The Factory (16 page)

It went perfectly. Millington sailed early on a looping course towards Turkey before turning south, approaching parallel to the Syrian coast. The Lebanese boat was exactly where it should have been. The two vessels came softly together and were held by fore and aft lines while Millington went aboard and examined the crated weapons by torchlight and then nodded for them to be swung inboard. As the crates were moved, Peter sidled up and said: ‘Isn't this a two-way deal?'

Millington had cashed the bearer cheque in Cyprus. He handed over the wrappered bundles of notes. When he reached the last, Millington said: ‘I think I would like to deal again.'

‘The same contact procedure as before,' agreed Peter.

On Millington's instructions, the military crew took the fishing boat directly to the base harbour at Akrotiri, bypassing any official arrival formalities at any Cyprus port. The crates were transferred to a transport aircraft and Millington flew in it back to England. Some of the weapons were so new they were still packed in factory grease. All were of Czech manufacture.

‘A big-time supply ring?' queried the Director General.

Millington shook his head. ‘Efficient but definitely not big time. They're thugs, only worried about the money, careless about security. They've only one use: they're well-connected so they know how to get hold of the stuff.'

This looked like a successful intelligence operation and Bell was excited, after so many failures. He said: ‘From the condition of the weaponry, it's coming direct from Czechoslovakia. Which means Czech intelligence, obeying Moscow's instructions. It's a KGB operation, pure and simple: supplying world revolution, no matter what the cause or reason.'

The Director General looked better and was behaving more dynamically than when they'd last met, and Millington hoped the improvement would last. He said: ‘It's important that it's properly destroyed. Catching a boatload on its way to Libya or Ireland doesn't really matter a damn. It can be replaced in days.'

‘Make sure you get it right then,' warned Bell. ‘You'll only get one chance.'

Millington got full value from his fishing boat purchase because they used the vessel on two subsequent pickups. Each was for around $100,000 and each included factory-new weapons, always from Czechoslovakia. After examination in England the guns, rifles, grenades, rocket launchers and Semtex plastic explosive were all destroyed at a government ordnance depot.

Always Peter, the man with the shining tooth, was the intermediary. During their meeting to arrange yet another shipment, Millington said: ‘I was wrong about you, wasn't I? You're not a courier, acting for the rest. You're the boss.'

Peter smiled his dazzling smile. ‘I don't like taking chances, any more than you do. I like personally to assess from the beginning if I'm running any danger. How did you guess?'

‘That first deal,' said Millington. ‘I handed you the money and no one objected. That wouldn't have happened if you'd been a nobody.'

‘I've reached conclusions about you, too,' said the man. ‘You're dealing, aren't you? That's the only explanation for the amount of stuff you've taken. And for the sort of money you've always got available.'

‘A spit in the ocean to what I could earn, if I could increase my supplies,' said Millington. ‘The market is huge: America, Latin America. Africa sometimes. You asked me the first time why I was shopping around. That's the reason. I've got a lot of suppliers but I still can't get enough.' The intelligence man stopped, content for the other man's greed to take over.

‘Maybe we could do more business?' Peter offered.

Millington shook his head impatiently. ‘What have we dealt with so far? A ton at a time. Sometimes less. I need more, Peter. Big consignments.'

‘You making a proposition?'

‘Your stuffs good: factory fresh,' praised Millington. ‘Why have we got to go on at this level, with this bunch of small-timers you work with here? Why don't you cut them out altogether and set up business with me? Just the two of us, with my organization to back us up.'

‘What's my cut?' demanded the man at once.

‘Yours are the contacts, through whom it's all going to work. What about fifty per cent, after deduction of all operating costs?'

Peter nodded, satisfied. He said: ‘You ever been to Istanbul? It's a fascinating place.'

Bell was desperate to remain in charge at the Factory: if he lost the Director Generalship then, he'd convinced himself, he'd lost everything. Every last vestige of self-respect. Outward respectability among his friends. Ann, too. Pamela didn't matter: he'd lost her years before but he'd end things with Ann, too, because he was too proud to have her around to see him sink even deeper into a swamp of alcohol. And that was all that would remain, alcohol, if he didn't have the Factory.

One last chance, he promised himself in sudden urgency. He'd try once more personally to smoke the mole out of the department. It would mean a sacrifice. But that was a necessity of generalship: the strength knowingly to sacrifice a small number to ensure the safety of a greater.

Ann would despise him for it, he guessed. But not as much as he despised himself.

For the first month after they'd established themselves in Istanbul, in a tumbledown office among twice-a-day wailing minarets, Peter insisted upon protecting his contact further along the purchasing chain. Millington did not protest because on his part he wanted to conceal the fact that the vastly increased amount of terrorist weaponry they were buying was going straight to England for destruction.

But then Peter became boastful. For several days there were veiled hints of how important he was and once, when they were driving to lunch, the Lebanese indicated a large factory building and asked if Millington did not think it impressive. Actually Millington didn't but he considered the remark intriguing. The next time Peter announced he had a clandestine meeting, Millington set out in pursuit, confident of his professional surveillance superiority. Which it proved to be: Peter never once detected him. The pursuit ended at the building that Peter had earlier admired.

It was difficult for Millington to gain entry, so well was it guarded. He succeeded only by using a crane gantry to gain a lower platform and then climbing actually on to the sloping roof, seeking the skylight. When he found it, Millington didn't need to go in anyway. He had simply to look down at the Aladdin's cave of annihilation below him. The idea how to destroy it all, right back to source, came abruptly and complete. Millington's one regret was that he would not be able to do it himself because it needed professional, technical men.

The Western media were never to isolate the significance although they reported a great many of the incidents. In Ireland and in three separate Middle Eastern countries grenade-throwers killed themselves. There were five reported cases of timer-set bombs going off at the moment of assembly and others not going off at all. Machine guns and pistols exploded in assassins' hands. There was a shoulder-held rocket firer which needed a fireproof plastic shield to protect its operator from flashback burns; it melted, so the operator was blinded at best but more usually burned to death. Semtex plastic explosive became so volatile it exploded the moment its handlers started trying to make a bomb.

‘Spectacular!' said the Director General.

‘I only had the idea,' qualified Millington modestly. ‘It was the Technical Division people who risked everything, actually going into the warehouse.'

‘We've destroyed the credibility of any terrorist supplies coming out of the communist bloc for months!' said Bell euphorically. ‘Because of you we got in and switched every delayed timing device to instant. We did that to grenades, too, so that they exploded the moment the pin was pulled. We distorted barrel rifling, so guns jammed and blew apart. We doctored the plastic explosive with nitroglycerine, to explode at any moment. Every protective shield was changed. We've created chaos!'

‘What about Peter?'

‘He was found dead, yesterday,' disclosed Bell. ‘Drowned in the Bosporus – down which all the armaments must have come from the Soviet Union. Appropriate, don't you think? His name wasn't Peter, by the way. The best identity that can be established is Ali Simnel: he was an extreme Palestinian revolutionary who abruptly became a capitalist when he decided he liked money better.'

9

Treasures of the Tsar

The old man had presence, an inherent command of his surroundings. He had once been tall but age had bowed him and there was clearly difficulty when he walked, although he tried hard not to shuffle. He had a full head of hair, now pure white: his clothes were well kept and pressed but the style was old, of a previous, much-loved era.

He sat gratefully at a pavement café on the corner of the Avenue Hoche, almost where it joined the Rue du Faubourg St-Honoré. The man's aura brought a waiter immediately. He chose coffee and cake, which he ate delicately, as if he wanted the enjoyment to last. He did not, however, appear to be someone pleasurably passing a warm June morning on one of the most fashionable boulevards of Paris. All the while he stared along Faubourg St-Honoré, as if seeking something or expecting someone to approach him from its direction. No one did. The cake and the coffee finished, he remained for a few more minutes at the café table, his shoulders squaring slightly like a man making a decision. Then, abruptly, he covered his bill with coins, rose and headed with some vigour into Faubourg St-Honoré.

The British embassy is a grand, impressive mansion although the public reception area, to which people coming in off the street are directed, is a less imposing side building. The old man seemed disappointed. For once the inherent command did not work. The counter clerk before whom he presented himself rudely continued writing, even when the man moved to make his presence obvious. Finally he rapped on the counter imperiously, making the clerk look up.

‘My card,' announced the old man, presenting the square of pasteboard with a bow, showing the formal politeness of a time long past.

The clerk took it without interest, scarcely looking at it. ‘Yes?' He resented the old man rapping his desk for attention.

‘I wish to see someone in authority.'

‘What about?'

‘That is to discuss with them.'

‘I have to know,' insisted the clerk. ‘To make sure you see the right person.'

‘I have some important correspondence.'

The clerk sighed: Paris seemed full of people coming in off the street with letters complaining about the state of the world or pollution of the atmosphere or the price of butter now that Britain was in the Common Market. He said: ‘Why not leave it with me and I'll see it gets to the proper person?'

‘I wish to discuss it personally.'

‘What's the subject?'

The old man hesitated, as if he were about to refuse. Then he said: ‘The revolution.'

The clerk sighed more deeply this time: he hadn't had a rambling old fool warning of world revolution for a long time. ‘The man who deals with that is off today.'

‘I must see someone! It's extremely important!' The old man became red-faced in his agitation.

‘Just leave it. We'll get back to you.'

‘You don't understand,' said the man. ‘The other side are after them.'

‘Sure,' placated the clerk gently. ‘We'll stop it happening. I promise.'

There was a further hesitation. Then, reluctantly, the man took a thick packet from his pocket. The envelopes were very old and dirty, held together by an elastic band. He took just one from the bundle and passed it over with obvious reluctance. ‘I'm not parting with any more until I see someone in authority.'

‘All right,' said the clerk, relieved at how easily everything was being resolved.

‘And I want a receipt. It's extremely valuable.'

Impatiently the clerk scrawled ‘Received: one letter' on a piece of notepaper headed with the British government seal. ‘There you are then. I'll make sure it gets to the proper person.'

As the old man went out the clerk's telephone rang, distracting him with a conversation about displaying British tourist information on the public area notice-boards. It was not until the end of the conversation that the clerk looked from the British government seal on the unused notepaper and then to the cracked and aged letter and saw another seal. As he replaced the receiver he bent closer and realized the envelope was imprinted with the British royal cipher. Nervously, carefully because of the age of the paper, he withdrew what was inside but did not bother to read beyond the first three paragraphs. Then, at last, he concentrated upon the visiting card and saw the name: Grand Duke Aleksandr Nikolaevich Ivanov.

The clerk looked up and said to himself: ‘Oh my God!'

Paul Bowles arrived from London on the mid-afternoon plane. The embassy-based intelligence chief, Daniel Wiggins, was at the airport with a car, so they could talk on their way back into Paris.

Wiggins said at once: ‘I hope I haven't overreacted to this.'

‘You did right, sounding the alarm so soon,' assured Bowles. ‘If we hadn't thought it important I wouldn't be here.'

Bowles was one of the newest recruits to the Factory and this was his first overseas assignment. He was an elegantly dressed, sophisticated man who thought it was appropriate that his initial job should be in Paris, which he considered an elegant, sophisticated city. He said: ‘What else have you done, so far?'

‘Nothing, apart from alerting London,' said Wiggins. ‘I thought it should be handled at the very top.'

Anxious to avoid responsibility, Bowles decided: he knew Wiggins had only a year to go before retirement. He said: ‘Where's the letter?'

‘In my office safe.'

‘Who's seen it so far?'