Moneypenny Diaries: Secret Servant

by Samantha Kate

  ‘Bit of luck about the bladder problem. Does this up the odds?’ M asked. He turned to Bookie.

  ‘Yes, sir, but the Planners still regard the exit from the country as the most risky component. However, we’ve drawn up more detailed options for this. I think, sir, we now have an estimated 43.7 per cent chance of success.’

  ‘You’re sure? 43.7 per cent?’

  ‘Well, to be more accurate, 43.682, sir.’ Bookie ghosted a wink at me as I looked at him, open-mouthed. M continued without a pause, as if it had been a well-trodden comedy routine.

  ‘What do you think, gentlemen? Chief of Staff?’

  ‘In my view, sir, it’s too risky. The potential fall-out if it failed would cripple our intelligence operations in the Redland sphere for years.’

  ‘Those Philby hasn’t already,’ M commented drily. ‘CME?’

  ‘I’m in, sir. I’d risk anything to get that bounder back to base.’

  ‘CS?’

  Bookie put his great mathematician’s head to one side. ‘It’s not a banker, that’s for sure. I’m afraid it’s too close to call, sir. I’d hold back my money.’

  ‘Which gives me the deciding vote. I say we do it. Next weekend. Same team: 009 and 225. Top secret. Give me the exit plans as soon as they’re finalised. Thank you, gentlemen.’

  Relieved that I wasn’t required to vote, I’d got up to leave with them when M called me back and told me to sit down.

  ‘You are doing well in these meetings, Miss Moneypenny. Good to have you aboard.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘That training we discussed: Bill’s set you up on a basic skills and anti-subversion course at the Fort next week. Starts Monday. Send Miss Comely up to look after me, will you? With 009 in Moscow and 006 in Vietnam, she can’t be rushed off her feet. Good luck.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  How exciting. Can I tell the Powder Vine, I wonder? Probably not.

  Friday, 22nd November

  It’s midnight and I can’t imagine ever sleeping again. This has been one of those days that makes you question what it’s all about. Is there a God? Justice? Hope? I feel emotionally drained, bereft, as though the curtains have been drawn on the future once and for all. I miss R. I want to be with him, or Helena, or someone.

  It feels like a year has passed, but it was only four hours ago when my phone rang. I was in the bath, soaking out the exertions of the week down at the Fort. I let it ring for what seemed like ages, but it showed no intention of ceasing. Worried that Aunt Frieda might have had another turn, I raised myself out of the bath and made it to the phone before it stopped. Still dripping, I said hello. All I could hear on the other end was sobbing. ‘Helena? What’s wrong?’ I asked.

  ‘Turn on the wireless. It’s too awful. I’m so sorry,’ she gulped.

  I let the handpiece dangle and rushed across the room to switch it on. I just caught the end of a sombre voice announcing ‘… died at 1.00 pm Central Standard Time. Vice-President Lyndon Johnson has left the hospital, but we do not know to where he has proceeded. Presumably he will be taking the oath of office shortly and become the thirty-sixth President of the United States …’

  It didn’t sink in at once. I picked up the phone again. ‘What happened? Who’s dead? It can’t be true.’

  ‘It is. JFK was shot in Dallas. What is going to happen to the world now?’ Helena broke off again. In the background I could hear Lionel trying to comfort her. I put the phone down and went back to the wireless. I stayed glued to it for hours, listening to descriptions of the stand-off at the hospital before the President’s body was removed and taken to Air Force One. Hundreds of police and agents sealing Dealey Plaza, where the shooting had taken place. Jackie Kennedy in her blood-spattered suit. A solemn-faced Lyndon Johnson, his palm held aloft, swearing the oath of allegiance before a lady judge on Air Force One.

  In my head, I saw the President’s smile as he held my hand in his and welcomed me into the Oval Office. That was only fifteen months ago. He was so young, so vital. I honestly believed he could, and would, change the world. Now he’s in a coffin. Who could have done such a terrible thing? Why?

  Saturday, 23rd November

  The nightmare has not gone away. I must finally have dropped off to sleep with the radio on last night, some time after hearing reports of the presidential plane arriving at Andrews Air Base. When I awoke, he was still dead and they were describing a small, ratty man named Lee Harvey Oswald being frog-marched to jail. Can one man really have pulled this off on his own? Seems unlikely.

  I had been looking forward to this weekend – writing up my course notes; sorting everything out before Monday. I find I haven’t the heart to do so now. It was a fascinating, full week, which now seems so trivial, like a game of cat and mouse. It can wait. I don’t want to be alone. This morning, Hyde Park was virtually empty of all but the most committed dog-walkers, and even they seemed to drag their feet. The phone was ringing when I got in. It was Helena, asking me to come up to Cambridge for the night. She sounded almost hysterical – quite unlike her normal self. It can’t be JFK.

  Sunday, 24th November

  I am on an emotional roller-coaster. Helena was waiting at the station when I arrived. I expected to find her tear-stained and ragged, but she was waving and appeared composed. She gave me an enormous hug. On the way to the house, we talked, inevitably, about the assassination, but I could tell that she was distracted. I turned to look at her. Beneath her frown, I could see a smile trying to break out. ‘What’s happened?’ I asked.

  ‘I’ll tell you when we get there.’

  Intrigued, I looked out of the window as we skirted down Newnham Road, past Ma’s old college and then left, out towards Grantchester. It was a roundabout route, but Helena knows that it makes me feel close to Ma, if only fleetingly.

  The home fires were burning. Lionel put down his pipe and gave me a warm embrace. He commiserated about the President, but even as he was doing so, I saw him give Helena a questioning look. Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed her shake her head and smile at him. I told them I’d had enough of the mystery and to please tell me what was going on. Lionel cleared his throat.

  ‘My dear Jane, we wanted you to be the first to know, we have, um, er …’

  ‘Set a date for the wedding,’ Helena finished.

  For a minute, I was struck dumb. I felt tears begin to trickle down my cheeks. I don’t know why. After a seven-year engagement, I suppose I’d given up hope that it might some day be formalised into marriage. I rushed across the room to hug Helena. When we separated, we were both sobbing. Lionel looked embarrassed. Kind, dear, clever Lionel. I smiled at him. ‘I couldn’t be more happy for you. Well done. So when is it?’

  ‘We thought about March 27th. It’s a Friday. Could you make that?’

  ‘The day after …?’

  ‘Yes. It was Lionel’s idea. He thought it would give us a reason to look at the end of March with joy, instead of sorrow. Do you think it’s tasteless?'2 Helena looked at me anxiously.

  ‘No. I think it’s perfect. Ma would have loved it. It’s the most wonderful news. On top of everything that’s happened. It’s like a sign to look to the positive. I am sure you will both bring happiness into every life you touch.’

  Yesterday evening, as dusk was falling, Helena and I went for a walk along the Backs. It was a beautiful, crisp evening and, for the first time in what seems like months, I didn’t think about being followed. The early stars were out and the lights shone from within King’s College Chapel. She told me how Lionel had woken up and said ‘How about March 27th?’ As if they were midway through the conversation. ‘I didn’t know, at first, what he was talking about. I honestly had given up thinking about it, but then he said, in his dear old way, “You know, for, um, er,” and I did. Can you believe it? I suppose the tragedy must have sparked it off. Are you pleased for us? I hope so. It doesn’t feel strange? You’ll be my maid of honour, of course?’

  Of course I will
. Old maid of honour. I found myself wanting to tell her about R, but it wasn’t the time. Still no word from him. I know I shouldn’t expect it, but I do miss him and I’m not sure, if it came to it, that I would be able to cope with the long, silent absences. I am so, so happy for Helena and Lionel. I only hope they don’t take quite as long over the decision to have children. Right now, I can’t imagine having a child of my own, but I would like to be an aunt.

  Monday, 25th November

  M walked straight past my desk this morning, as usual, as though nothing untoward had occurred over the weekend. I don’t know what I was expecting – just some sort of acknowledgement of JFK’s death. After all, we had met him together.3 Or maybe a ‘Welcome back’? Instead, he told me to convene a Marmalade meeting after lunch and to bring the signals in as soon as they arrived.

  After a week away on the south coast, living in the land of make-believe, following pretend people around Portsmouth and changing hats and taxis in an attempt to avoid being followed myself, leaving secret envelopes under loose stones in the sea-wall, and rolling out of car doors in the prescribed manner – then returning to JFK’s death and Helena’s wedding plans – I had forgotten about the Marmalade mission. I had read no reports and decoded no signals. When you’re at the Office day in and day out, everything seems urgent and crucial; but go away and you realise that the world keeps turning without your own little legs scrabbling on the treadmill.

  The group duly assembled. The first sign that all was not well came from Bill’s left eyelid, which was flickering as it has a habit of doing under a regime of sleepless nights and work-induced pressure. He had a thick pile of signals on the table in front of him.

  M nodded at Bookie to begin. ‘As you all probably know by now, Marmalade was not a success. Now is not the time for post-mortems, but I’ll briefly run through what happened. We received information that the Philbys had tickets for the Tchaikovsky Conservatoire on Saturday night. 009 and 225 were fully briefed and equipped. They took up station as soon as they saw the targets leave their apartment building, along with their normal security escort.

  ‘When the concierge went for his habitual break, 009 ascended the stairs to the eighth floor without incident. It was at this point that the plan began to break down. We do not have his report as yet, but from what I understand after talking to Moscow station chief, 009 had his newly minted key in the lock and was about to open the door, when he heard a sound coming from inside the apartment. He froze and listened some more. When he heard nothing, he opened the door an inch. The lights were off, but he had a strong sense that there was someone there. He was considering his next move, when the lights were switched on and two large men leapt towards him. According to Moscow station, 009 was extremely fortunate to get away. He ran down the stairs with the men close on his heels and managed to evade the concierge, who was fully armed, and get into the car with 225, who, on seeing the lights from outside, was waiting for him. While they raced across Moscow – two cars in pursuit – 009 reported what had happened.

  ‘They managed to evade their tail long enough for 009 to be dropped at a safe house, where 225 changed cars and returned to the Embassy. There were, apparently, several vehicles positioned around the Embassy. He was stopped and questioned by uniformed KGB officers before reaching the gates, but, although regarded with suspicion, he had diplomatic protection and was allowed to gain entry. He sent his report at 02.00 GMT on Sunday.’

  ‘Thank you, CS. Chief of Staff, any news from 009?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Bill replied. ‘We presume he will head for East Berlin. I’m afraid we have to regard the route planned for the Marmalade extraction as compromised. He’s a resourceful chap, though, speaks good enough Russian and, travelling alone, should be able to make it to the city. Then he’s in familiar territory and able to make contact with us. I hope to hear from him within three days.’

  ‘So what does this mean? It sounds as if the reception party at Philby’s flat was expecting them.’

  ‘’Fraid so, sir.’

  We all looked around the table. Marmalade has been a highly restricted operation, planned under conditions of tight secrecy. If it was penetrated, then it can have only been by a limited number of people. I felt a large, interior groan. In Bill’s parlance, there were still unplugged holes in the sieve.

  ‘Thank you, everybody. We will reconvene in a few days.’

  I walked back to my office with a heavy heart. As I got there, M buzzed through on the intercom. ‘Ask Miss Fields to come down please, Miss Moneypenny.’

  Friday, 29th November

  The Friday reports came in as usual. I was almost surprised to see them. It has been a week so far removed from normality that I wouldn’t have been shocked to hear that all the field agents had been killed – or were taking leave to marry their secretaries. Such has been the nature of my troubled sleep.

  M has spent much of the week in deep conversation with Dorothy Fields. As usual, when matters turn to moles, M reaches for Dorothy. Bill once told me that her brain is like a mechanised version of the Records room. You give her a name and she can draw up the relevant file and make instant connections. She was the one who dug up Prenderghast, and I know that she was looking into whether he had an accomplice in the office. Then Philby came along and I suppose channelled all available energies into salvaging what could be from the wreckage of our Soviet activity.

  Yesterday afternoon, Dorothy came into my office and asked if we could talk. As I followed her down to the seventh floor, I thought again how innocuous she looked, with her ill-fitting dress and funny little cherry-topped hat. How appearances can deceive. She sat me down and called for coffee. While I was adding milk to mine, I felt her keen eyes assessing me. She said nothing, just sat there drinking her cup of black coffee and watching me sipping at mine. ‘Coffee all right?’ she asked formally.

  ‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘Thank you very much.’

  She laughed, a deep, jungle laugh. ‘You’re a bad liar, Jane. Thank you. I needed to know that. Now you can stop drinking it if you like. I know you can’t stand the stuff.’

  Startled, I looked up, caught her eye and started laughing myself. ‘That’s Kenya, for you. Too much coffee from too young an age.’

  She started talking about her childhood, just over the border in Tanganyika. I hadn’t known. Soon we were swapping stories of fishing for termites and long walks along dusty red roads. I have always been in awe of her: her adventures in Stalin’s Russia, French Indo-China and Africa are the stuff of legend. But here she was, a large and friendly Mrs Tiggywinkle, acting for all the world as if she was at a WI coffee morning. I like her enormously. I hope we can be friends.

  She turned the conversation neatly to the Marmalade operation. Her questions were adroit and succinct, but not remotely threatening. She wanted to know who I had talked to about it. When I replied no one, except M and Bill, she asked me a few more questions about my week at the Fort and whether it had come up in any context there. When I denied it, she thanked me for my co-operation. As I was walking out of the door, she asked if I had written to Eleanor Philby.

  ‘No,’ I told her. ‘I wish I could, but I don’t have her address.’

  She smiled and waved.

  This morning, as I was decoding the reports, I couldn’t help but admire her skill at putting me at my ease, then finding out what she wanted to know without appearing to ask.

  I was delighted to read 007’s report. It was dotted with his usual humour and spiked with irreverence. For the first time since Tracy was killed, I felt he was fully the old James – brave and professional, with the faintest touch of mischief. He has been away for nearly three weeks now, and in that time has managed to take in most of the hotspots of the Caribbean. I don’t want to be in M’s room when he has to sign for James’s expenses. Mr Scaramanga, it seems, has an uncanny knack of keeping just a step ahead of his hunter. According to his report, James arrived in Trinidad the day after a senior government official mysterious
ly disappeared on his yacht with his girlfriend. A man answering Scaramanga’s description was observed leaving the country that same afternoon.

  By the time James reached Caracas, the newspapers were reporting the murder of an oil-company head, who had been refusing to deal with Castro in Cuba. From Venezuela, fearing that his cover had been blown, he flew to British Guiana, where he is now waiting for a diplomatic passport.

  ‘My new name is Mark Hazard,’ he reported. ‘Entirely appropriate, from Scaramanga’s point of view. When I have received all the relevant documents, I will fly to Havana to wait. He is sure to return to his home at some point soon.’

  Saturday, 30th November

  I received a postcard from Roddy Parks, thanking me for meeting him and giving me Miles Pitman’s address, a PO box number in Nanyuki, Kenya. I will write to him tomorrow.

  December

  My quest to find the hidden mole within SIS was failing to produce any concrete results. Rereading my aunt’s diaries, I dug deeper for clues, compiling mental lists as to who it could have been. But I found no answers hidden in her pages, and, apart from what she had written, there was little evidence to suggest that a mole existed. After exhausting all conceivable sources within and without the Office, I went back to Bill Tanner. Again he parried my determined attempts to break through the barriers of discretion and discipline that I felt sure were holding back the truth. ‘No mole,’ he kept saying. ‘It was the product of paranoia in a climate of fear. Careful, Kate. You’ll get into trouble if you keep asking questions. You’ll find no one on this side to admit to a mole.’

  It was that precise combination of words that gave me the idea for a last angle of attack: if our records were closed or redacted, perhaps I would have better luck with theirs.

  I already knew to expect little from the official KGB archives in Moscow: the few scholars who have been allowed access to them have been strictly supervised and limited in what they have been allowed to see. I had scoured – without success – the Mitrokhin Archives, the secret KGB records smuggled out by former KGB archivist Vasili Mitrokhin on his defection to the West in 1992. There, too, I found little in the way of hard information to help me. I needed to talk to someone who had been there, on the inside, at the time I was interested in. I needed to find a former KGB officer who was willing to talk.