Moneypenny Diaries: Secret Servant

by Samantha Kate

  The flat was better than I had imagined. Approaching its grim façade from the outside, I felt a strong sense of déjà vu. I almost looked around to see whether I could spot 009 sitting in a car across the cul-de-sac, his night glasses trained on the eighth-floor windows. Inside, they had made it their own. There were plants everywhere, Eleanor’s paintings on the walls, a blue wicker sofa in one corner of the living-room and matching green armchairs and another sofa on the other side, with a huge, heavy, silver-plated electric samovar on a small table beside it. Most noticeably, there were piles and piles of books. After we were introduced, Philby apologised for them; ‘I inherited them from GGGGGuy Burgess,’ he explained, seeming to luxuriate in the freedom to mention his old friend’s name. ‘Sadly just missed seeing the ppppoor fellow before he died.’ He showed me Burgess’s armchair, a high-backed plum-velvet wing-tip, and, in the bedroom, his carved wooden bedstead: ‘GGGGGuy always insisted it had once belonged to Stendhal,’ Philby said. ‘Knowing him, it had no such gggggrand provenance. He was always a romantic. Bbbbbut I’m forgetting myself. I’m sure you’d like a drink?’

  He almost skipped across to a makeshift cabinet on the far side of the room, from which he drew out a bottle of brandy. ‘We like something I call an Orange Blossom – brandy and orange juice. Would you care to try it?’ I nodded my assent. The rest of the evening passed pleasantly. Thankfully, he didn’t question me too closely on what I was doing here, due in part to Eleanor’s well-timed announcement that dinner was ready. I managed to scrape through his earnest questions about the relative merits of early Russian painters, I hope, though it felt hideously like I was back in the school exam hall.

  He had cooked a delicious hot curry, even grinding his own spices, he told me with pride. ‘I thought it must have been ages since you last had a good curry,’ he said. ‘They don’t make them on this side.’ I realised in time that he was referring to the years that Rose d’Arcy had spent in East Berlin, not just my two short weeks in Moscow. From one or two other comments, I guessed that he knew more about my legend than I’d revealed to Eleanor. I had clearly been checked out by his handlers – and passed their test. It was not altogether welcome news: I was now on their radar, and would have to exercise extra care.

  After dinner, when Philby suggested a game of Scrabble, I accepted with alacrity. Scrabble always reminds me of Aunt Frieda and those first few months in London. Helena and I were like ships adrift in an unfamiliar ocean, and it was in great part the nightly games that helped to anchor us in our new life. Aunt Frieda is an excellent player, but Kim Philby would have dismissed her in his sleep. Still, I acquitted myself without shame and the good, competitive game created a bond of respect between us. Eleanor was quiet throughout, but when I was getting ready to leave and Philby suggested that I join them and the Macleans on a trip to the ballet on Saturday, she flashed me a look of pure encouragement.

  I walked back to the metro station with my mind buzzing and excited. Now, I wonder whether it was wrong to have warmed to Philby to such a degree? I struggle to remind myself that he betrayed his country, and mine, for thirty years. Men and women died as a result of the secrets he gave away. Many were innocent. M came to within a screen’s breadth of becoming one of them. Philby systematically lied to his friends, his employers, his wives and children, for the benefit of a regime he never really knew. He left Eleanor in Beirut without a clue as to where he was going. He has torn her from everything else she loves to bring her here now, for his own sake. His charm is legendary – how else could he have achieved what he did? I must not be taken in.

  Friday, 7th February

  I was walking away from the Post Office, when I caught sight of Philby going into the Savoy Hotel. He was arm in arm with a woman and they were laughing. I assumed it was Eleanor and was about to hail them, when I recognised her as Melinda Maclean. Instead, I burrowed into my scarf and hurried on my way. Perhaps they were meeting Eleanor there?

  Sunday, 9th February

  A very strange and disturbing evening. I arrived at the Philbys’ building at the same time as the Macleans, who, it was clear from the start, were not on good terms. They hardly talked to each other, and when they did, it was in barely suppressed snarls. I did not warm to either: he was vastly tall and patrician in appearance, with an air of unsuppressed arrogance, while she wheedled and whined like a typical spoiled American. Both Philby and Eleanor were unfailingly courteous to them both, but I sensed that, but for their extraordinary circumstances, they would not have been natural friends. Melinda flattered Philby mercilessly and I could only hope it was his manners that prevented him from dissuading her. If Donald noticed, he didn’t care, although I suspect Eleanor did.

  The Bolshoi was a wonderful experience. The Theatre itself is beautiful, grand and imposing from the front in a way that our Royal Opera House fails to be. As we walked through the columned portico and into the lobby, a pleasant-looking man in his early forties approached us and handed Philby an envelope containing our tickets. Philby smiled and thanked him, whereupon the man melted back into the darkness. I assume he was Sergei, or another of Philby’s KGB minders. The thought made me shudder, though he barely gave me a second glance.

  The unease, however, melted away as we entered the auditorium. I almost gasped aloud at the splendour of the crimson and gilt balconies, curving towards the central stage. We had a box on the grand tier, with an excellent view. The ballet itself did its surroundings proud. I have always loved Giselle, with its heartbreaking tale of love that endures beyond the grave, but the Bolshoi gave it an extra resonance. The ballerina dancing the lead seemed to jeté and pirouette with every ounce of her soul, portraying both innocence and passion with the utmost veracity. By the interval, I had forgotten the unease of the early evening and wanted nothing but to praise and admire the spectacle we were enjoying.

  A discreet knock at the door revealed the same man we had seen earlier, this time with a waiter in attendance, bearing a bottle of iced vodka, some tumblers and a plate heaped with caviar. Philby clapped his hands with glee and thanked him. Certainly, the way he was being treated portrayed no lack of generosity on the Russian side. If Eleanor’s fears were true, I had yet to see evidence of them.

  I was enjoying the vodka and our magnificent surroundings, when I caught sight of a man in the opposite box. I felt my heart pound. I could have sworn he had his opera-glasses trained on us, though he swung around when he saw me looking at him, before fading back into the gloom at the back of his box. It was purely instinct, but I was suddenly convinced I recognised him. Eleanor caught my look of shock and asked if there was anything wrong. I tried to make light of it. ‘Of course not,’ I replied. ‘I thought I’d seen a ghost. Perhaps Giselle’s spirit lives in the Bolshoi?’ She frowned. I don’t think she was convinced.

  Through the second half, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. He was too far away for me to have made out any of his features and I’m sure it must have been just my overactive imagination at work, but there was something, a feeling that just wouldn’t go away. Even the ballet’s spell failed to take away the bitter aftertaste of my fear.

  Nevertheless, I clapped and cried with the rest of the audience during the well-deserved ovation, and when Sergei led us out of the side entrance, I caught no glimpse of those pale eyes that had been haunting me. Keen to make an evening of it, Philby suggested a drink at the Metropol Hotel, but I excused myself and, thanking them profusely, caught a taxi back to the sanctuary of my room at the Sovietsky. I lay awake for hours, trying to convince myself that I’d been mistaken.

  Tuesday, 11th February

  I have the feeling that I’m being followed. I haven’t managed to catch anyone in the act, but wherever I go, I feel the prickles in my back. It started the day after the ballet, when I forced myself to make my usual afternoon visit to the Gallery. Following the rules I had learnt back on my course at the Fort – it seems like a different existence, when R was still alive and Kennedy too and I thought I was p
laying games on the south coast – I jumped in the last carriage of the metro, just as the doors were closing: I was sure I saw someone leap in the next door along. I couldn’t be certain; the metro is a busy place, full of rushing people, and I didn’t catch a clear sight of him. I realised that the best I could do would be to stick to my usual routine and do nothing to raise their suspicion.

  I telephoned Eleanor to say thank you and, although she sounded pleased to hear my voice, I nevertheless detected a slight reticence in hers and she failed to suggest another meeting. I can only stay calm and wait and hope that she contacts me.

  Monday, 17th February

  I found an envelope pushed under my door when I got back yesterday afternoon. My name was written in capitals, but I recognised Eleanor’s hand. Inside was just one line: ‘Meet me at Sandunovsky Banya, Neglinnaya Ulitsa, 7 p.m.’ It was already 5.30, which didn’t give me much time to take evasionary precautions. Still, I did what I could: metro to a café, then taxi, tram and back on the metro to Teatralnaya, from where I walked past the Bolshoi Theatre and up a side street by a Georgian restaurant. It was dark and intensely cold again. It took me some time to find the entrance to the baths, hidden one street back, to my right, but at least I was fairly confident that I wasn’t being followed.

  The gruff lady minding the reception at first tried to send me away, only relenting when I managed to persuade her that I was meeting a friend. With a grunt, she gave me a towel and pointed towards the ladies’ changing-room. There, thankfully, I found Eleanor, already stripped to her towel. She looked relieved to see me. ‘I’ve found an empty banya,’ she said. ‘Get ready and follow me.’ She walked around the corner and opened a door. Hot steam came billowing out as we slipped in. When my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I could see that we were in a small, marble room, with a large, steaming tub in the corner and benches to either side.

  ‘Melinda brought me here soon after I arrived,’ she told me. ‘It was the only place I could think of where we wouldn’t be overheard. Look, I don’t think it’s safe for you here any more. Since that night at the ballet, Kim’s had a stream of visitors, all KGB, I assume. Apart from Sergei, I didn’t recognise any of them and they weren’t introduced. He doesn’t say what they’ve been talking about, but I thought I heard your name being mentioned today. Your real name, that is – but I can’t be sure.’

  I sat back, suddenly cold in this bath of hot steam.

  ‘I’m scared,’ she went on. ‘I don’t know what’s going to happen. I wish I had never started this. Perhaps I should have gone home to the States and never come?’

  All I could do was comfort her and try to keep my composure, though I felt every bit as unsettled as she did. My mind was racing. What should I do? Was this the signal to implement my escape plan? If so, would I be leaving my friend in danger?

  ‘You could have been mistaken. It might not be as bad as we imagine,’ I said, at last. ‘I’m fairly sure that no one’s searched my room at the hotel, and I haven’t noticed anyone following me.’ It was not the time to mention my fears. ‘How about if we give it another couple of days and I’ll try to contact London to ask for advice? If they pull me out, do you want to come with me?’

  She looked stunned. ‘What, and leave Kim?’

  ‘We can’t take him against his will. It’s not the way our service operates,’ I said, conveniently forgetting the kidnap attempt just a couple of months before. ‘If you want to come, however, I can certainly try to make the arrangements.’

  She shook her head. ‘I couldn’t leave Kim on his own here. I couldn’t. He’s my husband …’

  I patted her hand in an attempt at reassurance that I didn’t feel. ‘The offer’s there. Please think about it.’

  There was a knock on the door and we both started. We opened it to find a large lady in a white smock, holding a small forest of birch sticks in her mutton fists. She barked something in Russian. I looked at Eleanor, but she just shrugged. ‘Is it time for my torture?’ I asked the lady, who glared back, unable to understand a word I said. She shut the door behind her and motioned me to lie down on the bench. I tried shaking my head, but she just stood in front of the door, pointing at the bench.

  ‘A beating with birch sticks is meant to be good for the circulation,’ said Eleanor. ‘I haven’t had it myself, but I’m assured it’s got health benefits. Besides, I don’t think you’ve much option.’ A small smile was playing at the corner of her mouth and she looked as if she was trying her best to suppress full-blown laughter. ‘It’s the speciality of the house,’ she said. ‘I’m going to change now. Relax. You might enjoy it.’

  I lay down on my stomach as instructed, while the mountainous lady came up to my side, put down her sticks and then, to my horror, stripped off her top. She climbed up on the bench and, straddling my back, began pounding her hands into my shoulders, kneading me like a huge mound of dough. It was all I could do to stop howling, but each time I tensed, she dug the base of her palms in harder. I tried to calm my rebelling muscles; then, just as I thought she’d stopped, I felt a sharp slash on the back of my thighs. Then again: slash, slash. She was whipping me with the birch in what felt to be a frenzy. The sting was becoming unbearable. Surely this was not normal? I cried out for her to stop, but she didn’t. I didn’t want to turn over, for fear she’d hit me in the face. I had to do something. If I didn’t, and quickly, I thought I might faint. In a flash, an image of James came into my head and I remembered him relating his misadventures in an upstate New York mud-bath. It gave me strength. As fast as I could, I rolled to one side and threw myself off the bench. I leapt to my feet and, not waiting to see what the torturing mountain was doing, flung myself at the door. Thankfully it opened outwards and I pushed through and into the merciful cool of the corridor.

  Eleanor was waiting in the changing-room. ‘Was that good?’ she asked, but she must have seen something in my expression, as her face recomposed itself into concern. ‘Jane, are you all right?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I replied. ‘I don’t know if that was par for the course and I’m made of weaker stuff than the average Russian – or whether I was being given a warning.’ I turned round to try to look at my back, and heard Eleanor gasp. I was covered from shoulders to ankles in red welts, which felt every bit as bad as they looked. ‘We must take you to a doctor,’ she said. ‘Get something to put on them.’ I shook my head. ‘I just want to get back to my room. I’m sure they’ll have gone down by the morning.’

  I spent the whole of today lying on my front with the window open. It was freezing, but at least soothed my back. I went over and over yesterday’s events, seeking some sort of explanation, some sort of truth. What should I do? It was only this evening, after a cool bath, that I felt able to get up, but even sitting is painful.

  Wednesday, 19th February

  I got back to my room, after forcing myself to visit the Cathedral, and sensed immediately that someone had been there. Nothing was visibly out of place, but there was a faint smell that didn’t belong to the maid – and I’d left after her, in any case. I went first to the drawers, but the hairs were where I had placed them and my things were in perfect order. Then I turned to the inner surface of the cupboard handle, where I had sprinkled talcum powder. There was a smudge. Someone had been in my room. I swallowed the lump that had appeared unbidden in my throat.

  I sat down and took a few deep breaths. I could have been mistaken, or perhaps the maid had returned for some reason? There were a number of innocent explanations, and in any case, I had nothing to hide. I suppressed my initial urge to contact the Office.

  Thursday, 20th February

  I woke up this morning unwilling to leave my room, but when I opened the curtains, I saw that it was snowing outside – soft, large flakes of white, white snow. It was a signal that the temperature had lifted. I was suddenly infused with energy. I layered on my clothes and rushed outside. In the small park opposite, I picked up a pinch of fresh snow and put it on my tongue. It brought back
vividly the day, in my mid-teens, when Ma had urged Helena and me to climb that little bit further up Mount Kenya, promising us we would see snow if we did. She was right and, to two unworldly Kenyan girls, it was a miracle.

  For want of anything better to do – until I heard from Eleanor, at least – I caught the metro back to the Tretyakov. I was becoming rather fond of the icons, with whom I’d spent considerably more time than with anyone else over the past few weeks. I was walking towards the Virgin when I saw, sitting on my regular bench, Kim Philby. He turned as he heard me come in. ‘Dr d’Arcy, my wife said you were often here.’ I was struck dumb. I had not the least idea why he might have sought me.

  ‘Perhaps I could buy you a cup of tea?’ he asked.

  I nodded. He told me to fetch my coat and meet him inside the metro station in fifteen minutes.

  He was waiting when I passed through the doors. With his arm under my elbow, he steered me on to the train, taking care, I noticed, to check who might have followed us. We got out two stations further on and jumped in a taxi, which took us to a small Georgian restaurant in a part of town I was not familiar with. ‘Have you tried Georgian cuisine?’ he asked, as we were led to a table in the corner. Apart from the waiters, who hung discreetly back until they were called, we were alone.

  ‘You might be wondering why I want to talk to you,’ he began.

  I said I was.

  He leant forward. ‘I think I’ve made a terrible mistake. Eleanor is clearly unhappy here and it’s my fault. I have, somehow, to make amends. I don’t know how much you know, but I’m sure you’re not who you’re purporting to be, which means that, in all likelihood, you’re from the Office. Am I correct?’

  I just raised my eyebrows. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr Philby.’

  ‘Whatever you say, I’ve been in this business long enough to know a British agent when I see one. Don’t worry, I’m not going to reveal your secret to my friends here.’ He looked down. ‘Quite the reverse. As I said, Eleanor’s unhappy and we’ve got to get out of here. You probably know that I was offered immunity by Dingle in Beirut, shortly before I took off?’