Moneypenny Diaries: Secret Servant

by Samantha Kate

  Eventually, I heard footsteps on the stairs, followed by a soft knock on my door. I leapt out of bed to open it a crack. On the other side, I saw a smiling young man. He was dressed like an East German, but his voice, when he asked for ‘Dr d’Arcy’, was as English as Assam tea. He came in and introduced himself as ‘734 – but you can call me Jem’. Then he looked me up and down, leant forward to ruffle my hair and stood back again and nodded. ‘Not a bad likeness,’ he pronounced. ‘Not bad at all. Wouldn’t fool her friends, but hopefully you won’t bump into any of those where you’re going. For the purposes of your trip, you tick all the right boxes. Just keep your mouth shut at all times. The good Dr d’Arcy speaks atrocious German, but at least she has the rudiments of a vocabulary.’

  ‘Is she through all right?’ I asked.

  ‘Yep, just received the all-clear. I was worried myself for a while. She’s quite a fire-cracker, liable to go off the deep end at the slightest provocation.’ He smiled. ‘Do her good to go home for a while and learn some manners. Now, I have your train tickets. It’s a thirty-two-hour journey from here to Moscow, which includes a couple of hours’ wait at the border while they re-gauge the carriage wheels for the Russian tracks. That’s when you’re most at risk from the border guards prowling up and down the train. However, your papers are in order, you’ve got a valid visa and, since your trip originated in the Bloc, you should be OK. Still, I’d pretend to be asleep just in case – it’ll give you an excuse to grunt if they try to question you.’

  Nothing he said was new to me. The Planners had briefed me thoroughly before I left, but I still listened with due attention. There was no room for mistakes.

  Wednesday, 22nd January

  I made it. The train journey passed without incident, or real sleep. My compartment was situated inconveniently over the brakes, which made a sharp rattling sound like a machine-gun discharging its load whenever we slowed down. I was lucky with the border: the East German check was perfunctory and when the Russian guard came in and barked some orders, my travelling companions produced their papers and I followed suit, my eyes half shut. The documents didn’t seem to cause him any disquiet and he made no move to search my luggage or engage me in conversation, which I’d been dreading, despite all the precautions. I drank endless cups of weak Russian tea from the crone presiding over a steaming samovar at the end of the carriage, and bought some more bread and cold meat from the shifting cast of ladies who jumped on the train at the stops, and walked up and down the corridors selling their wares. I thought of James: it was less than a year ago that he’d been on a Russian train, still convinced he was a Japanese fisherman. So much has happened since then – to him and to me.

  Eventually, as dawn was breaking, we started drawing into the city through the drab outskirts, where clusters of uniform buildings huddled beside hulking factories spewing smoke and steam into the dove-grey morning. As we slowed, I could make out small, box-shaped cars, their headlights glowing a dull yellow, scurrying along broad thoroughfares. People huddled into heavy greatcoats and fur hats tramped the snow-covered pavements. With a last steamy hoot, we pulled into Rizhski Station and I followed my companions on to the platform. Even though I was well prepared, with layers upon layers of wool and sheepskin, the cold was like a sharp slap to the face, biting into my nose and cheeks and searing up my nostrils. It was at the same time excruciating and invigorating and I silently thanked Rose d’Arcy for her long johns, huge scarf and gloves.

  There were taxis waiting at the entrance to the station. I found a relatively cheery-looking man and handed him my piece of paper bearing an address written in Cyrillic script – Hotel Sovietsky, chosen by Q Branch for its discreet location, a few miles away from the city centre and conveniently close to the Philbys’ apartment. ‘It’s a small hotel by their standards, built at the behest of Stalin in 1952,’ Head of Q had told me, ‘and used by him to put up visiting dignitaries from around the region. We thought it might be better to hide you in the glare of the spotlight, so to speak, rather than try to disguise you as a tourist. There’s no danger of you bumping into anyone familiar. It’s reasonably priced and comfortable enough.’

  It is indeed, and more so. For a small hotel of only 100 rooms, it was built on a grand scale. The ceilings are magnificently high, there are large portraits of Stalin on every wall and the corridors smell of polish. After checking in, I walked up the marble staircase to my third-floor room. It was spacious and mercifully hot. Large windows looked over a small park, in which I could see barrel-shaped old women, small children strapped to their fronts with patterned scarves. To my left ran the busy Leningradsky Prospekt, the main route to Russia’s old imperial capital, and in the distance, I could just see one of Stalin’s legendary skyscrapers, the Seven Goddesses.

  As day breaks on my second morning here, I feel strangely happy. Moscow is far from the grey behemoth of my imagination. Yes, it’s huge and powerful, but it’s also beautiful in parts and the people shyly courteous.

  I caught the metro – in itself an artistic experience – down to Red Square. The sun caught the multicoloured domes of St Basil’s Cathedral as I stood outside Lenin’s mausoleum, gazing towards the river.

  I spent the afternoon at the State Tretyakov Gallery, an extraordinary red-brick and white-enamel palace, jammed full of Russian paintings, from the earliest icons to the present day. It would, I surmised, have been Rose d’Arcy’s first port of call. For a few days at least, I plan to do nothing that might give anyone who might be following me any reason for suspicion. All day, I fought the impulse to check my tail. I am, in effect I suppose, engaged in a marathon exercise of dry-cleaning.

  Sunday, 26th January

  My first clandestine contact, and I’m sure as I can be that I wasn’t followed. I got up early, slipped into a church service near Red Square and stood among the chanting women. From there, I went into GUM, the state department store – a magnificent nineteenth-century stone edifice, marking the entire eastern edge of Red Square, with internal glass and steel galleried corridors lined by state-owned stores selling little, but attracting long queues. I looked in glass windows all the way, checking for a tail. I sat in a small café for a while, bought some paper from a stationer’s, caught the metro back to the Tretyakov and sat in front of a particularly fetching icon, which I started sketching. Then I went to the loo and slipped out and jumped into a passing taxi. My rendezvous was the statue of Peter the Great, towering over the tip of the island in the river opposite Gorky Park. I was to look for a man wearing a navy striped scarf. I arrived in good time and tried to keep myself warm by stamping my feet while appearing to look interested in the monumental statue. It seemed like an age. I didn’t want to check my watch, but after my cheeks started to singe in the cold, I got out my handkerchief and managed a quick glimpse. It was fifteen minutes past our appointed assignation. I found my pulse quickening. Following my instructions, I aborted and reverted to Plan B.

  I walked quickly to the nearest metro station, trying to work through the implications of his no-show. At best, he wasn’t sure he was ‘clean’ – as Head of Station S, he was sure to be under intense surveillance at all times – but what if he failed to make our next meeting? What if he’d been caught and compromised? After a few days of feeling free in Moscow, I felt the tension return. He was my lifeline. Without him I was stranded in this vast and overwhelming city.

  I emerged from the metro at Kiev Station and walked quickly north along the river to the Ukraine Hotel, one of the Seven Goddesses. As I approached, it loomed larger and more overwhelming – vast, splendid, a terrifying symbol of Stalin’s appetite for power. Inside, it was mercifully warm. I unmuffled myself and sat down to drink a warming cup of tea in the first-floor bar. I was still fairly sure there was no one on my tail. Once feeling had returned to my fingers, I walked towards the lift and pressed the top button. Emerging at a small staircase, I climbed into a glass-sided pergola, its double doors leading out on to the viewing platform. Everything wa
s exactly as it had been described to me. I was still a few minutes early, but the view on every side drew me back out into the bitter cold.

  It was magnificent: the sky was a watery blue and the river frozen into silver stillness. I felt as if I could see the entire city – golden domes, steely skyscrapers and the steam from tall cooling-towers wafting across the rooftops. I was the only person there and, for a while, my worries evaporated as I walked around, drinking in the view. Suddenly, I felt a presence at my elbow. A man about my height, with a frost-tinged moustache, said softly, ‘It’s cold enough here to freeze cream.’

  ‘As long as it’s chocolate, I’m happy,’ I replied, word perfect.

  He smiled. ‘Sorry about the no-show earlier. It took me longer than I expected to shake my shadow. Now, we haven’t much time – they’ll be looking for me. London will be delighted to hear of your safe arrival. I’ve had a handful of signals from M’s Chief of Staff asking for news of “Seville” – damn funny code name if you ask me. He knew damn well that our meet was scheduled for today, but seemed anxious all the same.’

  ‘You can report back that I’m well and smelling the orange blossom. Send him my love and tell him to stop fretting.’

  ‘Will do. Next, I have to inform you that “Colonel Boris” is currently in Moscow, based at the Lubyanka, and you should steer clear and exercise extreme caution. We have a report placing him in East Berlin on December 9th.’

  I felt my teeth clench and prickles of sweat spring up under my thick coat. It could have been no coincidence: somehow he was involved in R’s death. The anger must have shown on my face.

  ‘Are you all right?’ my companion asked. I nodded.

  ‘He has not, however, been spotted anywhere near Marmalade. Is that clear?’ I nodded again.

  ‘Over the past week, we’ve been led to assume that Marmalade is unwell, as he has not been accompanying Mrs Marmalade on her trips to the Central Post Office. The Planners regard that as your most likely meeting-point. She normally goes on a Wednesday and a Saturday around 11.00 hours. You are to arrive at 10.30 hours and request to open a PO box in your name. That will give you a reason to be there. If she turns up, you’re to proceed according to your instructions. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Very well. You know you are to contact me only in case of emergency or if you have something important to report. We’ll be keeping an eye on the signal sites. You remember them?’

  ‘They’re etched on my brain,’ I said.

  ‘One final thing: CS’s secretary wanted me to tell you that 007 was fighting fit and enjoying a good night’s sleep in Jamaica, if that makes any sense?’

  I couldn’t suppress a quick grin at the thought of Mary fussing over the invalid. How long would he be able to take that?

  ‘All that remains is to wish you all the best of British.’ He flashed me a quick smile before slipping back through the doors and disappearing into the bowels of the hotel.

  Wednesday, 29th January

  I went to the Central Post Office, an unprepossessing utilitarian block at Chistye Prudy, north-west of Red Square, and duly opened a PO box in the name of Dr Rose d’Arcy. As a result of my lack of Russian, it took well over an hour to complete the formalities. I kept a surreptitious eye out for Eleanor, my heart beating a little faster each time the door swung open, but she never came. Eventually, when I could string out my business no longer, I left. I felt as if I’d been stood up on a hot date – I had been looking forward to seeing her more than I can say, not only for the sake of my mission, but, I’m forced to admit, for the company. I think of myself as reasonably brave, and better than most at solitude, but this is testing my limits. I have so much time alone with my thoughts and there is only a certain amount of energy I can devote to the mission. R keeps slipping uninvited into my dreams – and nightmares. The pain of missing him is unabated.

  With the exception of my brief brush with Head of Station S, I haven’t spoken English to anyone for over a week. What I would give to be able to pick up the phone and have a quick chat to Helena, or Bill. I’ve picked up a few words of Russian here and there and, with the aid of a chart translating the Cyrillic alphabet, am able to find my way around quite well now. But I’ve never felt so utterly foreign before and so stupid, unable to communicate in anything but the most basic form. I’m also constantly aware that I stand out as an alien. Despite my East German clothes, strangers stare at me wherever I go. Do I have a strange scent? Do I hold myself differently? I know my features are not typically Russian, but there is such a range of faces and forms in this vast land that I should be able to meld in as long as I don’t try to say anything.

  If I feel like this after a week, what must Eleanor feel after four months, with her Harrods coat and American gloss? Presumably she is watched wherever she goes, not only by strangers, but by the KGB. I look for her on every street corner, in the metro, in galleries or churches. I long to hear how she is. I wonder if she is expecting me? I wasn’t given her address; all I know is that it’s not far from my hotel.

  I was heading back towards Red Square when I saw a metro station ahead. Even with my imperfect recognition of the Cyrillic alphabet, I could recognise the word ‘Lubyanka’. I looked to my right, up to a vast grey and pale brick building covering the entire block. The windows were small and impenetrable. Was Boris at one of them, watching me, waiting to make his move? Was Greville Wynne, the British spy, incarcerated behind another? I felt the back of my throat constrict with instinctive fear, and half ran down the street. Boris still haunts my thoughts.

  If she conforms to routine, Eleanor will be at the Post Office on Saturday. It seems a long time from now. What if she’s ill? What if they’ve moved their box? I plan to go each day, just in case.

  Friday, 31st January

  Hallelujah! We’ve made contact. I was posting a letter this morning, when I heard the unmistakable tones of an American accent. My heart started beating wildly. Slowly, I steeled myself to turn around in a calm fashion and with a combination of relief and excitement saw her there, at the counter beside me, standing next to a plumpish, attractive woman in a fur coat.

  I knew my lines, but all of a sudden I was scared, afraid that I would somehow fluff my part and blow the operation. I took a few deep breaths and walked along to where they stood. I waited until Eleanor looked around. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, before the surprise could register on her face. ‘I heard you speaking English and wondered if you could help me with something.’ With an effort visible to me, but hopefully not to her companion, who was looking curiously on, Eleanor collected herself.

  ‘Of course,’ she said, ‘whatever I can do.’

  ‘I’m new to Moscow and I’ve lost my map. Could you possibly tell me the best route to the Tretyakov Gallery from here? I’m not used to approaching it from this direction.’

  Eleanor glanced behind her, towards the door, and in my peripheral vision I could see a burly young man in a suit waiting there, looking at us – her security escort.

  ‘I’d be happy to show you,’ she said. ‘It’s one of my favourite places in Moscow. I go often.’

  ‘I do too,’ I told her. ‘Most afternoons. I’m studying early Russian icons. Sorry, I should have introduced myself. My name’s Rose d’Arcy.’

  ‘Eleanor,’ she replied, ‘and this is Melinda,’ she said gesturing at her friend. ‘Rose needs directions to the Tretyakov Gallery,’ she added, somewhat unnecessarily. ‘Come downstairs with me and I’ll point you in the right direction.’

  As we turned to leave the building, the young man followed, just within earshot. Eleanor gave me detailed directions and I thanked her. ‘Perhaps we will bump into each other there someday?’ I said.

  ‘We’re bound to,’ she replied, with a ghost of a wink and then, after a quick glance to each side, she silently mouthed the word ‘tomorrow’.

  I didn’t even feel the cold as I walked the few blocks to the gallery. Inside, I was sin
ging. The waiting part is over.

  February

  The diaries were beginning to take over my life. I was so engrossed in my aunt’s adventures that my day-to-day university activities felt increasingly like a chore. I resented every minute I spent away from them; her world seemed infinitely more exciting and important than mine. I decided to do something about it. At the end of the Michaelmas term, I requested – and was granted – a sabbatical. I had conceived a secret plan of my own: to travel to Russia in my aunt’s footsteps, convincing myself that it was necessary in order to be able to check the details of what she had written, the geography of the city, the street and place names.

  As soon as my sabbatical started, I moved up to London, leaving most of my belongings in storage in Cambridge. I’d been informed by the bursar that my rooms would be used by a visiting professor in my absence, and I had rented out the Grantchester cottage. I intended to base myself at the London flat of the wife of another colleague, who taught at University College London during the term and spent most weekends and holidays with her family in Cambridge.

  In London, I buried myself in the National Archives and the British Library, reading everything I could find about Philby and the Cambridge spies. I started planning my trip to Russia. I was delighted to discover that the Sovietsky was still operating as a hotel, and that the Tretyakov Gallery was open for business.

  It was as I was leaving for the library one morning that the letter from my department head arrived, informing me of my peremptory dismissal. I was shocked – by both the content of the letter and the tone in which it was written. Humiliation soon turned to rage. I’d always thought I was on fairly friendly terms with my boss; how could he have done this without giving me the benefit of rebuttal, or even a chance to explain? In the strictest terms it was true that I had contravened the Official Secrets Act, and it was therefore within their power to terminate my employment. But not like this. It was not as if I was threatening national security. Everything my aunt wrote of was more than four decades in the past.