Moneypenny Diaries: Guardian Angel

by Samantha Kate

  June

  At the peak of the Cold War, each side was engaged in a constant quest for inside information about the status of its enemy. They thirsted for knowledge about everything from details of nuclear programmes to the chemical composition of ink used by junior intelligence officers. Code books, passwords, staff structure, policy determination – all were prizes more valuable than gold. And the best way to gain access to most of these was through a mole. In the 1950s and ’60s the presence of spies and traitors within the intelligence structures of both East and West was a subject that both obsessed and terrified all who lived and worked within those organisations.

  The main objective of an intelligence officer working abroad was – and is to this day – to recruit agents. It is an art – of seduction and coercion. The best recruiters possess an almost supersensory ability to recognise a potential double agent, combined with an instinct as to how best to hook him – or her. Their prey might be motivated by political concerns: either a belief in the philosophies of the other side or a disillusionment with the practices of his or her own. For some it is a question of greed: the promise of a better life, money, status. For others there is little choice: they have been lured into a compromising act then threatened with exposure if they do not switch sides. According to a former member of the SIS whom I talked to, ‘If an officer brings in two good agents in his career, who stay “in place”, then he has made an enormously important contribution.’

  Even a successful recruitment might not be what it at first seems. During the Cold War, the organisations of both East and West were occupied as much with feeding their enemies false information and supposed double agents who turned out to be triple agents, working for their initial employers all along, as they were with delving for the truth themselves. It was a world of suspicion and counter-suspicion, information and misinformation. And the Secret Intelligence Service was at the heart of it.

  Since 25 May 1951, when Guy Burgess and Donald Maclean disappeared on the night boat from Southampton, with a final destination of Moscow, the SIS had been under the international microscope. The unveiling of the first two members of the Cambridge spy ring had resulted in a loss of face in the eyes of its allies – particularly the Americans, despite their own leakage problems – while its enemies looked on with a secret smile. By the turn of the decade, however, the proverbial boot had swapped feet. First, Polish intelligence officer Michael Goleniewski defected and subsequently pointed a finger at an MI6 officer then stationed in Berlin, George Blake, who on 3 May 1961 was sentenced to forty-two years’ imprisonment for treason. By this time the West had a new mole, a GRU (Russian military intelligence) colonel named Oleg Penkovsky, who revealed, among other things, details of the physical appearance of Soviet missile launch sites. Later in 1961, a new KGB defector, Anatoly Golitsyn, revealed that there were five members of the Cambridge spy ring – prompting further frenzied introspection.

  But it was not only those in the higher echelons of their organisations who were targets for turning. Anyone with even the most seemingly minor role was regarded as a potential mole. The diplomatic circuit at home and abroad was a cauldron of suggestion; cocktail-party chatter disguised furtive attempts to milk opposite numbers for information while feeding them disinformation and sounding out potential sources. Many were approached, in a variety of ways, on numerous occasions throughout their careers. Most managed to recognise and parry what were often merely exploratory advances and to laugh about it afterwards. It was all part of the Great Game of espionage.

  Monday, 4th June

  My second shooting lesson. I’m enjoying this now, though I still treat the gun with the respect it merits. We spent less time in the classroom and more on the range this session, but I find the theoretical aspects equally as involving. I had never before given much thought to bullets; now I appreciate that the ammunition you choose is as important as the weapon. Full metal jacket – where the lead core is entirely encased in its copper casing – is standard. Soft points, where the copper doesn’t cover the tip, mushroom inside the target, causing greater internal damage, though they have a shorter range. Modern bullets are increasingly pointed, so as to pierce body armour – just listening to the thwok as the bullet leaves the weapon and instantaneously punctures the target is enough to make one doubt even the possibility of surviving a bullet wound. Major Boothroyd is a repository of gun knowledge and he really loves his subject. You have only to see him fondling a weapon to know how much he reveres it.

  In the range, we started with another session of shooting the ‘Huns’. I was pleased to see that my accuracy had not diminished and I still scored better than the men. I shouldn’t have been so proud. My fall was to come with the fabled shoot/no-shoot targets. They were set up sixty feet away, at the end of the range. At the signal, one would flip around, Corporal Hedges explained, and we had three seconds to determine whether or not he was carrying a weapon. If he was, we should shoot; if not, hold fire. It was a test of reactions and nerve. ‘Come on Miss Moneypenny, you’re out in front so far, let’s see how you fare. Remember, many of these people are innocent civilians. You don’t want their blood on your conscience.’

  The first one was easy: the picture flipped and it was a man in a balaclava pointing an automatic. I shot and he fell down. So far, so good. The next was also armed to the teeth. I missed with the first round, but got him with the next. ‘Fire your initial shot at the largest part of the target, probably below the stomach, the second into the chest area,’ Hedges said, as I waited for the next figure to reveal itself. But this one was a woman carrying a baby, and although I recognised her as such instantly, I nearly fired anyway. It was like a reaction I had trouble controlling. I nearly shot the next one, a teenager with a violin, too, and when the first man whipped around again I hesitated and only managed to let loose a wild shot as he was flipping back.

  This went on and on, figures flipping to and fro. I could feel my shoulders getting more and more tense as my accuracy and speed diminished. When, at last, all my magazines were spent, I found I was shaking like a leaf and could barely place the gun down on the counter in front of me without dropping it. There was no way I could have reloaded again, not at that time anyway. I had managed to get away without shooting a civilian, for which Boothroyd himself congratulated me. ‘But you were far too slow. You would have been shot by the oppo ages ago. What you have to learn is to let go of your head – stop trying to second-guess the targets and act on reflex. I promise, your instinct really lets you down.’

  One by one, I watched my fellow students face the same challenge, as slowly the feeling of seasickness in my stomach began to subside. They fared more or less as poorly; one young man, currently a junior researcher in the Caribbean Section, almost broke down after he shot the mother. ‘I can’t do this. I don’t want to do this,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Boothroyd reassured him. ‘You’ll probably never have to use a gun in anger. Most people facing the shoot/no-shoots for the first time do just as badly. In fact, we’ve had less than a handful who’ve managed perfect scores first time out, and they’ve all at one time had offices on the seventh floor.’ I doubt that any of us are destined for the oo section.

  As I was leaving, Major Boothroyd called me into the arms store. ‘Miss Moneypenny, come and look at this. I think it might interest you.’ He pulled a tan-coloured, leather-bound book from the shelf. It was slightly battered, with gilt-edged pages. He lifted the front cover; inside nestled a tiny, snub-nosed gun with a mother-of-pearl handle, small enough to fit in the palm of my hand. ‘It’s a Baby Browning.1 A pretty little number, but effective too. It’s a favourite with the Mafia for executions. Your target is sitting in a restaurant, you walk up to him, you bend down as if talking to him and jab the Baby into his waist. Pop pop. You fire twice and walk away. The noise would be just loud enough to make people look up from their dinner, but they probably wouldn’t guess what had happened, or where. Meanwhile, a .25 bullet is ploughing thro
ugh your target’s vital organs, liver on one side, kidneys on the other. He has only a tiny chance of staying alive. It’s a nice little gun for a lady’s handbag.’

  Wednesday, 6th June

  007 arrived back from Morocco today, with little to report. He looks fitter, but there is still a blankness in his eyes and a certain lassitude to his gait that I find disconcerting. He came out of M’s office and raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘I hope you’re holding the first dance at Lil’s wedding for me,’ he said. ‘Of course, James,’ I replied, ‘But you’d better confirm soon. I’m not sure I can keep the competition at bay for long.’

  It was familiar banter to both of us, though this time I had a sense that we were just going through the motions.

  This afternoon, we all went to Clive Mostyn’s funeral. The moment he died, he lost his initials, and now there’s another CNE sitting in his chair. It was a moving affair; his wife looked devastated, the rest of his family bewildered. Still, I sensed a slight release in M’s tension. CNE’s suicide has, perhaps, given M an escape route from scandal.

  Thursday, 7th June

  R has gone. I received a letter in yesterday’s post, telling me he would already be in Berlin by the time I read it, that he wished me luck and that everything could have turned out differently. It gave no forwarding address. I honestly don’t know what I feel and am trying my best not to think about it.

  Friday, 15th June

  Still no word from 006, but this was to be expected. The likelihood of his having found a reliable channel of communication from the Arctic wastelands of Novaya Zemlya back here was always slim, and as Bill said, if they were to catch him, they wouldn’t miss the chance to rub it in our faces. If all goes according to plan, he should be back within a few weeks.

  Sunday, 17th June

  This has turned into a truly dreadful mess. I’ve never felt so torn in my life. I’ve had my dearest dream dangled in front of me, but only in exchange for something that is not mine to give. And yet. And yet.

  I met Zach for drinks in a small restaurant in Soho on Friday night. I’d cancelled last week, but it wasn’t something I was going to be able to escape for ever. Again, he had found a quiet alcove. He was as charming as ever, but this time there was no pretence that we were pursuing anything but a business relationship. It was as if he’d exchanged the hat of suitor for that of mentor and guide. In view of the circumstances, I found this distasteful, but I suppose the alternative was less appealing. He was at pains to maintain that everything was for my benefit – that the situation had only arisen after I’d expressed interest in finding out the truth about my father, but we both knew that was not true. We are professionals, even if I’m straying far from my normal domain. I can’t quite bring myself to grasp the enormity of what he’s asking me to do. He says it’s nothing important, but we both know that there’s no return from that first step towards betrayal.

  How did I get myself into this situation? What is more important to me: my career and country, or my flesh and blood? If I am to believe what Zach has said – and deep down I want to, desperately – I now have real hope, for the first time in two decades, that Pa could be alive, somewhere, perhaps being held as a prisoner. Certainly he did not die on 25 October 1940. Zach could not have known what he does otherwise, surely.

  ‘Swallows and Amazons was your favourite book when you were growing up,’ he said, after our drinks had arrived. ‘You used to sit and read it on the lower branch of an old acacia tree overhanging the lake at the bottom of your garden at Maguga.’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied slowly. It was an eerie feeling: both that my father was rising from the dead, and that a stranger knew these private things about me.

  ‘Have you kept up your diary that he sent you from Scotland? The red one with the pale-blue pages?’ he asked.

  I just looked at him and shook my head slowly. I begged him not to make me do this. Couldn’t he just tell me about my father? It all happened so long ago. He knows I want to know what happened to Pa, but I can’t betray my work. In any case, I told him, I really don’t know anything important. I’m just a secretary at the Foreign Office; they don’t tell me their secrets. I spend most of my time typing routine reports, forms, nothing that could possibly be of interest. As a cover, it is believable, but not, clearly, to Zach.

  He shook his head this time. ‘Miss Jane Vivien Moneypenny, I know who you work for. I know an extraordinary amount about you. I know that you eat one piece of wholemeal toast and half a grapefruit for breakfast every day, that you don’t drink coffee and prefer cold milk. I know where you spent your holiday last year. I know the name of your sister and her fiancé, Professor Lionel Westbrook, of your dog, Rafiki, and the kind lady Maura downstairs, who looks after him while you are at work. I know where you have your hair cut, that you are allergic to eggs, and that your favourite lunchtime sandwich is ham and strong mustard washed down with a glass of milk.’

  I felt physically sick, violated, surprised, ashamed and threatened, all rolled together. He flashed those perfect teeth at me. ‘Come on, we are partners in this. I can help you to find your father through my contact – and in return all I need to give him is some very basic information, nothing that will put anyone in jeopardy. You still don’t need to proceed if you don’t wish to. All my contact wants to know is how the British believe the situation in Berlin is going to play out, whether they are making preparations to act militarily if the Russians carry out their threat to turn their quarter over to the East.2 That’s not so very difficult, is it? It’s not going to compromise anyone.’ I can’t,’ I replied. ‘I made a promise when I joined the organisation that I wouldn’t reveal anything about my work. I signed my name to it.3 I can’t do it.’ I shook my head, determined not to succumb to tears.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he patted my hand. ‘By doing this you’ll be helping your country. If we all worked together in a more constructive and transparent fashion, we’d have a far greater chance at peace. Instead, there’s secrecy and skulduggery. We have to guess at each other’s plans, and sometimes we make the wrong decisions, based on the wrong information – decisions that we might not have reached had we known the real facts.’ I put my head in my hands. The waiter came over and I couldn’t help but notice Zach’s composure as he joked with him and smoothly asked for the bill.

  ‘Now, Jane, I am leaving this in your hands,’ he said, as the man went away. ‘If you decide you want to track down your father, it can be done. But first you have to fulfil your side of the agreement. You’re in a position to make copies of the briefing papers – you know the ones I mean. I want you to take them in a sealed envelope to Brompton Oratory in exactly one week’s time. Go into the church through the Brompton Road entrance. Just to your right is an altar, a memorial to the war dead, with a copy of Michelangelo’s Pietà in front of it. On the floor below the statue are the words “Consummatum est”. You’ll see two large marble columns close to the wall just to the left of the altar as you face it. Make sure no one is watching and then leave the envelope in the small space behind the column nearest to the wall. Don’t leave the church immediately as it could appear suspicious, but walk around as if you’re a tourist, then leave at your leisure. I’ll contact you once the material has been collected, with more news of your father. Don’t worry, it’s perfectly safe. If you follow my instructions, nothing will happen to you.’

  Of course I cannot do it. I feel dirty for even having the conversation, as if my relationship with the Office has already been contaminated. I’m still staggered that I find myself in such a situation. Looking back, I see now that I’ve been a target for some time. Zach was obviously primed and pointed at me. By whom? It can only be the Stasi4 or KGB5 – and someone who knows I like Brahms and African sculpture. They did a very professional job. Still, I should have known. The way it was done appeared to be so natural, sitting in the seat that should have been R’s at the Albert Hall. How did they fix that? And R – what of him? Could those unworthy suspicions th
at I tried to suppress have had merit after all? Could that proffered umbrella in Barcelona have been part of a carefully choreographed approach? I don’t even want to think this.

  R knew about my childhood. No, I mustn’t let myself follow this train – it makes a mockery of everything that I am, of my instincts, my desires, every day we shared. It cannot be. Yet what about the time I found him searching my desk, with the lower drawers open, as Q Branch had recommended? He knew where I worked. He’d been awake long after his usual turning-in time on the night of the burglary. It couldn’t be. It must not be true. Who can I go to? Not to Helena, not to Bill – he would be horrified – and 007 is not in the right frame of mind. Oh Pa, this is all about you – oh that you were here now to help me find a way out of this terrible predicament.

  Wednesday, 20th June

  I’m surprisingly calm at the Office; it’s only when I get home that I want to put a pillow over my head to blot out the voices shouting at me, pulling me this way and that. I’m meant to be making the drop on Friday. I know where the papers are, but I’ve made no move to call them in. I’m not going to do it. I can’t. I wake up in the middle of the night in a state of panic and various options seem to shoot down from the sky and crowd around me. Could I compose a fake Berlin assessment? Play them along until I had some clue as to whether Pa is alive and if so, where he is being held? Then dawn breaks and I realise that I’m being unrealistic, that they’d never fall for such a predictable substitution. What would they do if I just failed to make the drop? I’m in desperate need of advice – I want to tell Bill, but am scared of his reaction.

  This lunchtime, I slipped into Records and made for the Zs. Nothing under David Zach. I’ve put through a routine enquiry to the FO asking for his visa details, but don’t expect that to come to much. I even looked quickly through the photographs of known Redland operatives, but none looked anything like Zach. I stayed late tonight and went down to the Identicast room, to try to mock up his face. I didn’t know the Records duty officer at the controls of the machine, which made it easier. I was fully prepared to pass it off as a routine request, but he never asked. I sat in a chair facing a huge screen. He asked me first for the main lines of the face and as he flashed up on the screen various head sizes and shapes, I was able to say yes or no. As soon as we’d found one I was happy with, he left it on the screen and we began to build on it. First the nose shape, haircut and colour, eye shape and size, chin, mouth, cheeks and ears. We slotted in his heavy eyebrows and perfect teeth. Although I thought I had a clear picture of Zach in my mind, it was still difficult to describe each feature individually. After about an hour we came up with a face that was, if not identical to Zach’s, then a recognisable approximation. ‘That’s him,’ I told the operator. He said he would make a photograph and send it up to the eighth floor. I turned away from the screen with a shudder, which made the man laugh. ‘I must say I’ve seen worse. This one looks like a normal bloke, I’d say.’ Rather too normal, from my point of view. If he’d had an eye-patch or a turned-up raincoat, maybe I would have been forewarned.