Doctor Gavrilov (39 page)

He wondered what they would do now with the information. It was quite possible of course that they would do nothing, that it was all being dealt with already, that they knew everything, and that what he had told them was not of much interest after all, except perhaps, as she had hinted, to confirm what they already knew. On the other hand, he thought it could be high level stuff, there could be inter-agency discussions, liaison with the police, with politicians, even with the Prime Minister. He wondered whether they would act, and if so, how quickly.

It took them a week. He and Katie heard the report on the radio in the morning. A US bombing raid had been launched against Libya at dawn, targeting the Nuclear Research Centre at Tajura. Recent intelligence reports had indicated that Libya was developing a clandestine nuclear weapons programme and that there had been attempts to procure fissionable material from the former Soviet Union. The surgical strikes had been extremely effective and the main reactor building had been damaged. There was no danger of radioactivity except at a local level.

At the first phrase of the report Katie's hand shot out and knocked over the coffee pot. The dark liquid spread across the table, soaking into the dry toast and over yesterday's newspaper, and began to drip down on to the bare wood floor. Katie and Tim looked at one another over the wreckage of their breakfast and neither of them spoke a word.

T
HE SOUND of the explosions startled Dmitry out of a deep sleep. Even in his shocked, confused state, as the room rocked and he felt the concussion, a sound almost too loud to hear, he knew what was happening. He lay in bed, rigid, unable to move; there was another impact, then another. Instinctively he rolled over on to his face and pulled the covers over him. Perhaps there were six impacts in all, some of them so close together as to be almost simultaneous. This was followed by the sound of the plane engines shrieking into the distance; there was a moment's silence, then an alarm bell sounded.

At first Dmitry could not move. He felt as he had done as a child, woken in the middle of the night by a thunderstorm right overhead. He was afraid that if he moved, if he looked around, something terrible would manifest itself; that he might even discover he was dead. Then he heard voices shouting outside and sirens sounding, and the noise of engines. Cautiously, he shifted in his bed. Nothing happened. He swung himself out of bed and went to the window. One of the bombs had hit the main building; flames were streaking up, and black, acrid smoke was streaming from the roof. Dmitry wondered if they had hit the reactor; he wasn't too concerned, it was a small one, and the chances were that there would not be much release of radioactivity even if there had been a direct hit and the containment breached. People ran in and out of the buildings; a second, louder alarm sounded.

Dmitry pulled on his clothes, rushed down the corridor and out into the cool of the morning. He stood by the wall, unnoticed; someone was pointing an inadequate hose at the main building; the water on the flames fizzled and hissed pathetically.

He looked up. After the deafening sound of the bombs and the jets that dropped them, there was an eerie silence in the skies. The technician appeared at the door, half dressed, his hair standing upright. He had completely lost his cool, and his taut, fanatical face was twisted up with anger. ‘Those bastards, the Americans! They think they can do what they like, that they own this fucking planet!'

Dmitry felt quite calm, detached, though he was sure it wasn't over yet. He said, ‘I'm going over there to see what the damage is.'

‘Are you crazy? They hit the reactor. The place could be radioactive. And what if they come back and hit us next time?'

Dmitry said, ‘We shouldn't panic. There's no need.' The Libyan stared at him, shocked and confused. They turned to watch the army trucks arriving, the soldiers looking helplessly around while the fire spread. Then, as they watched, there was another explosion, from inside the reactor building; then a third and fourth, like aftershocks; Dmitry felt a faint but definite tremor in the ground beneath his feet. He stood rooted to the spot, suddenly terrified. A second explosion could be far more serious; it could mean that the bomb had damaged the reactor and let it run out of control, and now there was a more dangerous, nuclear explosion.

How could he tell? That was the terrible thing about radiation, you could neither see it, feel it, hear it, smell it. Radiation might be pouring out into the air at this very moment and no-one would know about it; certainly not the soldiers struggling to put out the fire. It would be like a miniature Chernobyl. An emergency alarm sounded, a louder, higher note. Someone started to shout orders through a megaphone, perhaps ordering an emergency evacuation. Dmitry dashed at once back inside the building. His mouth was suddenly dry and he could feel his heart racing. He wanted now to get away; he must, at all costs, get away from here.

He went back into his room. From his drawer he took out his radiation badge and a jar of white potassium iodide tablets; he read the label and swallowed the correct dose. Outwardly calm, he took some clothes and folded them carefully into his suitcase, wishing he had something smaller to put them in. He picked up the suitcase and walked swiftly down the corridor. At the door the technician tried to pull him back and he wrenched himself free. Outside, in the dazzling sunlight, Dr Masoud stood with an army colonel, ordering the reluctant soldiers to go back into the building to check what had happened to his colleagues who would have been on duty. Masoud told Dmitry that the bomb had cut off the electricity supply, that the emergency generators had not cut in, and that he believed there must have been an explosion inside the reactor because the control rods could not be lowered. He said to Dmitry, ‘Get indoors, there's no need for you to risk yourself. The Colonel here is leaving immediately for Tripoli. You can go with him.'

The colonel put a hand on his arm and walked him back towards the laboratory block. Dmitry shut the door behind him with relief and stood in the dim, unlit corridor. The colonel took Dmitry into an office, sat at a desk, and began telephoning. Outside, Dmitry could hear the sound of engines revving, of sirens, of raised, frightened voices, while here, inside, it was very quiet and the colonel seemed to be quite unperturbed, making his telephone calls.

Dmitry walked up and down in the little room. Perhaps too many dreadful things had happened to him and he was unable to react; he felt very calm, detached, and his mind seemed sharp and clear. The colonel looked up and waved his arm towards a chair; Dmitry sat down. He flipped through the piles of paper on the desk in front of him. There was a list of sites where various parts of Libya's nuclear programme were situated; personnel lists; files of orders; in fact, everything Rozanov could have wanted. The colonel didn't even seem to notice what he was doing so he took his time to go through them, memorising what he could.

The colonel hung up and stared at Dmitry, his face blank, oppressive, as if he was wondering what to do with him. In a flash an idea came into Dmitry's head. He said, ‘The highly enriched uranium. It's stored here, in this building… surely you should remove it?'

The colonel turned his black eyes to look at Dmitry. He must have thought that if Dmitry knew of this he must be in the trusted core of staff there, the inner circle who knew about these things. He said, ‘Yes, of course, you are right, that is a priority.' He picked up the receiver again and punched out a number. There was another long discussion, in Arabic. He hung up, got to his feet, said, ‘Please wait here,' and went out.

As soon as the door closed Dmitry picked up some of the papers on the desk and stuffed them into his suitcase. He didn't know what made him do something so dangerous; perhaps he was careless of his life because of the radiation, who knows, he might have received a fatal dose already. Dmitry went to the window. Outside, an ambulance was standing near the reactor building. There was no sign of Masoud. The smoke drifted over towards them; even through the closed window Dmitry could smell the smoke. He started to sweat. He thought, the colonel doesn't understand, why don't any of them understand. We must get out of here.

When he opened the door he saw the colonel coming back along the corridor. He beckoned to him; they went out of the back door. A jeep was waiting for them, its engine running. Soldiers struggled to load a wooden box into the back. There was a strange smell in the air, not just of smoke, but an almost metallic smell; this alarmed Dmitry because he knew it might mean the presence of ionising radiation. He said to the colonel, ‘Please, let's go, quickly.'

The jeep lurched forward. Dmitry watched in astonishment as they drove past the tank and a couple of armoured vehicles and passed through the gates alone. He felt in his pocket and took out the radiation badge; it had turned dark blue. Well, that was to be expected; it would have darkened at a much lower level than it had probably been exposed to, way below what was needed to cause any immediate effects. He felt light-headed and giddy for a moment; he looked sideways at the colonel; he appeared cheerful enough.

Dmitry glanced round and looked at the box. He asked, ‘Where are you taking it?

‘To the military headquarters in Tripoli. Where I will also take you.'

Dmitry did not know what might happen to him there. He thought they might question him to see if he had revealed anything he knew which might explain the attack. He imagined the kind of interrogation they would give him, and felt an overwhelming need to escape. He leaned forward and took the colonel's arm. ‘Look, I am not a prisoner. I am a scientist… Don't you realise that we have been exposed to radiation? Look,' and he showed him the badge. ‘I insist you take me to a hospital in case I need treatment.'

‘Dr Masoud told me there was no danger from the reactor. Anyway, I have been told I should keep you with me.'

‘We should both go to the hospital as a priority. Don't you understand –'

The colonel swivelled round in his seat. ‘Okay, we will deliver this stuff, then I will get someone to take you to the hospital.'

Dmitry turned round and looked again at the wooden case in the back of the jeep. He realised that he had a chance, an extraordinary and unforeseen opportunity, to get away. The driver didn't seem to be a soldier and as far as he could see, he wasn't even armed. The only thing that stood in his way was the colonel. He could even get hold of the uranium. But this was ridiculous. What was he thinking? Even if he did, what would he do with it? Take it out of Libya single-handed? It was absurd.

The sun was well up now; it was beginning to get hot. They drove fast, through orchards and olive groves; they passed some army vehicles travelling in the opposite direction; otherwise, the road was empty. Then they heard the sound of an aeroplane circling overhead. The colonel asked the driver to pull off the road and stop the jeep; in the sudden silence they heard the droning of the engines. Dmitry asked, ‘One of ours?' but the colonel indicated for him to be silent. He sat, his head craned upwards, and Dmitry thought, there, this is my chance. But he couldn't do anything; he couldn't move. If he made an attempt against the colonel and failed he was done for.

The moment seemed to last forever, while Dmitry struggled with himself; should he act, or shouldn't he? The bright sun illuminated everything with extraordinary clarity; he looked at the gun gleaming in the colonel's belt; if he could just get hold of it… Dmitry saw his chance slipping away from him. He couldn't act; it was as if his limbs were paralysed. Then, just as the colonel turned to indicate to the driver to continue, Dmitry found that his body leapt into action, striking the colonel as hard as he could with his fists and pushing him forwards out of the jeep.

He leapt down on top of him but the colonel was already reaching for his gun; Dmitry kicked at him, leaned over to snatch the gun himself; both of them were snarling like animals. The colonel now had grabbed Dmitry's arm; they were both kicking, grabbing, punching, both of them uncoordinated, both desperate. Dmitry had pulled open the leather strap over the holster and the gun fell out into the dust. Dmitry had his hand on it; the colonel stamped on it; Dmitry, dizzy with pain but still managing to keep going, launched himself on top of the colonel and punched him in the stomach.

All the time the driver simply sat, watching.

Dmitry had the gun now. He picked it up, backed off, aimed it at the colonel, released the safety catch. His hand was agony; he wondered if any of his fingers were broken. The colonel lay in the sand, his hands shielding his head, awaiting his execution. Dmitry knew that he should shoot him, that there was no way he could risk leaving the colonel alive to explain what had happened, but he couldn't do it, not like this, not in cold blood. He cursed himself for starting something he couldn't carry through. When moments passed and nothing happened, the colonel slowly, anxious not to provoke anything, got to his knees. He turned his face to Dmitry, his dark eyes pleading.

Dmitry turned to the driver, pointing the gun at him. He said, ‘Tie him up.' The driver did what he was told; Dmitry supposed that no-one argues with a madman with a gun. There was a rope in the back of the jeep. The colonel lay face down in the earth and the driver tied his legs and arms behind him. Beyond the road was a ditch and then there were olive groves. Dmitry made the driver drag the colonel into the shade.

Dmitry tested the ropes. He was afraid of several things; that the knots would be too tight, the colonel would not be found, and he would lie there and slowly die from thirst. Then he was afraid that the knots would be too loose and he would soon be free and raise the alarm. Why had he even begun this? Long shadows from the early sunshine slanted under the olive trees. Dmitry ordered the driver back to the vehicle.

The driver knelt on the ground, terrified, making no move. Dmitry was aware of him watching as he turned and took a toolbox from the back of the jeep, extracted a tyre lever. The wooden container was clearly marked with a radioactivity symbol and securely pad-locked. It would be far too heavy to lift. He used the tyre lever to force the box open. The bars of uranium lay inside in a thick layer of lead. There were six bars of the silvery grey metal, lightly covered with oxide as if they had been dusted with a thin layer of flour. Dmitry lifted the bars out, one by one, examining them carefully. They looked like uranium, a dull grey metal; they were heavy enough to be uranium; with the edge of the tyre lever he scraped at the surface and found that, sure enough, the tiny scrapings ignited spontaneously in the bright air. He turned his head away so as not to breathe them in. He was convinced. He was not afraid to handle the bars; he knew that pure uranium is not highly radioactive; the alpha radiation it emits could not penetrate even the dead outer layer of skin. He tried to assess how much material was there, whether there was enough to form a critical mass on its own or whether it would only go critical in a bomb assembly surrounded by a neutron reflector. For a bare sphere of uranium, the critical radius would be about eight or nine centimetres and the critical mass about 52 kilograms; in small bars of uranium 235 with linear dimensions like these, the chain reaction would simply damp out. Nonetheless, he was careful to wrap the bars in his clothing and pack them as far apart as possible inside his suitcase.