Tuesday, 24th April
The regular quarterly update from Q Branch.5 It never fails to entertain – almost like a form of technology pornography. As usual, much of it was quite impenetrable to non-boffins – a fact about which Head of Q6 remains oblivious – and the rest, as always, reads as if it has been lifted from the back page of a boy’s adventure comic. One section of today’s report was entitled ‘Miniaturisation: Key to the Future’7 and went on to detail the new generation of tiny gadgets which will, apparently, become standard equipment to field agents. Somehow, I can’t see myself wielding a lipstick pistol or hairbrush camera!
There was one entry, however, that caught my attention. In the section entitled ‘Miscellaneous Field Protocol’, I found advice on the prescribed method to search drawers: ‘Always start with the bottom drawers. Then you can rest subsequent drawers on the one below, and do not have to waste time closing them.’ I couldn’t help but conjure up the image of R at my desk with the lower drawers open.
Friday, 27th April
It’s crunch time for 007. M came back from lunch and asked me to summon him. But when I put the red telephone8 call through to 007’s desk, Mary answered. ‘He’s not here, Jane,’ she said. ‘He never came back from lunch. I’ve tried to get him on the Syncraphone,9 but he left it in his drawer. He’s not at home and the Bentley’s10 still here. I’ll search the building.’
I had a hunch where he might be. A couple of times recently, I’d spied him sitting on a bench in the rose garden, just staring at the sky. ‘I like it here, Penny,’ he said once. ‘The red ones remind me of Tracy.’ It’s been nearly four months since she was killed, but he’s clearly living with it every day. According to Mary, he still arrives late most days with a bear of a hangover. ‘I should have seen it, Penny,’ he said when I found him this time. ‘How did I let that happen to her? What am I to do now?’
I told him that what he was going to do now was to report in person to M, and that he had better pull himself together, as the OM sounded as if he meant business.
Together, Mary and I managed to get him brushed up and at M’s door before he noticed he’d been waiting too long. Despite his curmudgeonly ways, the OM is fond of 007. He would not have suffered this kind of behaviour from another agent, whatever the justification. He can’t afford to.
Whatever he said had some effect – 007 came back through the baize door looking noticeably perkier. ‘I’m off to the desert, it seems. Got to go home and pack my yashmak. Cheerio, Penny. Let’s have dinner when I’m back.’ Perhaps a blast of desert sand will do the trick? As he left, I raised my eyebrows at Bill. ‘Some mission the Old Man’s cooked up as a distraction from his misery,’ he told me. ‘We’ve had reports that a bunch of old Nazis are setting themselves up as an independent assassination agency, on hire to the highest bidders. They’re purely muscle, but have more than sufficient experience in their chosen trade. They’ve apparently set up shop in Casablanca, so we’ve heard, and, according to our source, are meeting with a prospective client next week. We don’t know who that is, or where they intend to meet, or indeed whether or not this is a complete red herring. It’s definitely worth chasing up, but 712 could have done it from Rabat. Still, it’s not an easy task and frankly, I told M that I wasn’t sure 007 was up to it. But he’d made up his mind. He thinks a dose of adventure will help him to snap out of it. I think his patience is running thin, to tell you the truth. He equates what James is going through with losing one of his men in battle – terribly sad, but part of the job description. I fear it goes a bit deeper than that, though. I hope the mission will do him good; I just wish it could have been a tad less risky.’
Monday, 30th April
A truly extraordinary weekend. I still cannot digest it. I caught the sleeper train to Aberdeen, then changed on to the branch line to Banchory. Patrick Derring-Jones was waiting, as planned, at the small station. I recognised him immediately – a tall man wearing a beautifully cut tweed suit, with an ice-blue shirt and striped tie. He must have been nearing sixty, but he looked much younger, naturally graceful. He greeted me warmly. ‘My dear Jane Moneypenny. Yes, I can see you’re Hugh’s daughter, how very wonderful to meet you.’
As we drove to his house in a polished 1955 Bristol, he explained that his wife, Gilda, had cancer and was increasingly weak. ‘I cannot tell you how painful it is for both of us. We met for the first time when she was just sixteen. That was before the war. All through the fighting, I was sustained by an image of her imprinted on my memory, and when it was all over we found each other again, and we have barely been separated for a week since then.’
The drive was beautiful. Spring was creeping up on northern Scotland and the hills were changing colour. In a matter of weeks, D-J explained, they would be purple from base to peak. We turned off the main road and on to a rutted track. He apologised for the bumps. ‘I’m going to have them filled in this month – then at least I’ll be able to take Gilda for drives.’ After several miles, we rounded the base of a hill and saw, just above us, on a small foothill of its own, a pretty whitewashed house. I was saying how lovely it was, when he interrupted me. ‘Just wait,’ he said. ‘The point of the house is at the back.’A gaggle of black Labradors ran out to greet us. D-J carried my bag to the house, calling out as he pushed open the unlocked door, ‘Gilda, darling, we’re here.’ I caught my breath. In a straight line from the front door, I could see through the hall, through double doors leading into the drawing-room and out through a wall of glass, which overlooked a natural loch. I walked straight across. The trees on the far banks were almost sculptural, with the same flat tops as acacias. ‘This is incredible,’ I said. ‘It reminds me of Africa.’
‘I thought you might say that,’ D-J replied, with a sad smile. ‘Your father came to stay after a training course in the autumn of 1940. My parents were living here then. He looked out of that same window and said the same thing. He talked about you and your sister often. He was very proud of you both. When it was time for us to leave, my father drove us to the station in Banchory. We were early and while we were waiting we walked around the town – it was more of a village in those days – and Hugh stopped at the post office and sent the diary he had bought for you from Smythson’s the day we left London. He said he thought one day you would be a writer. I wonder whether you ever received it?’
I nodded, too filled with emotion to speak.
‘He was a wonderful man. I loved him dearly.’
As he said that, a tiny, bird-like woman walked into the room. She was dressed smartly in a yellow chiffon blouse and wide trousers. Despite her make-up and welcoming smile, she looked frail. ‘Hello, Jane,’ she greeted me. ‘My husband has been so looking forward to your visit. As have I – you’ve given me a chance to get to know, at least a little, the great Hugh Moneypenny. But first, a drink? Tea? Something to eat?’
We chatted easily through the morning and into lunch. D-J told me how he had first met Pa. Both were RNVR, seconded into its intelligence branch. ‘You knew that, of course?’ I said I’d guessed, but found it hard to confirm. He smiled. ‘Old habits die hard. I would have probably gone to my grave without uttering a word about intelligence, until Gilda got ill. Then other things suddenly seemed more important, like family, for instance. Come on, let’s go and sit by the view. Gilda, my dear, we mustn’t keep you any more. I’ll bring you some tea. Excuse me, please, Jane.’
I sat looking out over the loch, filled with the tension of expectation. ‘I have to apologise first of all,’ he said on his return. ‘I’ve thought of you – of Hugh’s family – often over the past twenty years, but until I received your letter, it never dawned on me that you didn’t know about Hugh’s last adventure. I suppose, why would you? There were very few of us initiated into Ruthless. It was a brilliant scheme in many ways, but a mad caper in others. You have to understand that, for us, the war was like an exciting game. We cared passionately about the outcome and we were intensely patriotic, but we never lost the sense t
hat it was a great adventure. We were lucky in that we – our close group at Naval Intelligence – never really had to suffer the most severe privations; we never fought on the front line, with our brothers and friends dying beside us.’
He talked for hours, describing in vivid colour life at the Admiralty, the missions abroad, the sense that the war could be won or lost by their actions. ‘Each morning we would go first down to the Operations Room, where the whole picture of war was set out on charts, to catch up on the night’s movements. We had a real sense of being at the centre of things.’ A small group of them would meet for a weekly bridge game in Pimlico. ‘It was at one of these evenings that Ruthless was conceived. I think four of us were there: your father, Peter [Smithers], Ian [Fleming] and myself. We’d been talking about the German naval ciphers. They were widely thought to be unbreakable. Our boffins at Bletchley11 were brilliant, and had made great progress reading Enigma12 messages sent by the German army and secret service, but the Kriegsmarine – that’s the Combat Navy – had its own version and we were getting nowhere with it. Meanwhile, their U-boats were causing no end of trouble. We needed a code book. Then one of us – it was Ian, I believe – came up with this scheme. We would get hold of a German plane, dress up in Luftwaffe uniforms and crash-land it in the Channel. The Germans would be bound to send one of their new high-speed rescue launches over from Denmark to get us. When they arrived, we would knock them on the head, board the boat, sail it back to England and hand over the code book.
‘It all sounded remarkably simple, especially after a few bottles of excellent claret. We set to work on planning the operation the very next day. First we needed a pilot – it was just the scheme to appeal to Sydney Cotton and he was soon signed up. Your father was fluent in German,13 so he would be the radio operator. I was to be in the strike force, with Ian and Peter and a tough marine that Ian had somehow managed to borrow. Over the next few months, the plan started to come together. We managed to get hold of a twin-engined Heinkel III bomber, which had been shot down over the Firth of Forth and rehabilitated at Farnborough.14 Peter went up to the store of captured enemy equipment at Cardington15 and got us fitted out with Luftwaffe uniforms. Then it was just a matter of listening in to the regular air traffic to learn the call signs used by the Luftwaffe. We planned to broadcast the SOS in plain language anyway, so it was fairly straightforward.
‘I have to admit I was nervous about the whole plan, but Ian was supremely confident and carried us all with him. There were hitches, of course. I remember that Group Captain – what was he called? – Wilson, yes, who was responsible for the aircraft, was worried that a crash landing would collapse its Perspex nose, and water would flood in, drowning us before we could escape or be rescued. But we managed to solve that by getting the nose reinforced, and we found a way to inject oil into the exhaust to give the impression of a plausible engine fire. We were ready to go down to Dover when we hit the first major impediments. First Ian was prevented from participating by DNI,16 who said he wasn’t prepared to risk him being captured – poor Ian, he was fearfully disappointed, it was his plan, after all. Then Sydney was sacked from the RAF, which meant we couldn’t really use him, however much we – and he – wanted to.
‘We managed to get a new pilot, Miles Pitman, and we all went down to Dover in October. Then it was a matter of waiting for the right weather and reports of a suitable German ship in the vicinity. I remember, we stayed in this dismal little hotel. On the first night Ian, who had come along to direct operations, presented each of us with a knife that he’d designed with Lord Suffolk.17 It was made out of one piece of steel – a beautiful piece, but absolutely lethal. We were all issued with a gas pistol disguised as binoculars and a Webley. 455 six-shot revolver. It was immensely frustrating, sitting there waiting, playing bridge, trying not to think about everything that could go wrong. The clouds just did not clear. It must have been the cloudiest October on record. After about two weeks we were called back to London.’
D-J stood up. ‘I must go and see if Gilda is all right. Is there anything I can get you? Please feel free to wander around, look at the garden, make yourself at home. Perhaps we can continue after dinner? Eight o’clock. No need to dress.’ I walked to the other side of the loch and sat down with a pen and a notepad and wrote notes of everything he’d said. I didn’t want to forget a single detail. I was filled with emotion that I almost didn’t dare to feel. Then I walked up the mountain, slid most of the way back down and had time to bathe before dinner. We ate fresh salmon and talked about London, and I did my best to hide my impatience to continue the story.
At last, we were settled on the sofa with cups of coffee. ‘We were back in London. Yes. We were there for barely a week. I remember we got a furious message from Bletchley, telling us to get on with it. They needed the key. Then one evening Ian phoned me in my office and told me we were going back to Dover that night. The forecast was good and we were due to take off the following morning. I don’t think I slept. I’d been on missions before, of course – quite a few – but never with so little back-up and such a great sense of the unknown. I’ll never forget that day. Gathering on the airport apron, all in our Luftwaffe uniforms. Your father with a bloody bandage around his head, Peter wearing a sling – in readiness, you understand, for when we were rescued. We took off as dawn was breaking. It was a beautiful sunrise, properly yolk-like. As we got midway across the Channel, your father called out to us all, “Ready, boys. I’m going to broadcast now. We’re German from now on, not a word of English.”
‘It all went according to plan, at first; your father sounded genuinely in distress, Miles took the plane down and we set the engine alight. Black smoke was still belching out when we caught sight of a ship steaming towards us from the north. We had been sitting in complete silence. It was not until it got quite close that Miles said – and there was no German about this – “Bloody hell, it’s a minesweeper. We’re never going to get that.” I remember thinking, We’re done for. Anyway, there was no turning back. We just looked at each other and I think the same thought was going through all our minds: we would not surrender quietly. For me, it was a matter of escape or death. I did not want to be taken prisoner.
‘They sent out a small launch with just two men aboard. Hugh was the first to get on and started jabbering away in German about the accident. He didn’t stop talking, gesticulating wildly, poking the Germans in the chest, so they didn’t have a chance even to look at the rest of us. The launch drew up against the side of the boat. It was a huge thing – probably ninety feet, with machine-gun stations at the front and rear. There were about six men on deck and probably a further four or five inside. One of the Germans climbed out of the launch on to the minesweeper, then held out his hand for Hugh, who climbed on to the deck, followed by Miles and the marine. Then the other German started to stand up; we were astonished that he should have left us on our own. Peter and I stayed rooted in our seats. I could see your father looking at us while he was saluting the captain. As the German was stepping on to the deck, Hugh pulled out his gun, and shouted, “Go, Patrick, go.” We hesitated. But a handful more Germans, alerted by his shouts, had rushed on deck, bearing weapons. Peter and I knew we had no choice. I gunned up the engine and drove away. They fired some shots at us, but our little boat was too fast. At a safe distance, we stopped and I got out my binoculars. But we couldn’t see any of our men.
‘As soon as we got back to England, we alerted our air-sea rescue boys, who went out in a small frigate, but the minesweeper was nowhere to be seen. All they found was the marine’s body, floating in the water. There was no sign of your father or of Miles, and as far as I know they were never heard of again. After the war I tried to find out what had happened to them. I made all the enquiries, but there was nothing. They had vanished into thin air. I could only assume they had died soon after.’
I could see the emotion in D-J’s whole body. I put my hand out and he grabbed it. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘We should
n’t have left them there. Your father saved my life. But for him, I wouldn’t be here now. He was a true hero.’
We talked until late. The only question I couldn’t bring myself to ask was what would have happened to my father. At one point, D-J just said, ‘There can be no hope. He died an honourable man. He was a great patriot and a wonderful friend. I shall always miss him.’
* * *
Q BRANCH REPORT 1962:11
A. MINIATURISATION: KEY TO THE FUTURE
To evade detection, the tools of our trade must shrink. Our adversaries have been using miniature weapons for some time (see Appendix A – The Methods of Smersh. No. 11: Special weapons), but our new-generation devices are smaller still.
In the future, agents undertaking covert missions will be issued with:
A PIPE OR CIGARETTE PISTOL (to suit), or for ladies, the LIPSTICK PISTOL. All of the above are 4.5-mm single-shot weapons capable of inflicting fatal damage at close range if directed at any of the five most vulnerable spots (see Q Branch 1961:III/5/iv).
HAIRBRUSH CAMERAS. To replace out-moded fountain pen, cigarette-lighter and key-chain models. The workings of the classic Minox spy camera are fitted in the base, with pin-hole lenses, enabling easy sideways shots in a washroom environment. Spare film rolls can be stored in the usual manner in hollowed-out razors or toothbrushes.
COMPREHENSIVE BURGLARY EQUIPMENT SPECTACLES CASE. A new kit comprising a multi-function lock-picking tool, miniature electronic stethoscope for use on tumbler type combination safe locks, and a key-casting and putty pad the size of a business card.
IN DEVELOPMENT: a new long-range radio transceiver, capable of sending and receiving signals both in voice and Morse code at a range of up to 1,000 miles. Expected to be operational September 1962.
B. MISCELLANEOUS FIELD PROTOCOL
SEARCHING DRAWERS. Always start with the bottom drawers. Subsequent drawers can thus be rested on the one below, saving time and unnecessary effort in closing them.
Moneypenny Diaries: Guardian Angel Page 8
