Moneypenny Diaries: Secret Servant

by Samantha Kate

  I’d thought about this moment for three weeks, and had prepared any number of careful speeches, but in the end I just laughed, threw up my hands and said, ‘The first round’s on me at Bully’s as long as you don’t ask another question.’

  Janet pretended to pout. ‘Now, Jane, where’s the fun in that, for a measly gin and tonic?’

  I sighed. ‘You win. Champagne all night then.’

  She laughed and clapped her hands. ‘Jolly good. We’ve got a pretty clear idea what you’ve been up to anyway, but still, champagne would be lovely. Come on, girls.’

  So it is that I’m writing this at midnight, with an unsteady hand. It is wonderful to be back – I’ll never hanker for abroad again. If I could only be sure about Pa. Too many questions. Much as I shrink from the thought, I must find a way to Boris.

  Friday, 3rd April

  Helena and Lionel’s one-week anniversary. What a glorious day it was last week. I couldn’t have been happier for Helena as she stood there, beautiful and serene, exchanging vows with the good, kind man she adores and who worships her. I cried, of course, but I always do at weddings. There were moments of reflection too, and when Lionel mentioned Ma and Pa in his speech, saying that he wished they could have been there to share in the happiness, I saw Helena’s lip quiver. I wondered again whether I’ve been right in concealing from her my hunt for Pa. The sad fact is that it’s too late now: it’s been so long since I started on this quest, I’m not sure I’d know how to begin to explain it all.

  Focused as I was on Helena and Lionel, the image of R still managed to flit across my mind. Even that was a strange kind of comfort: he came not as a ghost, but as a welcome guest at the festivities. Better in person, of course, but also better than nothing. Then there was Bill – dear Bill.

  I can hardly bring myself to contemplate the idea that his feelings for me are anything other than brotherly. Day after day, we sit twenty feet apart, separated only by a door, which is as often open as shut. He’s wonderful, my dearest friend, and I trust him more than any man, but, after everything, he’s still Bill. I’m trying to push the thought from my mind, but the more it refuses to budge, the more the signs seem to add up. Last year, he put himself in considerable professional jeopardy to cover for me when he needn’t have. He’s always shown what I sometimes regard as excessive concern for my welfare – he almost begged me not to go to Berlin. And that strange look when I was flirting with James … Surely it couldn’t have been jealousy? But am I being straight with myself? Deep down, haven’t I always known?

  Saturday, 11th April

  Boris has arrived in London. I learnt quite by chance. I asked for his file from Records, to check on the spelling of his full name for my final report, only to be told that it had been signed out. It took me a good ten minutes of gossip with Harry to learn that it was with X Section. Another fifteen – and a promise to fix up a drink with Jo Comely – before he grudgingly admitted that he’d overheard them saying that ‘Moneypenny’s Russian colonel’ was ‘due a good grilling by X next week’. My Russian colonel? So much for office security. No wonder news of my mission reached Moscow. I’m surprised it didn’t make the front page of the Express.

  I must find some way of talking to him – but how? I have no clearance for Kensington Cloisters.

  Thursday, 16th April

  The last few days have been like a Russian cultural exchange. First, M accompanied the Minister to a meeting with the Russian Ambassador at Kensington Gardens. Then he went to the Ministry for another, this time with their ‘Cultural Attaché’, who everyone knows is their KGB supremo over here, and today he lunched at Blades with yet another Russian, who apparently flew in from Moscow for the pleasure. You would never have known we were deadly enemies.

  The more I think about Boris, the more I need to know. Pa’s last days are haunting me. I’ve come so far and searched so long, I cannot stop here. Even Bill won’t tell me what’s happening.

  Friday, 17th April

  Bill has just left after a most enjoyable evening. I roasted a chicken and we had green beans and roast potatoes, with oranges in sugar syrup for pudding. He was charming and attentive, but it still wasn’t easy to persuade him to unburden himself of the latest news on Boris. It took three schooners of brandy and two fierce games of Scrabble (I let him win the second) before I got anywhere.

  ‘Seems that, as he fears, the Russians want him back,’ said Bill, with the merest hint of a slur to his normally clipped voice. ‘Probably Mater Boris putting pressure on her current husband. M said no at first, but now that they’ve offered us Greville Wynne in exchange, he’s considering it.’

  ‘Will he go for it?’ I asked. I felt suddenly sick at the idea of Boris disappearing back to Moscow – or, more probably, to a labour camp in Siberia – without having had the chance to ask him about Pa.

  ‘Honestly don’t know. It’s a strong possibility. Frankly, after what he did to you – and let’s not forget that he taunted you with R’s murder – I think we should wash our hands of him.’

  ‘He delivered me to you,’ I said.

  ‘To suit his own ends. From what we’ve heard from our sources over here, he’d got himself into deep you-know-what in Moscow. It wasn’t just the failed missions: there was talk of uncontrollable drinking, marital indiscretions – the sort of things that the Centre can’t abide. He wanted to get out, Penny. He needed you to show him the way.’

  ‘He took me to my father’s grave.’

  Bill gave a short laugh that was far from mirthful. ‘So he said.’

  ‘He did,’ I insisted. ‘Our initials were carved on the wall behind the bed.’

  ‘You don’t think the Centre could have organised that? You were the object of an attempted entrapment two years ago, using your father as bait. You don’t think they would have put all the pieces in place before that began?’

  ‘It was his grave. I felt it. I knew that Pa had been there.’

  ‘Why? How?’

  ‘I don’t know. That’s what I need to talk to Boris about. Please, Bill, I’ve thought about it long and hard. It’s my chance to find out once and for all. If I ask you one thing, please arrange for me to see him.’

  He harrumphed and said he’d think about it. Then, after a habitual peck on the cheek, he left. I must have been wrong. He’s back to acting like a brother. It’s a relief, I think. Hopefully, brotherly love will persuade him to help me.

  Tuesday, 21st April

  I received a postcard at home this morning. It was postmarked Copenhagen, and contained just three words, in tiny, neat script: ‘Sorry old girl.’ It can only have been from Philby, smuggled out by someone he trusts. Eleanor must have given him my address. It means that my return home is generally known. Also, that he didn’t want the Centre to know he was writing to me; he must have entered into the operation under some pressure. Every day since I’ve been back, I’ve wondered about Eleanor: how she’s doing, whether she suffered any consequences from our escapade, whether she’s learnt the Cyrillic alphabet yet.

  I want to write to her. I have their address engraved on my brain – Box 509, CPO, Moscow – but I don’t think I dare. Their mail, more now than ever, will be systematically read and censored by the KGB. I’ve got her in enough trouble already; I cannot risk making it worse.

  Thursday, 23rd April

  This morning, M called me into his office. Bill was already there, sitting in front of the desk, looking, I thought, a little sheepish.

  ‘Miss Moneypenny, it is Chief of Staff’s opinion that you deserve some sort of update on the situation regarding the man who, for the sake of simplicity, we shall continue to call Colonel Boris.’ I saw Bill frown.

  ‘I would be very grateful, sir.’

  ‘That’s all very well, but this concerns matters of great delicacy and national importance.’

  ‘Sir, you can trust me, I assure you.’

  ‘I hope I can, but I’m still not convinced that you need to know.’

  ‘Whate
ver you think is best, sir. I would not want to jeopardise any operation. It’s just that, after all I went through in Russia, I would very much like to learn the outcome.’

  M slowly got out his pipe, tapped it on the desk, filled it with a pinch of tobacco from the jar at the base of the fourteen-pounder shell he’d brought back from his successful Baltic campaign, tamped it down and then lit it. It was his favourite delaying tactic, a sure sign that he was turning something over in that extraordinary mind of his. I sat quietly, mentally rehearsing the drubbing Bill would get when we were out. Why had he gone to the Old Man? He could have just told me himself.

  ‘Very well, then,’ he said, finally, ‘but this is to be the last of it. You are not to ask again or to indicate to anyone what you have learnt. Is this clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Your Boris has made a formal request to defect.’ I stifled a gasp and M glared at me. ‘I don’t need to assure you that we have no intention of complying, even though he could be a valuable asset. After his actions last year and then again in Moscow, the only place he’d end up here would be in a maximum-security prison. Moscow, meanwhile, is keen to have him back and, as I know Chief of Staff has informed you, has offered Wynne in exchange. I suppose we are going to have to deal with them, though I’d rather hoped we’d got rid of that arrogant amateur, for the next few years, at least.’

  He leant back in his chair, appearing to contemplate the painting over the fireplace. Then he looked up.

  ‘We’re not showing our hand to Boris at this point. There’s just a chance that he might have something to offer us that we would be most interested in. X has been working on him for the last few days, but he’s getting nowhere. He’s baited the hook, but Boris isn’t biting – just keeps spouting some nonsense about how Penkovsky was a double all along, being run by the Centre, and, far from being executed last year, is living out honourable retirement under an assumed name in a villa on the Black Sea. Can’t give much credence to that – certainly it won’t buy him a ticket to freedom. We told him as much. He says that if we want more – and he assures us he has some bombshells to impart – we will first have to release him, give him a new identity, new nose, all that sort of thing. We’ve told him in the strongest terms that it doesn’t work that way round, but all he says is that we would be more than happy with what he’s got to tell.

  ‘We had reached a stand-off and were on the point of booking his ticket home, when’, M looked into my eyes and paused, ‘he said he wanted to talk to you.’

  My head snapped up in surprise. Twice now, I’ve been the agent of his destruction. He must hate me every bit as much as I loathe and despise him. Yet he showed me my father’s grave. I was in his debt. I gave an involuntary shiver. Bill must have noticed.

  ‘Sir, I honestly can’t recommend it,’ he said. ‘Let’s just send him back.’

  M regarded him with half-cocked eyebrows.

  ‘I know your feelings, Chief of Staff. Now I want to hear Miss Moneypenny’s.’

  Every nerve in my body recoiled from the idea of seeing that face again. It was enough that he trespassed on my sleep. But the little cross by the stream also haunted me. Talking to Boris was my one chance to lay Pa’s ghost to rest.

  ‘I’ll do it, sir. I’ll talk to him and tell him whatever you say. However, I have one condition.’ M looked up, frowning. ‘I want to see him alone. I’ll take a panic button and will report in full. You can wire me up and play the tape later, but I don’t want anyone watching or listening at the time.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ Bill interjected.

  M shook his head and drew on his pipe, while apparently contemplating my request. ‘Very well, then. We’ve got nothing to lose. Open up the jibs and turn to the wind. The Russians are breathing down my neck. Get X over here this afternoon for a briefing and you can go early tomorrow morning, before the body of staff has arrived. Should be nice and quiet. Chief of Staff and X and I will be in the building, but out of earshot. Does that suit you?’

  I nodded and got to my feet. ‘I’d better fetch the morning signals, sir.’

  ‘Yes, very good. Go ahead, Miss Moneypenny.’

  It’s now past midnight and my alarm is set for five. I’ve tried to sleep, but given up. Different scenarios for the morning keep intruding into my thoughts – conversations, outcomes, fears. X described the meeting-room for me, a small cell in the basement of Kensington Cloisters, with a bare table and chair and no external light. It’s next to the cell in which Boris has been kept, deprived of a watch or any way of telling day from night. ‘Keeps them off balance,’ X explained. ‘Once they lose track of time, they begin to doubt what is real and will often start talking just for the glimpse of a watch or a calendar. Nothing to prevent it in the Geneva Convention, I assure you,’ he added, when I looked a bit dubious.

  He advised me to wear red lipstick and my brightest, most confident clothes. ‘Whatever you do, show no sign of fear. That’s of utmost importance, especially for a woman interrogator. You want to portray yourself as a sympathetic ear. I know you’ve got some history with this chap, but put that out of your head as far as possible. The tables have been turned; you’re on home ground now and you’re in charge. He’s the one in jeopardy. Remember that.’

  It won’t be easy. My first encounter with Boris involved a shoot-out in my bedroom; in the second, I was bound to a bed in Leningrad and driven across the frozen wastelands to my father’s grave, after which the driver was shot and killed. Those are hard images to banish, but I will have to try. This is my opportunity to make amends for the Philby débâcle and to lay Pa to rest – not to mention R. I need to be strong.

  Saturday, 25th April

  I was too shattered yesterday to write anything. I went back to the Office after the session with Boris, but I couldn’t think straight. Fortunately, M and Bill spent the rest of the morning at X Section, presumably listening to the recording, and went straight from there to the Ministry and goodness knows where. I took advantage of their absence and left early. All I wanted was a long soak in the bath. I felt like Lady Macbeth, scrubbing my evils away. I am not proud of what I did.

  Bill had arranged for a car to collect me at six. London was waking up with the sun as we drove the short distance west along the park to Kensington Cloisters. As the car pulled to a stop in the quiet mews behind a dull-red Victorian mansion-block, I wondered whether Boris and his Soviet compatriots at the Embassy were aware of their propinquity. The door was opened before I rang the bell, by a large, muscled doorman, who took my coat and said that M was waiting in the basement. He led me along a thickly carpeted corridor into the cage lift and, after pushing the button labelled ‘B’, clanged the door shut behind me. As the machinery moaned into action, I couldn’t escape the feeling that I was descending into the fires of hell.

  Bill was waiting when I got out, with a hearty smile on his face which failed to reach his eyes. ‘Morning, Penny. Ready for the ordeal?’

  ‘Put like that, how can a lady resist?’ I retorted, feeling far from confident.

  ‘M’s in the waiting-room, drinking tea. I’ve got you warm milk. Is that right?’ he asked anxiously.

  ‘Perfect. I’m ready to go whenever you are. The sooner the better, to tell the truth.’

  ‘Look, old girl,’ he took my arm, ‘there’s really no need to push him. He’s probably just stringing us along, playing silly buggers to get a reaction out of you. Be careful, please. It doesn’t matter a hoot if you don’t get anything, as long as he doesn’t hurt you. Do you understand?’

  I nodded. He assured me that I could start just as soon as the boffins had wired me up to the panic button.

  The interrogation room wasn’t as bad as I’d expected. There was green lino on the floor and a 1962 calendar displaying a picture of JFK and Jackie, smiling at his inauguration. I walked in and sat down on one of the chairs. Bill said that Boris would be there in a few minutes, and showed me, once again, how to activate the alar
m. I told him to stop fussing, that no harm could possibly come to me here, but he didn’t look convinced and his palpable tension did nothing to ease mine. I sat down and took some deep breaths, trying to compose my face into a mask of serenity.

  I heard the keys jangling in the lock next door and then a crescendo of footsteps approaching the room. Finally, the door was opened and he walked in, his shoulders thrown back and chest puffed out. He was wearing the same suit as when I had last seen him, at the Finnish border a month before, but the look in his pale eyes was anything but crumpled. ‘Jane Moneypenny, how good of you to come,’ he said, as if I had accepted an invitation to his house. I was immediately on the back foot. I took a deep breath and reminded myself of X’s advice.

  ‘Colonel Boris,’ I replied. ‘It is good to see you in my country. I trust you have been well looked after?’

  ‘Adequately, although I would be happier with my freedom. I like your country, you see, and would very much like to stay here.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ I said, sticking close to the script I’d been given, ‘perhaps we could find a way to make that possible?’

  He gave his chilly imitation of a smile. ‘I think you can help me. You owe it to me to do so. I took you to your father.’

  ‘You took me to a wooden cross in the middle of the countryside. Do you expect me to believe that it was my father’s grave, with no explanation? To take your word for it – the word of a man who has systematically lied and deceived me, and who killed a dear friend?’ As soon as I’d said it, I knew it was a mistake. X had warned me against stoking his antagonism. I took a deep breath and smiled. ‘However, if you were to tell me what happened to my father, I might be able to use my influence to ask for your asylum case to be reconsidered.’

  That was a clear deviation from the script: M had no interest in the fate of my father.