Moneypenny Diaries: Secret Servant

by Samantha Kate

  I was still frozen to my spot. M turned to me and told me sharply to close the door and get the duty medical officer right away. ‘Not a word of this to anyone. Understood?’ I managed to gather my wits and follow orders. Even now, recalling the events, I feel a tightness in my chest. I hadn’t known about M’s protective shield. What if? It is too horrendous even to speculate. I can only thank every deity that M survived.

  M followed Bill into his office and closed the door behind him. They were joined minutes later by the doc and soon after that by two orderlies carrying a stretcher. I caught a brief glimpse of James as they took him out, supine and still unconscious, his face a shade of pale putty. M came out to collect his bowler hat. ‘I’ll be at Blades for the next hour,’ he said as he left. I wonder at his composure.

  Bill was soon back. He came up to me and gave me a hug. ‘Feeling all right, Penny?’ he asked. ‘Must have been a tremendous shock for you. Can I get you some tea?’ I shook my head. Typical of Bill to be solicitous of others at a time like this. What must he have gone through? I collected myself. ‘I’m perfectly fine, thank you. Just a normal assassination attempt by a dead man on my boss. Now, how can I help? You need a cup of tea.’

  He smiled. ‘You’re right, I do. Thank you. Now, if you’re really up to it, there’s a list of things to do.’

  He sat down and got out his notebook as I made tea for us both. As I got back, a troop of men dressed head to toe in white, with masks covering their faces, went through to M’s room, dragging heavy-duty equipment. Bill raised his eyebrows. ‘The cleaners are in early today then?’ Suddenly we were laughing. Shock, I suppose, mixed with relief.

  ‘Right. I’ve got a list of commands from the Old Man. We had better share them out. Can you contact Sir James Molony, please? Explain that there’s been an emergency with 007 and that he’s been taken by ambulance to The Park. See if he can call in there before talking to M this afternoon. Then, if you could order the Scaramanga file up from Records for M’s return, please. We also need to collect James’s things from the Ritz and pay his bill.’

  I told him I would take care of that myself. It would be a welcome excuse to get out of the office. Bill thanked me. ‘That will be a great help. M wants me to get a statement out to the Press Association, announcing James’s return from the dead.’3

  ‘What’s going to happen to him? 007, I mean?’ I found it hard to say his name. ‘Will he be court-martialled?’

  ‘Apparently not,’ he replied, drily. ‘The Old Man wants to try to get him straightened out and back in the saddle again.’

  ‘I suppose that’s a good thing?’

  ‘We shall see, Penny. We shall see. Thank you again.’

  The walk across the parks gave me a chance to calm down. The Office had always felt like a sanctuary. I knew what had befallen one of M’s predecessors, of course,4 but the idea that the threat might come from within is horrifying. Despite his apparent heartlessness, I respect M more than any man. He is our country’s protective shield. Had anything happened to him … Then 007 – even when I conjure up images of his limp body being carried out of the room, I can’t believe it. That he, who has done so much for our country, could turn around and try to stab it in the back is beyond contemplation. He must have been brain-washed by the Russians. Surely, though, he has undergone training to combat that? Even so … What a strange, twisted world we live in, where death is common currency and, on occasion, our friends are indistinguishable from our enemies.

  I finally persuaded the manager to let me into James’s – Frank Westmacott’s – room, by claiming to be his sister. I found it eerily free of personal belongings. There was an unopened bottle of vodka on the table (unopened? James?) and a clutch of empty shopping-bags at the back of the wardrobe. I sorted through them: Turnbull and Asser for the shirt and black knitted-silk tie, Huntsman of Savile Row for the navy single-breasted suit, Church’s for the black soft-leather slip-on shoes. It was as if he was 007 dressed by numbers. There was no sign of the clothes he had arrived in – nothing except for a pair of ordinary cotton pyjamas folded under the pillow. James in anything ordinary would be stretching credulity enough, but pyjamas?5 Impossible. As was the standard cut-throat razor in the bathroom.6 Whoever moulded this James Bond was good enough to get him through the Office door for a one-shot mission, but no better.

  I couldn’t wait to come home this evening. I ran myself a deep, hot bath and sat in it until my fingers shrivelled. I still felt shivery when I got out. I phoned Helena and talked to her for almost an hour, about inconsequential stuff mainly. I would have liked to have seen R, but he’s still away, goodness knows where, and it seems an age since I last heard from him. I hope he’s safe. So I’m sitting here now, wrapped up in my gown, drinking hot chocolate and trying to exorcise the day’s events from my memory by writing them down.

  Tuesday, 20th August

  I can’t stop thinking about what happened. Whenever I walk into M’s office, my eyes are drawn to a small patch of carpet a little paler than the rest, where the drops of poison were scrubbed clean with powerful chemicals. Whenever I think about James, images of those dead eyes haunt my mind. They were not the eyes of my friend, the bravest man I know. What has been done to him?

  My thoughts turned to R: I don’t know where he is, but I hope it’s nowhere behind the Iron Curtain. I couldn’t bear it if he was hurt again.

  I finally met Eleanor Philby today. Dingle thought it would ease matters if I was introduced to her by his wife, Margaret, at their Belgravia flat. So I rang on the doorbell shortly before four. I was looking forward to meeting her, but not without some trepidation. What if she didn’t like me? After the events of last week, especially, I was keen for everything to proceed smoothly.

  Margaret, a mirror version of her husband, tall, elegant and well bred, answered the door and led the way upstairs into the drawing-room. As I walked in, a slim, dark-haired woman stood up from the sofa. She was wearing a simple white short-sleeved cotton dress, belted at the waist, and flat shoes. She was almost as tall as me, not beautiful, but with an attractive, friendly face. Only her eyes betrayed her unease: they were wary, like a deer in long grass. ‘Jane Moneypenny, I presume?’ she said in a soft American drawl. I laughed. ‘Mrs Livingstone?’ She smiled, and from that instant I knew it was going to be all right.

  Margaret excused herself to go and collect her children from school, and we started to talk. Eleanor was reserved at first, confining herself to the most benign chat, but I could sense that she wanted to open up and reach out to someone. It was lucky for me – and for M – that I turned up at the right time.

  She asked if I wanted some tea and when I replied yes, suggested the Lyons’ Corner House. ‘I get out so rarely, you see,’ she explained as she got up to look for her bag. ‘I started out staying with Kim’s sister, Patricia, in Kensington, but the press soon found me there. I was offered £10,000 by one paper for my story – can you believe it! I was mobbed every time I set foot out of the door, so I stayed in. Then I moved to some friends in St John’s Wood, but they aren’t keen on the attention. Can’t blame them. I don’t care for it myself. I’ve been trying to keep a low profile. I see Alexander and Margaret every week, but otherwise I’m just waiting.’

  We walked to Knightsbridge. I noticed that Eleanor kept glancing behind her, but apart from that she was easy company. She chose a table at the back corner of the restaurant and we ordered tea and scones. We talked for an hour, though I said little. Understandably, her feelings and thoughts were in a jumble, and lacking anyone to sort through them with, she was almost bursting with frustration. She mentioned her husband only infrequently – and then with care. It was as if she measured every word she said about him, for fear of exposing too much. Most of her focus was on her daughter – back in America with her father – and Kim’s children, currently scattered among relatives in England. What should she do about them? They were like her own children.

  We talked a little about London. She told
me about her first visit here with Kim, when they had married. Walking around the city together, he seemed to have friends in every corner. ‘Many of them won’t talk to me now,’ she said, sadly. ‘I’m a pariah. I hate to think of how they regard Kim.’ Then, pulling herself together, she looked at her watch and, seeing it was shortly after six, suggested we pop across to the Hyde Park Hotel for a drink.

  I excused myself with regret. We’ve made a plan to go to the cinema together next Saturday. I like her very much indeed. It will be no hardship being her friend. I only wish I could do something to ease the inner agonies that she’s undoubtedly experiencing.

  Friday, 23rd August

  Bill passed by my desk this morning, whistling. I asked why he was looking so chipper. He replied that he had just got back from seeing James at The Park. ‘He’s getting on well. Should be back to his old self fairly soon.’

  ‘Do we know what happened?’ I asked.

  ‘Not yet, but we should do soon, if he keeps on recovering at this rate. Have dinner with me tonight?’

  When I said I’d love to, he suggested Scott’s. I was expecting something more along the lines of Bully’s; for Scott’s, one needs a new frock.

  At lunchtime, I dragged Janet out shopping. She was desperate to hear about James. News of his dramatic return had inevitably penetrated the Powder Vine. She asked endless questions – how he’d looked, what he’d said to M, where he’d been all this time. I tried to be as non-committal as possible, but it wasn’t easy. Janet has a way of wheedling the truth from anyone. I hope I didn’t say too much.

  It has been ages since I bought something special. I’m longing to get a ‘trouser suit’, but I’m not sure I have the self-confidence to walk into a restaurant wearing trousers. I admire the women who do. Only last week, I read about a woman who was turned away from the Savoy Grill because of her trousers – Yves Saint Laurent, of course. Without a word, she wheeled round and disappeared into the Ladies. She returned to the restaurant wearing only her jacket and nylons. When the maître d’ tried to protest, she argued – successfully – that her jacket was no shorter than the average mini dress. I read a similar story from New York. I’m not sure, however, that M would enjoy the publicity if I tried to emulate them. Instead, I found a very smart navy and white short linen dress by Jane & Jane. Janet said it made me look ten years younger. The sad truth is that I am about ten years younger than I normally look. This evening, I entered the Powder Vine as safe old Miss Moneypenny and emerged as swinging young Jane, complete with false eyelashes. When Bill came into my office, he literally stopped in his tracks and told me I looked beautiful. He has perfect manners.

  Scott’s was lovely. What a treat. We ordered smoked salmon and champagne. I asked Bill what we were celebrating. ‘James’s return to good health,’ he replied, firmly. I raised my glass.

  ‘You know that some of the others are not going to be this forgiving?’ I said.

  He shook his head. ‘I fear you’re right. We’ve got to persuade them, Penny. You have to help me. Think about it: do they honestly believe that James would try to pull a stunt like that if he was in his right mind? I talked to Molony at The Park today. He said that James had suffered a huge bang on the head, probably when he was blowing Blofeld’s castle up to high heaven. He was almost certainly unconscious for a while and suffered total amnesia. The first thing he can remember is lying in a cave having his brow mopped by a beautiful girl, with the sound of the sea crashing against the cliffs below. That was Kissy Suzuki, the awabi diver who had affected such grief at James’s death when 006 went to see her.

  ‘For several months after that, he believed he was a Japanese fisherman. Now, this is where Molony is surprised. He’s done exhaustive tests and found the remains of APV in his system. It’s a memory-blocking drug, used by the Japanese in the war. There’s a chance it was administered to James by the Russians when he got there, but Molony says, from an analysis of his hair follicles, it appears that James had been ingesting it for at least six months – probably longer. If he’s right, that means someone was giving it to him in Japan. Missy Kissy has some serious questions to answer. James can’t remember much about it, of course, but says he drank a lot of what she called ‘herbal tea’ – sounds disgusting. We’re doing a search on her background now. Apparently, she spent some time in Hollywood a few years ago. Dikko Henderson’s going back to the island to see what he can dig up.

  ‘As far as James is concerned, we can assume he’s been to hell and back and it’ll take time before he’s right again. Molony’s putting him through some fairly intense treatment and his memory is returning, but we can’t push it. We don’t know yet what the Russians did to him – on past form, it’s likely they used some sort of mind-altering serum, on top of psychological manipulation. James has talked a bit about an institute in Leningrad, and to M he mentioned a Russian colonel who had “helped him to understand what British intelligence was really up to”. Molony says it’s a miracle that he’s with us now. James is a strong man – brave and determined – but even he has limits. I don’t doubt that, when he recovers his full wits, he’ll hate himself for what he did. We have to ensure that he’s not censured by everyone.’

  It was a long and impassioned speech from a man used to measuring his words. I lifted up my glass and gently clinked it against his. ‘We will,’ I told him. ‘How’s the Old Man taking it all?’

  ‘You know him. Hard to say. He’s approaching it in an entirely pragmatic fashion. Doesn’t mean he’s not determined to wreak revenge on the KGB. He’s convinced that Philby had a role in preparing James for his mission. Can’t see any other way the KGB could have learnt the information they needed to infiltrate James back into the building. They must have known about Kensington Cloisters – but that’s so top secret that only a small handful of us have the details.’

  I nodded. Even I had no idea of the procedures for vetting suspected double agents. ‘Philby left the Firm twelve years ago. Surely personnel have changed since then?’

  ‘You’re right, but procedure hasn’t, to any great extent. I looked through Philby’s files. He was CS [Chief of Soviet Section] after the war, when the protocols were put in place; he would have been instructed in them during the Volkov case.7 Philby was in charge of it. He flew out to Istanbul, but by the time the mechanisms for Volkov’s defection were in place, the Russian had disappeared. With hindsight, Philby must have blown him to his Soviet controllers. He was so clever that no one guessed at the time.

  ‘Kim Philby was a supreme intelligence agent. I met him on a number of occasions. He came across as somewhat shy, with his stutter and deferential matter. With hindsight, it was the perfect foil. Underneath, he must have been ruthless, but people liked him and confided in him. He made it his business to find out everything he could about this organisation. At one point, he was tipped for the top chair. He had an instinctive feel for the business. With his deep background knowledge, he would have been able to tell the Russians exactly what they needed to know to prime James – and exactly how to go about finding it.’

  ‘His defection really is a big deal.’

  ‘Bigger than you can imagine. It’s certainly not just a piece of propaganda. At one point he knew everything – agent rings, methodology, personnel – and he has an extraordinary memory. If he was indeed working for them from the beginning, the damage he’s caused is inestimable – and he’s compounding it in Moscow as we speak. He makes Prenderghast look like a small-time hustler. It will take us years and years to unravel. Then there’s the future. What else might he and his KGB chums be up to? Did he turn any others? Until we have him back here, his knowledge and skill are a constant threat.’

  ‘Surely there’s no chance of him returning?’

  ‘Strictly between you and me, M’s got clearance from the top to give him full immunity from prosecution and a comfortable retirement – something he certainly won’t get in Moscow, where the Russians will suck him dry of information, then, when he’s got n
othing further to offer, grow tired of him and cast him aside. Here, he’ll be able to do the Times crossword, watch cricket, see old friends … everything he can’t do in Moscow.’

  ‘He’d get immunity? After all he’s done?’

  ‘Yep. It would be embarrassing for a short while, but I’m sure, with some well-placed whispers in friendly ears, we would be able to persuade the great British public how galling it must be for Moscow to swallow Philby’s return.’

  ‘So this is where Eleanor fits in – she’s a lure?’

  ‘Not to put too fine a point on it, yes. It’s up to you to ensure that she feels happy and wanted in the West.’

  September

  Acres of newsprint were devoted to the trial and sentencing of Robert Prenderghast, including long biographies by people who claimed to have known him, and analyses of his career as a traitor by so-called ‘intelligence experts’. I’ve trawled them all, but found no hint that he had an accomplice. Yet, from what my aunt had related, he must have had a contact on the inside. Information had leaked out of the Office that couldn’t have originated from him. But, however hard I searched through the archives, I could find no mention of this mystery mole.

  My thoughts turned to my aunt’s friend and colleague Bill Tanner. Over the last few years, I have been down several times to visit him in his genteelly worn old rectory in Wiltshire, and it’s always been a pleasure. He has an energy that belies his advancing years, and mischief still burns behind his clear blue eyes. From when I first revealed to him the existence of my aunt’s diaries, and he greeted the news with obvious amusement, I’ve had a wonderful feeling of being at home with him. I’ve sat at his scrubbed oak kitchen table, drinking red wine and listening to faintly scandalous stories of life at the Office in the good old days, and felt like I belonged. From the beginning, he treated me as a member of the family that I later discovered he never had.