The Factory (3 page)

‘What
was
Marshall doing there?' asked his deputy.

‘A mission I assigned him,' said Bell. He was shocked by the killing, never imagining that would be the outcome. He'd only ever intended the man to be imprisoned, nothing more.

‘Are you going to send in someone else?'

Bell shook his head. ‘It was a one-chance opportunity,' he said. ‘That chance has gone now. We've lost it.' And we've lost a traitor, dreadful though the circumstances are, thought the Director General. At least the Factory would be safe in the future.

Maurice Birch was a Factory man, a protégé of Bell's whose idea it had been to put the man deep within the British embassy in Moscow but keep from all the other Russian-based intelligence personnel and controllers any indication of Birch's true function. Birch worked properly as a Second Secretary and took no part whatsoever in the normal intelligence-gathering activities with other agents. Neither did he use any intelligence communication system. His liaison was with Bell direct, through the diplomatic bag. The Director General believed the man's cover to be absolutely secure.

It was two months after Marshall's death that the KGB seized Maurice Birch. He was arrested on the Prospekt Mira with one of the Factory's best Russian informants, who under brutal questioning made a full confession hopelessly incriminating the Englishman.

‘It'll be a life sentence,' guessed Thurlow when he and the Director General held a damage assessment meeting.

‘Yes,' accepted Bell. His hangover was particularly bad that morning: he'd had to postpone the meeting, to be sick.

‘I think we have seriously to consider that the leak is internal, coming from this very building,' insisted the deputy.

He already had, reflected Bell. He had decided upon Marshall's guilt and inadvertently sent the man to his death. But that had been two months before. So Marshall could not have been the person who'd identified Maurice Birch to the Russians.

Which meant two things, accepted Bell. He'd caused an innocent man to be killed. And the traitor was still at large, somewhere within the Factory: at large and operating. That night, at Ann's apartment, Samuel Bell got far drunker than he usually did.

2

The Defector

Jane Snelgrove didn't like defector debriefings. During the time she had worked at the Factory, almost five years now since leaving university, she had conducted four and not been completely happy with any of them. The greatest danger was that the person pleading asylum might not be a genuine defector at all, but a plant by the KGB or some other hostile intelligence organization, to mislead and misinform and by so doing create chaos within the British service. Even when they were genuine, as those she had already vetted appeared to be, there was always some misinformation because invariably they exaggerated what they had to tell, to make themselves seem more important and guarantee their acceptance. Which meant the interrogations were always frustrating and time-consuming, sorting out the truths from the half truths.

There were small compensations, Jane reflected as she drove south through the Sussex countryside on a perfect spring morning. A debriefing at least got her out of London: defectors were never interviewed at the Factory. Always the sessions were conducted at a safe house far away from the London intelligence headquarters, a precaution against the asylum-seeker being a decoy actually sent to identify the Factory's location. Today the debriefing was to be at Pulborough, at a vast country mansion she had not been to before. Set in fifteen acres of its own walled grounds, it was easy to patrol with dogs and guards. Additionally the grounds were seeded with electronic sensor devices and body-heat-seeking cameras.

The gated entry from the road, which was visible to passing motorists, was monitored by only one man. Later, about fifty yards up the winding drive and out of public view, the real checks were made. There, at a proper guardhouse, all her security passes were scrutinized and verified. While Jane, who was blonde and statuesque, with the body of the athlete she had been at university, sat patiently at the wheel of her open-topped sports car she knew a television camera was upon her, comparing her features with photographs from Records.

It was thirty minutes before she was passed through to continue up the drive. Through the trees lining the drive she saw three separate guard squads. Two were accompanied by alsatians which barked and pulled at their leashes when they saw her, and Jane was glad they were chained to their handlers. She was nervous of dogs, particularly those trained to attack.

The house came into view at last, a square Georgian building the front of which was almost completely covered with ivy and creeper trained by attentive gardeners over the years. There had clearly been a warning of her approach from the guard post because as she swung the car around the gravelled forecourt the impressive oak doors opened and an upright, purposeful-looking man marched out. From her instruction interview with the Director General, Jane knew the man's name was Hendrix. He was a former army major now in charge of the Pulborough house. When he came close Jane saw that the left side of his face was badly scarred from some long-ago injury and his left eye was milky white in its blindness.

They shook hands and Hendrix said he was pleased to meet her and Jane declined the coffee he offered. She had a tendency towards impatience and was anxious to start work at once, without any social distractions.

‘What's he like?'

Hendrix shrugged. ‘Nervous, of course. But handling it well. Actually I think there's quite a lot of conceit. He treats everyone like a servant, always telling, never asking.'

‘Anyone talked to him at length?'

The ex-soldier frowned. ‘That's your job, isn't it?'

‘I meant has he wanted to talk to anyone? They often do, in their nervousness.'

‘Not this one,' said Hendrix positively.

‘Have you told him I'm coming?'

Hendrix smiled, stopping in the massive hallway and gesturing towards a set of double doors leading into a drawing room. ‘Just that someone was on their way from London. He's waiting for you in there.'

Anatoli Vasilevich Sharov was sitting in an armchair bordering a large fireplace in which a fire was laid but unlit. He appeared quite relaxed, legs splayed out before him. He was a huge, bull-chested man with a profusion of black hair. He looked up curiously when Jane entered, but did not stand.

‘Yes?' he said. There was an arrogance in his voice.

‘You were told I was coming, weren't you?' said Jane. It was important, in this sort of interview, always to remain the one controlling the encounter. She spoke Russian.

‘You're to be my debriefer!' The arrogance changed to surprise. He'd instinctively responded in his own language.

‘Is something wrong?'

‘You're a woman!'

‘So!' Jane took the chair on the other side of the fireplace.

‘I was expecting a man: someone of authority.'

Jane leaned towards the man. ‘Anatoli Vasilevich,' she said warningly, ‘mine is the authority to determine whether you remain in this country. Or, alternatively, whether you are returned to the Soviet Union as someone to whom we decide not to offer sanctuary.'

The huge man blinked at the threat, colouring slightly. ‘You make it sound as if there is a choice.'

‘There is,' insisted Jane. She guessed this was going to be her most difficult defector debriefing yet.

‘Do you know who I am?' demanded the man pompously.

‘Why don't you tell me?' invited Jane. It would be wrong for her to become annoyed by his attitude: she always had to remain calm as well as in control.

The man straightened slightly in his chair, as if he were trying to increase his stature. ‘I am Anatoli Vasilevich Sharov,' he announced. ‘My rank in the KGB is colonel. For two years I have been the
rezident
in charge of the Soviet intelligence-gathering apparatus at the Russian embassy in England. Before that I was in charge in Paris. I have also worked in the Moscow headquarters of the KGB's First Chief Directorate. My knowledge is very wide.'

Jane nodded but avoided appearing impressed. ‘What are you prepared to tell us?'

‘Everything,' replied the man shortly.

If Sharov were telling the truth his knowledge
was
considerable. She said: ‘You are married?'

Sharov appeared to sag slightly, losing some of his confidence. ‘Yes.'

‘What about children?'

‘A boy, nine.'

‘In Moscow?'

‘Yes.'

‘Have you thought of what might happen to him and his mother because of what you have done?'

‘Under Gorbachev things have changed in Russia.'

‘So you don't think they'll be punished?'

‘No.'

‘Why so sure?'

Sharov shrugged. ‘I am, that's all.'

‘That doesn't seem to be a very satisfactory answer,' challenged Jane.

The man gave another shrug. ‘I have a friend,' he said awkwardly.

‘A woman?'

The man nodded. ‘Olga Zarya. She is a translator at the Soviet Trade Mission at Highgate.'

‘So you have abandoned your wife and child for her?'

‘What gives you the right to criticize?' demanded the man angrily.

‘I am not criticizing,' refuted Jane. ‘I am asking.'

‘My wife and I were practically apart before I was posted here. Before I met Olga.'

‘So why didn't you divorce your wife and marry Olga?'

‘I was to be recalled to Moscow,' disclosed Sharov. ‘Olga has another three years in London, at least. I did not want that sort of separation.'

‘What about her?' questioned Jane. ‘Did she know you intended to defect?'

‘We spoke about it, generally.'

‘And?'

‘You people will have to contact her. Bring her across to me.'

‘Why didn't she run at the same time as you?'

‘She has a husband. She wasn't as positive as I was.'

It was becoming messy, thought Jane, who was absolutely dedicated to her job in intelligence, had no serious boyfriends and could not imagine anyone, male or female, making for love the sort of sacrifices Sharov appeared to be making. She attacked again: ‘Why have you defected, Anatoli Vasilevich?'

‘I've told you.'

‘No you haven't,' retorted Jane at once.

‘I did not want to return to Moscow without Olga. It's as simple as that.'

‘Is it as simple as that?' queried Jane. ‘Isn't your coming across to us something a little different than that? Isn't it your way of forcing Olga to make a choice between you and her husband?'

There was the familiar shrug. ‘What does it matter to you, whichever way it is? I've told you, I am prepared to cooperate in every way possible. I get Olga: you get your information.'

‘Providing we make contact with Olga Zarya and persuade her to join you?'

‘Is that such a bad deal for you?' asked the man, answering a question with a question.

‘What if Olga refuses?'

The arrogance returned. ‘She won't, not when she realizes I was serious; that I meant everything I said.'

‘Would Olga cooperate? Tell us everything she knows?'

‘I guess so.'

‘You didn't actually discuss that with her?'

‘Not in detail, no.'

‘What were you going back to Moscow to do?'

‘Headquarters duty again.'

‘How did you feel about that?'

The shoulders rose and fell. ‘It would have been all right, I suppose. I prefer the West.'

‘Where do you want to settle eventually – England? Or America maybe?'

‘I haven't thought that far ahead.'

‘You don't seem to have thought anything through very far ahead, do you, Anatoli Vasilevich?'

‘Enough,' insisted the man.

‘How can we identify the woman?'

Sharov smiled, imagining agreement from Jane to do what he asked in approaching his mistress. He hurried from his pocket a bent and cracked photograph of a dark-haired, vaguely smiling woman. It had been taken on a country outing: a rug and picnic things were in the background. He said: ‘Tell her Anatoli wants her. That's how I warned her the approach would be made: Anatoli wants you.'

Jane pocketed the picture and said: ‘How old is she?'

‘Thirty-five,' said Sharov at once.

‘What about you? How old are you?'

Sharov frowned. ‘Thirty-one.'

‘Sufficient for today!' announced Jane, abruptly standing.

‘You'll get to her straight away?'

Jane turned back at the door. ‘No,' she said positively. ‘Not straight away: there are other things to be done first.'

Samuel Bell had controlled his drinking the previous evening and was proud of having done so. It had been his night for staying at Ann's apartment. He'd had only one whisky before they'd left for the theatre, another before dinner, and a single bottle of wine with the meal and no brandy to follow. Ann hadn't said anything but Bell knew his mistress was grateful: more grateful than his wife would have been. That morning he'd studied himself intently in the shaving mirror, looking for signs. There were a few tiny blood vessels broken in his nose but apart from that there was no facial indication that he drank too much. Maybe he'd try to cut it down a little: he certainly felt better for the previous night's abstinence.

He'd left a message at the security check on the Factory's first floor, so Jane was shown directly up to his office. He sat her down, ordered tea and listened without interruption as she went through the initial debriefing in detail. When she finished at last Bell said: ‘Well?'

‘I don't know what to think,' she said doubtfully. ‘On the one hand, if Sharov is who he says he is, he's a pretty incredible catch. But there's a lot I find unsatisfactory.' She moved her hands, as if feeling for the explanation. ‘He claims to have the rank of colonel, yet he's only thirty-one. That's too young, unless he's an exceptional intelligence officer. He claims to head the espionage services at the Russian embassy here in London, but there are two problems. Our counter-intelligence say Vladimir Panchenko is the
rezident
in charge. And Sharov couldn't head the entire espionage apparatus. He's KGB. We know there is also a contingent of military intelligence officers from the GRU. The two services work in competition: certainly no KGB man would be in charge of a group of GRU officers. So that's a direct lie. And there's his supposed recall itself. If Sharov were being replaced, for a new head of station, Moscow would have had to file application for a visa, for another Russian to come as a supposed diplomat. I've checked with the Foreign Office. There's been no application.'