Doctor Gavrilov

Maggie Hamand

Description

It is 1992. The Soviet Union has broken up, and a Russian nuclear scientist is trying to start a new life in London. But he finds that he cannot throw off his past so easily. The secret knowledge possessed by Dmitry Gavrilov attracts those wanting to develop clandestine nuclear weapons, as well as the intelligence agencies trying to prevent them. And a British journalist is also on the case, trying to expose him. As the pressure on him tightens, Dr Gavrilov finds himself drawn into a complex plot which will threaten not only his own life, but also that of his wife and children.'Like the very best Le Carre... gripped me more than anything I have read for a long time. People have been making serious claims for thrillers: this is one of the very few that justify them because it is one of the very few where you believe in the main characters as real and really begin to care what happens to them.' Julian Rathbone, author of 'King Fisher Lives' and 'Joseph,' both shortlisted for the Booker Prize'Mesmerising.' Mary Flanagan, author of 'Bad Girls', 'Trust' and 'Adele'

Sujets

• Thriller

Informations

• Publié par: CCWC Books
• Date de parution: 20 janvier 2015
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9780957694460
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 2 Mo

Extrait

Also by Maggie Hamand

The Resurrection of the Body

The Rocket Man

First eBook edition published in 2014 by The CCWC 82 Forest Road London E8 3BH www.writingcourses.org.uk

© Maggie Hamand 2014

All rights reserved, Maggie Hamand 2014

The right of Maggie Hamand to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patent Act 1988

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

Cover images © Lio2012 © Grungemaster Dreamstime.com

Cover design by Jane Havell

eBook edition ISBN 978-0-957694-46-0

Acknowledgements

With many thanks to all those people who helped me in my researches, and special thanks to David Kay, former Secretary general of th e Uranium Institue and UN Chief Weapons Inspector in Iraq, Seva Novgorodsev of the BBC Russian Service, Zhores Medvedev, author ofTheLegacy of Chernobyl, Olga Fedina, Sveta Yavorsky, Christopher Long, and others who wish to remain ano nymous, all of whom gave generously of their time to help me make the book a s accurate as possible. I would also like to thank the late Julian Rathbone for his encouragement and belief in this book. Much gratitude is also due to my eagle-eyed r eaders/editors, Gillian Paschkes- Bell, Andrew Rivett, and Mary Flanagan.

‘Why this is hell, nor am I out of it’ Christopher Marlowe,Doctor Faustus

Acknowledgements

Prologue Vienna, 1992

PART ONE

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

PART TWO

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Contents

Prologue

Vienna, 1992

N THE LIGHT of the police spotlights Tim Finucan co uld see them dragging the I corpse out of the Danube. Heavy with water and shro uded in a dark sack, it slipped from among the icy patches on the river and lay on the bank gleaming like a landed seal. An ambulance stood to one side, the blue ligh ts flashing, creating a halo in the rainy air and shimmering on the wet ground. The par amedics stood ready with their equipment, but it must have been clear to them at a glance that this was a body that stood no chance of resuscitation. Across the canalised river, half obscured by the ra in, stood the tall, curved towers of the UN buildings; lights still gleamed in the upper stories. The rain turned to a fine, icy sleet, and Tim ran along the bridge to stand beside the cameraman. He couldn’t keep the excitement out of his voice. ‘This is great, te rrific. We got the exact moment. How close in can you get?’ Police cordons had prevented them from getting any nearer than the bridge, but the view was good enough from here. In the distance, alarm lights from a police car flashed in the darkness and they heard the whoop of the siren. Tim was anxious, impatient to be finished; they might be to ld they couldn’t film and be cleared off the bridge at any moment. ‘Can you just pan up to the UN buildings? It would be great to get them in the same shot –’ The cameraman had been at this job far longer than Tim and didn’t try to hide his irritation. ‘Shut up and pass me that next tape will you – it’s about to run out.’ Each videotape lasted 30 minutes; in Tim’s experien ce, they always ran out at the critical moment, either that or the battery pack ne eded replacing. He handed over the tape and the cameraman changed it over in a series of skilled, quick movements. On the concrete bank below them two men crouched over the body, passing a monitor backwards and forwards over it. The men wore protec tive suits and moved slowly, like spacemen, gleaming white against the darkness. Tim felt a sudden chill. ‘Shit,’ he said. ‘Do they think it’s radioactive?’ Beside him his other companion, the American report er Erwin Stone, inhaled deeply on the last of his cigarette and tossed the stub ov er the parapet. He hunched his shoulders and stamped his feet to get warm. ‘Haven’ t you heard? The two men arrested yesterday were admitted to hospital this m orning showing signs of radiation poisoning.’ Tim watched as they loaded the body into an unmarke d vehicle which was standing by. The searchlights abruptly went off; the sleet s tung his face like needles. ‘Where’s the hospital?’ ‘The Lorenz Böhler. It’s not far from here. I’ll direct you.’ They drove to the hospital but the staff were not g iving out any information; a police guard in the entrance told them to leave. They set up the lights outside the main casualty entrance and Tim spoke his piece, putting his all into it while striving for an impression of seasoned casualness. Despite the icy rain, he made the cameraman shoot it twice; this was the first time Tim himself would appear on screen and he was anxious to get it right. They packed up quickly and loaded the van with numb , slippery fingers. The American suggested a drink at the bar on the corner. It was dingy and empty except for

a young couple lingering over their drink; in the b ackground some Austrian folk music played quietly. The main thing was that it was warm . Erwin went to the bar and ordered coffee and slivov itz; the cameraman slouched in the corner and looked meaningfully at the clock. Ti m, however, wanted to thank Erwin for tipping him off about the body and pump him for any more information. Erwin had freelanced in Vienna for years; he’d told Tim that he knew better than to try to sell the story here and the paper he was a stringer for in the States had wanted only a couple of paragraphs, so he’d passed it on to Tim who could m ake more use of it. Erwin took out his packet of cigarettes and laid th em on the table while he searched in his pockets for his lighter. ‘This is the third incident of nuclear smuggling we’ve had here this month… the first was just a few fuel pell ets from an old Soviet-built reactor. The second was a laboratory sample, just a tiny qua ntity… this time it looks more serious.’ ‘But why all the protective clothing? Surely pure u ranium isn’t that radioactive? Even if it’s bomb grade…’ ‘Well, there is no safe dose of radiation. And they might have got hold of some irradiated fuel rods… that could be highly radioact ive. Or it could be plutonium this time.’ ‘Why should these guys take the risk?’ ‘Maybe they don’t even know what it is they’re hand ling.’ Erwin lit up, tilted back his head and blew two thick columns of smoke from his n ostrils. ‘In any case, we’re not likely to find out any more from the police. The Au strian authorities keep a pretty tight grasp over their media… It’ll be hushed up.’ He pau sed and added cynically, ‘If we’re lucky we might find out the nationality of the corp se.’ Tim looked around; the cameraman had nodded off in the corner. Erwin turned to him. ‘You know, if you’re doing a detailed report o n this, the smuggling of nuclear materials is only the tip of the iceberg. Even more dangerous is the fact that there are plenty of nuclear scientists, out of a job, selling their know-how to anyone who will pay for it.’ He glanced at Tim. ‘You should follow this up.’ ‘I will.’ ‘Give me your address and phone number… I can send stuff on to you.’ Tim took out his card. ‘I’ll give you my home numbe r but it’s only temporary… I’ve got nowhere to live at the moment. I sold my flat f irst and then the place I was buying fell through… But you can always reach me at the office.’ Erwin drained his glass and slipped the card into h is wallet. ‘I might be able to help,’ he said, unexpectedly. ‘I ran into Michael Barratt yesterday, do you know him? He’s moving to Delhi, he told me he was trying to find s omeone to take on his London flat. It’s in Kilburn, not far from the subway. The house belongs to an old friend of mine who moved from Vienna last year… in fact you might even know her, she worked for the BBC in Bush House, Katie MacAllister, she was then… ’ Though this kind of thing happened to him all the t ime, Tim was still astonished at this coincidence. ‘Katie MacAllister? God, I used t o know her quite well. She was in the German service, rather a stunning girl… I haven’t s een her for years. Now I remember, she took a job here, Radio Blue Danube or something … didn’t she get married?’ ‘Yes. Actually, twice.’ He paused and looked Tim in the eye. ‘Look, I’ll give you her number. Give her a call. I’ll ring her and let her know you’ll be in touch.’’ Erwin wrote a number on a piece of paper and pushed it across the table to him. Tim folded it in half and clipped it safely into his po cket-file. He looked at his watch; it was nearly midnight. ‘Look, it’s been good to see you, you’ve been a great help… but I’ve got to get this edited and fed over to London…’ ‘At ORF?’ Erwin was referring to Austrian state television. ‘No, we usually use them but since this is such a s ensitive story we’ve booked a studio at an independent facilities house… in fact, this is such hot stuff I’m not sure