Moneypenny Diaries: Secret Servant

by Samantha Kate

  I had slipped my night-dress on and wrapped a towel around my head in a makeshift turban. I lay down on the narrow bench with the blanket over me. ‘Come in,’ I called back.

  The door opened a little more and I saw a large face with a thick moustache and watery green eyes, emerging out of a khaki serge uniform. He gave me a terse nod and quickly retreated.

  Philby came back in and, with a shaking hand, refilled his glass and lit another cigarette. ‘That was a bit hairy,’ he said. ‘Luckily for us, he was regular police, not KGB. Still, the old ticker skipped a couple of beats. Another brandy for you?’

  I sat up and nodded. There seemed little chance of sleep for either of us, and no point in pretending.

  ‘Why did you join the Office?’ he asked.

  There was no reason to lie. ‘I needed a job,’ I told him. ‘Both of my parents were dead and I had a younger sister to look after. My father had been in the diplomatic service – or so I thought – and I was put up for an interview by the head of the secretarial college.’

  ‘What do you mean, “or so you thought”?’

  ‘It transpires he was in intelligence too.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘He disappeared in the war. We were told he was dead.’

  ‘He wasn’t?’ Philby had picked up the doubt in my voice and matched it with gentle concern in his. Alone with my thoughts for so long, I felt myself wanting to confide in him.

  ‘It seems not – not at that point, anyway. He is dead, but I don’t know how and where.’

  ‘That’s tough,’ Philby said gently, reaching across to touch my hand.

  I was fighting to hold back the tears. At once, I wanted to blurt out my fears and regret, but at the same time, I was conscious, deep down, that I was being played by a supreme intelligence officer. I managed to pull myself together, smiled and took a sip of my drink. I didn’t want him to touch me.

  We sat in silence for a while, accompanied by the rhythmic puffing of the engine and the occasional shuddering hiss of brakes. Then he started talking again – about himself, about Communism, how he and Eleanor had met, and of his two previous wives.

  ‘I’m a romantic,’ he said at one point.

  ‘Yes. You’d have to be.’

  He drank more and more, his eyes beginning to glaze over, his speech becoming increasingly indistinct. Just as I thought he was about to keel over into sleep, he looked at me and said, his stutter back in force, ‘She nnnnever even learned to rrrread the nnnnames of the metro stations, you know. I’m sorry, old ggggirl. Nothing ppppper-sonal. Hhhhhad no choice.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked, but he had fallen on to his side and was snoring softly. It was past four in the morning. I lay back on my bunk and closed my eyes, but his words kept circling in my head, like hungry sharks. Who was he talking about: me or Eleanor? Why was he sorry: for what he had done or what he was about to do? I knew inside it was the latter. I thought about jumping out of the window. I lifted the blind and saw the ice on the glass and the fleeting shimmer of moonlight on the trees as we whipped past. There was no escape.

  The night passed slowly, my wakefulness punctuated occasionally by shouts from Philby – cries of pain and anguish and anger. Eleanor had said he was prone to nightmares; I suppose it was not surprising.

  I was still awake when there was another knock on the door. I got up to try to wake Philby, but he wouldn’t move. The knock came again, this time accompanied by a woman’s deep voice. I could just make out the word Leningrad. We were approaching our destination. I left it a minute, before opening the door and scurrying down the passage to the bathroom, where I splashed my face with cold water. I talked to the terrified face in the mirror: ‘Stop imagining the worst. You are not Philby’s prisoner. It has all been set up by M and Bill. We are being met by our side. It will be all right.’ I stared at myself, forcing determination back into my brain. For a moment, I looked almost Russian.

  I soaked a towel and carried it back to the compartment and squeezed it on to Philby’s neck. He sat up with a start, saw me there and frowned, before reaching for his cigarettes. The train started to slow. He quickly put on his jacket and smoothed his hair.

  ‘A taxi will be here to meet us, is that right?’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied.

  ‘Come on then – hat on, scarf on, wrap up. We’re in beautiful Leningrad. An architectural feast for the eyes. Not what it once was, of course, but still magnificent.’ As he ushered me out of the train, he didn’t once look at me.

  Monday, 2nd March

  Leningrad was even colder than Moscow – a damp cold that seemed to seep through layers of clothing to bury itself deep in one’s bones. As we walked along the platform, we were approached by a huge man in a leather cap, blowing clouds of steam. ‘Come,’ he said. I looked at Philby, who nodded tersely, and we walked towards a maroon Volga. We climbed in and without another word, the driver sparked up the engine and set off.

  I looked out of the window at the roads, covered in snow. It was past nine, not yet fully light. The pale aura of the sun, just peeping over the horizon, dusted the buildings in a soft lilac and made me feel, for that instant, as though I was floating through a dream. I wished I was: there was something about the reality that made me feel profoundly uneasy. We drove over a bridge, and to either side I could see huge clouds of steam rising from the frozen River Neva.

  ‘Sewerage,’ Philby grunted.

  We drove along broad avenues, lined with neo-classical palaces, painted yellow, green and blue, but I was once again in the iron grip of fear and beyond the call of beauty. All I wanted was to get out of the city and run for the border as fast as we could. The driver pulled up outside a small house on a narrow street not far from the river and gestured towards it, but stayed in his seat as we struggled to open the doors and get out. I couldn’t see a street sign, and could only hope he had delivered us to the safe house. As soon as we were clear of the car, the driver gunned his engine and sped off. Philby gestured for me to knock on the door, as he stood behind me, scanning the street in each direction.

  I walked forward and gave it two sharp taps. From the other side, I heard an answering rat-tat and the door was pulled open. I was greeted by a blond man, about my height, wearing a dark polo neck and flannel trousers. ‘Name’s Gerry. Glad you made it,’ he said, in the unmistakably English tones of Oxford and the Guards. I felt a groundswell of relief. ‘I was getting a tad worried. Bit of an incident at the border, been driving day and night to make it on time, but here I am. You must be the fabled Mr Philby.’ He stuck out his hand and as I turned to look at Philby, I noticed his eyes briefly narrow. ‘Jolly good,’ Gerry continued. ‘Tea, anyone?’ I could have kissed him. He led us up some stone steps to a set of double doors. Producing a large ring of keys, he opened up and ushered us in.

  There was a comfortable sofa across the hall and I could already smell coffee brewing. After asking for warm milk instead, I went down the corridor to the loo, where I was shocked to see my drawn reflection staring back at me. I washed my face and as I was heading back to the hall, I caught the rumbled low notes of a quiet conversation. It stopped abruptly as I rounded the corner. Philby looked up at me.

  ‘Plan’s changed a little, it seems, on the orders of the Office. We’re to rest up and set off at dusk.’

  ‘Won’t the Centre have sent out the search parties by then?’ I asked.

  He shrugged. ‘Nothing we can do about that. Best we all try to sleep.’

  Gerry came back with my milk and, after a couple of sips, I felt waves of tiredness slide over me. I stood up and excused myself. He pointed to a door, behind which I found a bed, lay down and fell instantly asleep.

  Tuesday, 3rd March

  It was pitch dark when I woke, and my head was pounding. I must have been asleep all day. I couldn’t read my watch in the blackout. What was happening? By the density of the darkness, I could see it was long past dusk. I tried to sit up, but my muscles felt leaden. Wh
at was wrong? Then I remembered the milk; it must have been drugged. Where was Gerry? Where was Philby? I tried again to sit up, but my legs wouldn’t move. I reached down and felt, to my shock, that they were bound to the bed. I tried to call out, but my mouth was dry and all that emerged was a strangled croak.

  As I was struggling to loosen the binds, I heard the quiet squeak of rubber-soled shoes, then the unmistakable scrape of a bolt being drawn. I turned in the direction of the noise, to see a sliver of grey light gradually widening, until it was blotted out by a dense shape. ‘Gerry? Philby? Who is it?’ I called.

  There was no reply. Suddenly the lights flashed on. I shut my eyes, temporarily blinded. I opened them, and as my vision started to return, the shape solidified into focus. The features hit me hard, a jolt which spread through my body. I closed my eyes again, as I heard my name being spoken in the unmistakable, pedantic, richly accented voice of my nightmares:

  ‘Jane Moneypenny.’

  I opened my eyes to see his, pale and lifeless, staring at mine from only a few feet away. He was wearing a smart navy suit and, on his lapel, a small pin displaying the gold and red enamel shield and sword of the KGB. My stomach gave a dry heave. I swallowed and tried to calm myself. But for the eyes, he could have passed for an affluent city banker. Those dead eyes and the smell: I could almost smell the cruelty he exuded, just as he, presumably, could scent my fear.

  ‘Boris,’ I said at last.

  He gave what passed for a laugh, a hollow-throated cough.

  ‘This time you have no gun, and no friend to protect you.’

  I shivered. ‘Thanks to you,’ I spat. At the mention of R, anger and adrenalin hit me.

  ‘Your friend was meddling where he had no right to. It was the Centre’s will that he should be eliminated.’ He smirked. ‘It was my pleasure to carry out their orders.’

  I tried to sit up again, straining my legs against the ties, but they were too tight. I looked across to see Boris, his face twisted in a half-smile, sitting there calmly looking at me.

  ‘What do you want now?’ I asked. ‘Where’s Philby?’

  His smile broadened. ‘Did you really think the good and loyal Comrade would want to return to the country he dedicated his life to destroying? To be held in contempt by those who were once his friends? No, my dear Miss Moneypenny. He was following our orders from the start. It was I, personally, who thought up this plan. I knew who you were. I knew your plan. Were you so stupid, or so arrogant, as to believe you could walk into our country and extricate a Hero of the Red Banner from under our noses? Ha!’ He gave a derisive laugh. But I was thinking of Eleanor. What would become of her?

  ‘Did you think you could brainwash one of our best men and kill the head of our service on his home turf?’ I asked. ‘You weren’t very successful there.’

  He shook his head. ‘Ah, the good and obedient Commander Bond. From what I hear, he nearly succeeded. Well, some I win and some I lose … This one I will win.’

  ‘What do you want from me?’

  ‘Thanks to Comrade Philby, we have compiled a very interesting dossier on the workings of your “Office”. Very interesting indeed. However, it is not complete. My superiors are aware that our Comrade has not been inside your office for thirteen years. While we are sure that little has changed in terms of procedure – we know that you British do not look to your own security with the rigour that we do – there are certain current administrative methods and practices that you, as personal assistant to the man you call M, are ideally placed to inform us about.’

  ‘Why would I do that?’ I asked.

  ‘Because if you don’t, you will never see your home again – that lovely apartment in Ennismore Gardens that I had the pleasure of visiting. And,’ he added with a sly look, ‘you will not live to see your sister married.’

  My stomach churned – Helena. How did he know?

  ‘Untie my legs, please, and we can have a proper discussion,’ I said finally, with as much dignity as I could muster.

  He shook his head. ‘No. I like seeing you lying down. Perhaps I should bring in my loyal compatriot Comrade Ludmilla from the Sandunovsky Banya, to ease your tension with a little more of her special brand of massage? I believe you enjoyed that.’

  My thoughts jumped again to Eleanor, this time tinged with doubt as I remembered that hint of a smile when the monstrous Ludmilla had arrived with her birch sticks. Was Eleanor part of the plot? I quickly pushed the thought aside: Eleanor had come to us straight from Beirut, genuinely confused and frightened. Her actions all along had done nothing to dispel that impression. No, it was she who was being played, every bit as much as I was. My thoughts veered back to the Office – the sieve. Had we both been betrayed by our Office mole? Who? Who among my colleagues, my friends, had known?

  I shook my head to clear it, as the implications of what he had said became plain. There could be no pay-off. Once I had divulged what I knew, there would be no going back, no wedding, no Powder Vine, no M or Bill or James. I would die at the same hands as R had. It was small comfort. I started to shiver, but then I was flooded with a sudden feeling of freedom. There was no point in telling him anything, therefore I had only two options: to escape somehow, or to die. For the sake of my sanity, I needed to concentrate on the former.

  Our exchange continued for what felt like hours, Boris threatening and cajoling me, promising violence or escape. I parried as best as I could, appealing to his better interests, warning him of the retribution the Office would seek if I were to disappear. It was harrowing, and exhausting. I was still lying down, tied to the bed. He was standing over me, huge and all too real, from time to time pausing to take a deep swig from his hip-flask before dousing me with alcoholic fumes. At no time did he touch me. He didn’t need to – his eyes were as menacing as a whip and chain.

  ‘Where were you meant to meet your people this evening?’ he asked in a wheedling voice, after a long line of questions about the Office. I shook my head.

  He frowned. ‘No ambush, I assure you.’

  We sat in silence for a minute before he suddenly changed tack. ‘I know where your father is,’ he said. ‘I can take you to him, and then you will tell me.’ It was a quiet statement, but it hit me like a force-ten gale. I willed myself not to pay any attention; they had used Pa as a lure before.

  My mouth was parched, my neck ached from the effort of raising it, and my legs had gone numb. Worse still, my bladder was at breaking-point. There was no way I would give him the pleasure of that humiliation. More to buy time and in the hope of relief than because I believed he was telling the truth, I agreed. He untied me, and slowly I managed to unfold my aching limbs and hobble down the passage to the bathroom.

  I felt better once I’d splashed freezing water on my face. I sat back down on the loo to think. I can’t pretend that there wasn’t a tiny bit of me that ached to believe him, while my rational side warned me not to fall for the cheapest of interrogator’s tricks. The quest to find the truth about my father had taken me down blind alleys before, with frightening consequences. But it was still hard to cure the habit of hope.

  Strangely, I was no longer scared. My head had cleared and I concentrated on the trials ahead. There was a chance – a small one – that one of our Watchers might have seen Philby when he was back in Moscow and informed London, who would send out a rescue party. Gerry would have raised the alarm – if he was in a position to do so, of course, though that seemed unlikely on reflection. Presumably, the safe house would be the first place they would look, if they could get to Leningrad. But was this our safe house? I had no way of knowing. In case it was, I had to leave some sort of sign to show that I was alive. I racked my brains for what it could be and where to leave it. Then I remembered something we had been taught about Illicit Entries at the Fort: when searching a property, always check the lavatory cistern for evidence of recent occupation. I would leave a trail that shouted ‘Miss Moneypenny’. I had my handbag with me and quickly got out a few coins – pen
nies would have been best, but roubles would suffice. I lifted the lid and slipped them in. It wasn’t much, but to the right person, it showed that I’d been there.

  Boris banged on the door. I took a deep breath and let myself out. ‘Hurry,’ he said, taking my arm. ‘We have to leave before first light.’ He steered me towards the front door, where a large, uniformed man was standing guard. ‘Where’s Gerry?’ I asked.

  ‘You mean Viktor,’ he laughed. ‘Your agent 859 was unavoidably detained before he got to your “safe” house – which, incidentally, is just around the corner from here.’ He laughed again. ‘Viktor passes as a real English gentleman, does he not? He’s Dutch by birth, went to Cambridge and there became convinced of our cause. He has escorted our friend Philby back home.’

  Cambridge, I reflected, had a lot to answer for.

  Flanked by Boris and the guard, I walked down the stairs and out into the freezing pre-dawn. The guard unlocked the door of a car and climbed into the driver’s seat. Boris ushered me into the back before getting in beside me. I shrank to the far edge of the seat, wanting to put as much space between us as I could. He barked some instructions and we set off.

  It was only an hour later, as the first pale fingers of dawn started to feel their way over the horizon, that I was able to work out that we were heading north, into the Arctic Circle. To our left, I saw the frozen sea, shimmering silver through the pine-forest. My mind was darting in so many directions that I found it hard to concentrate. I was conscious, however, that we were driving away from Moscow, and that at no point since I’d woken had Boris contacted anyone. It struck me then as odd. Where was he taking me?

  After another hour on the road, the light was getting stronger. Boris had taken several swigs from his flask and I could smell the brandy fumes on his breath. He leant forward to talk to his driver again, pointing. We were driving through a small town on a hump overlooking the sea. As we passed the railway station, I made out a name I recognised: Zelenogorsk. We were on the route towards the Finnish border – the same road that Philby and I should have taken. There were people on the streets, young men with twisted peasant faces, spherical women wrapped in scarves like Maryoshka dolls, their stockings concertinaing around their ankles. They turned as we passed; any car, it seemed, was a spectacle for the people of Zelenogorsk. After another mile, we swung suddenly down a rutted track into the forest to the right, and drew up outside a wooden farmhouse, painted green. There was a mule tethered in the barn and smoke curling from the chimney.