Doctor Gavrilov (28 page)

However hard he tried to resist it, he was aware of a black mood lurking under the surface, a lack of energy, a feeling that nothing mattered. Perhaps it was simply when he was tired. Or perhaps it was on days when there was nothing much to do, when he was waiting for equipment to be procured, times when, in the ordinary way, he might have had time off. On these days he would try to work, but the numbers on the page would seem meaningless to him. He found himself staring at them blankly, unable to understand how anything so abstract could have any bearing on observed reality. On one of these days, in a desperate attempt to occupy himself, he went down to the lab, took out his notebook, and began to check the results again.

Suzarbayev stared at him across the workbench. He was struggling to loosen some small screw but for some reason was having no success. He said, ‘It's getting dark. Why do you work so hard? Why don't you take a break? Let's go into Tripoli tonight and see if there's any fun.'

‘You told me there was nothing to do in Tripoli.'

‘Well, that's true, but… at least it's a change of scene. There's an Algerian pizza place I went to once… we could walk around, take a look at things… you haven't even been in to Tripoli.'

‘That's because you did such a good job of putting me off.'

‘Look, come on. I'm going. I'll get a driver… we're not prisoners, you know. It's just my luck they assigned me to work with you. Nobody else takes their work so seriously, and they're the ones who want…'

Dmitry looked up. ‘Want what?'

‘Oh, you know…' and Suzarbayev mimicked an atomic explosion with his hands.

Dmitry suddenly put his notebook away and got to his feet. He handed Suzarbayev the heavy Swiss army knife which he carried in his pocket. He said, ‘Try this.' Suzarbayev looked at it, examined it appreciatively, used the blade to work the screw loose. He handed the knife back to Dmitry. ‘Do you always carry this?'

‘You never know when it might be useful. Come on then, let's lock up, and you can introduce me to the delights of Tripoli.'

The car drove along the coast-road. They had the windows open; the moon's reflection was gliding over the dark water and the night air was hot and clean, blowing from the sea. Dmitry felt as if he had been lifted out of time, that the days and weeks no longer had any meaning, and that he would be quite happy if this journey lasted for ever, leading nowhere, so that he could just enjoy the sensation of the car speeding through the warm darkness. The lights of Tripoli glowed ahead of them, and beyond that lay the darkness of the sea.

They found the Algerian pizza place Suzarbayev had talked about and had a passable pizza with de-alcoholized beer. They wandered through the streets, past dusty shops, building sites, large impersonal modern buildings, giant posters of Gaddafi, down to the harbour. Containers lay carelessly as if abandoned on the jetty, in the distance a few military boats lay in the dull oily water. Along the front dusty palm trees rustled their leaves in the evening breeze. Looking along the front Dmitry could see an echo of Tripoli's former splendours in the faded white villas lying behind their white-walled gardens. Traffic scorched noisily up and down in the hot night.

Suzarbayev led the way to the Libyan Palace Hotel, a massive, ugly building with its silver sign drooping from the facade, like faded tinsel. Inside, the hotel had a kind of shabby splendour, with its mahogany chairs and tattered antique carpets. To the left, behind a glass screen, was the bar, serving coffee and soft drinks. Dmitry ordered two orange juices while Suzarbayev sat by the potted palms on a cracked leather armchair.

As Dmitry waited at the bar a man came to stand beside him, brushed against his sleeve. The man ordered a drink; his Russian accent was unmistakeable; Dmitry turned to look at him. A slightly startled look passed over the man's face, as if he recognised him; he said, ‘Excuse me,' in Russian, took his own drink and shot away from the bar as if Dmitry was contaminated.

Dmitry carried the orange juices to the corner where Suzarbayev was sitting smoking a cigarette. He eyed the drink with disgust. ‘The Libyans, they all drink at home, they have cupboards of alcohol stashed away… this is just to torment foreigners.' Then he said, ‘I saw you talking to Dorokhov.'

Dmitry hesitated before asking, ‘Who?'

‘You heard me. Dorokhov.'

‘The man at the bar? You know him?'

‘Only by sight.' Suzarbayev was looking at him in a way he didn't like; tense, suspicious. ‘I know who he is. He's from the embassy. A KGB type.'

Dmitry swallowed the orange juice. It was too sweet, sickly, with an artificial taste to it which stayed in the mouth. What was the natural thing to say? He was worried, now. Dorokhov had seemed to have recognised him; perhaps he'd been told that he was here in Libya; or perhaps it was simply that, looking at him, he'd known at once that he was Russian. Or perhaps the meeting had not been coincidental; perhaps it had been deliberate, a brush contact, perhaps something had been passed to him. Certainly it could look that way to Suzarbayev.

Dmitry felt, almost without realising it, in his pocket. He saw Suzarbayev looking at him and felt suddenly hot with confusion. Suzarbayev's face was blank, impassive. ‘I have no love lost for these people, Mitya. You're not messing around with them, are you? Because if you are, you must be crazy.'

Dmitry said, ‘Is that what you think? Just because…'

Suzarbayev said, ‘Keep calm. They are looking at us.'

Dmitry said, ‘Come on, let's get out of here.' When they emerged from the air-conditioning into the hot darkness Dmitry felt himself shaking. He said, ‘Why did you say that to me, in there? That was pure coincidence, seeing him, I had no idea who he was. Do you really think that I am passing information to them? I would have to be insane. Look, if that was the case they would hardly approach me in a public place…'

‘Wouldn't they?'

Dmitry felt his heart beating in his chest almost painfully, so acutely was he aware of the danger he was in. He felt as if fear must radiate from him palpably. He and Suzarbayev walked, aimlessly, through the empty streets, heading towards the shore. Dmitry said, ‘This is incredible. You think I would have anything to do with those bastards? Don't you think I have spent my whole life trying to avoid them…?'

Suzarbayev laughed. ‘You chose the wrong profession for that.'

Dmitry had no idea what to say. It was ridiculous that this chance meeting, this meaningless little incident, should threaten his security so totally. He didn't trust Suzarbayev; he imagined he might mention this incident to someone, who knows what for. He had no idea what Suzarbayev's motivations were; whether he was simply here to earn money or whether he felt loyalty to the Libyans. After all, he was a Muslim. There was, after all, no reason why he should favour Dmitry over them; he had frequently told him he had no love lost for the Russians. Dmitry tried to keep calm. He said, ‘Look, what is this? I don't like this conversation. You are imagining things, you are reading something into this for some reason I can't fathom. You are making too much of it.'

Suzarbayev said, ‘On the contrary, I think it's you who is over-reacting.'

They began to walk, slowly, along the sea-front. The sea was black as ink. Suzarbayev grinned, patting his arm. ‘Look, I am your friend, Mitya, you idiot. That is why I am having this conversation with you. That is why I am warning you.'

‘Well, no warning is needed.'

‘Look, I'm no fool. I know you have been looking into things that are not strictly your concern. I've noticed the questions you ask… So far I've told no-one.'

‘What do you mean, so far?' asked Dmitry, stopping, suddenly angry. ‘What is this, Djambul? Are you threatening me?'

Suzarbayev did not reply. Dmitry thought, it doesn't matter, this will all blow over; he saw that everything he'd said had made it worse. They walked on in silence. Dmitry tried to dismiss the incident, but the more he thought about it, the more worried he became. He felt trapped, he felt a sudden tide of panic rise in him. If Suzarbayev said anything, if the Libyans suspected that he'd passed information on to Russian intelligence, God knows what they would do to him. It didn't bear thinking about. It might be better to be dead. He looked up at Suzarbayev, walking jauntily along, seeming quite unconcerned, looking out towards the sea. And then a terrible idea seized him, took hold of him in an instant; that he could kill Suzarbayev, and be safe.

Instead of immediately dismissing this thought, Dmitry found himself actually thinking about it, beginning to think through how it could be done. He had the knife in his pocket. He could throw the body into the sea; maybe it wouldn't be washed up for a while. It could have been a common murderer or thief; unless, of course, there were few thieves in Tripoli. It was not the sort of city where crime could flourish – perhaps that was too implausible. But what of himself? Could anyone suspect him of such a thing? He had no idea. He put his hand into his pocket, to feel for the knife, to be sure it was there. He had no idea how to kill someone with a knife, nothing beyond a brief army training years ago. You needed to cut a major artery. He could cut the throat, but he knew even as he thought of this that he wouldn't be able to do it. He thought he might be able to stick the knife in Suzarbayev's chest. But then, how much strength would he need? Was the blade long enough? Besides, it might hit a rib. He might not inflict a fatal wound first time, and then Suzarbayev would struggle. Dmitry stopped dead in his tracks, overcome by the horror of what he was thinking.

Suzarbayev was looking at him. He asked, ‘Are you all right?'

Dmitry walked on in an instant. Suzarbayev's voice brought him suddenly back to reality. ‘Yes; yes, something just occurred to me, about the experiment; let me think a moment.' He took his hand out of his pocket; Suzarbayev's bright, lively eyes stared into his, as if they could read his thoughts. He said suddenly, ‘Let's go back. There's nothing here… you were right about this place.'

They walked away from the deserted shore. Behind them the moon, as if it too had wearied of their conversation, slipped slowly below the horizon.

The fragile peace of mind which Dmitry had felt since his arrival in Libya had vanished in a moment, puffed away like a thin mist at dawn. He was constantly tormented by the foolishness of what he had done. He couldn't understand how Rozanov had put him in this position, how he could have failed to see how his plan would inevitably backfire. He had produced little intelligence of any real value; instead of this, he was willingly conspiring in the very project he was supposed to be preventing. He didn't understand; he couldn't penetrate the mystery of Rozanov's intentions.

Now, at night, he couldn't stop himself from thinking about Katie. He lay awake, in his cold, sterile, bare room; sometimes he had to get up and read or try to work to take his mind off her. He thought of Anna, of her pale, frightened face, saying ‘I want you to stay and be my daddy.' That had been the worst, the most unforgivable betrayal. He rolled over in the bed, unable to stop thinking about it. Sometimes at nights he sat and drank, glass after glass, from his seemingly limitless supply of vodka, anything to blot out the agony of his situation. He stayed awake till nearly dawn, then slept for two or three hours before dragging himself to the lab to struggle through the day. He was sure that they were watching him constantly. He was aware that he did not look well; that his work was obviously suffering. Masoud did not say anything, but he could sense his concern. Suzarbayev seemed to have noticed his change of mood; where before he had sought out his company, now he avoided him.

This went on for several weeks. Dmitry thought that it would have been an understatement to say that he was depressed. His existence had simply become so painful for him that when he thought about dying it seemed to him that this would be simply a relief. He walked around in a constant state of mental anguish. He carried out his tasks mechanically, because he had to, to keep up a front, but he derived no pleasure from anything. Now they had hit problems with the experiment. Although the measurements they had taken showed a high separative index, in fact the small size of the system, made necessary by the high frequencies involved, meant that it was proving more difficult than he thought to siphon off the different fractions. His mind wrestled with the problem at one level, frustrated, angry, while the other part of him said, ‘This is good. This means that it will never work; you have sold them something useless after all.'