Doctor Gavrilov by Maggie Hamand Page A

A voice answered him and asked in English for his number. The woman said he would call straight back. Dmitry glanced impatiently at his watch; a train ran past on the viaduct, drowning out any sound. When the noise faded, the phone was ringing.
    Dmitry turned instinctively away from the road so that no passer-by could see him, as if he half expected that somewhere there would be somebody who could read his lips or divine what he was doing. He knew as he did it that he would regret this; if anyone else had asked him if he should do such a thing Dmitry would have said, ‘No, don’t touch it, don’t have anything to do with it.’ He knew it was himself he was betraying, not a country or ideal; he could see that it would end badly. But it was too late; he’d made up his mind, he needed the money now and would deal with the repercussions later. He didn’t waste any time introducing himself or on any caveats or justifications; he simply said: ‘I’ll do it.’

Chapter Four
    A T THREE in the morning, the baby woke again. Katie stumbled from the bed, lifted him from the cradle, and put him to the breast. The bed beside her was empty; she called out, ‘Mitya?’ softly, but he didn’t reply. Sasha fed rhythmically, gulping the milk, his tiny hand gently stroking and kneading her breast; Katie lay back on the pillow, staring into his eyes, losing herself for a moment in the intensity of this experience. Only as the feed came to an end did she find herself wondering where Mitya had gone.
    As soon as Sasha came off the breast she returned him to his cradle and went to the top of the stairs. She could see the light shining in the room below and started to go down, puzzled and annoyed that what little sleep she would have had was now further disturbed. Dmitry was sitting at the kitchen table, sheets of paper and notebooks in front of him, in the light of the lamp. He was writing swiftly, his pen jumping from sheet to sheet, jotting down figures and words in a hurried sequence. She noticed the way that he wrote with both his hands, transferring the pen from one to the other and making notes with both of them. His concentration was so intense that he didn’t see or hear Katie coming down the stairs and only looked up with a sudden start when she came to stand right behind him. She put her hand on his shoulder and he put down the pen, put his hand to his forehead and then rubbed his eyes, and said, ‘Katie, why aren’t you in bed? Let me finish this.’
    â€˜But what on earth are you doing? It’s so late.’
    â€˜I won’t be long… Go and sleep.’
    Katie hesitated. ‘No, I’m awake now. I want to talk to you.’
    â€˜No, not now… please… this is not the time. I am in the middle –’
    â€˜But this is important.’ Frustration welled up inside her; there never seemed to be a right time to talk.
    â€˜Katie, you know, when I’m working, I can’t be interrupted. Now I have lost… Please, go back to bed.’ He turned back to the papers on the table. Katie stood, watching him stare at them, now seeing that what was on the paper were strings and strings of calculations. The figures and the abstract symbols, together with his Russian scrawl, formed something so impenetrable and foreign that she felt herself completely shut off from him. For an instant she felt almost desperate. What was he doing? She had never seen him work on anything like this before.
    â€˜What is it you’re working on?’
    He didn’t answer, held up his hand to silence her. She sat at the table opposite him, watching him. He was back in his stride now; sometimes his thoughts moved so quickly that his pen could not keep up, at other times he stopped and stared, frowning, crossed something out. Finally he looked up. He said, ‘That’s it, that’ll do for now. Why are you staring at me like that?’
    â€˜I just wondered