The Factory by Brian Freemantle Page B

service plotting to kill one of its own ministers! That’s going to leave a bad taste in a lot of mouths. Probably yours most of all.’
    â€˜No, wait!’ said Shidak desperately. ‘I want to talk, discuss things.’
    â€˜Nothing to discuss,’ said Fowler, rising. ‘You’re going home a failure, Valentin. And we’re going to make sure that everyone knows it. You know something? I’d hate to be in your place. I’d really hate it.’
    â€˜So he’s definitely gone?’ said Alice Irving. She wasn’t crying, but it was close.
    â€˜I think so,’ said Fowler. ‘We can’t find him anywhere. He’s closed down his bank account and it seems he got his citizenship without telling you and an English passport with it, so the Russian passport isn’t important any more. He just walked away and left you.’
    â€˜I had a letter from the bank about the account,’ said the girl. ‘I was curious about the passport, until you explained. I suppose he’ll be all right?’
    â€˜I’m sure he will,’ lied Fowler.
    â€˜I really loved him,’ said Alice. ‘I never imagined he would leave me.’
    â€˜I’m sorry,’ said Fowler. He’d have to leave her soon: he had a boy scouts meeting that night. ‘Relationships end like this sometimes. People just walking away.’
    â€˜It was good of you to take the trouble to come and tell me.’
    â€˜I knew you’d like to know.’
    â€˜Just as long as he’s all right.’
    â€˜We’ll never know, will we?’ said Fowler. ‘All we can do is hope.’

5
    The Mole
    Committed, thought William Davies. No turning back now. There hadn’t been, he supposed, for several months. But until this precise moment there’d always been the opportunity to change his mind and not actually cross to the Soviet Union. Not any longer. That morning he’d written the farewell message and walked out of the British embassy on the banks of the Moscow river to…? To what? He didn’t know, Davies acknowledged. Despite all the planning and all the preparation, he didn’t really know what sort of new life he was entering: didn’t know if he could do it.
    â€˜You haven’t any doubt?’ pressed Vladimir Baykov. The man had been his KGB control from the outset of Davies working for Soviet intelligence, more than a year before. The Russian was a dour, unsmiling man who always smelled of cigarettes: he had a rasping, ugly cough.
    â€˜None at all,’ insisted Davies. ‘I always set small traps in my room, so I would know if it had been searched: books in certain positions, drawers partially closed, things like that. They’ve all been disturbed over the last two or three days. Yesterday I was interviewed for two hours by the head of internal security at the embassy: two of the things he kept on about were pieces of information I’ve passed on to you.’
    Baykov nodded, lighting one of those Russian cigarettes with a long cardboard tube at one end, so that only half is really filled with tobacco. The two men were in a workmen’s café on Krasnaya Street, one of their regular meeting spots. Baykov said: ‘I agree. They were on to you. It was inevitable, in the end: I just wish it had taken longer. It’s not often we have a spy like you.’
    â€˜You always said you’d help me, if it happened,’ reminded Davies, a plea in his voice. He was a tall man, always conscious of his appearance. He’d had to leave behind all his clothes and personal belongings, running as he had: he’d been careful to wear his Oxford University tie.
    â€˜We’ll look after you,’ assured Baykov. He smiled with attempted encouragement. ‘Welcome to the Soviet Union,’ he said. At the end he started to cough, spoiling it.
    â€˜I thought everything that could go wrong had gone wrong,’ said Jeremy