His mouth was unbearably dry; the drugs they had given him must have worn off a little, because now he was aware of pain, a deep burning which seemed to involve his whole left side. Breathing was painful and difficult, despite the oxygen. Nobody came to him; he supposed they had no need, they had the monitors. He could not sleep properly; he kept seeing, over and over, the assassin entering the room, the glint of the light on the metal of the gun, the horror of looking down into the black barrel. He still did not understand why he wasn’t dead.
The door to the ward opened and closed; he saw the light from the corridor shine in. He heard muffled footsteps and thought someone might be coming, but no-one did. He must have dozed on and off; the night seemed interminable. It would have been all right if he had been able to stop thinking, but incoherent chains of thought kept breaking through the muzziness in his head. What frightened him most was the fact that they might still think it was not too late to silence him. Everything seemed ruined; his term in Vienna, his relationship with Katie, his health, perhaps his career. He felt utterly alone.
Towards morning something woke him again. A doctor, a man he hadn’t seen before, was fiddling with his drip. For some reason this made him feel uneasy; in the dim light he tried to make out the man’s features more clearly. He asked, ‘Who are you? Where is the other doctor?’
‘He’s not on duty. There’ll be someone coming to see you in the morning. That’s done now; try to sleep.’ The man went away. Dmitry thought; what could be easier than to send someone into the hospital, dressed us a doctor, to put poison in the drip. In panic, he called out, despite the pain this caused him. He called several times; they must have heard the desperation in his voice. In a few minutes, the doctor came, and a nurse; without even saying anything to Dmitry, the doctor took his left arm, put a band round the upper arm and turned the arm over to expose the elbow. ‘Make your hand into a fist,’ he said; when Dmitry did not respond, the doctor took the hand and roughly pressed the fingers together. ‘Like this,’ he said. ‘We are giving you something now to help you sleep.’ The nurse passed him the syringe.
Dmitry said, trying to express himself clearly, ‘What are you giving me? I don’t want it.’ He felt the prick of the needle in his arm and the pain of the fluid being injected. For a moment he thought he would be sick. A feeling of light-headedness came over him; the bed suddenly felt very soft; he was sinking into it. Little fragments of thoughts broke off and whirled round in all directions. The green walls spun around very slowly, and in the distance, so far off as to be hardly visible, a small squat figure which was death crouched behind a hedge.
Nihal had spent a wretched night. In the early morning he finally rung the hospital and established that Dmitry was still alive. Later he tried to ring Katie but no-one answered; he assumed that she might be at the hospital. Nihal didn’t know what to do.
At about midday he went up to the International Centre and took the lift to the twentieth floor. The area round Dmitry’s office had been taped off and the police were at work. Nihal found Hilde having coffee with one of the other secretaries in the office. She was very upset and had obviously been crying.
Hilde had spoken to the police earlier. She told them about the call she had taken yesterday morning; the man had had a faint accent, but she couldn’t say what, North American, Australian; she was not very good at placing accents and her conversation had been brief. She said, ‘I shouldn’t have told him anything. Dmitry told me off for it; I was angry, I was getting sick of his paranoia.’ Her face crumpled. ‘Obviously it wasn’t paranoia at all.’
Nihal went and spoke to the IAEA press officer, Anil Kumar, who was very helpful. The reports from the hospital that morning had been good; Gavrilov’s condition was described as stable and it was anticipated that he would make a good recovery. Anil knew quite a lot about what had happened; he had been up there shortly after the shooting and had seen Gavrilov carried out on the stretcher. He had spoken to the man who had tried to help Katie and had gone to fetch Kaisler. He told Nihal that the assassin had left behind his gun and gloves; this might help the police. The gun had a silencer; nobody had heard the shots. There was no clue as to how he had got into the building undetected.
Anil said that he was also suspicious of Kulagin, the man who had been in Gavrilov’s office. He was employed as a translator but Nihal might as well know, because the rumour was circulating everywhere, that it was said that Kulagin was KGB.
The Russians had made an enormous fuss. It was a diplomatic incident. The Ambassador had complained in the strongest terms about lack of decent security arrangements, both to the UN and to the Austrian Government. The security people were downstairs with Kaisler now being hauled over the coals. It had emerged that Gavrilov had been to the UN security staff two or three weeks ago and had been given no more help than the standard photocopied sheets of paper on personal security precautions. This was unforgivable.
Since the UN building had extraterritorial status the police had had to be formally asked in to investigate. Anil didn’t know if they had any leads. He showed Nihal the Viennese papers, spread out over his desk; they reported only the bald facts under headlines such as ‘Russian atom scientist shot.’ Nihal sat and read through them. One of the papers mentioned that Gavrilov had a mistress who was married to another UN employee but did not name her. Anil gave him the official statement; it simply condemned the incident and said it had nothing at all to do with the work this respected scientist had been carrying out for the IAEA.
Anil’s phone kept ringing; he answered then passed callers over to his assistant to read out the statement. He told Nihal that all the journalists were asking about espionage. ‘They are obsessed with spying,’ he said. ‘Just because it’s Vienna, he is a Russian and because of the nuclear angle. I tell you I am going crazy here.’
Nihal went back upstairs towards Dmitry’s office. He thought how perfectly the building had been designed for an assassination. The curved shape of the building meant you could not see along the corridors for more than ten or fifteen yards and made it easy for the assassin to have entered the office without being noticed. Opposite the door to Dmitry’s office was a link between the two corridors which ran along either side of the building, providing four escape routes. Nihal thought about it carefully. The assassin would have had to check that Hilde was not there. That had been easy; he had telephoned earlier, from an internal phone, to check their movements. He must have known he had to choose exactly the right time; he would have known he had to be quick. Still, it didn’t take more than a minute to open a door, fire the shots, get out again. The assassin could have gone into her office and shut the door, entered Dmitry’s office by the connecting door. Probably he had been interrupted, shot Kulagin, dropped the gun, and got out quickly. It was well timed, too; there were as many as 3,000 people leaving the building at the end of the day, and even if the alarm had been raised it would have been impossible to stop and question everyone.
Nihal looked at his watch. He walked down the corridor. It took only a few seconds to reach the lifts. This is where he would have been sweating, thought Nihal, waiting for the lift to arrive; it could take a few minutes at that time of day when the lifts were busy. Nihal timed the whole operation, from leaving the lift to getting out of the main entrance. The assassin could have been out of the building within a few minutes of the shooting. He must have taken the chance that the alarm would have been raised; that’s why he had to leave the gun, in case they were searching people leaving the building.
It was a brazen operation. The man would have had to have the most immense self-confidence. He must have entered the building earlier in the day, and spent some hours in the building. He would have had to have got hold of a pass that gave him permission to enter. He couldn’t get in as a visitor, because visitors had to check through the airport-style security at the front entrance. Nihal as an accredited journalist had a permanent pass and could get in unchecked; in fact, it had always occurred to hi
m that this was a weakness in the security system. He took the lift to the press bureau on the ground floor.
Lopez Varga, who dealt with press accreditation, looked irritated when he saw Nihal coming. He said, ‘Can I help you? I’m afraid I haven’t got much time. We’re incredibly busy. The police have asked us to check all the journalists accredited to us because of this business last night.’
‘Will that include me?’
‘Well, since you’ve been here so long, not really. We’re looking mainly at people who’ve been accredited in recent weeks, especially for this refugee conference. We’ve got to contact every single newspaper and broadcasting station to check that they’re known to them. What do you want anyway?’
Nihal smiled sheepishly. ‘You’ve just told me what I want.’
‘Cough,’ said the nurse, leaning over Dmitry, putting her hand reassuringly on his chest. ‘I know it hurts, but you must cough all that stuff out of your lung or you’ll get an infection… There, that’s much better. You’ll be much more comfortable in a day or two when we take the chest drains out. I want to lift you up a little.’ She and a second nurse rearranged the pillows. ‘We might even get you sitting up a bit tomorrow. There. Are you comfortable? The police are here to see you.’
Dmitry could hear the doctor’s voice: ‘Don’t stay long. Just ask what is absolutely necessary.’ He turned his head. The doctor, impersonal in his white coat, asked Dmitry how he was feeling. He didn’t bother to reply. Two policemen, in plain clothes, stood by the bed. Finally one of them cleared his throat.
‘Herr Dr Gavrilov, I’m Fritz Altmayer, Inspector for the Austrian police, and this is my colleague Peter Doleszal. Are you happy to talk in English? We can arrange for an interpreter if you prefer.’
‘English is fine.’
‘Please tell us when you feel unable to talk any longer. We just have a few questions to ask you now.’
Dmitry nodded. They asked him to describe the assassin and to go through exactly what had happened. The inspector took it all down; the second man, Doleszal, kept his eyes on Dmitry’s face and watched him intently. When Dmitry had finished Doleszal spoke for the first time.
‘How did he hold the gun? That could be important.’
‘With both hands – I don’t think he used the sights – he aimed at my head but I stood up. He fired once, then two shots close together’
‘And two shots at Kulagin?’
‘Yes.’ Dmitry asked, ‘Is he dead?’
‘Yes. He was shot in the head. He must have died instantly.’
Dmitry turned his head away and tried not to show the emotions that followed quickly after one another; horror, anger, guilt.
The police waited a few moments. Then Altmayer leaned forward. ‘I’m going to show you four photographs. I want you to look at each of them carefully and tell me whether one of these is the man who shot you.’
Altmayer held them up. Dmitry looked; he was given plenty of time. He said, ‘I don’t know. The third one, it could be him.’
The two men exchanged glances. Altmayer said, ‘You couldn’t swear to it? Look again.’ He held the photograph up ‘again. Dmitry looked; he couldn’t say for sure. The man looked similar, but he didn’t have any certainty about it. This was strange, because when he closed his eyes he could see the man’s face quite clearly in his imagination. He said, ‘I don’t know.’
‘But you picked him out of these four.’
‘The others are definitely not him.’
‘Well, the man you picked is a likely candidate. He entered the building posing as a journalist for the Chicago Tribune. He had received his accreditation from Lopez Varga who saw him three weeks ago. He presented a letter from the editor saying he was attending the refugee conference, but the Chicago Tribune have never heard of him. Of course, it’s easy enough to fake a letter.
‘As for this photograph, it’s possible it’s not him. This is a problem we often have with such security passes. You send in the photos and they check the photo on the form is the same as that on the pass, but as long as there’s a passing resemblance, nobody checks if it’s really the person applying. Still, this is a help. But even if it is him, which you’re not certain of, I have to tell you that the chances of tracking him down are quite small.’
‘I see.’
Altmayer paused, then asked, ‘Do you have any idea who might have wanted you dead?’
Dmitry looked at them both. Altmayer had a solid, not unkindly-looking face. The other man was polite but distant, courteous; he looked like a civil servant; Dmitry thought he was from the Austrian secret service. He did not know what to say. How could he begin to explain things? What would the Austrians do with such information? Or perhaps they already knew some of it; they would surely have their eye on Richter, he had operated on their territory, his propellant at least was being manufactured in Linz. He wanted to say nothing about the Brazilians till he had spoken to Kaisler at the IAEA. An unbearable weariness overcame him; perhaps it was best to say nothing. They wouldn’t press him, not at the moment. He shut his eyes. He heard Doleszal say, ‘Dr Gavrilov –’ and the other man, ‘Later. Leave it till later.’
But Doleszal persisted. He said, ‘Herr Dr Gavrilov, this is very important. Two people other than yourself have been killed. Do you know of any motive? This shooting was in your office – we believe you were the prime target. This was a cold-blooded, professional assassin. These things do not happen for no reason. Do you know why? You only have to answer yes or no.’
Dmitry was confused. ‘Two?’ He saw the two men look at one another.
Altmayer said, ‘A friend of this journalist you know, Nihal Senanayake. It appears to be a case of mistaken identity. Do you think this might be connected?’
‘I don’t know. Nihal… Nihal is all right? Who was killed?’
‘His name was Bradman…’ Altmayer couldn’t pronounce the surname. ‘He was staying in Senanayake’s apartment.’
‘My God.’ Dmitry was distressed; he couldn’t think straight. He could hear the doctor talking to them in German in a low voice.
Altmayer said, ‘One last question, please; let me repeat; do you have any idea who might have wanted you dead?’
Dmitry made a great effort. ‘Look. I understand the situation perfectly, I know you have to go through the motions.’ He turned to Doleszal. ‘Are you from the Austrian secret service?’
Doleszal made a gesture which could have been either denial or acceptance.
‘I am sure you will already know some of what is involved – please don’t come here asking me to exhaust myself answering your questions. This may involve a foreign government. Ask the Director General of the IAEA. I have not been able to speak to him.’
‘The IAEA have issued a statement saying that this is nothing to do with your work there. I have just seen the Director General and he has confirmed this to me himself.’
‘Please, is this an interrogation?’
But the doctor had already stepped in. He ushered the police out and Dmitry was left alone. After a few minutes a nurse came in and touched his arm. She said, ‘A Mrs Haynes is here to see you. I have asked her to wait. Would you like to see her for a few minutes, or shall I ask her to come back later?’
Dmitry hesitated. He felt exhausted, he wanted to sleep; he hated Katie to see him in this state; yet he could imagine her distress if they told her she couldn’t see him. He said, ‘Yes, I’ll see her.’
Katie had been kept waiting for something like two hours. She had asked repeatedly for information but they had told her nothing. Sitting there brought home to her the truth about her position; the doctors did not feel they had to consult her about Dmitry’s health, or inform her of what they might be doing; she didn’t have even the right to see him; her feelings, their relationship, might as well not exist. The dinginess and smell of the hospital brought back to her the agony of last night and filled her with depression. Finally, just as she was beginning to be anxious that there might be
something wrong, the nurse came and took her up to the ward.
Dmitry lay awkwardly in the bed, his limbs seeming too long for it, half propped up on pillows, still attached to various tubes. He was unshaven and his face looked colourless, almost grey. He lay with his eyes closed; his breathing seemed shallow, with a slight catch in it as if it pained him. Katie sat down on the chair by the bed, and said quietly, so as not to disturb him if he was sleeping, ‘Mitya?’
He opened his eyes at once; He looked at her for a few seconds and then, as if even this was too much effort, he closed them again.
‘I had trouble getting in to see you,’ said Katie, trying not to cry and to keep up some semblance of normality. ‘Usually they only allow close relatives.’
Dmitry didn’t reply. He opened his eyes and looked at her without expression, cold, detached. She felt as if he had crossed over some thin line that separated the living from the dead and was having trouble stepping back again. She had never felt more distant from him than she did at that moment.
She said, alarmed by this feeling, wanting to provoke some response, ‘Bob knows about us.’
‘Does he?’ It seemed of no importance to him.
‘Well, perhaps it’s a relief. It doesn’t seem to matter much just now.’ She wanted to take his hand but something prevented her from doing so; she was afraid he wouldn’t want her to. After a few moments Dmitry turned his head slightly towards her and asked, ‘Can you do something for me, Katie? Can you make two phone calls for me?’
She said, ‘Yes, of course. Who to?’
‘Can you ring Kaisler? I want to talk to him. It’s important. Do it from the payphone here.’
‘Yes, I will.’
‘And can you ring my sister for me? I’ll give you her number in Moscow. She will go crazy when she sees the papers.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Katie took the number down. She asked, ‘Is there anything else?’
The Rocket Man Page 19