand one another. I am told this is your area of expertise.'

‘Indeed.' Dmitry gulped down his coffee and placed the cup rather delicately on the edge of the table. He said, ‘Tajura is regularly inspected by the International Atomic Energy Agency. Let me try to be absolutely clear what you are suggesting… would this initiative be reported to the IAEA or not?'