Friday, 23rd November
The Prenderghast story has finally broken. It made the headlines of yesterday’s Times and as a result there were questions in the House. Today, every paper in the country, probably the world, has devoted at least a few pages to this latest treachery. It doesn’t make us look very good.
As a consequence of the publicity, the trial is going to be rushed through and is due to take place at the Old Bailey in the new year. If all goes according to plan, we should have Zach firmly in the bag by then.
Sunday, 25th November
He telephoned last night. He said he really needed to talk to me – that he had new information proving that my father is still alive. I tried to suppress a gasp, and sat down. I thought I’d convinced myself that everything he ever said to me was an elaborate charade – and most of me still believes it was. But still, the mention of Pa’s name brings me up short. It can’t be true – it just can’t. I told him that I’d meet him, but that I wasn’t prepared to betray my work.
‘Please trust me,’ he said. ‘I’m doing this for you. I’m not going to ask you to do anything. I feel dreadful about this whole thing. I went back to Berlin this summer and all I could think about was how I’d let you down. I never meant for it to turn out like this; I honestly just wanted to help.’
I told him I still didn’t believe him, but that I was prepared to talk about it. ‘Why don’t you come round here on Friday, 14th December? Half past six?’
He agreed. The date is set, the trap is sprung.
As I went to bed last night, something he said was nagging at me, but I couldn’t work out what it was. I replayed the conversation in my head. It was only this morning that I worked it out: Berlin. He said he had been to Berlin – R is in Berlin. Was Zach one of the men he had been spotted talking to? I don’t want to carry through this chain of thought. It must be a coincidence. It’s just that all my coincidences recently are transpiring to be far from accidental.
December
Much as I have searched for confirmation of the events succeeding Bond’s arrival in Tokyo, I have found nothing outside Fleming’s account in You Only Live Twice (London, 1964). There, apart from minor discrepancies in dates, the story tallies closely with that detailed in my aunt’s diaries. At the beginning of the book, lunching with Sir James Molony at Blades, M complains that he has sent Bond on two tough assignments over the past few months. ‘He bungled them both. On one he nearly got himself killed, and on the other he made a mistake that was dangerous for others.’ This was partially – albeit arguably – true. What was missing was Miss Moneypenny’s role in extricating Bond from his predicament. Or that Bond’s ‘mistake’ could have saved the world from nuclear annihilation. My aunt, in fact, really figures in Fleming’s accounts, and when she does it is invariably from behind a typewriter: Fleming would no more have envisaged a secretary saving the world than M was able to. Galling as this might seem to those of us looking in from the outside, I am sure that was how she wished it.
She never had a yearning for the limelight. In her position she could not afford to. But even after she retired, in 1983, after thirty years in the service, she kept to the shadows. She went to live in a white stone cottage in North Uist, where she was known to all as Jane Penny. She kept in touch with a few of her former colleagues – mostly by letter. She went abroad twice a year, sometimes for extended periods, and visited us in Cambridge, but for most of the time she was on her own on a remote Scottish island. She spent hours each day reading – she once told me that she had shelves of books that she had bought but had never had the time to read and that she was determined to finish every one of them. Her only companion was another standard poodle, Rafiki’s successor, whom she had named Uhuru, and with whom she would climb the rocky hills and stride along the deserted white sand beaches. I can picture her now, wild hair streaming behind her and a look of exhilaration on her face.
She always told me that she went to live on a remote Scottish island because it reminded her of Africa and her childhood. At the time, I thought it was a strange choice for a woman on her own. She was only fifty-two when she retired. Now, having learned more of her life, I can appreciate that she had already lived enough to fill a hundred more humdrum existences.
Monday, 3rd December
There’s something not quite right with the 007 situation. I have a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach. This morning, Bill came by my desk to ask whether we’d received any signals from him. When I said no, he asked me to let him know as soon as one arrived.
Then, this afternoon, a call came in for M from Tokyo on the secure line. ‘It’s Dikko Henderson,1 an Australian voice announced. ‘I’d like to talk to your Chief, on a matter concerning our mutual friend. It’s quite urgent.’ When I buzzed M on the intercom, he said he’d take the call immediately. I put it through, but managed to get distracted looking for something on the other side of the room before I noticed I’d failed to switch off the intercom. I heard Dikko tell M that he was concerned about 007. ‘This morning, his clothes were transferred to my hotel by some Japanese secret service chaps. Tanaka sent with them instructions for me to tell you that he’d taken our Commander friend on a trip out of Tokyo to visit the HQ of the little asset [the MAGIC 44] you’re interested in.’
‘That seems positive,’ M replied cautiously, but Dikko sounded unconvinced.
‘You see, sir, I called Tanaka’s office, and they told me that he was on a mission to Fukuoka. That’s in the opposite direction from the establishment he told me he was taking our friend to. And I can’t believe that the Commander would take off without giving me some sort of message to send to the Office. I’m sorry, sir, I don’t want to scaremonger, but it smells a bit fishy. These guys out here are tricky little buggers, if you’ll excuse the language. You can never quite trust their motives. However much Tanaka might like our Commander personally, he’s never going to give up something for free, and I’m a bit worried about what he’ll extract in return.’
As I was waiting for M’s reply, I heard a knock at my door. I rushed across the room and flicked off the intercom before the girl arrived with the afternoon signals.
Tuesday, 4th December
Mary has heard nothing from 007 and I’m beginning to feel concerned. He’s presumably still in Japan; yesterday evening, Bill asked Section J to bring him a detailed map of the country, as well as an intelligence report on the Fukuoka region.2 It’s apparently on the south island, facing South Korea across the Korea Strait.
I pray he’s not in trouble again. I couldn’t bear it. Apart from everything else, M and Bill don’t need another worry while we’re in the midst of this Prenderghast business. Since the news was announced, the building has been infiltrated by ‘special prosecutors’, ministry men, the police, Americans, everyone, it seems. I can’t believe that it’s not making the security position even more precarious. There can’t be a lowly clerk in this place who hasn’t by now deposed and been told to be on stand-by, ready to be called to testify in the trial, if necessary. The whole building has practically ground to a halt. Fortunately, I think I should escape – I had few dealings with P – though I know M will be heavily involved.
Friday, 7th December
Still no news from 007. Bill obviously forgot, for a moment, that I wasn’t meant to know anything about it, as he came into my office this afternoon to ask again whether I’d heard from him. Deep worry lines creased his forehead and he looked pale and tired. When I said, ‘Not a word,’ he shook his head. ‘It’s damn strange, Penny. I came in early to telephone Tiger Tanaka in Tokyo. The clerk I spoke to said he’d just stepped out of the Office and would be back within the hour. If he’s back, then where is 007?’(I noticed that even Bill couldn’t grasp the reality of James’s new number.) ‘When I tried again, I was told Mr Tanaka was busy and would return my call when he was able to. Well, it’s midnight now in Tokyo and I haven’t heard a squeak. I don’t think he wants to speak to me. There’s something odd going down
out there.’
Then he seemed to recollect himself. ‘I’m sure he’s all right. 007’s a big boy, well able to look after himself. I’m afraid though, Penny, that we’re going to have to postpone our dinner tomorrow. The Old Man wants me to spend the weekend with him going over Prenderghast. Everything’s ready for next Friday night. They’ll go in that morning to set up. Let’s discuss what you’re going to say next week – we’ve still got time. Try not to think about it until then.’
Some forlorn hope. I go to bed thinking about it and wake up the next morning with hypothetical conversations buzzing inside my head like trapped bluebottles. Zach, R, my father all live in my dreams, however well I manage to banish them from my daily existence. I’m going to spend the weekend sorting out and cleaning the flat. Perhaps I’ll repaint the study? Haircut? Sometimes, a weekend alone, with no plans to see anyone, seems like a long time. I wish it was next Saturday already.
Tuesday, 11th December
M has spent all day with the Minister, discussing the implications of the Prenderghast affair. There’s an unseemly amount of press interest in the up-coming trial. The papers appear to be comfortable passing on speculation gleaned from so-called ‘espionage experts’. No one who really knows anything about our world would ever stoop to talking to the press – that would be treachery in itself – leaving the outer fringes, the failures and might-have-beens, to grab the spotlight while they can.
I’m worried about M. He’s aged visibly over the past few months. On occasions, I catch sight of him getting out of his car, or walking along the corridor, and he looks suddenly stiff and frail. He has such a powerful presence, it’s too easy to overlook that he’s becoming an old man. What if he insists on retiring despite the Minister’s objections? I don’t think I would stay if he went, even in the unlikely event that his successor wanted to keep me. I can’t imagine this place without M at the prow, guiding us wisely through stormy waters. How lonely it must be for him, with the weight of so many lives on his shoulders.
We’ll all be relieved when the whole circus is over. I suppose it’s better to have a large show trial with all the attendant publicity than to harbour a mole, still buried deep underground? At least now we don’t have to fear the enemy within.
Wednesday, 12th December
A rushed lunch with Bill, who’s clearly under terrific strain. Although he doesn’t voice it explicitly, I know he’s also worrying about 007 – their friendship must make Bill’s efforts to stay emotionally uninvolved with service activities difficult. Back at our little table at Franco’s, he ran through the arrangements for Friday. ‘I don’t know quite how to tell you this,’ he began. ‘Q Branch went over your flat yesterday, to identify the best places for invisible listening devices, and they found a bug in your telephone. Russian-made. We don’t know how long it’s been there, but you can assume some time.’
I sighed. ‘Well, I suppose that explains how they came by their information. How horrible.’ Privately, I thanked the foresight that had led me to relocate the diaries to Maura’s basement while the boffins came in.
‘We’ve left it there for the time being,’ he continued. ‘No need to show our hand. It’s only for another couple of days. Try to ignore it, and if you’ve got something private to say, pop a teacosy over the phone, turn the music up and you should be all right. We’ll replace it with one of our own on the day – once activated, it’ll be continuously live. You don’t need to pick up the receiver or anything.3 It should cover the drawing-room and kitchen, but in case he takes you into the study or bedroom, we’ll have fixed additional devices into the light-fittings. All very predictable, but we didn’t want to do any structural work and he’s not going to come with sweeping equipment. One would hope not, anyway. They’ll be installed on Friday morning – our men will come disguised as telephone engineers – and removed as soon as he’s gone. Have you made plans for the weekend?’
I said I was going to stay with my sister in Cambridge. ‘Good idea. You’ll want to get away from the scene for a short while, give yourself a chance to get the immediate images out of your head. Now, as for the meet itself, you’re to come home at your regular time – don’t vary your routine in any way. You can call in on your lady downstairs, but don’t collect the dog. It could cause unforeseen complications, and we don’t want any surprises.
‘When he arrives, let him in and offer him a drink. As I said, the drawing-room would be best. Engage in conversation as naturally as possible. He’ll make all sorts of promises to you, dangle snippets of information about your father, try to make you so eager for more that you’re prepared to commit to anything in exchange. But he won’t try to push that side: he’ll just drop it into the conversation, try to make it sound simple and insignificant when placed against what he’s offering you. Your job is to ensure that he makes that offer clearly and intelligibly. Try to extract from him who he’s working for, why, whether he’s met them, their channel to us and so on. You know the form.’
I nodded, the reality of what was going to happen in two days bursting down on me like a summer storm. He looked at me with his kind eyes and smiled. ‘Chin up, Penny. You’re going to do a fine job. We’ll be downstairs listening to every word.’
I admitted that I was afraid of that.
He laughed. ‘Don’t be silly. It’ll just be me and a Technical with the earphones on. If you want to call a halt to it at any point, all you have to say is “I’ve had enough.” That’s it – “I’ve had enough” – and we’ll be through your door like an encyclopaedia salesman.’
I attempted a smile. ‘I’ll be fine, don’t worry. Thank you, Bill. Thank you for everything.’ He leaned across to squeeze my hand. ‘Anything for you, Penny – you know that.’
As I was getting ready to leave this evening, I started to feel nervous and vulnerable, as though I’d coated myself in nectar and lain down in a lavender bed. However much I try to ignore it, the fact remains that I’m under surveillance and have been for some good time. The idea of going back alone to my flat and waiting for the bees to call seemed unappealing. From the window, I could see the early evening fog congealing into a pea-souper. But everyone had left the Office for the day, except Bill, and I couldn’t ask him to walk me home. I couldn’t think of anyone else to contact. For a fleeting moment, I allowed myself to think of R, but that was no good as he was in Berlin.
If I couldn’t find a bodyguard, I decided, I’d have to take steps to protect myself. On a whim, I buzzed down to the Armoury and when Major Boothroyd answered I asked if I could see him for a minute.
Descending in the lift, I was still unsure as to what he could do to help, or even what it was I thought he could do. I didn’t want to place him in an awkward position. He seemed very welcoming when he showed me into his windowless office and offered me a glass of sherry, which I accepted. ‘We’ve missed our star pupil down here,’ he began, with a smile. ‘But from what I hear, you’ve had plenty on your plate. Now, tell me what I can do for you.’ Without going into detail, I explained the position I was going to find myself in two days later. ‘I’m not quite sure why I’m telling you this, Major,’ I said, ‘and I don’t know if there’s any way in which you could help …’ I didn’t get any further before he jumped up and sprang across to the locked door to the arms store, muttering, ‘Of course you need protection, my dear girl. Never go into combat if you’re not fully prepared. Need to be a step ahead of the enemy and whatnot.’
When he emerged, he was carrying a tan-coloured book on the palms of his hands, as if he were serving from a silver platter. ‘Just the ticket, one Baby Browning at your service. I’ve shown her to you before, haven’t I?’
He rooted around for a box of bullets and when he came out again I asked whether this was breaking every rule in the book. ‘Not breaking, my dear Miss Moneypenny, merely bending. You should have a licence, of course, and officially we should sign the weapon out, give you a job number and some such rubbish, but I don’t think that’s really
necessary, do you?’ He gave me a wink and patted me on the bottom when I got up to go.
The Baby Browning is now on my bedside table, still in its literary nest – which I discovered, to my amusement, was a hollowed out copy of Paracelsus.4
In two days’ time, Zach will be here.
Tuesday, 18th December
I finally feel strong enough to write, though whether I’ll be able to describe what happened last week is another matter. I don’t want to think about it, let alone record it. But I can’t avoid it; I just hope that by reliving it here I can expunge the nightmares.
After the meeting with Bill, I felt full of determination, ready to face Zach and do what I had to. I worked late the next day; M had returned from the Ministry and there was a backlog of signals and reports to get through. I took the bus home as usual, intending to pack my weekend suitcase, ready for a quick getaway once the episode was over the following night. I tried not to think about it; bizarrely, I felt not only nervous, but treacherous too. Don’t be an idiot, I told myself as I stared unseeingly out of the window – you can’t betray a man like Zach.
It was dark when the bus stopped, and as I walked along Prince’s Gate and left into the Gardens, I was conscious of it being foggy again. I couldn’t see the poles of even the closest street-lamps and their lights glowed weakly through the dense air. I picked up Rafiki and was chatting to him when I opened the door to my flat. He started to growl, but I was too preoccupied to take much notice; I assumed he’d picked up the lingering scent of the Q Branch men. It was a good idea of Bill’s not to have him with me when Zach turned up the next day.
I took off my coat and walked into my bedroom, closed the door then turned to hang up my coat. As my hands were up-stretched, I heard the click of a light-switch and the room went dark. I spun around. A man was standing in the bathroom doorway, backlit by the bathroom light. I was terrified. His face was obscured by shadow, but I could see enough from the pale street-light seeping in through the windows to make out a shape clasped in his right hand. ‘Don’t move,’ he said, in a strongly accented voice that I recognised but could not place. I did as I was told – I don’t think I could have moved if I’d wanted to. Only my brain was churning feverishly. Who was it? What should I do? Could I open the door, jump out of the room and close it before he got to me? I decided to do what I was told.
Moneypenny Diaries: Guardian Angel Page 22