Doctor Gavrilov (19 page)

‘What did you say?'

Petrovsky smiled. ‘Of course, I said no.'

‘Why?'

Petrovsky sighed. He said, ‘Let me explain. As you know, in the past there was only one way we could go abroad, on an official visit. We at the Kurchatov Institute have been very privileged, we could travel abroad, and therefore we have many contacts in other countries which now some scientists are trying to exploit.

‘Now, with the new political situation, there are new ways of travelling, working in such places, officially… plenty of Russian scientists have worked in Libya. The Kurchatov Institute helps to get permission to go… its something like an agreement between the scientist and the Institute making the journey abroad possible and then the scientist can return to work here.'

Petrovsky paused to offer Tim a cheap Russian cigarette; Tim declined. Petrovsky lit up, puffed out a dense cloud of smoke which filled the tiny room, and continued. ‘Now of course this is not a problem with some kinds of work, but here at the Institute there are still areas of secret work which might be another problem entirely. Nowadays of course its possible to go abroad on your own, at your own risk… I don't know what the attitude of the secret services would be to this. I wouldn't like to try myself. And besides… things are not so bad here as people say, and I believe, not immediately, but in a year or two, they will get a little better.'

‘Would you be prepared to talk to me about this for British television?'

Petrovsky thought for a few moments. Then he said, ‘If you do it with the back of my head so I am not facing the camera and don't give my name… then, OK, I will do it.'

Tim smiled. ‘That's great… we can also disguise your voice so it can't be recognised.' He sat back in his chair. He asked, ‘Your position is clear enough, but what about others… do you think they will be tempted?'

Petrovsky smiled; for all his former reluctance, now that Tim was there, he seemed eager to please. He said, ‘Oh, I imagine… there will be a few. The foolish ones, perhaps, who can't foresee the consequences.'

‘What consequences?'

‘Well… you can imagine no-one is very keen on their going. For example, KGB… this is a big concern of theirs.'

‘Have the KGB been in touch with you about this offer?'

‘Of course.'

Tim was silent; Petrovsky did not elaborate. He stubbed out his cigarette and looked at Tim, hesitated, as if not sure whether to say something or not. ‘I understand,' said Petrovsky, suddenly leaning forward, ‘That you wanted to get hold of Olya's brother, who is meant to be in Moscow. She said you told her he was going to work on some new programme of uranium de-enrichment. Well, that sounded odd to me, so I have made enquiries, and indeed there is this project, but I can assure you he is not working on it, and the man in charge there has not spoken to him. I haven't said this to Olya, and I think it might be wise if you didn't tell her, because there is something else about this which I don't like.

‘The man who approached me, in Helsinki, the Libyan scientist, he had a list. He showed it to me and asked me if I knew any of the people on it and where he could contact them… I asked one or two and they said they were indeed approached but none of them have gone along with it. I told this to KGB when they asked me what had happened.'

Alya translated, quickly, in a low voice, as if she too was suddenly caught up in the tension; as if she too expected something startling.

‘There was one thing I didn't tell them, because I have a soft spot for Olya, and I know she idolises her brother…' Petrovsky paused to light another cigarette; he did this slowly, because of the tremor in his hands. Tim held his breath; he thought he could see what was coming, but couldn't quite believe that it was true.

Petrovsky inhaled deeply and let his breath out with a long sigh.

‘One of them was Mitya Gavrilov.'

It was Sunday, the dead day for a journalist abroad, when nothing could be accomplished. Tim lay in bed till late, thinking through the implications of his discovery. Why sampling the sights of Moscow did not inspire him he couldn't say; he had never enjoyed tourism. Lazily he picked up the phone and slowly dialled Olga's number. The phone rang seven, eight times… he thought with disappointment that she must have gone to the country or that he'd left it too late and she had already gone out.

She picked up the phone; she sounded breathless. For an instant he wondered if there was someone there with her.

‘Tim!' she exclaimed. She sounded delighted, as if he were an old friend.

‘I wondered if you meant it. About sightseeing today.'

‘Yes, of course. I will meet you. What do you want to see?'

‘Oh the usual things. Red Square, St Basil's, the Kremlin, Lenin's tomb… is that too boring for you?'

She laughed. ‘No, I would enjoy it.'

They met by the kiosk which sold tickets to St Basil's. Olga led him into the dusty, dry interior. She explained that had been made a museum in 1928, and consisted of seven separate churches built around a central one. He had imagined it as splendid inside, with high ceilings and large spaces; had not expected the tiny rooms, the rabbit warren of little labyrinthine passages, the aura of decay. Despite the beautiful painted walls the place had a dark, primitive feel about it, an unholy feel, somehow.

Olga bought him a little painted egg at the exit and dropped it into his hand. It was a typical Russian gesture of generosity; he would have liked to buy her something, but he had been afraid she would misinterpret it. He said, ‘No, really, you shouldn't have,' but she simply smiled, amused, and turned her head away from him. There was something imperious about her; she wrong-footed him. She wanted to keep the upper hand; she wanted it to be her who was in control, who set the tone.

They walked down the steps and into the bright sunlight. Suddenly she seemed playful. She said he must be a proper tourist and made him pose with her for a photograph in front of the cathedral and queue up for Lenin's tomb.

The long queue moved rapidly. In less than ten minutes they were at the entrance, walking in under the blank eyes of the young soldiers. He wondered why people were going; perhaps, like him, just out of curiosity, to see the man before he was removed and buried in some obscure place. They filed through the cold, black marble mausoleum in silence, past the body or the effigy, whatever it was. Tim thought, well, I've seen him. They went out again into the sunlight.

‘I came once before, with Mitya, when we were children,' said Olga. ‘I asked my mother, why is he so small?' and everyone turned and said, ‘Shhhh!' Mitya was very frightened, I remember, in case they took me away.'

As they crossed the huge expanse of Red Square, Tim asked, ‘Did it bother you? His work? You chose to do something very different.'

‘No. Why should it bother me? So many people work in the nuclear industry or in the military towns, it is normal. I respect his decision. It was a good career for him, until…' she paused. In front of them, a large lorry lurched to a halt and men started to unload crates of Coca-Cola and lemonade, selling them to passers-by. Tim wished that he had brought his camera. Olga looked at him and smiled. Then she shrugged, as if to say, well, this is what it has all come to, Coco-Cola for sale in Red Square.

‘Until?' Tim prompted, trying to bring her back to the conversation.

‘Until he went to England,' she said, simply.

His guidebook told him there were three cathedrals, two churches and a museum inside the Kremlin and that afternoon they saw them all. They took it slowly, walked and sat in magnificent splendour under the gilded onion domes, and hardly spoke to one another. A sober mood seemed to have come over Olga. When they left he said he would like to invite her for a meal but she said it was too expensive. He tried to insist but she would not be moved. She said with a laugh that they could go to MacDonald's and Tim said he hadn't come to Moscow to go to MacDonald's.

Then she asked him to go back with her for supper in her apartment. She asked it almost shyly, and then added, quickly, ‘Or maybe you have better things to do.' Tim said, ‘No, of course not, I would love to…' and then he said, perhaps a little rashly, ‘You fascinate me.'

He was afraid for a moment that she would think better of her invitation; she looked slightly shocked. Then she laughed. ‘She said, ‘Please, Tim, it's not wise to say things like this.'

‘Why not?'

‘Because…' she hesitated. Then she said, ‘Anyway, I will take no notice… I have been warned about Western men.'

Olga said she needed to buy some eggs. They went to several shops, all a great distance apart, but there was something wrong in each of them; there were no eggs, or the queues were too long, or the eggs were too expensive. It was hot and dirty, the wind blew dust in their faces, all the distances were vast; Olga was irritated, and Tim began to feel oppressed. He said that if she liked he could buy eggs in a hard currency shop to save them time but she dismissed this and he could see that he had offended her.

Finally she gave up and said they would have something else.

They took the metro to Preobazhensky Ploschad. Olga sat with her eyes closed, her hair coming loose, her face looking lined and tired; but her white shirt still seemed miraculously as clean and neat as when they had met that morning. In her apartment she told him to make himself comfortable and he sat on the sofa with his feet up while she cooked some pancakes filled with vegetables which were delicious.

They ate and drank some wine. They didn't say much, but she looked at him often and smiled. It was a knowing kind of smile, and Tim felt utterly confused. He couldn't make Olga out, received such contradictory signals from her, was aware that he half expected to end up in bed with her and wanted to very much. What was he doing? He sat on the sofa, alongside Olga, and felt this almost conspiratorial rapport with her. How could he feel so attracted to her, when half the reason for doing this, half his desire to prove his suspicions about Gavrilov were right and to expose him, was to win over Katie? He felt as if somehow Gavrilov was exerting some extraordinary influence on him, and that here he was, doubly, trebly betraying him, seeking not only to uncover him but also to seduce first his wife, and then his sister.

Tim said, ‘It's very odd about your brother. He couldn't be working on something military, could he? Something secret?'

‘Mitya would never work for the military. Anyway, he has been in the West, he is suspect. They would not employ him.'

‘Isn't there some way you could check if he is here?'

‘He's not here. I have rung several friends… he hasn't contacted them. You said he wanted to make some arrangements for his finances so I rang the bank where his money is deposited, and I asked if they had contacted him recently; you know, this is not difficult, because they know I am his sister and I also had some small amount of money in this bank. He has not been in touch with them.'

Olga went on, in a quiet, efficient voice. ‘This number you gave me, it's a message service. I left a message and no-one rang back. So then I rang the message service to ask if they are taking messages for my brother and they said no, they haven't heard of him.'

Tim said, ‘I don't understand.'

‘Are you sure his wife told you he was here? You didn't make a mistake?'

Tim said, ‘His wife saw him off on the flight to Moscow two weeks ago… He told his wife exactly what I told you, there can't be any mistake about that. Why would he lie about it, do you think?'

Olga put down her glass. She seemed distant now, untouchable. She looked at him coldly. ‘There is something behind all this, isn't there? That's why you came to see me. You are making some kind of investigation into my brother.'

Tim tried to back-track, but sensed it was too late. ‘I knew your brother was a nuclear scientist and I thought he might be able to help me, give me some contacts… I told his wife I'd look him up. I promise you… that's all.'

‘No, that isn't all. I have been very stupid.' She sounded alarmed, frightened, almost. ‘I don't like it that you are here, asking me such questions. Tim, I trusted you because I thought you were a friend of his but now I see that it is not like that at all.'

She was almost panicky. She pushed at her hair with jerky movements, glanced nervously about, then got to her feet and walked across the room, her arms folded across her chest. She said, ‘I am sorry… I think you had better go.'

Tim could see that there was no point in staying; he picked up his jacket and went to the door, but his feelings of regret were so strong that they made him turn back. He began, ‘I'm sorry. You have got it wrong…'

‘No. I don't think that I have got it wrong.' He saw a tear glint in her eye. ‘Please, don't ring me again, don't try to see me, it is finished.' She came towards him and abruptly shut the door. He stood on the dark hallway, where the walls were painted a deep smudgy, blue, and felt a chill pass through him. He was more and more certain that he was right about Gavrilov but at the same time he felt uncomfortable about what he was doing. He realised that he was going to hurt people, people that he liked; he couldn't work out for a moment whether he was using them, exploiting them, or whether, in the end, they, like everyone else, had a right to know the truth. This was all right in theory, but when he thought of Olga, the hurt look in her face and her broken illusions about her brother, and then of Katie's reaction when he told her, he wondered if it was worth it.