Moneypenny Diaries: Secret Servant

by Samantha Kate

  Wednesday, 6th November

  The Philby group – or Marmalade as it is now officially known – reconvened this morning. As Eleanor’s confidante and acting officer on that part of the operation, I was included on the list of invitees. As such, I suppose I must regard myself as one of the ‘gentlemen’.

  M was not in the best of tempers, clearly agitated by the lack of action. Despite my fears, and the flak he’s been taking from all directions, he’s still in his chair. I hope he stays there. These days, it feels as if we are balanced on the edge of a precipice, and if he falls or jumps, we will all go tumbling after.

  We reported in turn. My contribution was short: still no word from Mrs Philby. There was brief speculation as to what that could mean. Was she prevented from writing abroad? Had she given up any idea of returning home? Was she happy and settled in Moscow? Had she confessed her relationship with me to her husband, and he presumably to his KGB controllers? Or did she merely have nothing yet to communicate? It was impossible to know, and short of initiating contact, which would be risky at this point, all we can do is wait.

  My part in the discussion effectively over, I concentrated on making notes for the minutes. It’s normally Bill’s job, but I offered to do it and he accepted with relief. Bookie had brought with him maps of the USSR and Moscow, and photographs and drawings of the Philby apartment. First, he spread out the country map. ‘Piecing together the bits of the puzzle, we are now fairly sure that Philby left Beirut on a Soviet freighter named the Dolmatova. She pulled out of port in a hurry on the night of January 23rd, leaving part of her cargo abandoned on the dock. According to her manifest, which’, he paused, ‘we made arrangements to view, she arrived five days later at her home port of Odessa. Now, that’s a journey that should take no longer than two days. Our guess is that she made an unscheduled stop at a Black Sea frontier port to drop off Mr Philby at some place less obvious – possibly Mariupol, here’, he pointed to a port in Ukraine, ‘or Tuapse or Novorossiysk on the Russian coast if she took the eastern route. We have no way of knowing. From there, he would have been transported by air to Moscow, where we must assume he was first taken to a KGB clinic for a thorough medical. That would be standard practice. By all accounts, he’d spent the previous months drinking himself stupid and they would want to ensure he was stone-cold sober and healthy enough to spit out all he knew without fear of his body collapsing.

  ‘The first reports of his whereabouts in Moscow were here.’ He rolled out a large-scale map of Moscow. Red Square was clearly marked in the centre. There was a star to represent the Kremlin and another for the Lubyanka. CS leant over and marked a cross at a spot by the river. ‘This, we believe, was his first apartment. We have photographs of known KGB officers entering and leaving the building, though none of Philby himself. There was full-time security outside the apartment door as well as on the street. This ceased in the summer, at the time, we must assume, that he was moved to here.’ He pointed to a spot on the outer edge of the map, four miles north-west of the city centre.

  ‘This is a quiet residential suburb. The building, as we can see from the outside, doesn’t look up to much.’ He slid across the table a photograph, clearly taken from the air, of a huge, ugly grey block, situated at the furthest part of a semicircular cul-de-sac. There was a small, tree-lined park at the front, but it still looked run-down and forgotten. ‘We do have a recent photograph of our man leaving the building.’ He slid across a blurred image of a figure in a hat and heavy greatcoat, taken from a distance. ‘Yes, I can assure you it is he. The boffins have run tests which prove it. Thanks to the Cousins, we also have a plan of the interior of the building. The Philbys’ apartment is on the eighth floor, overlooking the square. We can see from the plans that it is spacious by Soviet terms – an expression, no doubt, of their gratitude.’ He grimaced.

  ‘Four rooms, all good size, four exterior windows. At the back, it opens on to a communal corridor which runs the interior perimeter of the building. There is a central staircase leading on to the lobby, which is attended at all times by a concierge. Unusually, in this building the concierge is a man and, we have to assume, KGB. Buildings of this type would habitually be run by an army of spherical babushkas.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Over to you, Bill.’

  ‘Sir. We have shown these photographs to Special Forces and to our own Planners. They have drawn up a list of possible actions, which you have in front of you, but clearly a surreptitious infiltration by no more than two men is going to be preferable to storming the place. We’d never get away with the latter, for a start, and the political repercussions would be hideous – mass expulsions from the Embassy, that kind of thing. Best if we slip in unnoticed and slip out again with Philby.’

  ‘Then what?’ M asked. ‘How do we get him back here?’

  ‘That, I’m afraid, sir, is the rub. We can’t bring a plane in and out unobserved. It’ll have to be by road. We’ve drawn up several proposed routes across country to the nearest border, probably Berlin, using a relay of local agents along the way. From East Berlin, we should be able to smuggle him across the border in one of the usual ways. He’s not a large man; he’d probably fit behind the front grille. Assuming, of course, that he’s being cooperative.’

  ‘What are the odds of success, CS?’

  ‘Honestly, sir, the Planners have put them somewhere between 18 and 23 per cent. I’d say that’s slightly on the bullish side. Worth the call, perhaps, but not a raise.’

  M looked down. ‘You need to work on improving those numbers. See how you can make the plans tighter. Now, what about the black propaganda?’

  Dingle spoke up. ‘CS has asked me to input on this one, sir. It’s well known that Philby and I were good friends,’ he stressed the past tense, ‘presumably to the KGB too. They knew I was his Chief in Beirut. If he was a double, it would make sense that I controlled him, at least while he was there. What I need to do now is to attempt to send a message to him in Moscow that is secret enough to persuade the Russians that it’s genuine, but not so secret that it escapes their notice. I’m working on the details.’

  ‘The content?’ M asked.

  ‘You know the sort of thing, sir: that we’re delighted he has succeeded in his primary penetration, and to start sending his product by the pre-arranged means, and so on. All in code, of course. We thought of using the Blue Star variation that we know – but we think they don’t know that we do – was recently broken by Moscow.’

  ‘Very good. Start composing the message and thinking about means of delivery, please. Let’s progress both aspects of Marmalade and meet back here one week from today to discuss the next stage. Thank you, gentlemen.’

  I stood up and capped my pen and left with the others. Maybe next week I should try wearing my trousers? I haven’t worn them since that fateful night in Dorset – a fleeting window of intimacy cracked by the strange world we inhabit.

  I wish R would come back. I hope he succeeds in what he’s trying to do. Whatever the longer future might hold for us, I would like to think he was there, somewhere, in my tomorrows. I try not to dwell on the faceless army who may or may not be following me, intruding into the rhythm of my daily existence. I fail. They are with me at all times in my imagination.

  Saturday, 9th November

  James has gone to the Caribbean on the trail of Francisco ‘Pistols’ Scaramanga. I hadn’t put two and two together when Bill ordered up the Scaramanga file for M straight after the ‘incident’. It seems so long ago now. At the time, I found the event overwhelming. I was so horrified by James’s apparent betrayal, by what could have happened to M – to all of us – that thoughts of the future were furthest from my mind. Yet M, who came within milliseconds of being squirted with deadly poison by his own agent, only minutes later was plotting his next mission. Does the man have a heart?

  Scaramanga. Even his name sounds evil, like a witch’s incantation. From what I have read about him – and that’s more than I would like – he is a lethal killin
g-machine. It’s all becoming clear, the reason behind M’s decision not to punish James. I’ve wondered about it: the Old Man would never have been clement without good cause, even to his favourite officer. This, however, is a form of Russian roulette, with five loaded chambers. With odds like that, I would have jumped at a court martial. James, I’m sure, sees it differently. He came in for his meeting with Bill on Thursday – M’s still refusing to see him – looking as fit and chipper as he ever has, and left for the Caribbean with a wink and a whistle and the traditional invitation to dinner on his return.

  I pray to God he makes it. I read the report C.C.1 wrote on Scaramanga after poor old Dickie was brought back from Dominica with a bullet hole in each knee. He still needs sticks to walk with, I hear, and misses the Office desperately. Pamela [CS’s secretary] says he’s found work as a freelance crossword compiler, but I can’t imagine that provides much in the adrenalin department.

  Scaramanga had a traumatic childhood in the circus, if I remember correctly, which ended violently after some incident with an elephant. He became entangled with the American gangs and has been killing people for money – and pleasure – ever since. He’s now based in Havana, where Castro uses him for particularly messy jobs. In between times he roves the region, killing to order.

  I remember his photograph: pale brown eyes holding no promise of character, a gaunt, brutal face framed by short reddish hair, long sideburns failing to disguise outsized ears set flat against his skull. It was the face of the Grim Reaper, and I can only pray for James’s safe return.

  Sunday, 10th November

  I had just returned from a frosty walk with Rafiki this morning, when my telephone rang. An unfamiliar man’s voice asked for me, then introduced himself as Roddy Parks. Momentarily surprised, I thanked him for calling.

  ‘You’re Hugh’s daughter?’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘Hugh Moneypenny – Sterling, I mean. Did you know him?’

  ‘I did. Great man.’

  There was so much I wanted to know, but I couldn’t think how to begin. He interrupted my hesitation to ask whether I would like to meet.

  ‘Yes, please. Whenever would suit you.’

  ‘How about in an hour? I’m in London. Would be happy to chat about a former classmate,’ he chuckled. He had a jovial voice, which suggested that laughter was never too far away. ‘Staying with a chum in Mayfair. How about the lobby bar at the Berkeley? We can have a Bloody Mary and a sandwich. Does that suit?’

  I changed quickly into a tweed skirt and polo neck, pulled on my new short trench coat from Harrods and walked along the edge of the park to Knightsbridge. Questions were piling up inside my head and an inkling of hope, too, which I tried to suppress. Since the ups and downs of last year, I haven’t let myself dream too much. Pa disappeared twenty-three years ago; it’s been eighteen since the war ended. What are the chances of him being alive? Bookie, no doubt, would be able to assign some precise percentage to it – something like 6.379.1 can’t. My aim is not to find a living father, but merely to discover what happened to him. After years living with uncertainty, that would be a great prize indeed.

  Roddy Parks looked exactly as his voice suggested. A dapper man in his early fifties, with a wide, friendly face and twinkling eyes above a neat moustache, he radiated energy and the aura of officer class. He jumped up from the deep armchair and clasped my hand. ‘My dear Jane, what a treat. A treat indeed it is to meet Hugh’s daughter. A Bloody for you?’

  I thanked him and accepted. It is not my normal Sunday-morning practice, but he made you want to join in whatever was so enthusing him. I said I’d enjoyed his book.

  ‘Thank you. Thank you, my dear. Wasn’t easy to write. Day after day in front of that damned type-writer – almost made me long for Colditz. No such thing as a deadline there! Then that bloody Reid got in there first with his tales of home runs and what not.’ He chuckled again.

  Over the next hour, he talked about life in the camp, barely stopping to gulp back a succession of Bloody Marys. Very occasionally, just as I was about to ask about my father, he would slip his name into the conversation – as a participant in a particular escape attempt, as a leading light in the courtyard cricket team (I’d always believed that Pa loathed ball games) or as a player in the yearly theatricals. When I tried to interrupt to ask more, he merrily barrelled on. They were obviously stories he’d told many times before and enjoyed re-telling. I got the same feeling of rose-tinted reality as I had when reading his book.

  It was only after three large drinks that I was able to ask specifically about Pa. ‘Arrived at the Castle spring of ’44, as far as I can remember. He was in a poor state – pile o’ bones. Don’t know the details of how he got there – something about Warsaw, I think. He spent his first few months in the sick ward with pneumonia. Never had a chance to get really close before I was out. He was a good man, I do know that. Very good man. Didn’t know his real name at the time, of course. Only found that out quite recently. He stuck to his cover story all the way. Most unusual. Don’t know why he did that – must’ve been in Intel. All spies were zapped by the Gestapo. Still, brave thing to do – meant that he wasn’t allowed letters from family, Red Cross packages and what not.’

  ‘Did anyone know who he was?’ I asked.

  ‘Don’t believe so. Otherwise I, or one of the others who made it home, would have found you, brought you up to speed. Hugh Sterling – I mean your father – got out, y’know?’

  His words hit me like a punch to the belly. My shock must have been evident.

  ‘I wasn’t there, of course – back here in hospital – but I know all the stories of the latter days. Yes, he escaped a few months before liberation. He was heading north, I believe. It was the only way: the Swiss route was effectively closed off by those damned Hitler Youths, roadblocks every few miles, barbed-wire traps in the woods, everything they could do to keep us from getting out. Hugh must have been desperate. They had a radio in there, tuned into the BBC, knew the Allies were advancing and it was only a matter of time before the Yanks turned up with the keys to freedom in their well-tailored pockets. Yet he didn’t wait. As far as I know, was never heard of again.’ He looked at me. ‘I’m sorry, m’dear. Not what you wanted to hear.’

  ‘His name was on the register of inmates shortly before the Americans came,’ I said. ‘I’ve seen it.’

  He gave my arm another squeeze. ‘Means little, I’m afraid. Diddly squat. We used to change names frequently, just to bait the goons. We even had a couple of lads who pretended to escape, then hid underground for months. Every time someone got out, one of them would step into his place at Appell – that’s roll-call – to make up numbers. Called ’em ghosts. Look, m’dear, if I remember correctly, your father’s best chum was a chap called – what was his real name? He had a cover ID too, but I met him back here when it was all over and learnt his real name then. He was the one who told me about your Pa. Pitman. That’s it… They came in together, if my memory serves me correctly.’

  ‘Miles Pitman? The pilot?’

  ‘That’s the man. Last I heard he had bought a farm at the foot of Mount Kenya. Beans, I think it was. Could have been coffee, of course. Coffee beans – that must have been it! Ah, at the Castle, we used to dream about real coffee …’

  He was off again, on a long series of reminiscences that flowed, one from the last, like a Japanese water sculpture. Watching him, I realised that the horror of a POW camp was the highlight of his life. It was when he was reliving the story that he was most alive. Between his fifth and sixth Bloody Marys, I discovered that he now ran a small pub in Lincolnshire. He had not married. He refused to let me pay for the drinks and hugged me goodbye with great warmth. ‘Enjoyed it, m’dear. I’ll have a quick squizz through my papers, if y’like. Sure I’ve got Pitman’s address somewhere, if you’re interested.’

  I left him with a spring in my step, trying to prevent my hopes from soaring. At least I could banish the images of Pa dying in that forbidding cast
le from my mind. It’s been a long road towards the truth about Pa, and every time it’s looked as if I’m nearing my destination, I’ve hit another block. Maybe this time?

  Wednesday, 13th November

  At the Marmalade meeting, the plans to extract Philby from his apartment were debated at length. Last week, 009 had made his way to Moscow, via Berlin, and with the help of a couple of men, had managed to break into the Philbys’ apartment on Saturday night, while they were at the ballet. Bill circulated 009’s report:

  We had learnt that the weekend concierge has a bladder problem, necessitating frequent visits to the gents on the first floor. Each visit takes an average of 4½ minutes. Using high–magnification night glasses, we were able to keep watch on the lobby from across the park. The targets departed the building on foot at 18.00 hours, accompanied by their security detail. At 20.13, the concierge left his desk and headed up the stairs to the first floor. I made a rapid entry to the building and had passed the first floor before he began his descent. Once on the eighth floor, I was able to locate the apartment. There is a chair outside the door, presumably normally occupied by the guard. There were three locks – all standard mortice – which I was able to open with little trouble and no trace. I have constructed a mould of the locks to enable the construction of copies for quiet access.

  By flashlight, I managed to get a good look at the apartment. A floor plan is appended. I exited the building at 21.47, at the signal of 225, who was waiting outside with the night glasses. The targets returned at 23.12, accompanied by their security officer. He was relieved by a replacement at 24.00 prompt. The neighbourhood is quiet and we noticed no external surveillance.

  My assessment is that Phase One (extraction) of MARMALADE is possible. One agent would gain access to the apartment while the targets are out and wait for their return. His partner would deal with the guard. We would have to be out before the replacement arrives and sounds the alarm. I await further instructions.