‘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.’
‘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.
‘It’s too much of an exaggeration,’ argued Jane.
‘You talked at length of his arrogant conceit,’ reminded the Director General.
‘I’m even uncomfortable about that,’ said Jane. ‘He hasn’t – or isn’t – taking enough care. Whenever something difficult is pointed out, he just says it’ll work, in his favour, as if nothing can go wrong for him.’
‘Sure you’re not letting yourself get upset by his demeanour?’
‘No,’ said Jane positively. ‘I wouldn’t let that happen.’
‘So you don’t think he’s genuine?’
‘I need to be further convinced,’ qualified Jane.
‘Let’s say he is a plant,’ offered Bell. ‘What’s he trying to achieve?’
‘How about identification of some of our people?’ suggested Jane. ‘There would have to be two people, possibly more, in any approach to the woman, Olga Zarya. What if she’s prepared, expecting it? She could lead us along, while they identify as many of our approaching officers as they can, and then refuse to come over. And when Sharov – who, of course, would be part of the plan – is told his mistress won’t run with him then he changes his mind and goes back to Russia. The result? The Russians lose nothing and we have fed them our people to move against when and how they like.’
‘It’s complicated but it’s a feasible assumption,’ agreed the Director General. He had waited long enough for Jane to offer the information he’d fervently hoped the Russian would provide, but it hadn’t come. ‘Did he say anything to prove how valuable he could be, if we accepted him?’
The girl shook her head. ‘I’ve told you everything.’
Damn! thought Bell, who was absolutely convinced that there was a traitor within the Factory. He’d regarded the defection of Anatoli Sharov as the best opportunity yet to uncover whoever it was. Sharov would know that the greatest terror of any intelligence agency is to have someone infiltrate from the other side: there would have been no more convincing way of showing his worth to the British than by passing on an identity. And if Sharov had been head of station, he would have had to know of such a mole. Bell wondered if he could be wrong about there being a traitor at all, as he’d already been disastrously wrong in trying personally to resolve the suspicion instead of calling in outside investigators. Or was Jane Snelgrove correct in doubting Sharov? Bell bitterly regretted that his position as Director General precluded his interrogating the Russian, but objectively accepted that the security risk was too great. Unthinkable in fact. He couldn’t, either, openly brief Jane on what to ask: it was becoming increasingly difficult to stop rumours erupting throughout the Factory. It would be impossible if he started openly talking about traitors. He said to the girl: ‘We’ll do nothing about the Russian woman at the moment. And tomorrow press him harder: let’s show Anatoli Vasilevich Sharov that things won’t automatically go his way; that he’s dependent upon us.’
‘It’ll be a pleasure,’ said Jane.
‘Set him a definite test,’ ordered Bell. ‘Ask him to tell you the one thing that will satisfy the controller here – me – that he’s a genuine defector.’
‘What’s that?’ asked Jane.
The Director General shook his head. ‘Just see what he says.’
The Russian w
as sprawled in the fireside chair again. Once more he did not politely stand when Jane entered the room. Instead, with almost childlike expectation, Sharov said: ‘What’s happened? Have you approached Olga?’
‘We’ve got other things to discuss,’ said Jane curtly.
‘I want to know about Olga! Where is she?’
‘You’re lying to me!’ accused Jane.
‘What!’ Some of the bombast leaked from the man, however.
‘I said you’re lying to me,’ repeated Jane. ‘What function at your embassy does Vladimir Panchenko fulfil?’
Sharov wetted his lips with his tongue, discomfited. ‘He is an officer of the KGB,’ he said.
‘He’s the KGB rezident, the head of station, isn’t he?’
‘He was … it’s … I know what you’re thinking …’ stumbled the man.
Jane cut across him: ‘I’ve already told you what I think. You’re lying! You told me you were head of station and you’re not!’
‘Panchenko’s an old man. Drinks too much. All right, I’ll admit he officially holds the title but I’ve been doing the job for the past two years. I’ve been carrying the old fool. I’m chief of station in everything but official title. I have all the secrets.’
‘Why did you lie?’ She was being forceful, as the Director General had told her to be, but it could very easily be that all the man had done was exaggerate his own importance.
‘Wanted to sound better,’ confirmed Sharov, in a mumble. The man was embarrassed now at having lost face and been so easily caught out by a woman.
‘What other lies did you tell me?’
‘None!’ said Sharov defensively. ‘And it wasn’t really a lie. I do know everything that goes on.’
‘Is that true? That you know everything?’ insisted the girl.
Sharov hesitated. Then he said: ‘Yes.’
‘Good,’ seized Jane. ‘Now listen to me very carefully. I am going to ask you a question: whether you are granted asylum and allowed to remain in this country probably depends upon your answer.’
Sharov’s uncertainty increased. ‘What?’
‘I want you to tell me, now, the one thing that will convince my Director that your defection isn’t a trick.’
Sharov stared across the narrow space separating the two chairs. ‘Go on,’ he urged.
‘That’s it,’ said Jane. ‘The one secret from within your organization inside the London embassy that will convince him.’
‘But …’ Sharov waved his hands helplessly. ‘There’s so much. All our communication codes. Every KGB officer I know to be based in Britain and France: the identities of a great many in Moscow, too. The names of British-born spies we have in place throughout Britain. All the liaison identities of other Eastern bloc intelligence officers based in London …’
Jane became frustrated that Samuel Bell had not briefed her more fully: how could she properly interrogate the man without knowing what the one piece of information was? There was a writing bureau on the far side of the room. She nodded towards it and said: ‘Start writing it all down.’
‘It will take days. Weeks,’ protested the man.
‘Make a start,’ said Jane. ‘I want a general list of headings, of everything you can tell us. And then as much specific detail as you can provide today.’
There was nothing that Jane could do but sit and wait while the Russian began his lists. As she did so her suspicion grew that, whatever it was the Director General wanted, what Sharov was now providing wasn’t it. Dusk was already settling, darkening the room, when Sharov groaned to a halt. ‘I’m tired. I can’t do any more today.’ He offered Jane a sheaf of papers and said: ‘It is a lot, yes? Good stuff?’
It certainly looked it, thought Jane. She said: ‘We’ll have to see.’
Back at the Factory, much later that same night, the Director General sorted with increasing despair through the notes that Sharov had produced. At last he looked up to Jane and said, simply: ‘No.’
Olga Zarya was put under intensive observation. She was followed from the Russian diplomatic enclave in London’s Highgate to the Soviet trade offices and photographed extensively, both with her husband, Ivan, and separately. Surveillance reports talked of her being a serious-mannered, even sad-looking woman, an opinion confirmed by the photographs, but there was no suggestion of her appearing overly worried or apprehensive, as if she were expecting outside contact that might create difficulties for her from her own authorities. Neither was there any indication of increased watchfulness upon her by the Russians which might have hinted that her affair with Anatoli Sharov was known about and that they suspected some intermediary approach being made to her from the man.
Sharov’s defection and request for asylum were made public, a week after he ran. The Soviet authorities at the embassy immediately approached the Foreign Office with a formal request for access.
‘He is to be told,’ ordered Bell. ‘Diplomatic protocol insists upon it.’
‘What about all these lists?’ queried Jane. ‘They don’t appear to be what you want.’
‘“The names of British-born spies we have in place throughout Britain,”’ recited Bell, reconsidering his dismissal of Sharov’s attempt to prove himself.
‘Those were the words he used,’ confirmed the girl.
‘We’ll try again,’ decided the Director General. ‘Put on even more pressure …’ He smiled. ‘And I think I’ll come down tomorrow. Not to take part in the interrogation, of course. But to be on the spot for immediate consultation.’ He had to find out if Sharov had the name of his traitor.
Jane didn’t travel to Sussex the following day in her open-topped sports car but in the Director General’s limousine, so that he could rehearse how she was to handle that day’s encounter. Jane listened intently and then said critically: ‘You’re putting me at a disadvantage, not telling me fully what it is you want to know. It makes it extremely difficult.’
‘I know that,’ apologized Bell. ‘I’m afraid that’s the way it’s got to be. It’s to overcome the problem that I’m coming down with you today.’
The gate checks upon the Director General were as stringent as ever, which was fortunate because if they hadn’t been Bell would have reprimanded the guards for carelessness, even though they knew him to be the Director General. They were greeted at the door again by Hendrix, who agreed that the drawing room in which Jane was conducting the debriefing had, in addition to two sets of recording equipment, a two-way mirror through which Bell could watch the interview.
There was no longer any arrogance about Sharov’s attitude. The burly Russian was already at the writing bureau, head bent in concentration. He looked anxiously up as she came into the room and said: ‘I’ve been working for two hours already. I’ve made four more lists.’ There was an eager-to-please entreaty in his voice.
‘That’s good,’ said Jane. She was still undecided about the man’s truthfulness. The intrusion of the Director General wasn’t helping: it was, in fact, creating a distraction.
‘What about Olga?’ demanded the man urgently. ‘Please tell me you’ve made contact with her!’
Instead of answering, Jane, upon Bell’s instrucions, offered the man the surveillance photographs and said: ‘We’re keeping a close watch.’
‘I don’t want her watched! I want her here, with me. She’ll be going through hell, wondering what’s happened to me. Wondering about how I’m going to contact her.’
‘There’s been a request from your embassy,’ disclosed Jane. ‘They want to meet you. It’s diplomatic regulations that I tell you. If you want to see them, we’ll make you available. Not here, of course. Somewhere else. But it’ll be safe.’
‘No!’ rejected the man at once, loudly. For the first time he looked truly frightened. His tongue came out over his lips and a sheen of perspiration grew on his forehead. Hurriedly he added: ‘I don’t want to see anybody. Just Olga. Just get Olga to me.’
Jane suddenly felt sorry for Sharov. Gently she said: �
��I don’t want you to go on with the lists, not for the moment. I want to talk specifically about something. You told me you knew names of British-born spies in place throughout England.’
‘I haven’t had time to write them all out yet,’ he said eagerly.
Jane raised her hand, stopping the flurry of words. ‘Just listen,’ she said. ‘I don’t want a list. I just want one name. Who is the person who has managed to get into a branch of British intelligence?’
‘What!’ exclaimed the Russian.
‘You heard me.’
Sharov slowly shook his head. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘You have to, Anatoli. If you know all the secrets of your intelligence organization in London, which you’ve told me you do, then you have to know the name.’
‘Maybe I exaggerated a little,’ conceded the man. ‘I thought I knew everything. Honestly I did. But I don’t know of a spy in place within any British intelligence bureau. Please believe me!’
There were a few unanswered doubts but Jane decided that she did believe the man. Because of the restrictions imposed upon her by the Director General she did not know how to phrase any ancillary questions. She said: ‘I want you to reconsider everything very carefully. What else have you misled me about?’
‘Nothing!’ implored Sharov desperately. ‘I’m being totally honest now.’
Jane thought she saw her escape, to get to the Director General for further guidance. ‘I’m going to leave you for a little while. I want you to think through what you’ve said. I want all of us to be absolutely sure about this.’
Outside in the corridor Jane hesitated, realizing that she didn’t know how to find Bell in his concealed observation room. She started to walk further into the house and then smiled with relief at the sight of the Director General emerging through a side door, coming to meet her. He was stern-faced, angry almost.
‘It’s not going well, is it?’ she acknowledged at once.
The Factory Page 3