Moneypenny Diaries: Secret Servant

by Samantha Kate

  Boris got out of the car and shouted. The door opened and a middle-aged woman stuck her head out. She started when she saw Boris and quickly disappeared again, like a cuckoo marking the half-hour. A few moments later, a man walked out, straightening his thick wool jacket. He also looked frightened, and saluted and bowed in one awkward movement. Boris barked at him and the man backed away, still bent double.

  ‘We can stay here while it is light,’ said Boris. ‘It will be warm, at least.’ Something about what he said puzzled me, but I couldn’t work out what. He pushed through the front door into a large room, furnished with rough wooden chairs, a large table and two benches, covered with thin cushions. Shortly afterwards, the woman appeared, with some dark bread and cold meat on a wooden board. I realised I was hungry. ‘We can rest here,’ said Boris, ‘and this afternoon I will show you something.’

  It was then that I realised what had struck me as strange: why would Boris, a high-ranking KGB officer, need to stay off the roads in daylight? So we both had something at stake. There was room, perhaps, for manoeuvre.

  I took the blanket the woman had offered, wrapped it around me and sat on a chair near the fire to think it through. It couldn’t have been Boris’s operation from the start; Philby would never have been party to some cowboy mission to capture me. That wasn’t his style. No, either Philby had been genuinely prepared to escape – in which case he would be in deep trouble now – or Boris had hijacked an official KGB mission. The latter was more likely. If so, what would their plan have been?

  My guess was that they would have intercepted us near the border, at our rendezvous with the reception party. They would have brought us back to Moscow, possibly parading me as a propaganda victory, before locking me up in the Lubyanka like Greville Wynne, or using me as a bargaining chip for one of their spies currently in a British prison. If we had kept to the schedule, we should have been at the RV point by now. Boris was playing a spectacularly high-risk game. Already in disgrace following his failed mission to turn me last year, he probably thought that he had a chance to rehabilitate himself by getting me to divulge potentially important information about the inner workings of the Office. He had little hope of success – knowing what little I did about the KGB, any unauthorised activity was treated as a serious offence, even if it was undertaken by the stepson of a former KGB chairman.

  He said nothing to me throughout the day. I sat and stared at the fire, letting my thoughts fly freely. I settled, for a while, on Eleanor, wondering where and how she was. I could only hope that she wouldn’t be punished for her role in this escapade – that Philby’s participation would have protected her. It dawned on me that she was probably the reason he had agreed to string me along. It would make sense of his behaviour: I was the quid pro quo for a blind eye being turned on Eleanor’s collusion with the enemy. I hoped so, both for Eleanor’s sake and because I felt some sympathy for Philby. Beneath it all, I saw him as an essentially decent man, whose path had been determined by deeply held – if misconceived – beliefs which now entrapped him.

  I thought about the Office. If I never returned, who would take my place? Maybe Pamela? But I doubted she would leave Bookie voluntarily. She was in love with him as surely as he was with her. I just hoped that he recognised it and would someday do something about it. Then, perhaps, he could start to work on his gambling problems. Surely not Joanna. I couldn’t imagine M putting up with her painted fingernails and trip-tripping high heels. My thoughts drifted to James. He must be back from Jamaica by now. I hoped he had not left Goodnight’s heart in very many pieces. Mary is a good girl and deserves a faithful husband.

  Helena and Lionel – just over three weeks until their wedding. That was my greatest sadness, that I surely would not now be there to celebrate with them. I prayed they wouldn’t cancel. Helena needs the security of marriage and she has been patient for too long.

  I thought about R and what could have been – the waste of his life and the time we could have spent together. I thought about my father too. I’d been involved in the search for so long, obsessed by the slightest possibility that he might be alive somewhere, that I’d lost sight of what that would have meant. He would have to have been incarcerated for nearly a quarter of a century – or, if he was free, he had washed his hands of his family. Neither alternative was tolerable. Better, surely, that he was dead? It was a stunning revelation, another liberation in this extraordinary day.

  My day passed painlessly. It was as if, with the threat so imminent and real, the fear had taken flight. There was little I could do and even the concept of my death no longer frightened me. I had delivered myself into the hands of fate and, although I would fight beyond my last scrap of remaining energy, I was not scared of the consequences.

  As the light started to fade, Boris roused himself. ‘Come,’ he said, ‘I have something to show you.’ He led me outside and down a small track and into a wood. The last vestiges of daylight filtered through the pine and birch trees, throwing violet shadows on the snow. The only sound was of our feet crunching through the icy crust. There were no footprints ahead of us, yet Boris walked confidently, as though he had been there many times before. I suppose I could have tried to run, but I knew he had a gun. And where would I run to?

  We slid down a steep bank to a frozen stream. There was a rock to one side. ‘Sit there,’ Boris said. He then stood beside me and pointed at the opposite bank. I couldn’t see it at first, just the slender trunks of silver birch, standing in serried rows, blending into the snow-covered earth. Then I followed his finger and made out a smaller, upright shape, which my eyes had initially passed over as a tree stump. It was also covered in snow, but what I had initially thought of as branches, extending to either side, I now saw were too regular, too straight. It looked like a cross.

  ‘Your father,’ he said.

  I felt a sharp jolt in my stomach, but I sensed it was the truth. It was as if I had been here before; it felt strangely familiar and almost comforting. Unbidden, tears came into my eyes and suddenly I was weeping – not with sorrow, but relief. I’d found him, at last.

  When my legs regained their strength, I stood up and jumped over the stream to the cross. I crouched down and gently wiped off the snow. I touched it, and for that short instant I was with him again. I smiled through the tears and stood up, silently offering a prayer to my father. I told him that Helena was getting married, about my job and life in London, about Ma. I assured him that he was always in our hearts, and asked for his help in escaping my predicament.

  I turned to Boris, who was stamping up and down in the cold. ‘Now you will tell me where you are to meet your people. You will tell me and I will take you there,’ he announced. I felt too emotionally drained to refuse. There was just a chance that he was telling the truth. In the weakness of my gratitude, I gave him what he had asked for.

  He smiled briefly. ‘Come now. We have to go.’ I followed him. He was walking fast, looking from side to side, clearly anxious. He strode on through the icy forest and, when we reached the farmhouse, called for his driver and hustled me into the car. As the engine was started up, the old couple came out to watch. I looked at them and waved, willing them to recognise me as my father’s daughter. Had they known Pa? They looked like good people, in debt, for some reason, to Boris. Suddenly, I needed to know. I opened the car door, jumped out and ran towards them before Boris could stop me. ‘Please,’ I said. ‘Hugh Moneypenny. Hugh Sterling – did you know him? Hugh. He was my father, my otietz. I am his dotchka.’ As I said it, I saw the light of comprehension in their eyes. I heard Boris, behind me, opening the car door and shouting angrily. The old man grabbed my arm and pulled me with him into the house, up the crooked wooden stairs and into a small room. There was a narrow bed in the corner. He dragged it out and pointed to the wall behind the bedhead. There was something carved on it, some letters. I crouched in front of it, as I heard Boris’s heavy steps on the stairs. Then I was weeping as I realised what I was reading, a set of ini
tials: H I J & H M ’45. Hugh, Irene, Jane and Helena Moneypenny and the date – five years after we’d been told he died. The last time when our small family had been united, if only in his thoughts.

  In another second, Boris was there and pulling me back down the stairs before I had a chance to ask the old man any of the myriad questions that were circling my mind. We were in the car and driving away before I had even been able to say spasiba.

  We drove off into the snow. Night had fallen and the roads were empty. I sensed we were still heading north, in the direction of the border and our meeting-point. I still did not understand why – and what was going to happen. Why had Boris taken me to Pa’s grave – if indeed it was. Why did he want to go to the border? I prayed I had not betrayed our people, but all that really mattered was that I’d found Pa, at last. Boris had still made no contact with anyone and, without back-up, he surely posed little threat? I hoped not. I turned to him, with a torrent of questions pressing to be asked, but he just shook his head and fixed his eyes ahead, his shoulders tense and hunched. At some point soon, I knew he would have more questions for me and I tried in my head to compose plausible answers that would satisfy his superiors without compromising the Office.

  Then the driver said something to Boris and pointed at his rear-view mirror. Boris swivelled in his seat and shouted at the driver to speed up. I tried to look behind, but he pushed me back roughly in my seat.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked.

  ‘We do not know,’ he replied. ‘Probably nothing, but hold tight.’ The car lurched to the right, down a forest track. The lights were switched off and we came to a stop. Boris turned round and, from behind, I heard the sound of a car passing on the main road. Boris exhaled audibly and ordered the driver to get back on the road.

  ‘You see. They are looking for me,’ I said, more to convince myself than him.

  He gave a bark. ‘I almost wish it was so…’ He let his sentence hang in the air and I realised that I’d been right: Boris was being hunted by his own side.

  ‘We will talk when we get to a safe place,’ he said, as we continued to drive into the darkness.

  I kept quiet. My chances of escaping, I realised, were almost non-existent. Boris would not let me go; I was his insurance against both sides.

  We drove on for another hour. Then Boris signalled for the driver to slow down, and asked me to describe, again, the meeting-point. It was a small clearing off the road, five miles before the border town of Vyborg. The track would be marked by a large rock.

  Then there it was, a grey hump lit by our headlights. I just had time to register that there was no snow covering, when we swung to the right. I heard the click of the safety-catch being released on Boris’s gun. Then there was a sudden flash of light and a bang. The car swerved violently to one side, crashing through the trees. Boris and the driver were both shouting. I held on tight to the door-handle. Then, with a lurch, the car catapulted forwards into a ditch. I banged my head against the seat in front, and the next thing I knew I was being dragged out of the car. I heard another shout; there was a flash and the unmistakable whip-crack of a shot being fired.

  I looked around, but all I could see was our car on fire. My first thought was that we had been hijacked by the KGB. I started to crawl away – anything seemed preferable to the top floor of the Lubyanka. It was freezing and my clothes were soon soaked through from the snow. Just a few yards away, I could hear the sounds of a struggle, and as my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I could see, backlit by the burning car, two figures grappling with each other.

  I watched, transfixed, as the men rolled over each other, exchanging punches and emitting strangled grunts. The driver was nowhere to be seen. Then, with a final effort, the smaller man pushed the larger against a tree, hitting his head, and he sank to the ground. I thought, fleetingly, that I must get away, as the smaller figure got up and started running towards me. He was dressed in black, wearing a balaclava. I struggled to my feet, preparing to run. I didn’t know where I would go – just away from him. As I turned, I heard my name being called.

  For a minute, I wondered whether I was dreaming. He called again, and the voice was wonderfully, gloriously familiar – ‘Penny? Are you all right?’ – and I knew it was truly him. I summoned up all my energy.

  ‘Bill? What the devil are you doing here?’ I asked, my voice a small croak.

  Then his arms, wet and cold, were squeezing me tight. ‘Thank God you’re all right. Heard you were in a spot,’ he said. ‘Thought I’d come and give you a hand.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have. I was quite on top of things,’ I replied, half-laughing, half-crying as I buried my face in his shoulder.

  ‘I never doubted that. I was in the neighbourhood. It was the least I could do.’

  He led me towards a car and sat me in the front seat where, miraculously, I found a thermos flask. ‘Help yourself to some tea,’ he said, after switching on the engine. ‘It’s probably cold by now, but it’s got plenty of sugar in it and will do you good. I should go and see to him.’ He nodded in the direction of the figure by the tree.

  ‘It’s Boris, you know,’ I said.

  He nodded. ‘I feared as much.’

  ‘What are you going to do with him? He brought me here.’

  He smiled. ‘Dear Penny, I won’t let him get you again. But I’m not going to kill him in cold blood and I can’t leave him where he is.’ He disappeared into the darkness, re-emerging minutes later with a large figure slumped over his slim shoulders. I wondered, briefly, at his bravery; this was a new Bill. I had never thought of him as a man of action before, despite his impressive collection of wartime medals.

  ‘There was another man, the driver,’ I said.

  ‘’Fraid we’ll need one of your CFF’s1 for him,’ Bill said. ‘Had no option. It was a hell of a risk ambushing the car with you in it, but I knew I’d be outnumbered. Thank God you’re not hurt,’ he said again. ‘Now, let’s concentrate on getting back over the border. I’ve brought a passport for you, with a stamp that should work, but I wasn’t prepared for him. We’ll just have to wrap him in an aluminium blanket and put him in the boot. When we get closer, I’ll give him another knock to make sure he’s still out. Then all we can do is hope for the best.

  ‘We’re not far south of Vyborg,’ Bill said. ‘What happened to Philby? I assume he was in on the plot from the beginning?’

  ‘I think so,’ I said.

  Bill gave a short bark of a laugh. ‘Never thought any better. Once a traitor, always a traitor – but we had to give it a chance. The reception committee waited for twelve hours and then headed back over the border. I was waiting there. When 859 finally reported in, I realised you’d been taken. Guessed it was Boris. We’ve got a man in Leningrad – Russian guy, member of the local police. Miraculously, he tracked down your driver and found the house you’d been kept in. He found your signal in the cistern – good thinking, by the way – and managed to pick up your scent in Zelenogorsk this morning. When he radioed to us that you appeared to be heading in this direction, I took a chance and came over to wait for you. The others said I was mad. Thank God you showed up.’

  ‘Boris seems to have taken over the operation without permission,’ I told him. ‘When you were following us earlier, he thought you were his outfit, eager for his blood.’

  Bill turned to look at me. ‘I wasn’t following you earlier,’ he said.

  It took a minute for that to sink in. We were not out of danger.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said. ‘I seem to have made a bit of a hash of things.’

  Bill reached across for my hand and gave it a squeeze. 'Don’t be absurd, Penny. You’ve done an amazing job. The Old Man’s impressed.’

  ‘He is? I didn’t get Philby back. Eleanor’s still there. I was rumbled by the Russians.’

  ‘Not your fault, old thing. You’re here now and that’s what’s important.’ He drove on, his eyes focused on the road ahead. Then something occurred to me.

 
‘Does M know you’re here?’ As Chief of Staff, Bill was in possession of far too much sensitive information to be allowed far from headquarters.

  I could almost feel him grimace. ‘Not exactly. Reluctantly gave me permission to go to Finland, with strict instructions not to cross the border under any circumstances. Once I heard you were in trouble, though, I grabbed some equipment, took a car and sped across. Hardly gave it a minute’s thought. Knew I had to get you out.’

  ‘My knight in shining armour.’

  ‘Something of the sort. All the same, I’d prefer it if he didn’t rumble me. Now, we’re approaching Vyborg. Border’s just the other side. There are five border gates: three Russian and two Finnish. They won’t be any trouble, but at the Russian ones, keep quiet and look relaxed. The story is that we’re returning from a day trip to Leningrad. Our papers are in order. As long as they don’t look at our man in the boot. Which reminds me …’

  He stopped the car, got out and went round to the back of the car. I heard a muffled thud and then he was back. ‘Shouldn’t hear a peep from him for a couple of hours,’ he said with a smile. ‘Let’s go.’

  As we were approaching the outskirts of Vyborg, I saw Bill looking in his mirror again. He turned quickly down a side-street and stopped the car.

  ‘Think that might be the KGB,’ he said.

  I stiffened.

  ‘Don’t worry. Chances are they’re still looking for Boris’s car and heading to the border to warn the guard. We’ll stick to our plan. Do your best to appear calm.’