Doctor Gavrilov (12 page)

It was midnight when he arrived home. He let himself in, quietly, thinking Katie would be in bed. He put his briefcase down on the living room floor. The television was on with the sound turned down; a Newsnight discussion on Libya's failure to release the Lockerbie suspects by the deadline and the likely effect of sanctions. Dmitry didn't want to hear any of this; he crossed the room and turned it off.

The lamp was on; he saw that Katie was lying on the sofa, in her dressing gown, asleep. She had been waiting up for him; he was touched. She had made an effort to tidy the room; a bowl of delicate white narcissi stood on the table and the delicious smell faintly scented the room. Dmitry took off his coat, crossed the room, bent down, and kissed her.

She woke at once. Her eyes widened with pleasure, she smiled, she put her hand up and drew his head down to hers and kissed him again. She said, ‘Your hair's wet.'

‘It's raining outside.'

‘Did it go all right?'

‘Yes, fine.'

‘Did you get some work?'

‘Yes; it's a big report on nuclear disarmament. Look, I bought some things. There's some wine… I bought this dress for Anna, do you think she'll like it? And here… I got this for you. And some chocolates…'

She was laughing. He felt almost sick; here he was, lying his head off to her, and she noticed nothing wrong. She sat up, her hair loose, and embraced him. She was like a small child, at Christmas; she opened the packages he'd bought at the airport with such pleasure. She held up the scarf against her hair and turned her face up for him to kiss her. He smiled but inside he was in agony; she would never imagine the price he had paid to give her this small moment of happiness. Then he was aware of her looking at him. She asked, ‘Mitya, what's the matter?'

‘Nothing's the matter. It will be all right; we'll have some money… I will make you happy.' He kissed her lips and let his mouth linger on them for a moment; she responded warmly, reaching up her arms and wrapping them around him.

Her dressing gown parted and he slipped his hand beneath it, warming his hand on her smooth flesh and finding her moist already between her thighs. He ached for her fiercely and he could see how much she wanted him; she arched her back, slid her hips against him, was tugging at his clothes. He had the feeling then, for a moment, that she could save him. He could forget himself, momentarily, in the bliss of sex, in the softness of her body, in the depth of her eyes. But he knew even as he entered her and she began to moan, turning her head from side to side and asking him for more, yes, quickly, that afterwards he would have to explain to her that he had to go away, and he would have no option but to tell her more complex and corrosive lies.

T
HE WIND rattled the windows and it rained all night without a pause, which Dmitry knew because he had not had a moment's sleep to soothe the turmoil in his head.

Katie slept beside him, peacefully. At four, Sasha awoke; Dmitry picked him up, and went downstairs. He tried to pacify him, gave him a little water, walked up and down, up and down till finally the baby went to sleep; he sat down with Sasha on the sofa and sprawled there in a half-stupor. The baby was warm and comforting against his chest and he felt a sense of pride and achievement; this was the first time he had succeeded in settling the baby without resorting to Katie. He adjusted his position on the sofa and closed his eyes; but still he couldn't rest.

Katie found them there when she came down in the morning. She was still groggy, her hair tangled and uncombed. ‘What's the matter? You look terrible.'

‘I thought I'd let you sleep in for once.'

Katie smiled at him with gratitude and sympathy. She sat next to him and the baby stirred, as if sensing her presence; she took him and began to feed him. Dmitry went to make some coffee. His head ached; he felt dreadful, even worse because he knew he would have to go and meet Rozanov later on.

What had he done? There must be some way out of this; but what?

Katie said, ‘Mitya, you look exhausted. Can't you go back to bed? You don't have anything to do today.'

‘No, I have to meet someone… I'll feel all right later.'

‘Who are you seeing?'

Irritation seized him; he couldn't help himself. What should he say; what idiotic lie could he think of next? He tried to keep his voice light and casual. ‘Oh, some Russian contact, someone whose name I was given… I expect it will be a waste of time.'

Katie didn't ask any more; it was easy to deceive her, she never suspected for a moment, why should she? He might have concealed things from her in the past, but until now he had never had to lie to her like this. Lying made him angry, not only with himself, but curiously also with her for trusting him so easily. There was part of him that wanted her to ask more, to dig deeper, to challenge what he said, to force him to reveal himself.

He made the coffee and toast, and took some to her, called Anna down for breakfast; but when he tried to eat himself he couldn't; the food stuck in his throat.

Katie glanced at him, a worried expression on her face. He grabbed his coat and took Anna to school. She skipped along beside him, chattering away, while he paid no attention, fixed in his own dark thoughts. She didn't seem to notice anything was wrong; occasionally when she asked a question he said ‘yes' or ‘no' more or less at random and this seemed to satisfy her.

He kissed her goodbye at the school gates and took the bus to Chalk Farm, spending the morning in the library. At lunch-time he went to Baker Street; he found a delicatessen, intending to buy a sandwich, but in his anxious state felt unable to eat anything. Little dots kept appearing in front of his eyes as if he was about to develop a migraine but then faded away again. He wandered round the streets till nearly two, then went up to the flat.

Its soullessness struck him once again as he entered. There were two other men in the room, who Rozanov introduced, but Dmitry did not look at them and did not pay attention to their names. He refused to take off his coat and would not sit down. He told them what had happened. When he tried to explain his feelings he found he couldn't; it sounded feeble, hopeless. He said, spreading his hands wide, ‘I'm sorry, I have gone as far as I'm going. We discussed this at the outset… We agreed I wouldn't go to Libya.'

Rozanov talked to him as if he were a small boy who had erred at school. ‘Well, that is a little awkward, don't you think? If you felt like that, why did you sign the contract? You didn't have to sign it… you could have told them you needed to think it over.'

‘I don't know… it wasn't like that.' Dmitry stood in the centre of the room, awkward, uneasy. One of the men took Dmitry's coat from him so skilfully that he was barely aware of parting with it and the other offered him a cup of tea; he found himself sitting down in one of the chairs opposite Rozanov, who added too much sugar and then stirred his own cup with a delicate silver spoon which tinkled loudly, trying to dissolve it. ‘But, Dmitry Nikolayevich, I don't need to spell out to you how much value it would be to us if you did go. This will only be a short trip… then we will help you to extricate yourself.'

Dmitry cut him off, deciding to face the onslaught, whatever form it took; ‘How will you do that? Once I'm there they'll have me… No, I'm not prepared to do it.'

Rozanov sighed. He didn't look at Dmitry; he looked at the table top, at his fat, stubby fingers which he pressed together. Dmitry found himself wishing they would snap. ‘Look, Dmitry Nikolayevich, let me be blunt with you; you really have no choice. We have this excellent recording made with your help of you negotiating to sell your expertise to the Libyans… we could of course give it to the UK police, leak it to one of the Sunday papers…'

There was an absolute silence in the room. All three men were looking at him, waiting for his reaction; they had seen it all before, no doubt, dozens of times, and knew what people did. Some, perhaps became angry; others burst into tears; some probably pleaded and grovelled on the floor; perhaps a few became murderous. No doubt that was why the two men were here, to protect Rozanov if he turned nasty. Dmitry had known all along that something like this was likely to happen, but now that it had he was astonished at how violently he reacted. Foreknowledge of betrayal does not necessarily make it less painful, he thought. Did Christ feel less betrayed in the garden because he knew it was preordained? Did a man, who knew his wife had been unfaithful, feel less pain on finding her in bed with her lover?

His breath was taken away. A wave of anger swept through him, but he was not able to give it the slightest expression. He felt numb, completely dissociated from everything. He thought, perhaps they are bluffing, anyway. I must just see this through. He said, ‘Very good, excellent. That is just what I want. Do you think I wasn't expecting this all along? I don't care if I am exposed or not… in fact, let me make it easy for you… I will telephone them now.' He got to his feet, crossed the room to the phone. All three men stared at him; he saw Rozanov give the slightest nod to one of the men, who went out of the room. Dmitry assumed that he had gone to disconnect the phone; he picked it up, but it was still working. ‘Do you have a phone book? I will ring the Sunday Times. I will offer them an exclusive; I will tell them the whole story. Of course; why didn't I think of it before? I should be able to negotiate a good fee.'

Rozanov came over and laid a restraining hand on his arm. He was calm, soothing, utterly professional. He said, ‘This is a very difficult situation for you. Come, take my advice, don't do anything foolish. Let's sit down and talk it over.'

Dmitry would not sit down. Rozanov went on in a calm, purring voice: ‘Listen, let me tell you, if you did such a thing, you would be putting yourself at risk. What do you think would happen if you were named? Can you not foresee the consequences?'

Dmitry stared at Rozanov. He said, ‘Yes, yes, of course I see them, I see everything, that is why I could not sleep last night.' He began to pace up and down, turning backwards and forwards, feeling all the helplessness of the fish dangling on the hook. Then he said, in a low voice, ‘Look, it's not much use threatening me. Do you think I care that much about my future? What kind of a future do I have, anyway? I am no use as a translator, as a serious scientist I am probably finished and now that I have got involved in this I haven't the slightest hope of ever rehabilitating myself… None of your threats have the slightest meaning for me. If I walked out of here into the street under a bus it would probably be the best thing that could happen to me.'

‘But if you feel like that, Dmitry Nikolayevich, you don't have much to lose by carrying on with this. At least you will be doing something useful along the way, something of incalculable value, perhaps, for your country.'

‘Useful.' Dmitry made a gesture of indecision, despair. ‘And what would I tell my wife? She would never forgive me.'

‘Oh, you can arrange a cover story. You might need another, longer trip to Geneva. You could go to Russia to see your family or perhaps you could say it is to find out about some project… de-enrichment of uranium from dismantled bombs or something like this. We can help you think of a good cover story. I'm sure your employers will understand your need for secrecy; all of this can be arranged, Dmitry Nikolayevich.'

Dmitry still fought against the inevitable; he knew how painful it would be to have to continually lie to Katie. ‘I promised her when I left the IAEA that I would never work again as a nuclear scientist. Even to justify a trip to Russia would be difficult.'

‘Why? If she objects because you might be helping to make bombs, how could she object if you tell her you are helping to dismantle them? Besides, is that a decision she should make for you? Who makes the decisions in your household, Dmitry Nikolayevich?'

Rozanov had miscalculated here; he had meant probably to shame Dmitry, but instead seemed to realise that he had provoked a violent anger and retracted at once. Dmitry stood, looking at him, rooted to the spot, hearing nothing. Everything in this room now had an aura of unreality. This cup, for instance, which he held in his hand, was just an ordinary cup, and yet he couldn't understand the shape or texture of it; all the things in the room were simple, ordinary things, a table, chairs, a lampshade, and yet he felt as if he had never seen anything like them before and couldn't work out what they were doing there.

He felt dizzy; there was a rushing sound in his ears and he realised he would have to sit down. He stumbled forward and half fell into the chair. Hot tea spilt across his shirt; the cup and saucer fell on to the floor and split into several pieces. He wondered if he had lost consciousness for a moment; Rozanov, an anxious expression on his face, was loosening his tie and swiftly undoing the top buttons of his shirt. He slipped his hand inside and held it there, so that Dmitry, for a moment, was forced to sit and stare into the eyes of this man he detested, feeling his cold hand pressed against his very heart.