Moneypenny Diaries: Secret Servant

by Samantha Kate

  I felt not only anger, but a sense of displacement. I was born in Cambridge, my father taught at the university for more than forty years. The city has always been a part of my life. I went to school and university there, and, despite numerous wanderings, have always been drawn back to the only home I’ve ever known. When my father died, it had seemed natural to move back into our old cottage and pick up where he left off. Now it felt as if I had been orphaned all over again.

  My first instinct was to get on the first train from King’s Cross and go and plead my case. I hadn’t heard from Trinity, which presumably meant that I was still a member of College. Perhaps they would help me? I made myself a cup of tea and reread the letter. Suddenly I saw what had happened: it wasn’t the university that had initiated this action, but my aunt’s former colleagues at the Office, who for some reason had put pressure on the department to dismiss me.

  Perversely, the letter made me more determined to forge ahead. But that would mean finding somewhere else to live. I needed to cut the umbilical cord with Cambridge, and had no desire to embarrass my friends. I looked through the property pages and, as luck would have it, chanced upon a tiny garret in Rutland Gate for rent, just over the rooftops from my aunt’s old flat. If I leaned far enough out of the window, I could see Hyde Park.

  It wasn’t home, but it would do as a stop gap, as I forged ahead with the research for this book.

  Saturday, 1st February

  Somewhat to my surprise, I woke up thinking about the Powder Vine. I wonder if they have any idea where I am or what I’m up to? The official line is that I’m on leave, but I can’t believe that story will have lasted longer than a single lunchtime group lipstick application and, once the seed of doubt had been sown, Janet and Pamela will have been on the scent like a pair of blood-hungry hounds. I’d wager a couple of bob that they’ve worked out exactly where I am now, and probably what I’m up to. There is very little office activity that escapes their notice – and if they know, who else does? Has the ‘sieve’, for want of a better name for our suspected office mole, caught wind of my mission?

  Who could it be? However often I review the cast of my colleagues, I can’t see a plausible traitor among them. Then again, I failed miserably to recognise the cut of Prenderghast’s jib. Thank goodness for Dorothy Fields! If anyone can track down the bad apple among us, it will be Dorothy.

  In the run-up to my meeting with Eleanor, I feel suddenly vulnerable. Up to now, it’s been an adventure, albeit a high-octane one with thrills aplenty and its fair share of scares. I’ve always felt that there was a way out: if the going got really tough, I could flee through the snow to the Embassy and they’d see me home safely. Now that I’ve met Eleanor, however, we’re both vulnerable. In the eyes of the KGB, we’re spies. Come to think of it, they would not be wrong. If they – and I’m fully aware that ‘they’ is a loose term encompassing any number of private informers – guess our true purpose, then there could be no escape. I’m putting not only myself at risk, but Eleanor too. At best, she’d be deported, separated from her Philby, who would no doubt also suffer the consequences. At worst … I cannot bring myself to think about the worst. The image of that tall grey building, ringing with the screams of thousands, haunts me.

  Perhaps it’s the wait that is setting my imagination aflame? Since our meeting in the Post Office, I’ve been barely able to sit still. I went back to the Tretyakov yesterday afternoon, searching out possible places to meet – quiet spots, out of the sightline of the many guardians who stare, stone-faced, at the exits. Last night, I treated myself to dinner in the hotel’s grand dining-room, a splendid, double-height room, with a painted ceiling and a stage at one end. I ate a surprisingly good beef stroganoff, washed down with several glasses of vodka, the effects of which, I am sure, are still with me. I love the way you can trace its path from throat to stomach. When I get back to London I will buy some. If… Perhaps I’ll learn to make a Martini according to James’s oft-repeated recipe: ‘Three measures Gordon’s Gin, one of vodka, half a measure of Kina Lillet, shaken until ice-cold, with a large thin slice of lemon peel.’ If I never hear it again, I’ll remember it until my dying day.

  What comfort it gives me to think of the familiar in this strange place.

  Four more hours until the earliest I could plausibly hope to meet Eleanor. Soon time to set out. I pray she makes it. The minutes are passing too slowly. I wonder what she’s feeling now. Whether Philby will let her go? Whether she’ll manage to leave her escort behind? Head of S said that they didn’t keep her on a tight leash – and occasionally let her go out unattended. It’s cold today – the temperature dropped ten degrees overnight – but there’s not a cloud in the sky and the sun is shining. If I couldn’t see people from my window, on the street below, hunched into themselves, visibly battling the cold, it would pass as a perfect winter tableau. I had better wear as many layers of clothes as I can reasonably fit under my coat. My coat? Rose d’Arcy’s coat. Increasingly, I forget I’m not her. Then I can start dry-cleaning – today I must not be followed.

  Sunday, 2nd February

  The extreme cold made my journey to the Gallery more torturous. My planned route took in GUM, where I stood in line to buy a new fur hat – not mink but water rat, cheaper and, from a distance anyway, barely distinguishable from the real thing. It has a low brow and side-flaps, which I can tie under my chin, so now it’s only my nose and upper cheeks that bite when the wind blows. At one point, I feared I might have an unwanted shadow; there was a hat I thought I recognised, following me from shop to shop, and I thought I caught sight of it again, skulking on the opposite side of the gallery as I came out of the Ladies. My heart beat a little faster.

  I caught a taxi to the Pushkin Museum, where the hat, at least, was nowhere to be seen, and after three more metro journeys – each to small churches – I had calmed down sufficiently to persuade myself that ‘the hat’ had been merely curious at the rare sight of a foreigner. The problem for me is that so many Russians look similar – medium height, with prominent cheekbones and pale, deep-set eyes. I can only really identify them by their clothes and this is made harder by the weather, with its universal disguise of heavy coats, hats and scarves. I shall just have to trust that my circuitous route and established afternoon visit to the Tretyakov have dulled ‘their’ interest – if indeed it was ever more than a product of my heightened imagination.

  After a few more sights, and a quick, stand-up bowl of pelmini, little meat- and cabbage-filled parcels of thin dough that I’ve developed quite a taste for, I arrived at the Gallery at one. I peeled off my layers and left them in the basement cloakroom, before heading to the icon rooms on the ground floor, steeling myself to smile at the guardians as I passed. After such assiduous attendance, I trust they are beginning to regard me as part of the furniture. I’d brought my pencils and sketch-pad with me; I just have to hope no one looks too closely at my risible attempts at a likeness. Thank goodness the religious artists of those days painted in the two-dimensional. I settled in the third room, where there was a large bench facing a picture that I am particularly drawn to – a seventeenth-century Virgin of Vladimir growing out of a vast bush of thorny roses emerging from behind the red Kremlin walls. For some reason, it reminds me of Eleanor.

  I drew and tried not to look at my watch. I was early, I knew. At best, I could hope she would arrive at two, but it might be any time up to four. The minutes crept by.

  By two, with the anxiety prematurely rising, I’d sketched the Virgin and Child and was embarking upon the saints and bishops surrounding them.

  At three, I was feeling distinctly sick and my knee had started jigging of its own accord, making the drawing even harder.

  As four was approaching, I’d convinced myself that this was what most people thought of as ‘afternoon’ and that she had probably not set off from home until well after lunch.

  There were few visitors, but any time someone walked into the room, I’d feel my stomach contract as I
forced myself to look slowly up from the page. The inevitable disappointment had me constructing new and plausible excuses for her late arrival.

  As the minute hand slid by half past four, my seat was numb and my picture as finished as it was going to be. I stood up to stretch my legs. I walked to the end of the room and, as I turned back, I heard footsteps. My heart stopped for an instant, as I dared to hope … and then there she was, emerging into the room, wonderfully, delightfully familiar. She stopped as she saw me, as if caught in car headlights.

  I walked towards her and attempted a natural smile. ‘Excuse me, but didn’t we meet yesterday in the Post Office?’ I said. She looked around. There was no one else in the room, but it still felt necessary to follow the charade. In this country, one cannot discount even the walls having an acute sense of hearing.

  ‘Yes, Miss, um, d’Arcy, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Dr actually, but please call me Rose,’ I replied.

  She came to sit on my bench and for a minute there was silence, after which we both started talking at the same time. Then stopped and laughed.

  ‘It’s very good to see you again,’ she said, with genuine feeling. ‘Do you like these magnificent paintings?’

  ‘Indeed I do, but to tell you the truth, I’ve been sitting here for hours, I’ve finished my work and could murder a cup of tea.’

  She brightened visibly. ‘An excellent idea. I know a small café not far from here.’

  We collected our coats and, as she was putting hers on, I could see clearly that she had lost weight. Her skin was pale and dull and there were frown lines on her forehead that I’m sure weren’t there just a few months ago. It wasn’t until we walked out and she had looked several times behind her that she started talking.

  ‘Oh, Jane, I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you. I prayed you’d come, but I didn’t hold out much hope.’ She looked straight ahead, but her voice was breaking and I could see a slight welling in her eyes. ‘Thank you so very much.’

  ‘I’m here to help if I possibly can,’ I told her. ‘Let’s find somewhere warm and noisy to talk and you can tell me all about it – but please remember to call me Rose and please don’t look behind you again. If we’re being followed, it’s much the best thing to ignore it, act as if you don’t care.’

  ‘I do, though,’ she said. ‘You can’t imagine how awful it is. We’re accompanied or followed almost wherever we go: Kim’s to all intents and purposes under twenty-four-hour surveillance. I’m sure there are bugs in the flat. I’ve tried to ask him, but he just shrugs.’

  She led me into a small cafe, full mainly of women, and, after finding a table at the back, went up to the counter to order tea. ‘I even hate the goddamn Russian tea,’ she said as she returned with two steaming glasses filled with a pale liquid. ‘It tastes of dish-water and they look at you as if you’re mad if you even mention the word milk. Kim, of course, maintains that it’s an acquired taste.’ As she looked at her cup, a veil of sorrow crossed her face.

  ‘How is he?’ I asked gently.

  ‘He’s Kim,’ she replied, ‘and then again he isn’t. I was so excited about seeing him. The plane flight seemed like hours and then we were touching down on a small airstrip surrounded by tall birch-trees. There were only about twelve passengers and we were on this bus, heading to the terminal, when it stopped halfway across the tarmac and I was ushered out. It was quite dark by then, but I could just make out three men standing there, all in hats and long, dark, greatcoats. I didn’t recognise him at first – I’d never seen Kim in a hat before, he’d always maintained he didn’t believe in them – but then he said “Eleanor” and I just flew into his arms. It was so good to see him. I was carried along on the euphoria of a newly-wed. I should have realised that it was not just the hat that was different.’ She paused to sip her tea.

  ‘When we arrived at the flat, there was champagne on ice. He’d made it as comfortable as he could for me, but it was still small by Western standards and dark and so hot. There’s no way to regulate the heating here, you know,’ she said. ‘The level’s set by the state, just like everything else, and pumped into the apartment. All we can do is to open the windows and let the cold air in for a while, until it gets unbearable and we have to shut them again. It’s such a waste. For the first few days, we talked and talked, constantly. He wanted to hear all about the children and what had happened since he left.

  ‘I told him everything, of course. It was when I admitted that I’d picked out the photograph of his friend for your Chief that Kim changed. His face went white and he looked pointedly at the light-fitting, as if to remind me to watch what I said. Then he ordered me to write down exactly what had happened in detail. “Do you realise that you’ve compromised a valuable agent?” he asked. I begged his forgiveness, but he was angry for days. I think he was probably scared. He’s been having terrible nightmares.

  ‘In the meantime, I busied myself with the flat – trying to turn it into a home for us – and gradually he calmed down. It’s been hard figuring out how everything works, it’s all so different here, but I was willing and eager at first to give it a chance. Of course, Kim’s whereabouts are a great secret. He’s been given a Russian name – Andrei Fyodorovich Martins – see, I can hardly pronounce it – and he’s having Russian lessons. We both are, but I’m having trouble getting the hang of it.’

  I succumbed to an urge to touch her arm; she looked so sad, and so empty, it was as if she was desperate to pour out everything that had happened. In one short year, her life had been turned on its head, inside out and then shaken. At the beginning of last year, she was married to the man of her dreams, who she thought to be a British journalist, living in Beirut with his children and hers; now she’s thousands of miles from her daughter, in Moscow, with no friends apart from her husband, who has been revealed to the world as a traitor. I had a sudden, almost physical pang for R.

  ‘For a while, I thought everything was going to be OK,’ she continued. ‘We met the Macleans – that was his wife I was with at the Post Office – took a trip to Leningrad on the train, went to the ballet from time to time, and on occasion we’re even allowed out without our minders – though I have little doubt they follow us anyway. Most mornings, Sergei, who is Kim’s case officer, comes to the flat and they lock themselves away in his study for hours. I suppose he’s being debriefed, but it always puts Kim in a state afterwards. He gets frustrated and snaps at me. One day, I asked whether he had to do it, and he looked at me rather sadly. “Of course I do,” he replied. That’s when I made my great mistake.’ She paused and looked down into her tea.

  ‘I asked him, “What is more important in your life: me and the children, or the Communist Party?” He answered without hesitation: “The Party, of course.” I felt so foolish. I should never have asked. I had no idea. I’d never met a committed Communist before. Despite everything, despite the harsh reality of here, it’s like he has to hold on to his belief.’ I squeezed her hand tight under the table. I was suddenly afraid that she was going to cry and, if there was anyone spying on us, it would be like waving a red flag – or perhaps that should be a Union jack?

  ‘Eleanor, I can’t tell you how sorry I am,’ I said. ‘I can only begin to imagine what it’s been like for you, but I’m afraid we really can’t do this here. It’s too risky.’

  She collected herself. ‘Of course, silly of me – and you a stranger too.’ She gave a dry laugh. ‘I’d better get back to Kim anyway, as he’ll be beginning to wonder where I’ve gone. I rarely go anywhere without him, but his pneumonia has been playing up recently and he’s been ordered to stay in bed.’

  As we walked to the metro, she grabbed my arm and said, urgently, ‘Please help us. Kim has no intention of leaving, but he has to. He won’t see that he’s a burden to the Russians now that he’s here, a burnt-out agent with nothing more to contribute. I’m afraid of what will happen when he’s emptied his brain to them. They won’t allow him into KGB headquarters, or give him a rank or
a job. He’s already finding it frustrating and it can only get worse. He refuses to see it. He puts on an act that he’s happy here and loves the cold. He even claims to find the goddamn queues for food a challenge. He’s a very proud man. I need your help to persuade him. Look, please come to dinner on Wednesday. Kim should be better by then. I’ll tell him I made friends with you at the Gallery. He’ll have to run it by the minders of course, but it should be all right. I’ll call you at the hotel. It’s only one stop from us on the metro. I’ll meet you at Sokol Station.’

  With that promise, she vanished through the metro doors. I waited outside for as long as I could bear the cold, trying to see if she was being followed, but there was no way of knowing.

  Poor Eleanor. I feel for her with every bone and every sinew in my body. She knows, whether she’s admitting it to herself or not, that even in terms of her marriage hers is a reckless mission. If Philby were ever to discover her connivance in it, he would not forgive her. She must love him very much.

  Wednesday, 5th February

  Dinner at the Philbys. Despite myself, and against all my better instincts, I couldn’t help but be charmed by him. I can quite see why he has such an effect on women. He comes across as shy, with a stutter and a boyish desire to please, which, allied with old-fashioned gentlemanly manners and a sharp and erudite mind, is unquestionably appealing. When he’s talking to you, he focuses every ounce of his attention on what you’re saying. It’s wonderfully flattering. In a funny sort of way, he reminds me of Bill.