Doctor Gavrilov (43 page)

Another man entered the room. He introduced himself as George Bradman, Assistant Collector for Her Majesty's Customs and Excise. He was middle-aged, had a pleasant face, and an air of authority. He went quietly over the same questions as the others; what had he been doing in Tunis; in Libya; what was he carrying in his suitcase; why was he obstructing them. When Dmitry did not answer satisfactorily he looked increasingly worried. He was coldly, impersonally polite. The official returned. He said, ‘We've put it through the scanner… there are some opaque objects, possibly metal bars, possibly explosives… what looks like a cassette recorder and earphones… It doesn't look like a bomb, but… shall we open it or do we need to call in the bomb disposal people?'

Bradman considered for a moment, then he said impatiently, ‘Yes, yes, I think in this case the whole works, Special Branch, the security services…' he kept his eye on Dmitry as he said this. ‘I don't like the look of this. Perhaps you should also get through to security and have them evacuate the terminal…'

Dmitry had been sitting stunned while all this went on, simply not knowing what he should do. Now he realised there was no point in holding out any longer. ‘I'm sorry, this is all pointless… Where is the suitcase? Why are we making all this fuss about this suitcase? Look… Bring it here and I will open it for you.'

Again, there was an exchange of glances. The Assistant Collector nodded. One of the officers went and got the suitcase. It was too heavy and bulky to lift on to the table; Dmitry bent over and fiddled with the lock. His hands were trembling; they couldn't help noticing. The officer next to him suddenly put out his hand and pulled his arm away.

‘No. Don't do it.'

Dmitry turned and stared. The second officer said, ‘It's OK. I've seen the X-ray. If its material for a bomb, it's not wired up.'

‘These explosives can be tricky.'

‘OK, we'll go outside.'

They left him to open the case. They must have watched him through the one-way mirror; after a few minutes, they came back in. The Assistant Collector came over and started to search the suitcase gingerly. He took out the cassette recorder, the shaving bag, which he examined thoroughly, and began to feel through the untidy, crumpled clothes. He lifted out the pile of documents, gave them a cursory glance; then he found the six metal bars. He lifted one up, weighing it in his hands. He said, ‘Good lord, this is very heavy. It looks like lead.' He turned to the other officer, who took it from him. ‘It feels too solid to be hollow.' He turned to Dmitry. ‘What is it?'

Dmitry opened his mouth but found himself unable to answer.

Bradman turned to the man standing behind him. ‘Mayhew. I want you to get on to the Foreign Office…. and you'd better ring Harwell… someone should take a look at this…' He replaced the ingot on top of the clothes in the suitcase and looked at Dmitry again. He pulled the chair up close to him and stared at him, his face far too close. ‘Why don't you explain yourself? We are going to get to the bottom of this sooner or later. You are an intelligent man, you must realise you will be kept here until we do… if you could just explain, Dr Gavrilov, what this is all about.' He broke off suddenly. ‘Are you feeling all right?'

Dmitry loosened his tie and leaned backwards, away from Bradman's oppressive stare. The atmosphere in the room was hostile, overwhelming; he felt light-headed. He said, ‘I'm sorry… I'm feeling dreadfully ill. My head…'

And now there was a subtle change in the room, from animosity to the faintest touch of fear. Bradman got to his feet. He said, ‘I think we'll get a doctor to check you over.' He walked across the room, and as he went, used his foot to flip the lid of the suitcase shut. He pushed it into the far corner of the room and came back. He said, ‘You can see what we are thinking… a Russian, without entry stamps, coming via Tunis from Libya, with something suspicious in his luggage… what is this man? Is he a terrorist? Is he, perhaps, involved in illegal trade? Could this be, for example, something… nuclear?'

Dmitry looked up sharply. Bradman seemed to recognise that he had got somewhere near; he pressed on, his voice icy. ‘Those bars I handled… tell me what they are…'

Dmitry finally confessed with immense relief. ‘They are highly enriched uranium. I brought them from the Nuclear Research Centre in Tajura.' He paused. ‘I did this for my own country – and for the West.'

‘I see.' Bradman nodded, then turned to the other officers. ‘You've touched this – go and wash your hands. You, take over while I do the same.' Dmitry sat and watched them go, completely detached. From somewhere far off, an alarm bell sounded.

When they came back in, Dmitry said, ‘It's all right, it's not dangerous. It's not highly radioactive. You are in no danger… I would not have allowed you… I have handled it myself…'

‘Yes, and you are feeling ill. We can't simply take this on trust. Suppose you are lying, and it's something worse? Has this uranium, for instance, been irradiated? Where does it come from?' Dmitry could sense Bradman's suppressed alarm. He said to the others, ‘Get it taken out of here and get it stored safely. Get immediate advice… you had better retain anyone from the airline who might have been in contact with this stuff…' He turned back to Dmitry. ‘You will be facing a number of criminal charges, carrying radioactive material on to an aircraft, smuggling prohibited goods into the UK, obstructing customs officials, and that's just to begin with…'

It was a long night. Three men sat with him in the interview room; more stood guard outside. The men did not say who they were and Dmitry didn't need to ask. They were very skilled. They asked difficult, probing questions. They asked for details, then more details, and they did not give up until they had everything they wanted. By now there was no point in telling them anything other than the whole truth, and this they extracted from him, layer by painful layer, even the things he would rather not have told them. Afterwards he was exhausted. He did not exactly feel purged; instead, he felt empty and abandoned. They took him to another room and told him that the doctor was ready to examine him.

The doctor was cold, clinical and thorough. He said that he thought that Dmitry was mainly suffering from exhaustion but that as he had been exposed to radiation he ought to have certain tests done, and he could arrange for this when he knew where Dmitry would be staying. The doctor said that he had obviously received a low enough dose to escape immediate effects but it was possible his white blood count would fall and that he would be vulnerable to infections. Perhaps out of kindness, he didn't mention the long-term effects. He wrote out a letter of referral to a private hospital and suggested he contact them to make the appointment as soon as possible.

Bradman returned to see him in the morning. He said that they were making further enquiries, but they were not bringing any formal charges at the moment. He must present himself at Holborn Police Station at 9am on Monday morning, but now he was free to go.

Dmitry stared at him in disbelief. ‘What do you mean, I can go?'

‘What I said. The door is open.'

‘Why?'

Bradman shrugged. ‘Orders from above.'

One of the interrogating officers put Dmitry's wallet, keys, and pocket diary on the table, together with his shaving bag and the money he had stolen from the German. The officer told him they would be holding on to his passport. Dmitry picked his things up, bewildered. At the door, he turned and said ‘I have no sterling. Is there somewhere –?'

At this the officer grinned. He said, ‘There's a currency exchange in the main terminal; it should be open by now. But just in case, if it helps, I'll give you the tube fare into town.'

He sat on the underground train into London, wondering what to do now, where to go. He sat with the commuters, going about their everyday business, reading their papers and listening to their walkmans. Dmitry felt he had only the most tenuous connection with them, as if he inhabited some other, parallel universe which enabled him to see but not to feel or touch them; he had the feeling too that if he spoke, they would be unable to hear him.

On reflection, thinking about it, he realised that it was not so odd that they had let him go. Either he was telling the truth, in which case he had done them a favour, or he was lying, was a black marketeer or double agent, in which case they would be watching his every move, waiting to see if he led them to any contacts he might have. He thought he had better go to a hotel. He wanted to wash, to sleep. Then he would ring the bank. He would ring Geneva, see if he could get some money transferred; then he would ring Katie. At the thought that he was so near, could see Katie and the children, he began to tremble.

He found a cheap hotel in Gower Street, Bloomsbury. When the woman at reception asked for his passport he told her he was a British resident and that his passport was with the Home Office; he registered under a false name and paid in cash for one night. In his room, he drew the curtains and flung himself face downwards on the bed. He slept solidly through the afternoon and then the night. When he finally woke it was eight in the morning and the pale light was coming in through the thin curtains; the rush hour traffic roared below in an endless stream. He ran a bath and soaked in it for a long time; then he shaved and dressed.

He went out, taking his few possessions in a plastic bag, and caught a bus to Piccadilly, found a payphone and telephoned his London bank. They told him there was hardly any money in the joint account and that his wife had transferred it all to her own account, to which he did not have access. He found the number for the bank in Geneva and dialled that. He quoted his number and code word and asked them if he could make a withdrawal and arrange to collect it from a suitable bank in London.

The bank said that this was impossible because, as he could hardly have forgotten, he had faxed them only the day before requesting that he transferred all the money to an account in the Libyan National Bank.

This hit Dmitry like a physical blow. He protested weakly, ‘But I never sent such a fax. It's impossible.'

‘Does anyone else know the identification code?'

Dmitry tried to remember. He thought back to the bank in Geneva on the Rue du Rhone where he had opened the numbered account. Could Ghesuda have seen it, over his shoulder? He thought perhaps he could. He said, ‘But the signature?'

‘I'm sorry, no signature was needed. I have it in front of me here, the discharge form which you signed… you can write to explain the situation, but –'

Dmitry hung up before he could hear any more. Of course he could have no redress in law; it was hopeless. He felt desperate; what was he to do? He could only manage for a couple more days at most. Not giving himself time to think, he picked up the receiver again and dialled Katie's number.

He heard her voice, casual, unsuspecting. ‘Hello?'

He said, ‘It's me. I'm in London.'

She said, ‘Mitya,' then, for a long time, nothing else. He said, ‘I want to see you.' She asked him, ‘Why?' He couldn't answer her. She was crying, he could hear that she was crying. She said, ‘Oh God, I can't take this. Are you really alive?'

He could hear a child in the background, Sasha, crying, but it was not a small baby's crying any more, but a more complaining kind of sound. Katie said, ‘Wait a minute.' He heard her talking to Sasha for a moment and the crying stopped. She came back to the phone and said, ‘Where in London are you?'

‘In a hotel. I don't want to tell you where. Could you come down and see me?'

‘No, I can't.'

‘Katie.'

She was silent for a long time. Then she said, ‘I'm afraid to. Anyway, I don't understand. How long are you back here?'

‘Permanently. Katie, I have to see you. I have no money, no clothes, nothing. I am not well, I have to go to a hospital for some tests. Will you help me?'