The Factory Read Online Free PDF Page A

the West.’
    â€˜Where do you want to settle eventually – England? Or America maybe?’
    â€˜I haven’t thought that far ahead.’
    â€˜You don’t seem to have thought anything through very far ahead, do you, Anatoli Vasilevich?’
    â€˜Enough,’ insisted the man.
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜Thirty-five,’ said Sharov at once.
    â€˜What about you? How old are you?’
    Sharov frowned. ‘Thirty-one.’
    â€˜Sufficient for today!’ announced Jane, abruptly standing.
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜It might just be that he’s trying to sound more important, like they normally do.’ He was very disappointed at not hearing more: there was one piece of information he was desperate to learn.
    â€˜It’s too much of an exaggeration,’ argued Jane.
    â€˜You talked at length of his arrogant conceit,’ reminded the Director General.
    â€˜I’m even uncomfortable about that,’ said Jane. ‘He hasn’t – or isn’t – taking enough care. Whenever something difficult is pointed