Doctor Gavrilov (6 page)

Ingrid held out some sheets of paper, and asked, ‘Will you read this essay me, Tim? Just to see if it makes sense to you. To correct the English for me.'

Tim felt guilty for being so short with Ingrid; he knew it was not her fault. He knew that it was because he was thinking of Katie; had barely ceased thinking about her, in fact, since taking the flat. He said ‘Yes, okay Ingrid, if you'll give me some space.' He took the manuscript from her and laid it out on the table, angling the lamp on to it. He went to the fridge, pulled out a bottle of beer and poured himself a glass, then sat down and looked at the first page of Ingrid's essay.

She was still hovering in the doorway. Tim looked up at her and sighed. ‘Take yourself off for a bath or something. Leave me alone if you want me to do this.'

She shut the door. Tim turned back to the essay and took a deep breath. It was on some new age theme, something about the New Alchemy and the quest for spiritual growth, and Tim scanned it impatiently; he had no time for this, and often made fun of Ingrid for her interest in this kind of thing. He flipped through the neatly handwritten pages, then turned back to the introduction.

‘Alchemy is the process that was believed to transmute the base metals such as Lead into Gold. The Philosopher's Stone was endowed with the power of carrying out this transformation. The Stone was also called the elixir or tincture and was also thought to cause the prolonging of human life.

‘The belief that the Philosopher's Stone could only be obtained by divine grace led to the development of the mystical alchemy, and ultimately it became symbolic of the transmutation of sinful man into perfect being through prayer and submission to the will of God. However, the experiments which were being carried out led to a greater understanding of some chemical reactions and led to the foundations of the modern chemistry.

‘Practical alchemists were well aware that if they succeeded in making gold their lives might be in grave danger from avaricious and evilly disposed persons.'

There was a sudden loud noise from upstairs as a door slammed. Tim started and looked up; he heard heavy footsteps, Katie's husband's, he assumed, on the floor above. He listened for a moment, but there was nothing more; he turned back to the essay.

‘Some who were suspected of succeeding had to disguise themselves and flee under false names. Hence they coded the records of their work to make them incomprehensible to others. So in this way there became the confusion between the spiritual alchemy and the practical alchemy.'

Tim put his pen through some of the redundant ‘thes' and sighed deeply. He really didn't feel he could wade through any more of this. He realised he was hungry and wandered round the kitchen, but the contents of the fridge did not inspire him. He could hear muffled footsteps now, in the flat upstairs; he found himself musing, somewhat vaguely, about his assignment. Of course, he thought suddenly, Katie's husband was a Russian with a scientific background; maybe he would have something interesting to say on the subject. He might have some insights into the current situation in Russia which would be helpful.

He glanced at his watch. Quarter to ten wasn't too late, was it? He could hear that they were still up. Ingrid was sloshing around in the bath, so on impulse he ran up the stairs and knocked on the door to the upper part of the house.

Katie opened the door and smiled when she saw him; she asked him in at once. She said they had just eaten, were having coffee, and would he like to join them? He followed her into the living room. The television was on and he just caught the end of the news headlines which he'd been working on earlier – a campaign speech by John Major and the UN Security Council resolution giving Libya fifteen days to hand over the Lockerbie suspects or face a worldwide ban on air travel and arms sales.

As he walked in, Katie's husband looked up from the table, stood up, and turned off the news. He held out his hand and Tim shook it. He was very tall, well over six feet, with a large frame, and had slightly receding hair worn a little too long in the manner of some Russian intellectuals Tim had met. But it wasn't just his size that seemed to dominate the room; there was something about the way he looked at Tim that made him instantly feel small, awkward and out of place.

Katie ran a hand through her hair and brushed the long strands back from her forehead. ‘Tim, this is Mitya… please, sit down.'

Tim sat at the other side of the table and watched Katie pour him a cup of coffee. She looked up at him and asked brightly, ‘Is it all right? The flat?'

‘Oh, yes… fine.'

‘I saw Ingrid yesterday. She seems very nice.'

‘Oh, Ingrid… yes.' Tim found himself uncharacteristically at a loss. Part of the reason for his unease was that Gavrilov, who said nothing, kept on looking at him, and neither smiled nor made any move to make him welcome. To fill the silence, Tim asked if they'd seen his piece on Channel Four news the other evening and Katie said no, she hadn't. Tim explained about his report from Vienna and said that they were now planning to look at the nuclear smuggling issue in more depth and that he was going to Russia shortly.

Tim now felt that Gavrilov's blue eyes were unquestionably cold and hostile, and bored into him with a ruthlessness which, in an English person, would have been considered unpardonably rude. Perhaps in his culture this wasn't so; Tim tried to give him the benefit of the doubt. He turned to face him, and said, ‘Katie told me you had a scientific background. I was wondering if you could help me, actually, if you knew who I could speak to in Moscow…'

The atmosphere was suddenly very strange. Katie turned round and looked at her husband; he looked back at her, an expression Tim couldn't read on his face; there seemed to be a question in it. Tim felt uneasy; he could see that he had put his foot in something, though he didn't have the least idea what it could be. Katie said, sitting down opposite him, ‘I'm sorry… Why do you expect Mitya to know anything about this?'

Tim was confused. He said, ‘I don't know… I didn't mean anything specific… I just thought you might know, scientific institutions, organisations, government departments…'

Gavrilov asked, ‘Don't you have a correspondent in Moscow? Don't they know these things?'

‘Yes, of course, I'm going to phone them tomorrow. It was only an idea… I'm sorry, forget that I asked.'

Tim felt dreadfully uncomfortable; he wished he hadn't come. Ingrid, lying naked downstairs in the bath, suddenly seemed a much more inviting prospect. Katie, as if for something to occupy her, asked if Tim wanted more coffee, and to give her something to do, he said that he would. She poured it out. Dmitry helped himself to sugar, fiddled with the spoon, turning it over and over in his hand. He said abruptly, in a flat, uninterested tone, ‘Well, you should try talk to someone in the military about the controls on materials from nuclear warheads… I think it is the Twelfth Chief Directorate which is responsible for transport and storage… Let me tell you in advance that you're not likely to get a great deal out of these types.'

Tim had taken out his pen and notebook, was jotting this down.

Gavrilov said. ‘Of course, you must realise this case is a little exaggerated… the quantities picked up in Vienna were negligible, from the fuel rods of a reactor, not highly enriched at all, as some reports claimed. These people are small-time crooks, con-men… Russia is full of them these days.'

Tim said, ‘Well, it's not so small-time… they are prepared to have people killed.'

‘Of course. Why not? Drugs, arms, nuclear materials… it's the same thing to them…'

Tim asked, ‘Well, what about the other risks? What about all the scientists, without jobs or on low pay…'

Gavrilov interrupted rudely. ‘Ah yes; the scientists; all these lucky scientists who are going to be offered vast sums of money to go and work abroad. Of course, some might be tempted. Well, why not? Can you give me one good reason why they shouldn't go?'

There was a silence. Tim thought that there was something slightly wild, unbalanced in Dmitry's voice; in fact Tim wondered for a moment if he had been drinking. He said, ‘I don't know. Apart from the moral issue… perhaps the KGB or FSB whatever it's called these days would try to stop them.'

‘Ah; yes, that's good, that's very probable. Of course, what else are they there for these days? That is indeed very likely.' Dmitry got up from the table, walked across the room to stand by the mantelpiece and put a few lumps of coal on the rather miserable fire, and then walked back again. All his movements seemed too fast, slightly exaggerated, as if he was on the point of losing control. He began to walk up and down, to the window, to the table, and back to the fire. ‘But then, who knows what these people might do. They might try to stop them, but then, on the other hand, they might try to encourage them. Well? Have you thought of that idea?'

Tim thought that this was so odd that he couldn't understand what might be behind it; he thought, there's something wrong with him, he's off his head. Katie was looking at the floor, clearly embarrassed; Tim felt sorry for her. She said, ‘Mitya, please. I don't know what you're going on about. Can't we talk about something else?' Tim felt he ought to stop, for her sake, but he couldn't, he was fascinated. He said, ‘No, it's all right, Katie, it's good for me to hear the other side like this.'

Dmitry sat down again. ‘Actually, I am sick of reading every day in your newspapers about the danger of the leakage of nuclear technology from the former Soviet Union when everyone knows the West has done far more in this department than we have… why do they not criticise their own record? At least in Russia we hung on to our secrets, while the US passed them on to Israel, and from there to South Africa, and meanwhile the Germans trained –'

‘Yes, but –'

‘Please, let me finish. I want to ask you this: what makes you think there are more unprincipled Russians than there are Germans or Americans or even Britons… you have plenty of economic problems here I think…'

‘I'm not talking about unprincipled, so much as desperate,' said Tim. ‘It doesn't matter what your principles are if you don't have enough to eat or can't feed your family…'

‘Look,' said Dmitry suddenly, lowering his voice. ‘Try to look at it another way. The threat of nuclear war with Russia suddenly evaporates overnight. Why all this hysteria? We should be pleased, but of course for various reasons we are not. First, there is the whole defence industry… they are alarmed. Who will buy their armaments now? Then there are the intelligence services. In the absence of any real enemy, they have to justify their existence and find some other threat. But thirdly, perhaps more importantly, I think we ourselves cannot cope with the end of the Cold War. It's my belief that mankind psychologically needs the threat of imminent destruction. Now that we no longer believe in the day of judgement or in hell we have to believe in the possibility of a nuclear holocaust. It helps us to believe that we are living in the end times… it clarifies our minds so wonderfully.' He poured them both a glass of vodka and raised his in a toast. ‘Well, to your story, Tim. No doubt you will write it the way you want it.'

Katie lay in bed in the dark, unable to sleep. She was filled with an uneasiness which came close at times to panic. Everything seemed to be going wrong for her and Dmitry. She thought of how they first met, in Vienna, at her friend's funeral in the rain, and the instant attraction she'd felt for him. He had seemed so vibrant and strong to her then, so full of moral integrity. They'd been through so much together, she could not imagine the bond between them ever being broken. It pained her terribly to see him angry and cynical like this, consumed by financial worries and a sense of failure. Yes, she could understand his growing frustration, but she didn't know how to deal with it. And it was getting worse; there was no need for him to have behaved like that this evening. She had been glad to see Tim, it was good to have someone she knew living downstairs and she didn't want to fall out with him. After all, they didn't see many people; she felt Dmitry had spoiled things for them, had given a false impression to Tim. She understood that he was disappointed about the book, and that she should make allowances, but even so, it was too much.

She rolled over, unable to get comfortable. Dmitry put his hand on her thigh and she removed it. He said, ‘Katie, what exactly have you told him about me?'

Katie was instantly defensive. ‘As it happens, I have told him exactly nothing.'

‘Then why did he ask…?'

‘I don't know… it must be coincidence. Honestly, Mitya, I told him you were a scientific and technical translator and that was all.'

‘I don't believe in coincidence. Don't ask him in again. I don't like him.'

Katie sat up on her elbow. ‘Why not? That's ridiculous… I've known him for years, he's a bit arrogant, I know, but he's all right really.'