Doctor Gavrilov (18 page)

In the morning Tim heard that they had secured an interview with General Berov, Chief of the 12th Main Directorate, the defence Ministry responsible for the transportation and storage of nuclear warheads.

General Berov stared at them from over his imposing desk. He was in his fifties, grey-haired, a solid tank of a man. Perhaps he didn't always wear his full military regalia, had just done so for the cameras. He wore a grey shirt and tie under a grey military jacket with gold leaves on the collar, gold stars on the shoulder and a pocket thickly embroidered with medals. The interpreter was going through the questions with him.

It went exactly as Tim would have expected. Berov leaned across the desk, his heavy hands folded, cleared his throat, and began: ‘All nuclear weapons of the former USSR are under centralised control. There is complete safety. It is the same as before; there is no danger.'

Tim asked whether any of the reports of uranium and other nuclear material being smuggled into the West had caused alarm for those in charge of nuclear weapons.

‘Of course we are concerned, but no military material has been involved. There has been no weapons grade uranium nor any quantity of plutonium. You need a minimum of 15-25 kilograms of weapons grade uranium or 5-10 kilograms of plutonium to make an atomic bomb. The quantities which have been procured are just a few grams, perhaps from universities, from research establishments where there is no tight security. Security in all military installations is very strict and there is strict inventory control… any loss or theft of nuclear material could not go undetected.'

Tim asked, ‘What about the possibility of warheads themselves being stolen?'

Berov smiled. ‘Again, this is absolutely impossible. To begin with, bombs are fitted with safety triggers that disarm or destroy them if they are detached from the launch system. All warheads are under the tightest security.'

Tim went on, ‘But we have heard that the pace of nuclear disarmament has caused a problem in the dismantling and storage of nuclear warheads… That storage sites are filled to capacity…'

‘This is not a problem. We have plenty of storage sites.'

And so it went on. They filmed for twenty minutes, but probably would only use two short clips. As they set up the cutaways of Tim to film at the end, he could see the translator joking with Berov. He laughed, shrugged, made expressive gestures with his hands; Tim doubted that the man believed a word of what he'd said.

When they'd finished Mike Harris came up to him, looking gloomy and waving a sheet of paper. ‘By the way, if you were hoping to get a look at some military installations, you can forget it. We'll have to use that tired old footage of the missile silos… Look at this… the Western press has just been issued with a new directive that no journalists are allowed to visit any military sites. Well… how about a drink?'

Tim stood in the centre of the bare hall in Lubyanka metro with the crowds rushing past him. He had arranged to meet Olga Gavrilova and go back to her apartment. It was ten past seven; he began to get agitated, fearing he would miss her or that she wouldn't come. Another train rushed in, the third or fourth he had watched. Then he saw her, walking towards him; she looked cool and attractive in a white top and trousers.

Tim said, ‘Well, this is a funny place to meet… one can't help thinking of the KGB upstairs… what do they call themselves these days?'

Olga looked at him, amused. ‘Oh, they have some new name and they published it in the papers, but nobody can remember it so we just go on calling them KGB.'

They took the train heading north-east. It was too noisy to talk on the train but once they were out in the fresh air she began to explain about herself.

‘I am divorced from my husband,' she said. ‘I have two boys, but they are in the country with my mother-in-law. It is much easier living there, especially in the summer. We have so many problems here, now there is the problem of crime, and of course my salary buys less and less. I envy Mitya living in the West…' she looked at him sideways, obliquely, almost furtive. ‘What about you, Tim? Are you married?'

Tim was somewhat disconcerted by this directness. ‘No,' he said, ‘No, I never have been.'

‘Perhaps you are too handsome; probably you have had too much choice,' said Olga. Tim, not knowing how to reply to this, fell silent. They walked two or three blocks to the apartment building, surrounded by tall trees through which the wind was streaming. At first he thought it was snowing, despite the warmth; then he realised it was seeds from the poplars which drifted through the air and covered the ground in white. Olga wrinkled up her nose. ‘
Pukh
,' she said, ‘What do you call it, fluff? It causes many children to have bad asthma.' They trudged up six flights of stairs in the dank, ill-lit interior; as Olga slipped the key into the lock, both of them were out of breath.

She brought them drinks, blackcurrant syrup which she had made in the country, a glass of wine each, and plates with open sandwiches of red caviar and ham with salad. The glasses were tall, of coloured glass, and the plates had once been fine with gilded edges but were now old and faded. She opened a box of delicate Russian cakes. Realising the cost and effort that must have gone into procuring this, he was more than grateful.

Tim helped himself, and she watched him. He had a curious sensation, a feeling of unease, as if he were under observation, as if she was not used to being with a Westerner and wondered what he would do. He thought for a few minutes that she was not going to eat at all, and this made him uncomfortable, but after a while she reached out and took a sandwich. He noticed her hands, sensitive, but strong, capable of being both sensual and cruel; definitely a doctor's hands, he thought.

Tim asked, ‘Is it very surprising then that you haven't heard from your brother?'

Olga sighed. She said, ‘Well, you see, I have to explain first that there was this problem between us… my husband and he, they did not get on at all. By the time we were divorced Mitya and I had not seen much of one another for some years… and then, he was living abroad.'

She was pensive for a moment. She said, ‘Well, it is very sad. Mitya and I, our relationship was very… special. Because we had a difficult childhood, you know, with our father dying so young and mother ill, we were like this –' As she said this, she clenched her hands together with the fingers intertwined. ‘We did everything together, as children… he was always in trouble, but I forgave him everything, even this.' She pointed to her nose, to the flat bridge. ‘He made it like this. I was hiding under the bed, and he jumped on it, and it broke, and my nose, too, was broken… well.' She shrugged. ‘He was my older brother, he was so clever, and he always looked after me, protected me… I adored him. So you see, it hurts me so much now that I know so little of his life…'

It was hot and stuffy in the room; Olga perhaps noticed this as well, for she stood up and went to the window to open it. At once the sound of the wind in the trees and the distant sounds of children playing entered the room. She came back and sat down again opposite him. ‘Well, you asked me a question. Although there have been difficulties between us, it would not be like him to spend time in Moscow and not see me. So, I don't believe that he is in Moscow. Maybe he is somewhere else in Russia, but then I would expect him at least to phone me… and you see, there are also my boys. He would love to see the boys. Did he tell you exactly what it was he was doing here?'

‘His wife said he was looking into his finances and also attending some meeting to do with de-enriching uranium… you know, re-converting material from redundant warheads or something.'

‘He was coming here to work?' Olga seemed surprised.

‘His wife told me he was just trying to find out about it.'

Olga frowned. She said, ‘I see. Well, I can make some enquiries. I can ask some people… maybe somebody will know something. I can ask an old friend of Mitya's, he may know…' She looked up and then said, directly, ‘So you have met his wife?'

‘Yes.'

‘Is she… sympathetic? She is a nice woman?'

‘Yes… yes, very nice.'

‘He was married before you know… his first wife, what a disaster, she was no good for him… you think he is happy with… it's Katie, isn't it?' She hesitated, uncertain of the pronunciation.

‘Yes, that's right… well, in as far as one can tell…' Tim didn't know what to say. He felt awkward; her slightly naive questions, which would have been put more delicately if she had a better grasp of English, were too direct to evade easily.

‘And the baby? Little Sasha? I would love to see him. I have a photograph… he looks like Mitya, I think. Please, help yourself.' She picked up one of the glasses of wine and drank. ‘So, Mitya is over here and you are trying to get hold of him. Why?'

‘I am doing some research… about the dangers of nuclear proliferation…'

‘Oh, that.' She seemed not at all interested.'Do you not have some number to ring him?'

‘His wife gave me a number, but nobody replies. Here…' and he pulled out his notebook with the scrap of paper in it.

‘Let me see.' Gavrilova took the paper and then jotted down the number. She said, ‘Maybe I will try. Where are you staying? Can I contact you? Perhaps, if you have time to do some sight-seeing, I can show you some of Moscow, maybe at the weekend?'

She rang the following night.

‘Is that Tim?'

‘Yes, it is.' He liked the way she said Tim, with the long, liquid Russian ‘i.'

‘It's Olga. Listen, I talked to Galya Petrovsky from the Kurchatov Institute and he will see you. He says that if you ring him he will arrange it. You will need to take an interpreter because he says his English is very bad.'

Tim said, amazed, ‘But this is one of the people I wanted to talk to.'

‘Very good. I have not seen him for some time, but he said he would see you, as a favour to me, as long as you are not going to misquote him.'

Books and papers lined Galya Petrovsky's small study. On the desk in pride of place stood a small personal computer, something he was extremely fortunate to have, he said, showing it to Tim with considerable pride. Petrovsky's hair was thick and greying, and there was a slight tremor in his hands and voice as if he had aged before his time or had endured some illness or trauma. He said, ‘Sit down.' There was only a tiny space on an armchair in which to sit and Alya sat there. Tim perched himself on a corner of the desk.

Petrovsky looked at them both. ‘I knew Mitya Gavrilov some years ago, when he was at the Kurchatov Institute, not very well, but I know his sister and her family, so I agreed… well. What is it exactly that you want to know?'

Tim explained, through Alya. Petrovsky nodded. He said, ‘I was approached by the Libyans at a conference in Helsinki at the beginning of this year. They asked me if I would be interested in working for them at a salary of $2,000 a month.'