Doctor Gavrilov (4 page)

On his way back up the Finchley Road, coming from the library where he was working every day on his ill-paid translation, Dmitry stopped and gazed into the window at the rich array of cakes in Louis' Hungarian patisserie. Chocolate bombes, cakes topped with chestnut purée, cheesecake, fruit flans, pretzels, cream horns, black forest gateaux, stuffed with white fluffy cream and glazed with light. As he stood and looked, he became aware of the reflection of a face looking in beside him. The hair was grey, the face pink, the eyes dark. He knew at once that it was the Russian who had approached him before.

The man cleared his throat. ‘We meet again.'

Dmitry didn't answer, didn't even acknowledge that he'd heard him. He wondered what would happen if he assaulted the man, picked him up and hurled him against the plate glass window. Dmitry was nearly a foot taller than his tormentor, easily big enough to intimidate him. He glared at the reflection for an instant longer and then turned and walked rapidly away.

Again the man walked right beside him. He was smoking a cigarette. He had a swift, hurried walk and despite his limp seemed to keep up with Dmitry without any effort. An icy wind seemed to come from out of nowhere and tugged at Dmitry's coat, blew the cigarette smoke back into his face.

The voice suddenly piped up at his elbow.

‘You wanted me to come. Don't you at least want to hear what I have to say?'

‘Me? Wanted you?' Dmitry was so stunned that he stopped dead. He turned to the little man in astonishment and rage. A childish fury was whipped up in him in an instant, so that he wanted to kick him, strangle him, wipe the stupid idiotic smile off the plump, unpleasant face.

The man seemed oblivious of the effect he had on Dmitry; he drew deeply on his cigarette and went on in smooth, soft tones. ‘Of course you wanted me. You want work, you want money, don't you? If you like, I can leave you now. But I think you would regret never knowing what it was I had to offer.'

A
S THE MAN SPOKE, the first heavy drops of rain fell. They were standing right outside the Cosmo Restaurant. Through the windows Dmitry could see the crisp white tablecloths, the silver laid out neatly, the vases of fresh flowers, some people finishing a late lunch. He felt a sharp gust of wind and the rain came down suddenly in a downpour, soaking them instantly.

The Russian plucked Dmitry's sleeve. ‘Come, let's have something to eat in here. Have you ever dined in this place? It's very comfortable, nobody bothers you here… Let me invite you.'

Dmitry, feeling himself becoming more drenched every second, allowed himself to be propelled into the restaurant. He wanted to resist, he had felt, standing in the cold wind on the Finchley Road, simply like turning and running, but he had not had the energy; all resistance seemed to have drained out of him. He felt like a stubborn child who wants to protest against going to school or the doctor or some other unpleasant experience but knows there is no point in putting up a struggle. He had to admit that the offer of a free meal was too much of a temptation.

They sat down at a table by the window. The waiter came and handed him the menu. Goulash soup, stuffed garlic mushrooms, chopped liver, rye bread and butter. Wiener Schnitzel, ragout of venison. Dmitry muttered that he would have some soup and ragout and listened while his companion, relaxed and unhurried, ordered the meal and selected a bottle of wine.

The man opened his napkin with a quick flourish, spread it on his lap and looked at Dmitry coolly across the table. His face seemed less crooked, less unpleasant than before.

Dmitry tried for an instant to meet his gaze but found that he couldn't. He turned and looked out of the window. People were scurrying along in the rain; the traffic was at a standstill; Dmitry didn't want to have to listen to what was coming. He felt so depressed at that moment that he could hardly force himself to speak; he wondered why he did, after all, he didn't have to keep up appearances in front of this man, he didn't owe him anything, not even politeness; he was just trying to make use of him in some way.

The soup came, the waiter fussing as he cleared a space on the narrow table. Dmitry turned back to his companion. He asked, ‘Might I know your name?'

‘What name would you like? Do you think it matters? Well, I suppose you have to call me something. I have a very old first name, Gleb. My father's name… it's the same as yours, actually. Or my family name, Rozanov.' He held out his hand, but Dmitry declined to shake it. Rozanov let the hand rest on the table for a few moments before he lifted it and started on his soup, lifting his spoon to his lips and slurping loudly with each mouthful. When he had finished he patted his pocket and drew out another cigarette.

‘Have they approached you yet?'

Dmitry felt the hairs at the back of his head prickle.

‘Yesterday. In the park. One man.'

‘What did you say?'

‘I told him to piss off.'

Rozanov tut-tutted and shook his head. ‘Not wise, not wise,' he muttered.

Dmitry leaned forward across the table. ‘Look, I can imagine who you represent. What is your interest in this? Why should it help you if I talk to them?'

Rozanov lit his cigarette, inhaled and turned his head sideways to blow the smoke away from Dmitry. ‘You could get us information, very valuable information.'

‘I don't understand.' Dmitry glanced at the calendar on the wall of the restaurant. ‘Is this an April fool?'

Rozanov laughed. ‘On the contrary, I have never been more serious. You are not meant to understand. You are just meant to take the money, and do what we ask.'

‘I can't commit myself. I don't know who they are, but I can guess… It's too dangerous…'

‘Well, perhaps it is, Dmitry Nikolayevich. But perhaps it is also very rewarding. After all, it is a great pity that a man with your talent and knowledge should be messing around with these piddling little translations.'

‘This was a conscious choice. I had decided I no longer wished to work in the nuclear sector. Anyway, I've thought about it already. If I do this even once, you will ask me again and again, and it will never end. It's not good even to talk to you people… I shouldn't be seen with you…' and instinctively he glanced around the restaurant.

Rozanov laughed. ‘It's all right; we have checked it out; we are not under surveillance. Do you think I would be so foolish as to proceed if I knew we were being watched, Dmitry Nikolayevich?'

Dmitry stirred the cold remains of his soup with his spoon. He said, lowering his voice but much more strongly, ‘Look, let's get down to specifics. What exactly do you want? How much are you offering me, and for what? Come on, let's have enough of all this mincing around…'

Rozanov spoke in a calm, even voice. ‘We want you to meet these people, who I'm sure will approach you again, find out exactly who they are and what they want, see what they are offering you. You may be able to find out from them who else they have got, what facilities they have, who is supplying them… we are only asking you to meet them once, maybe twice, here in London… we would not expose you to any danger.'

‘But even if I offer to go and work for them, they are not going to give me any information in return… not unless I show good faith by providing them with something myself, surely.'

Rozanov finished his cigarette. ‘Supposing you do them a proposal. You could do it, Dmitry Nikolayevich… you can dream up some new technique for uranium enrichment which they might like to buy. You know the kind of thing… something cheap, something a little new and different, something the West hasn't got, they love that kind of thing…' he gave a little chuckle –' And preferably something that wouldn't work.'

Dmitry gulped down his wine; Rozanov poured another glass. Dmitry knew he would try to get him a little drunk; well, let him think that will work with me. It will do me good to drink and unwind; besides, it's good wine. For a moment he felt reckless; something about Rozanov's suggestion suddenly amused and intrigued him. He held his glass up to the light, admiring the deep colour. Why did he feel so worried; he had nothing to fear, they couldn't force him into anything, and it was good to be sitting here, eating good food, warm and sheltered, and speaking Russian.

The wine had gone straight to his head, perhaps because he was so tired. He was thinking what a shame it was that he couldn't afford to bring Katie to this restaurant; how, indeed, they never had money to do things like this together. Although it had recently been difficult between them, especially since the baby was born, he was sure that once their financial problems were solved that everything would get better. He thought of her now, her deep eyes, her smile, her naked body, and felt his body ache with desire for her. He didn't know why she affected him like this; but then could anyone explain the phenomenon of love?

‘Do you love your wife?'

Dmitry dropped the knife he was fiddling with on to the plate with astonishment and stared at Rozanov. Could this man even know what he was thinking? ‘What's that to you? I won't discuss her.'

‘What is most important to you in your life, would you say? Your wife, your child, your work, your country?'

At that moment the waiter came with the next course, placing the dish of ragout carefully in front of him. It smelt delicious and the saliva poured painfully into Dmitry's mouth. As he raised a forkful to his mouth a phrase suddenly came into his head from nowhere: ‘If you sup with the devil, you should use a long spoon.' It amused him for a moment to imagine Rozanov as the devil, with little horns hidden in the grey hair, and a tail tucked away between those ridiculous plump legs – so ordinary, unremarkable, yet probing gently as he talked, trying to find the right key to his victim's soul; money, women, ambition, patriotism…

Rozanov lit another cigarette and leaned forward across the table. ‘Dmitry Nikolayevich, my advisors tell me that some years ago you put in a research proposal for some sonic device which would separate out uranium 235 from uranium hexafluoride gas. I believe this work was never funded… Can you explain this to me? Assume I know nothing.'

Dmitry looked up, startled. Rozanov was absolutely right, he'd had this idea; a brilliant idea, he had thought it; he had never been able to do any more work on it. He leaned forward over the table. ‘You must know that uranium comes in two isotopes, the common U238, and the much rarer U235 which is needed for nuclear fission?'

Rozanov nodded.

‘The uranium is converted to uranium hexafluoride gas through a series of chemical processes. This is not so difficult. The problem is the next stage. Fine membranes or centrifuges are needed to separate the lighter molecules containing U235 atoms from the heavier ones, and the complexity of these processes are the key block to developing nuclear fuel – or a bomb.'

Dmitry explained that he had thought of another way, which might be easier and therefore cheaper than the costly gas centrifuges. The idea had come to him one evening, standing in the shower, humming one line of a Beethoven string quartet to himself. If you stood a vibrating bar, a tuning fork, in an environment of gaseous uranium hexafluoride, wouldn't the vibration, at the right frequency, separate out the heavier and lighter isotopes…

He was lost now, remembering. He recalled with sudden clarity how he had stayed up all night trying to work out the basic physics of it, while Masha, his first wife, kept coming in to interrupt him, alternately angry and seductive, unable as always to tolerate it when he was not giving her his full attention… well, Rozanov had done his research, obviously. This had all been carefully set up in advance, planned, prepared, discussed at high levels. Dmitry felt suddenly trapped. The whole situation had a remorseless feel to it, as if he were playing a game of chess in which, despite his own spontaneous and unpredictable moves, his opponent already foresaw everything and pressed rapidly to victory.

Flustered, he pushed his plate away from him. The ragout suddenly seemed to have lost its savour; he did not feel hungry any more, in fact, the food slightly nauseated him. He could not keep track of his thoughts; he wondered for a brief instant if Rozanov hadn't drugged the wine. Now, as he looked at him, the crooked eyebrows in that smiling face suddenly irritated him beyond all measure, and the podgy fingers resting on the fork repulsed him, actually making him feel sick. He said, gathering himself together, ‘You want me to sell them this? This is a crazy idea… I am not at all sure… of course it might even work.'

Rozanov smiled again. He offered a cigarette to Dmitry which he declined, and lit up his own. ‘All right, assuming that it did… how long would it take to get such a project off the ground?'

‘Oh, I don't know. I only did some very preliminary work, purely theoretical. First I would need to go over all that, then you would need to build a small-scale model, then a small cascade…'

Rozanov waved his hand. ‘Please, no technical details… I am not a scientist. How many years?'

‘Oh… I should think… three, five, at a minimum… I can't predict. It would depend on the facilities, how many people were working on it, whether we were lucky or unlucky…'

‘So there would not be any immediate danger?'

‘No, of course not… but that is not the point.'

The waiter came and took away their plates. Rozanov ordered a coffee and leaned back, dabbing his mouth with the handkerchief.

Dmitry asked, without thinking, ‘How much would you pay me?'

‘Name your price.'

Dmitry could not imagine what to ask for. He thought of suggesting a fantastic sum, enough not only to get them out of debt but to pay off their mortgage; but then he was afraid that Rozanov would agree to it and the offer would be too tempting for him. The waiter brought coffee and Rozanov drank it swiftly, gulping and smacking his lips. Dmitry suddenly felt the whole thing was absurd, pointless; he wanted to get away. He said, ‘Look, I have to get on. I will think about what you say very carefully… I will give you an answer in a few days. Where can I get hold of you?'