Moneypenny Diaries: Secret Servant

by Samantha Kate

  Oleg Gordievsky is probably Britain’s most celebrated Russian defector. He is to the SIS, what Philby was to the KGB. Over a period spanning eleven years, he provided our intelligence services with an unparalleled quantity and quality of product relating to the workings and day-to-day objectives of the KGB, which organisation he served for twenty-two years. I had read Last Stop Execution, his chilling account of what it was like to work simultaneously for the KGB and the British services. I knew he was living in England – I had heard him talk at a recent debate about the future of the intelligence services. But I had no idea how to find him. I sent an email to Ferdy Macintyre at SIS, asking if he could help me track down Gordievsky. If emails could simultaneously laugh and stick two fingers in the air, his response did.

  It was, improbably, an old boyfriend who had once worked in Moscow – returning considerably richer, though with a premature mane of grey – who pointed me in the right direction. He introduced me to a former intelligence officer friend of his, who, over an expensive and well-lubricated lunch, let drop that he knew Gordievsky well. ‘I’ll set up lunch for us if you’d like,’ he said. ‘Oleg’s fond of Chinese food.’

  It was a cold winter’s day in London, and I was nervous. I arrived early at the appointed restaurant, but both of my guests were already at the bar. They stood up to greet me, and I found myself looking down into the pale, bespectacled eyes of a legendary spy. He was wearing a grey jacket over an open-necked denim shirt, and drinking red wine. At first I found his accent hard to penetrate, though his English, I soon discovered, is excellent, and he has an extraordinary memory for names, dates and places. The two old spies swapped insider gossip about people I did not know, as I drank in the Russian names and the now-familiar acronyms. It was as if I had trespassed into a gentleman’s club. For the duration of this lunch, at least, I was living in my aunt’s world.

  As we started to eat, and Gordievsky progressed from red wine on to beer, he dropped his stern façade and talked freely about his career as an agent working for the British. He was recruited in 1974 in Copenhagen, where he was working for the KGB from within the Soviet Embassy. Living in the West, he’d had an opportunity to see that the propaganda he had been drip-fed throughout his life was false. The grass was demonstrably and genuinely greener on the other side of the Curtain, he told me, smiling and waving his fork (he had rejected chopsticks) around the sumptuous interior of the new restaurant buried in the basement beneath the Dorchester Hotel.

  His eyes had been opened to the faults and failures of the Soviet system, and he felt morally bound to do anything he could to contribute to its dissolution. Our mutual friend, the British former intelligence officer, interrupted him to comment that ‘the information Oleg supplied when he was acting chief of the London rezidentura – particularly about Gorbachev’s commitment to perestroika – almost certainly curtailed the Cold War.’

  In spying for the British, Gordievsky had put himself in considerable danger. When his actions were eventually discovered by the Centre, he was recalled to Moscow, force-fed truth serum, and condemned to death. He was probably only weeks away from being executed when he activated a British-devised escape plan and fled over the border to Finland and from there to London. It was six years before his wife and children were able to join him in England.

  ‘How are they adapting to life here now?’ I asked. But it was the wrong question. Gordievsky’s eyes grew opaque behind the thick lenses of his glasses. ‘I do not know,’ he said finally. ‘I have had no contact with them for many years.’ His commitment to the British, it appeared, had destroyed his marriage and severed his links with his children, as well as to his country. To this day, he is living under a Moscow death sentence. Unless things change, he can never return.

  As we devoured the dim sum, he gave me a lesson in KGB tradecraft. The methods he described for evading surveillance were identical in most respects to those my aunt had read about in the Q Branch quarterly report decades before. I asked if he had met Philby. Regretfully, he hadn’t, although one of Philby’s closest friends in the KGB, the writer Mikhail Lyubimov, had been his superior in Copenhagen and one of the few men he respected in the organisation. From the moment he arrived in Moscow, Gordievsky told me, Philby would have been under constant close surveillance and his flat would have been wired.

  ‘And Eleanor?’ I asked.

  ‘Less so. She would possibly have had a team with one car to follow her if she went out. But, if she wanted to, she would have been able to shake it without too much trouble,’ he told me.

  Finally I asked the question that had been pressing at the front of my mind: did he know whether there had been a further Russian agent working in SIS after Prenderghast was exposed in the early 1960s? He looked me in the eye, drained his glass, and said, ‘Yes – and I have told your services so.’

  I felt my heart pound. ‘Do you know who it was?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘To the best of my knowledge, the identity of the agent has never been discovered.’

  Sunday, 1st December

  A postcard from R, at last. He’s safe, thank God. I didn’t know quite how much I longed to hear from him until I picked up the picture of Gaudi’s cathedral and turned the card over to see his writing. There were only twenty-five words: ‘I miss you and count the days until I can see you again. I hope and trust that will be soon. Take care, my love.’

  I hugged the card to my chest and for hours couldn’t stop smiling. I have been trying not to think about him, but it’s been hard, not knowing where he is, whether he’s safe or when he’ll be back. What was he doing when JFK was killed? Sometimes, I wonder if he’s thinking about me as I am about him. Now I know I have not been forgotten.

  I looked closely at the postmark. Vienna. What was he doing there? Or indeed was he there, or had he given the card to someone else to post? Too many questions and no hope of answers. I took Rafi for a run in the park this morning and tried out some daydreams – of a simple, happy life with R and me in a thatched cottage in the country somewhere, cooking, reading, walking, laughing together. Could I do it – devote my life to pruning roses and warming his slippers? After the tension and excitement of Office life? It seems like an impossible dream and not one that’s troubled me before. Driving an ambulance in wartime Cairo was the stuff of my childhood fantasies, not jumble sales at the WI.

  In the meantime, I have those twenty-five words to live on.

  Monday, 2nd December

  I can’t escape that prickly feeling that I’m being followed. Bill has assured me that our people are merely ‘keeping an eye’ on my back. This apparently involves driving past the flat from time to time, to see whether there are any suspicious cars parked in view of my front door. So far, they’ve picked up nothing, he says. But it’s not when I’m at home that I feel it. It’s going to and from work, on weekends, in the park, shopping, in cafés. I don’t know whether the course has made me more sensitive or more paranoid about surveillance, but I’m constantly conscious of the possibility of it. As an exercise, I might enjoy it, but not this relentless, stultifying awareness. I enter shops with large glass windows when I don’t have to, trying to catch sight of someone loitering outside. I take the tube rather than walk. I carry a spare hat and scarf and spectacles in my bag at all times.

  Then I feel ridiculous, like the only one at a party wearing fancy dress. I can’t say for sure that I’ve clocked the same face twice, because after a while, if you’re searching, everyone starts to look familiar. I keep telling myself that herein lies the route to madness and for a few days I make a conscious effort not to look behind me. Then I catch sight of someone who, for some reason, looks suspicious and I start looking again. I can begin to imagine what it must be like for Eleanor, who must know that she is followed wherever she goes. Poor Eleanor. I hope it’s not too ghastly, living in a hideous flat in a cold and grey city with long queues for a rare grapefruit. I hope that just being with Kim makes it all worthwhile.

  This mornin
g, I was convinced I recognised a woman on the bus. She got on at the same stop and sat a few rows behind me. I heard her asking for her ticket with a pronounced accent, which to my untrained ear could have been Russian or Slavic. Just as the bus was leaving the stop at Hyde Park Corner, I got up from my seat, ran downstairs and jumped off. She didn’t follow. I stood on the side of the road, watching my bus turn down towards Victoria, cursing silently. Now I would be late for work. For what? Even if she had been following me, she surely knew where I worked by now and it wasn’t as if I was heading towards some clandestine meet or had anything to hide. At best, she wasn’t following me; at worst, I had broken a fundamental rule of surveillance evasion and shown consciousness of my tail. If that’s what she was, then she will report back that I deviated from routine and they will redouble their watch on me. Damn and blast.

  My ill temper was alleviated somewhat when I reached the Office and found a signal from Mary, full of surprise and delight at James’s appearance in Jamaica. I had purposely held back from warning her that he was in the region – to stave off the disappointment she would have felt had his mission not taken him to Kingston. Fortunately for her, he picked up Scaramanga’s scent at the airport while waiting for an onward connection to Havana, called the High Commission and got Goodnight. I almost blush to think about the reunion they’ll be having tonight. The combination of James, alive and tanned, and a couple of rum daiquiris would be irresistible.

  Aside from his presence out there – apparently in fine health – she had only bad news. Ross [Head of Jamaica Station] flew to Trinidad a week ago and she’s not heard a peep from him since then. He was only meant to be scouting for Scaramanaga on 007’s behalf and was under strict orders to keep a low profile and not to engage him in any way. If so, then why the failure to communicate? It’s most unlike him. Mary sent out a Red Warning two days ago and was told to give him another week. Perhaps James will pick up some clue as to his whereabouts?

  Wednesday, 4th December

  M called me into his office this afternoon. ‘Send this message to 007, wherever he is,’ he told me. ‘Mark it most urgent:

  TOP REDLAND AGENT NAMED HENDRIKS IN JAMAICA STOP AVOID HIM AT ALL COSTS STOP WE HAVE HEARD FROM A DELICATE BUT SURE SOURCE THAT AMONG HIS OTHER JOBS COMMA HE HAS BEEN ORDERED TO FIND AND KILL QUOTE THE NOTORIOUS SECRET AGENT JAMES BOND ENDQUOTE HE HAS CABLED THE CENTRE FOR YOUR DESCRIPTION ENDIT MAILEDFIST

  ‘007’s in Jamaica,’ I told M. ‘Station J signalled on Tuesday to say he had arrived safely. She didn’t know where he was heading, at that point.’

  M didn’t look up. ‘Knowing him, straight into the dragon’s den. We can but warn. Send the cable, please, Miss Moneypenny, then be a good girl and call down Miss Fields for me.’ He didn’t even have the grace to show concern for James’s safety.

  Thursday, 5th December

  An urgent signal from Mary in Kingston, sent by Triple X, came through just as I arrived. It must have been the middle of the night over there. I got out my machine and started to decipher it:

  MAILEDFIST EYES ONLY

  TRACKED DOWN OHOHSEVEN LAST NIGHT TO THE THUNDERBIRD HOTEL IN BLOODY BAY COMMA ESTABLISHMENT OWNED BY TARGET SCARAMANGA STOP EYE PASSED ON MESSAGE ABOUT HENDRIKS WHOSE ACQUAINTANCE HE HAS ALREADY MADE COMMA BUT DOES NOT BELIEVE HIS COVER HAS BEEN PENETRATED YET STOP OHOHSEVEN REPORTED THAT HEAD OP STATION JAY COMMANDER ROSS WAS KILLED BY SCARAMANGA IN TRINIDAD STOP TWO COUSINS INCLUDING LEITER IN ATTENDANCE AT HOTEL STOP URGENTLY AWAITING FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS ENDIT GOODNIGHT

  M banged his fist on the table when he read it. ‘What is it about bloody Jamaica that we lose all our station chiefs? Meant to be a soft posting. Ross was a good man, served on one of my ships. Inform the High Commissioner, please, Miss Moneypenny. Contact his family – he wasn’t married, was he? Thank God for that. Then send round the hat for a wreath, pick a date for the memorial service, all that kind of thing. Get Langley on the telephone for me – whoever’s the highest ranking officer awake at this time. Send up Head of section C [Caribbean] immediately and tell Chief of Staff to come in too. We’ll need to send out someone to hold the fort, and pretty sharpish, if I know 007. Whatever happens, there’s sure to be a hell of a mess.

  I fear for James. With both Scaramanga and the KGB gunning for him, he’s like a deer caught in the cross-hairs of a night-sight rifle. I pray for everyone’s sake – James’s, M’s, Mary’s, my own – that he manages to extricate himself. To lose him once was bad enough.

  Friday, 6th December

  I was woken early by a phone call from Bill, summoning me to the Office. I got there before dawn, just as M was arriving and shared his lift up to the eighth floor. Apart from a nod, he ignored me and instead talked to Fletcher about the effect of the damp weather on his stump. Apparently it itches when it rains. It was only when we got to M’s door that he turned to me. ‘Get the latest signals from Kingston and Washington, please, Miss Moneypenny. Decipher them quickly. Then you’d better join us.’

  When I walked into his office, Bill, Bookie and Head of C were already waiting. I handed M the signals, which he read in silence. Then he looked up. ‘Scaramanga is dead,’ he announced. ‘Along with a top KGB operative calling himself Hendriks, and a handful of mobsters from America. The result of a joint operation between us and the Cousins. Unfortunately, in the course of the party 007 was badly hurt. He was found unconscious in a mangrove swamp by a Jamaican police officer, next to Scaramanga’s body. According to the report I have here, 007 sustained a shot in the right side of the stomach. It is suspected that the bullet was coated in poison. He was taken directly to the hospital, where he underwent an operation to remove the bullet. He has not regained consciousness, but the doctors say the bullet missed the abdominal viscera. He has been given an even chance of recovery, but he’s got the best available medical care out there and he’s a brave and strong man who has rid the world of an evil killer. He’s come back from the dead before,’ M gave a dry cough, ‘and we must hope that he pulls through again.

  ‘In the meantime, there is a considerable clean-up operation to undertake. Felix Leiter from the CIA was also badly injured. Apparently broke his leg – and we must assume it was not the prosthetic one he picked up as a result of a previous adventure with 007. The man will be limbless if he spends any more time with 007.’ If it was an attempt at a joke, nobody laughed. M continued: ‘Washington is awaiting a full report from him. Alec [Alec Hill, Head of the Caribbean Section, based in London], you’d better get on the first plane to Kingston to talk to him before anyone else does. Miss Moneypenny will organise your flight. We need to co-ordinate some sort of plausible story, otherwise we’re going to have the Jamaicans on our backs, full of righteous fury that we’ve been operating on their soil without permission. Then there’s the KGB to placate, not to mention the organisations of those other, er, gentlemen, who lost their lives. We need to avoid any possibility of retribution. If this can be sorted out, we can count it as a very successful operation. Thank you, gentlemen.’

  I spent the rest of the morning sorting out aeroplane tickets and trying not to worry about James. After lunch, my phone rang. ‘Jane, is that you?’ asked a distant voice. ‘I’m calling on the secure line from the High Commission in Kingston.’

  Mary sounded exhausted and close to tears. I wished I could be there with her. ‘How are you, Mary? How’s James?’

  ‘I’ve just come from the hospital. They say they’re optimistic that he’ll pull through. Apparently it was a miracle that the bullet missed his vital organs, but he’s still unconscious and hooked up to wires and drips and all sorts of machines. He’s a horrible, greyish-green colour. If it wasn’t for his pulse beat on the monitor, I’d think he was dead. Oh, Jane, it’s all ghastly. First Ross and now James …’ She began to cry.

  ‘Mary, you’ve got to pull yourself together. Alec is on his way out and there’s not much you can do. James is in the best hands. We’re all leaving the office in a couple of hours, and when we do, go home, ta
ke a pill and go to sleep. You’re going to have a lot on your plate over the next couple of weeks and, when he wakes up, James is going to require all your energies.’

  ‘Jane, you don’t understand. I’ve just come from talking to Felix. He told me what happened. That awful Scaramanga had tied a dummy to the railway line in front of the train they were travelling on. It had blonde hair. It was meant to look like me. How can anyone be that evil?’

  ‘Mary, it wasn’t you and I’m sure James wasn’t fooled. Go to bed now, please. You can take that as an order direct from M.’

  I put the phone down and swivelled around to see M at his door, looking at me with raised eyebrows. I felt a blush rise. ‘Sorry, sir. I hope you don’t mind. That was Miss Goodnight. I invoked your name to get her to go home to sleep. I assure you I don’t make a practice of it.’

  ‘I hope you don’t, Miss Moneypenny. In this case, however, you’ve done the right thing. Now go home yourself and thank you for coming in early.’ He almost smiled – the first time in months that I’d even seen a hint of one. This news came not a minute too soon for the Old Man.

  I got home and had a long bath. I wondered where R was and what he is up to. Will either of us ever truly be able to escape the blood and the adventure?

  Sunday, 8th December

  Thank God one of them is all right. I was in the Office this morning, as M had stayed in town for the weekend to monitor the situation in Jamaica, when 009 walked in, looking bedraggled but otherwise well. He went straight in to see M and Bill and, when he came out, he gave me a hug and said he was going on leave for a week and would I please come with him? When I laughed, he affected a look of hurt.