The Factory by Brian Freemantle

cabinet, adding yet again to his whisky glass, when the question posed itself. Not an alcoholic yet, he comforted himself. Close, but not over the edge. Time he did something about it, though: cut down a little. Bell escaped the decision with drunken ease: time enough to start thinking about cutting down on the whisky when more important things were resolved. Like the traitor. And Peter Whitehead getting one of their best agents out of a Soviet province. That’s when he’d think seriously about it.
    Tanya Kulik was still scared. Reassured but still scared, blinking up at him rapidly and constantly staring around, as if she thought he was tricking her in some way and that the KGB squad would be arriving any moment.
    She did, however, do as he asked, taking him quickly away from the identifying church, along a series of alleys until they came to a shadowed, insect-buzzing café with booths in which they could sit, virtually hidden.
    Whitehead ordered coffee for both of them and then in addition calming vodka. After the drinks were served Tanya said, uneven-voiced: ‘What do you want?’
    Instead of replying Whitehead took the British passport from his pocket, still in its original wrapping, and offered it across the table. The woman looked down at it, frowning. ‘What is this?’
    â€˜Your escape,’ said Whitehead simply. ‘All the stamps and visas are in order. You can travel to Moscow with me and I’ll get you safely back to London. They want to care for you there: a job, somewhere to live. It’ll all be taken care of.’
    â€˜I’ve already said no.’
    Whitehead’s stomach dipped at the alternative, not believing he could carry out the Director General’s order. He said: ‘You’ve got to.’
    â€˜No! We don’t know if there’s any cause to worry.’
    â€˜Why give the warning then?’
    â€˜So that you’d be prepared if it did happen: give thought to a replacement.’
    â€˜Why do you think you might be blown?’
    Tanya looked away, down into her coffee cup, nibbling her bottom lip. ‘Two informants have disappeared. And a courier.’
    â€˜They’ve been picked up,’ insisted Whitehead at once.
    â€˜Not necessarily,’ said the woman, in weak defence. ‘Two were seamen: that was why they were so good, because they could travel. The courier, too. He worked for the railways. All of them could be away on unexpected trips.’
    â€˜How often before have there been unexpected trips that took all three away at the same time?’ demanded Whitehead.
    Tanya remained looking away from him. ‘Never,’ she admitted.
    â€˜It’s over,’ he persisted. ‘They’ll talk. If they haven’t yet they will soon. They’ll be questioned by psychologists, and chemicals and drugs will be used and they won’t be able to stop themselves talking, no matter how hard they try. You’ve got to get out.’
    â€˜You don’t understand,’ said Tanya, her voice indistinct.
    â€˜What is there to understand!’ demanded Whitehead with growing impatience. ‘You haven’t any choice.’
    â€˜I can’t!’
    Dear God, don’t let me have to make a decision, thought Whitehead. He reached across the stained tablecloth and said: ‘You haven’t an argument: any reason to fight against it. I know how you feel for your country. How difficult it is to leave it. But you must. It’s madness to stay. Suicide.’
    â€˜You don’t understand,’ she said again.
    â€˜You’re not making sense, Tanya. You’re being stupid.’
    She looked directly at him at last, her eyes filmed with tears. ‘I’m trapped,’ she said.
    â€˜Trapped how?’
    Tanya stayed staring at him for several moments, apparently reaching a decision. At last she got to her feet and said: ‘Come.’
    It seemed a long walk, keeping once more to