The Factory by Brian Freemantle Read Free Book Online Page B

creaking slightly. Inside it was very dark, too dark for him immediately to see properly: there was a change of smell, of dust and age. Whitehead waited until his eyes became accustomed to the gloom. The altar was far ahead, with the stands for the flickering votive candles on either side. To the right was the line of confessional boxes through which he hoped to locate Tanya Kulik. Every alternate Tuesday, according to his London briefing, Tanya came, promptly at eleven in the morning, and used the second box from the front to make her confession. She also used the visit to collect, for passing on along the network, any Latvian nationalist intelligence that by arrangement was always taped just before her visit beneath the narrow confessional seat. Tomorrow was the collecting Tuesday. Whitehead thoroughly reconnoitred the church, professionally dismayed at there being only one public door, and found the best position from which to watch, unobserved, for Tanya’s arrival.
    Good enough, he decided. But only just. To be sure-to be absolutely safe – he needed several days to tour the area to convince himself the church wasn’t already under Soviet scrutiny. But he didn’t have several days. It was an emergency to which he had to respond accordingly: quickly, taking chances, just to get her away. Dear God, make her agree to go, he thought.
    He slept badly, his nerves tightening at the very moment of an operation beginning. It was always like this and it didn’t worry him. It was his body and his mind coming to their peak of alertness: it was protective.
    Knowing the precise location of the church, Whitehead went to it that Tuesday by another route, using smaller roads and alleys. He was in his concealing pew half an hour before Tanya was scheduled to arrive. He looked mostly at the confessional, to see anyone go in to leave something for her collection, but saw nothing.
    He was completely adjusted to the darkness when Tanya came into the church but he still missed her actual arrival. She entered from the street so softly that the door did not creak and her footsteps were so quiet she was halfway towards the confessional before he located her. There was no indication of tension or obvious nervousness, but he was aware of her bowed head, beneath its covering scarf, moving as she looked about the church. There was a momentary hesitation at the box and then she slipped inside, pulling the curtain closed after her.
    Whitehead did not wait. He went quickly to the door, checking as he did that no one had followed her in, and checked again on the street. There were three parked cars but all were empty and there was no sign of anyone lurking. He stayed close to the door and when she left she started to pass directly in front of him. He said softly: ‘Tanya. I’ve come to help you.’
    She gave a startled cry of fear and if he hadn’t snatched out to grab her arm she would have run. She gazed at him, eyes wide with fright, a terrified animal caught in a poacher’s trap. She started to tug her arm away.
    â€˜Freedom!’ said Whitehead urgently. ‘Recognize the word: Freedom!’ and abruptly she stopped struggling.
    There’d been a curt message from his wife that she was extending her vacation but Samuel Bell still left Ann’s apartment, wanting time by himself in his empty north London house. In some ways it was a personal test, to see how much and how quickly he missed Ann after spending a longer than usual period with her. He also wanted to be quite alone, to think. He’d made a bad mistake at every level, trying to uncover the traitor by himself. He should have initiated a proper investigation weeks ago, irrespective of the personal embarrassment it might have created for him. There was a simple answer to one personal problem, if he divorced Pamela and married Ann. Except that he was not sure he wanted to. What about the other problem? He was appropriately at the drinks